Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Plastic Blue Spoon

The new guy is ten minutes late on his first day.

Jensen knows Stuart will mention something about it before five o’clock rolls around.

Apparently, the new guy had difficulties climbing the six flights of stairs to the Translation Office. The elevator’s been busted since Mrs. Lane was caught having sex in it with one of the janitors afterhours. Someone got a little too excited and pressed the emergency stop button, which put them smack in the middle of two floors. Jensen remembers that day; he was new back then. It took two teams of firemen to get the two perpetrators out, and the elevator never worked the same afterwards. Their office manager, Benji, put the deathtrap permanently out of order.

“It is most inconvenient for anyone to take punctuality lightly here,” Stuart drones. The nasality to his voice never ceases to grate on Jensen’s nerves. Visually, there’s nothing remarkable about Stuart; it’s not like he’s got a third eye or something. Jensen has seen him sport a fanny pack every now and then, and the man is a believer in khakis and loafers as acceptable business attire. Jensen’s not sure how the new guy is taking it, but he is fairly certain Stuart remains the reason why most people quit.

Still slightly out of breath, the new guy replies. “I understand… the importance of punctuality… And you’ll remember that I called from the second floor five minutes before my shift to say I was having issues.”

“Yes, well, in any case…”

“Furthermore, you’ll also recall,” he continues, refusing to give up without a fight, “that I was told this was an accessible building at the time of my hire. For this building not to have an elevator violates more than one city code, and my right to fair and equal treatment.”

“Well, I don’t have anything to do with…”

“No, I know you don’t, middle management rarely does. However, I will need you to pass this information on to your superior so that the appropriate steps can be taken before I decide to slap this office with a lawsuit. And I’m sure that a lawsuit would be most inconvenient for anyone here.”

Hmm.

Jensen peeks out of his office to witness Stuart practically pissing his pleated khaki pants. He mentally files this image away the next time Stuart gets on his case about conjugation.

Additionally, the view provides him with the reason why climbing six flights of stairs is not an option for their new hire. It can’t be easy getting around while pregnant and hauling a baby carrier already filled with one baby.

Hazel eyes meet Jensen’s.

Assessing, sharp, and direct, these eyes filter through what they need to and glance back to Stuart.

“I was also told,” the new guy continues with a huff, “that I would have my own office. Now, that closet is by no means an office.” Stuart isn’t allowed half a chance to reply. “I suppose that’s out of your paygrade as well. You may direct me to any space but that closet for the time being, until I get ahold of your superior.”

Although Jensen has enjoyed hearing Stuart finally get his ass handed to him—by the new guy no less—he is less than pleased to see two figures looming in the doorway to his office.

Upon closer view, the first thing Jensen notices about the new guy is how perky his nipples are. They stand out against the powder blue shirt he has on, peaked and pleasantly curved. Any fleeting fancy on this detail meets an abrupt end. Standing awkwardly beside the new guy, Stuart begins making excuses to the new guy about the extra office and how there’s no need to call up the Dean because he’ll take care of everything personally.

At present, Stuart is certain that the new guy won’t mind sharing an office with Jensen, their most senior translator.

“Piss poor planning yet again, huh?” Jensen cuts in, standing up. “Way to go team. Leave us alone, Stu, I’ll show him around.”

Stuart seems too glad to have an out. A dusty outline of his frame hangs in the air after he departs. Jensen sighs and shrugs, motioning to what used to be his office. Although the space is tiny, rundown, and poorly lit, Jensen feels proud giving his impromptu tour.

“There’s the wall I keep deadlines on.” That wall is empty. “Don’t touch my Post-Its. There’s my wall with quotes and pictures of things I like, don’t touch that either.” That wall is not empty; however, it is filled with angry Post-Its from various departments throughout the University complaining about his manners, projects, and, in one particularly nasty case when he got into it with the troll who teaches Biology 101, a note complaining about his odor.

About to explain the coding system to his Post-Its, the baby in the carrier interrupts everything.

Tiny fists curl up in inexpressible rage and the tears begin to flow. Gently, the new guy sets the carrier down on a filing cabinet. A shock of short chestnut hair gets swept to the side by tender hands. This time, another pair of hazel eyes peer over at Jensen, these much happier and carefree. Chubby, rosy cheeks frame a dimpled smile that Jensen bets might be lurking under the stiff pout of daddy. But whatever, it’s not like this is any of Jensen’s business.

Besides, babies are cute for the first ten minutes. After that, it’s all about screaming, crying, and pooping.

“You’ll have to cover up the outlets,” new guy announces, unbuckling Mr. Baby from the carrier. “And pick up your trash from the floor, maybe give yourself a glimpse of what it’s like not to live in filth. I’m going to be pumping and storing milk throughout the day in this tomb, so make sure you’re not adding breastmilk to your coffee.”

Wedged under the two desks in the office sits an ancient mini-fridge, which, up until now, Jensen has used to sneak in contraband like chocolate and soda. He’s also got a bottle of hazelnut creamer in there, and it looks totally different than a plastic baby bottle full of milk, so he’s sure he can tell the fucking difference.

“You’ve worked here less than an hour…” Jensen starts. He doesn’t get very far.

“And I’m already more organized than anyone I’ve met so far on this floor.” Mr. Baby settles onto the new guy’s shoulder, still all smiles, cooing softly. The tone of his parent’s voice contrasts greatly with every joyous gurgle.

Grumbling, Jensen sits back down at his desk, where his things are. “I’m organized… plenty organized.”

Just wait until the new guy meets Ms. Amalfi. She’s the office nut, always harping on Jensen about filling out the correct spreadsheets, writing neater, and answering the phone in a friendlier manner. People know they’re calling the Translation Office, not the fucking Empire State Building, why do they expect him to answer with sunshine and rainbows flying out of his ass?

In any case, Ms. Amalfi will put the new guy in his place.

The single, beige dial tone phone in the office rings just as Jensen has settled back into the ass grove of his chair. However, before he can stare at the phone as it rings just to make the person on the other line really work for their call, out of nowhere a hand snatches the receiver.

“Translation Office, this is Jared, how may I assist you?”

Dammit.

Baby on one shoulder, phone on the other, new guy continues dusting his typewriter and desk. Jensen glares at Mr. Baby, who mistakes his intent as playtime and begins clapping. A second later, clapping evolves into pulling at new guy’s hair. And not just pulling—yanking.

“Excuse me for a moment, please.” New guy turns around and hands Jensen a glare of a lifetime, one powerful enough to turn wine into water. “Hey, hello, don’t you have work to do? Or you know what? You can handle this phone call.” Turning carefully so not to knock his middle into a filing cabinet, he shoves the receiver into Jensen’s hands.

Jensen looks at the receiver. He can hear whoever was on the line confusedly asking what’s going on.

He hangs up on them.

New guy rolls his eyes. “Great. What wonderful customer service you have.”

“All the better for everyone to leave me the hell alone,” Jensen retorts. “You wanna be skippy at answering the phone, by all means, but I make it a point never to speak on the phone for more than my pizza order. That can be your job, Jared.”

Mr. Baby has been presented a blue plastic spoon to play with instead of Jared’s hair. So far, it has worked. Jared, it turns out, can turn his glare on and off in mere microseconds when looking between Mr. Baby and Jensen.

“Oh good,” Jared hisses, “you guessed my name; I suppose you can deduce simple facts. I bet you even have opposable thumbs.”

Tired of this first day shit, Jensen grouses, “I bet you didn’t know you’re soaked in front like you’ve just been on some demonic water ride.”

For the first time in their short acquaintance, Jared is speechless. His eyes go wide at the sight of his shirt, visibly damp. Jensen almost regrets pointing it out to him this way the second he starts to blush.

“That’s… I…” Jared stammers, his entire face red. He turns back towards his desk, where a large messenger bag sits, and starts to dig through it. After a minute, he decides to take the whole bag with, shouldering it on his baby-free side, pushing past Jensen and squeezing out of the office.

This office was barely big enough for Jensen, now it’s him plus Mr. Baby and his pregnant parent. The air conditioning in this building is weak at best, the toilets always clog, and the only view of the outside world within this cell is a miniscule window only big enough for Jensen to pop his head out and yell at people on the sidewalk. Not that he does that. Often.

Standing in the doorway, Jared kicks a stack of papers near Jensen.

The tower topples with a flutter and fury previously unseen in Jensen’s time here. He’s been working on getting that stack as tall as he is—single sheet by single sheet.

“Get this office in order,” Jared barks, “and quit looking at my chest!”

It’s going to be a long summer.

“How precious!”

This screech comes from Ms. Amalfi, who, in her fifty-two years on this earth, has rarely smiled at anyone or anything. Even when the Yankees are playing well, she never cracks a smile at the updates Jensen relays from the portable radio he has stashed under his desk.

One look at Mr. Baby, however, and suddenly, Ms. Amalfi’s sole purpose in life is to make kissy faces.

So much for putting Jared in his place.

Writing translations for business documents becomes boring at around half an hour into the business day.

Once boredom has pinned its fangs into Jensen, he must find some way to entertain himself in international hell. He’ll talk with the mailman, an older guy, Tom, for a while. After that, he’ll take his mail back to his desk and open it with a silver letter opener. It’s fun to stab paper.

Jensen operates his workdays with two piles on his desk: letters to be read and letters he has read.

The to be read pile has historically towered over the has read pile, dominant and proud.

Until now.

“This is from six months ago,” Jared mutters, smoothing the crumpled paper out over the desk. “And all it says is, ‘Please make a correction to this word on line 67, page 310.’ Jensen, this is ridiculous. Did you even make that correction?”

An unfortunate victim of this morning’s latest tirade, the piece of paper meets a terrible fate—slammed down on the desk with the rest of its fallen brethren.

“Sure I did.” Jensen muscles his way towards a manila folder marked JERK FROM COL. “What do you take me for? Some kind of newbie at this?”

While he rustles up the proper document that will clear his name, Jared leans back in his chair and stretches. “I take you for someone who’s been content to sit here and watch the world pass by through that window. I don’t know how you get anything done. I’ve only been here one week and half the time I look over, you’re either opening mail and doing god knows what with it, or you’re harassing the mailman.”

It has been a slow week, Jensen will give Jared that.

Sure, he has plenty of projects, but finish something too early and clients will begin to think that they can command deadlines and due dates. That’s not how the translation business works in Jensen’s head; it’s a tried and true method of work that has provided him with five years of almost stress-free employment. Most days, his stress revolves around Stuart and his voice. But most of the time, he’s more amused by Stuart than anything else. Last week, Stuart got his tie stuck in the pencil sharpener by the front door. As with most things, Jensen peered out of his office to watch the spectacle.

Fifteen minutes passed before Ms. Amalfi arrived, pushing open the front door and nearly clipping Stuart. She wrangled his tie out of the sharpener, but not without giving him a stern lecture on office safety. Jensen just wished he had popcorn. Every turn of the sharpener that Stuart thought would help dislodge him only made things worse. Until Ms. Amalfi arrived, Stuart’s chin was two inches away from the sharpener.

Laughing from the sharpener memory, Jensen sighs happily.

“You’re so weird.”

“And you’re such a tight ass,” Jensen snips. “Besides, I can’t watch the world pass by from here, for your information.” He points to the window. “That thing isn’t big enough to watch anything.”

“You yelled at a kid selling ice cream from there yesterday.”

“And he deserved it. Little shi—angel.”

“Nice save.”

“Thank you.” This folder hasn’t yielded anything, but he’s not about to tell Jared that. He slyly checks a different folder, when Jared turns to check on Mr. Baby, whose name Jensen has figured out is Jules. Underneath ten or twenty sheets, Jensen finally uncovers his note about changing the damn word from line 67 for that particular project. His scrawl isn’t entirely legible, but he’s certain that says 67 and not 69.

“Aha, see, I know where shi—stuff is.”

Unimpressed, Jared heaves a sigh. Today he’s dressed in a loose fitting black shirt and a pair of jeans with an elastic waist. There was the tiniest peek of the elastic when Jared reached up to grab more paper from above Jensen’s desk, but Jensen was totally not looking. He just happened to see.

“Is it against some religion or moral code for you to throw things away? Whenever you get around to doing your job by reading these and fixing the client requests, toss it in the recycling bin.”

“Re-cy-cling?” Jensen asks, with as much confused sarcasm as he can fit in one word.

Still unimpressed, Jared pushes himself off his chair, belly first, and stands. The muscles in his arms work to balance him. “Throw things away, please. I’m going to take a break.”

“We get breaks?”

At last, Jensen’s ears perk up. He’s spent all morning being lectured, berated, and lectured again. He’s put up with it because Jared has threatened Stuart’s balls already this morning and Jensen knows better than to provoke an angry beast. Besides, he can tune Jared out just fine. And his voice isn’t as bad as Stuart’s, so this might just be a slight improvement. If he must tolerate the lectures, they’re not completely horrible from Jared.

It is also incredibly gratifying pissing Jared off; it doesn’t take much.

“If you bothered to read the employee manual you’d know that yes, we are allowed two fifteen minute breaks and a half an hour for lunch. You basically take an hour for your lunches anyway.”

Seeing Jared in momentum, Jules gurgles happily. Daddy up means potential snack time or a walk around the floor. To Jensen, this means he gets to have the office all to himself like the old days. Jared never nurses in the office; he uses the bathroom four doors down. That’s fine with Jensen.

“You just ate,” Jared murmurs to Jules, picking him up from his carrier on the filing cabinet. Jules is decked out in a powder blue and navy combo today, with a light pink bib because in addition to his other baby duties, his responsibility is to drool everywhere all the time. Not that Jensen has noticed this.

“Are y’all gonna take a walk around?” Jensen asks, even though it doesn’t matter.

“Maybe.” Jared’s voice is always softer when he holds Jules. “I think I saw a fountain on the fifth floor.”

“That fountain’s shit.”

Gathering up his bag full of Jules’ related supplies, Jared mutters, “Your highly informative description has been duly noted.”

“I mean,” Jensen clarifies, “that the fourth floor has a nicer set up. You know. If you were interested in that sort of thing. Might be nice for the kid to see a part of this university that isn’t a complete dump.”

There is no breeze on the sixth floor. Ever. Once, Jensen thought there was a breeze coming in, maybe two summers ago, but that was just Ms. Amalfi cussing someone out in Icelandic. Therefore, the sixth floor remains a bog—humid, sweltering, and oppressive. The wall to wall beige décor doesn’t help matters, and when Jensen combines all of this with Stuart’s voice, the urge to knock shit down and tear up the place rises.

Jared shakes his head. “I don’t know if I’m up for going up and down two flights of stairs in fifteen minutes with Jules.”

Mountains of paperwork wait for Jensen. If he feels like it, he might climb through half of it today, plus his current projects. If he scales high enough, there’s a good possibility of maybe, just maybe leaving work and feeling productive. But he’s not going to stress out over much else. Shit will get done when it gets done. For now, the office is stuffy, Stuart is on the phone with someone in Belgium and screaming through the receiver like he’s got to make his voice carry that far, and Jensen could use a stretch.

Escaping the confines of his chair, Jensen asks, “You guys like peaches?”

“…maybe,” Jared answers, eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“I brought two from home. You want one?”

“I don’t know. Knowing you, they’ve probably been sitting at your desk for years.”

“No.” With a snort, Jensen grabs the paper bag containing said peaches from the fridge. He shuts their office to keep intruders out for the duration of their break. “Those are the cans of peaches I got buried in the amber filing cabinet. Them’s my wine peaches.”

This time, his comment merits the tiniest fraction of a smile.

Jules isn’t the only one excited to walk around.

By foot, Jensen’s commute to work totals half an hour in the summer. He can walk eight blocks in twenty minutes, but July heat in New York City stalls him. If he doesn’t want to show up completely drenched in sweat, he stops in at a juice stand off of 112^th. The blast of air conditioning when he enters might as well be his soul’s salvation.

Miss Rose greets him, as she has every morning from June to October for the past five years. Every Monday through Friday, the pleasure is all hers to make him one orange and mango smoothie with an immunity boost.

“You look like shit,” Miss Rose announces to Jensen and by proxy the entire store. There’s a loudspeaker for employees to call out names or orders throughout the stand, but Miss Rose can hold her own, especially when it comes to spilling truth tea.

Sweat from 107^th to 112^th has built up in Jensen’s shirt collar. He’s not sure how he’ll survive another New York summer. He may have to resort to sacrificing Stuart in exchange for air conditioning in his apartment.

“I look fine as hell,” Jensen scoffs. “Could you add a shot or two of tequila into my drink?”

“Lord, it’s barely nine in the morning. You wait until noon like decent folk.”

Behind the counter, a rainbow of different fruits and vegetables wait in earnest to be juiced and pulped. Jensen imagines himself as a banana—the fruit shaped like a dick. This train of thought is far more appealing than the rest of Jensen’s day. He has meetings with Ms. Amalfi and some clients. These meetings are kept to a minimum—the Translation Office is not known for their outgoing nature, thus being stuck on the sixth floor of a building nowhere near the center of campus—but Jensen can’t wrangle himself out of this one.

He’ll be behind on shouting at that damn kid from the window for a day. And he won’t get to talk to Tom about the identical twin sisters on the first floor, ladies who dabble in drag racing at night.

Work throws his entire day off and it sucks.

He won’t get to cut up finished letters into snowflakes and hold them above Jules’ carrier.

At this thought, Jensen prods Miss Rose for a story. This is kind of like what story time might be for Jules, except, this one is told by a six foot six, black drag queen working the juice bar during the day for the health insurance and steady pay. Although being called queen has its perks, paying the rent on that title is not one of them.

Fortunately, Miss Rose needs very little occasion to hold court. While she cuts up the portion of fruit to Jensen’s order, she begins her illustrious tale of intrigue and danger.

“I was telling Joe—I said, ‘Joe, look at me. Look at this. See all of this? Don’t come free. None of this.’ And I told him, yes sir I did, I said, ‘Can’t be replicated, so don’t even try to think of replacing me.’ That’s what I said, swear to you know who.”

Jensen knows who Joe is and he nods in agreement to Miss Rose’s actions. 

“You know some men ain’t fit to look after themselves,” she says, huffing and tossing out orange peels and mango skins. “He said he was stabbed during a fare last week. Stabbed during a fare, my black ass. What kind of New York cabbie lets themselves get stabbed by a fare anymore?”

“It happens,” Jensen sighs, elbow on the counter and chin propped up. “People do crazy shit.”

“That’s why,” she snips, pointing the blender at him, “you carry a gun.”

“Right, my fifty cent plastic gun.”

“It’s something, isn’t it?” The blender fits into its compartment and Miss Rose presses the magic button that will make Jensen’s smoothie into the cool, blended liquefied heaven it always is. “Don’t give me that look. I ain’t sayin’ there’s anything wrong with being a cabbie.”

When funds are tight, Jensen drives a cab. He’ll pick up just enough fares to save him from imminent eviction and maybe a few more to afford actual food instead of frozen dinners. What irritates Jensen is how often he finds himself climbing into the cab and dusting off the meter. The University doesn’t pay shit for translation. It’s much more concerned with making money off all the cash cows that are freshman with trust funds. New York’s cultural elite attends their University, and yet, no one can be bothered to make sure faculty and staff have a decent wage.

Still, he’s quiet at the mention of a cab.

Blended now, Jensen’s drink slides over, straw already submerged inside for him.

Unable to allow the silence to go unnoticed, Miss Rose taps her lovingly manicured nails on the counter to get Jensen’s attention. “Everyone’s got a side hustle honey, ain’t no shame.”

Appreciative, Jensen holds his drink up in a toast. “Got more than one, but here’s to the main hustle, which I may or may not snap at and hog tie Stuart to his desk today.”

“I’ll keep watching the newspaper headlines,” she laughs. Work on other drinks begins, though she sticks close enough to continue their conversation. “And if you need more side hustle from Fire Island, you know that Luto has hours for you.”

By this point Jensen could make drinks. He knows the ratio to pretty much the entire menu, except for the new shit they add in the summer with six different kinds of fruit and vegetables. What happened to simplicity? Why isn’t orange and mango enough for people? The mention of Luto and Fire Island doesn’t snap him back to the reality outside of his head like it normally would. His drink is already sweating, just like its owner. Jared ate the extra peach slice by slice, cutting it with a pen knife he keeps in that messenger bag. Tiny slivers were passed over to Jules, who only spit up half.

Maybe Jules would prefer a smoothie. Can babies have smoothies?

“Jensen.”

He looks up to Miss Rose as the source of his name being spoken just now, but she’s dealing with a customer at the register since he drifted off. Turning around, his eyes meet two sets of hazel ones.

Jules brightens up at the sight of Jensen’s brightly colored drink. Jared, however, is not as amused.

“Why do you always look so pissed off?” Jensen kneels down to the carrier, holding his drink.

“If you have to ask you’ll never know,” Jared snips. “Don’t give him that, it’s too cold for him.”

Sighing, Jensen rolls his eyes. “I wasn’t going to.”

He takes his right hand, which has been holding his drink, and taps Jules on the forehead, nose, and chin. The coolness of his touch, combined with the condensation from the cup, relaxes Jules even more. As a reward, Jensen is granted a smile baby advertisers only dream about.

One glance up to Jared yields a reaction entirely different from Jules.

“Don’t touch him,” Jared blurts out, yanking the carrier away. “I have no idea where your hands have been or what you’ve touched. You probably lick subway poles.”

Jensen stands and looks at his hands. “My god, you’re right. This morning, I totally stopped off at the leper colony over on 110^th and just shook hands with everyone. Then I just started licking everything on my way here. I was unstoppable. You should’ve seen me. Change on the ground? Licked it. Traffic cones? Licked. Why, I even stepped inside public bathrooms and just had a shit ton of fun there.”

For whatever reason, Jared decides to ignore Jensen and get in line for a drink. Jensen stands back, sipping his own, and tries not to watch, care, or let any of this matter.

He inhales the air conditioning slow and deep, trying to save it for the next two blocks of walking he has to do before arriving on campus. From the edge of campus it’s another two blocks, but it’s best not to think about that right now or ever.

Jared doesn’t shuffle. He doesn’t waddle. He doesn’t move without thinking about it three times through. The end result is the look of someone determined to push past the moment.

Total tight ass.

“Yes, can I get a number six, extra carrots, without strawberries?”

“Number six,” Miss Rose repeats, writing the order on a cup. “No red, extra orange.”

“Please,” Jared says, digging through his messenger bag. “Please make sure no strawberries, I’m allergic and the last time I was here someone didn’t take my order right.”

“Did you say no strawberries?”

“Of course I did.”

“Then they should have listened. We take allergies seriously.”

“Well I’m telling you that they didn’t and I had to spend the entire day in and out of the bathroom because your smoothie was coming out both ways.”

This has escalated quickly. Before Jensen can intervene, it only gets worse.

“Are you planning on paying?” Miss Rose snips.

“I can’t… I can’t find my… why should I pay anyway? I still have my receipt from my order two days ago.”

“If you got sick last time, why would you come back here? Because you thought you’d get something for free? Honey, that’s not the way this works.”

“Who took your order?” Jensen asks, siding up to Jared. There’s a line building and everyone’s patience all around is starting to wear thin. “You know,” he coughs, “when you were here two days ago.”

Jared turns and stares at Jensen for a second, tossed out of his robotic state. “Uh… guy… with a beard.”

“White guy? Glasses?” Jensen prompts.

“Yes.”

“That was Eddy,” he sighs, shakes his head, and looks over at Miss Rose. “Comp him the drink, Rose. I know he seems like a pain in the ass, but he’s not lying about Eddy’s incompetence—or the bathroom.  I was there, and trust me, it sounded painful.”

Hazel eyes flash. “What are you…?!”

Miss Rose looks between the two of them and then down at Jules, then back at Jensen. She punches a code into the register. The drawer pops open and she closes it immediately. “I don’t appreciate being accused of making drinks incorrectly.”

“You didn’t,” Jensen assures her, “Eddy did.”

A comp’ed drink from Miss Rose means a gross injustice has occurred. She hardly ever comps drinks; working near a university in New York, in a crowded, yuppie part of the city means that she consistently has to hold her ground against customers.

“I meant what I said about Fire Island,” she says, mixing together Jared’s drink. “You keep driving that cab and it’s gonna be your ass I tell not to get stabbed during a fare.”

After the blender runs and Jared’s drink is poured, Jensen replies.

“Nah, Rose, that’d never happen to me. What kind of New York cabbie lets that happen?”

He picks up Jules in the carrier and holds the door open for Jared, so he can drink his strawberry-free smoothie without worry.

As they step into the neon sunlight of another day, Jensen hears, “Thank you.”

Both hands on Jules’ carrier, he replies, “Not a problem.”

Once a month, Jensen travels upstate into the suburbs.

He has a purpose in doing so, but he enjoys pretending that he’s some prosperous Manhattan trust fund baby out on the prowl for property and popularity. An entire persona forms on his trip north and out of the sprawling city. Through boroughs and neighborhoods and pockets of people, Jensen does his best to imagine something different.

If he doesn’t, he starts to notice things too much.

And noticing things as they are can be a little overwhelming.

Seated on board a large, loud train, New York City disappears. It shrinks down, transforms, and steps out disguised as strip malls. There are restaurants that advertise catering, title loan companies, and churches wedged in between shoe stores and buffets. Rusty water towers replace skyscrapers, but those too change.

Every minute the train pushes forward on its tracks another revolution occurs.

The seats on the train are uncomfortable.

Every window on the train is dirty. They’re all stained with something that has dried over beige.

This is one train before rush hour traffic officially begins.

Somewhere behind him, someone turns a newspaper over. Jensen catches the resulting breeze on the back of his neck. It feels good—fleeting, but good.

Water towers and salt reserves become steel and auto body shops. Those turn around to be junk yards. The grass that grows near the chain link fences that border off the shops and the tracks is perpetually wet, even if it hasn’t rained in all week. It always looks damp and clingy.

Gutted trucks and sedans and station wagons rust and fade in every New York season. A few hoods are popped up. Engines and tubes stick out like tongues.

At the three quarter mark, there is an abandoned factory.

Looking out the window again, Jensen glances at tower after tower of wooden pallets, stacked too high to ever be considered safe. A crooked sign hangs on the furthest wall of the factory. Over a cluster of honeycomb glass windows, in faded red letters the sign states: AFFORDABLE.

The car rocks back and forth.

On the opposite side of the tracks, a freight train heading towards the city flees past. The sides of each car are ridged, and paint from both the companies’ names and graffiti sprayed on is chipping away. Once the trains pass each other, another factory dots the landscape, this one also brick and in worse condition. They are not too far from their destination.

Jensen closes his eyes.

Heat from the day slowly switches to the drowsy warmth of evening.

A minute later, Jensen’s eyes pry open in time to see the gradual gradient of architecture yet again. A post office sits near the tracks, made of cardinal brick, with the lawns surrounding it trimmed. Rows of white mail trucks sit and wait behind the building. After the post office, residential houses make their appearance. These are different from the homes closest to the city; they are two or three stories high, with rooftops accented to look like the tops of chess pieces.

Damn.

He has failed at getting out of his head. It comes so easily to him at work, but on the train, he takes in everything like an industrial sponge.

Two stops away from his destination, he attempts to refocus. Taking the train out this way is faster than driving his cab. For ten bucks he gets a round way ticket out to the suburbs and back to Grand Central Station. Although the cab affords privacy, traffic is a beast Jensen has lost many battles against before.

Today marks two weeks working with Jared. Two days ago, when Jensen got Jared’s comp’ed drink, he helped Jared up the stairs to the Translation Office. It turns out that Jared always looks so fresh and put together before work because he stops at the bathroom on the fifth floor to clean up. After climbing five flights of stairs hauling Jules in his carrier while pregnant and carrying his stuff, exhaustion sets in.

But his face, rounder from the extra weight, turns an interesting scarlet color Jensen has seen before but can’t place where.

Every day, Jared brings with him two extra shirts. The first one is to change into after the six floor walk up. He runs the taps in the single stall bathroom, takes off his shirt, and cools himself down with splashes of cold water. Jensen and Jules waited outside, but it didn’t take a rocket scientist to know what Jared was doing in there.

Yesterday, while Jensen and Jules hung around, Jared started talking.

It wasn’t about anything in particular.

He just talked.

Occasionally, French would weave its way into his speech—what he thought about this word placement over that, then this grammatical structure as opposed to this one.

All Jensen had to do was close his eyes and listen. Jules did the same.

Then Jensen realized that Jared talked on purpose, letting his voice carry from the stall to the hallway so that Jules wouldn’t panic.

The train pulls into a station made of old, red brick and ivory colored columns.

Every hint of green in the station and beyond is well-maintained, manicured as fine as Miss Rose’s nails. People in suits and skirts rush but do not push to get off and on. Jensen takes his time. Dressed in jeans and a black shirt, he stands out amongst the professional crush of bodies hurrying home for supper.

Fire Island is a nightclub named after the actual island off the coast of New York. A team of men and drag queens who were tired of the island founded the club. The story goes that they were weary of the comings and goings of the seasons on the island and tourists trashing the place.

Jensen thinks they were just tired of watching people have fun for free.

He’ll dance in a gilded cage for a few hours at Fire Island, for a 40/60 rate he cut with Luto two years ago. Sixty percent of what he makes a night he pockets for himself. Stripping would earn him more money, but that seems like a gateway into other activities of the night, things that Jensen left in his past and will stay in his past. For now, his cage is fine. He called Luto this morning and asked for three shifts this weekend.

Stepping off the train and onto the platform, Jensen mills around for a moment.

He wonders what Jared does on the weekends.

How bad does he dread those stairs on Sunday nights?

“Jensen! Over here!”

The owner to that voice is encased in five feet of irritatingly charming joy. Nova runs towards him, squeezing through the rush hour folks, leaping over cobblestone brick. Her pink hair trails behind her, an exclamation point of her personality.

Jensen hugs his cousin when their bodies collide.

And his thoughts keep changing.

Laser tag is a man’s game.

Nova beats Jensen’s ass into the ground five times out of six.

This last game she claims she’s just too tired from winning to keep up, so she lets him have it. Jensen is convinced that his is how dinosaurs ramped up their own extinction—the big ones went first because of their size and the little ones survived to mock them.

Through black hallways and tunnels, Jensen lumbers like a drunk dinosaur, crashing into neon-striped corners and edges that come at him from out of nowhere. He can’t hold his laser and maneuver at the same time, a weakness that Nova exploits to the fullest. She snipes him from every angle until the buzzer sounds and the scoreboard up front lights up blue.

WINNER blazes over the right side of the board. Nova’s game name shines in gold: Dat Ass.

His name flickers in silver on the left: Poop.

Casting off his gear—a cheap helmet and one thigh holster—Jensen trudges out to the front, defeated and ready to pay for dinner. Loser treats. Even though he’s traveled an entire hour to get here, he stands by his word as they retreat into the diner attached to the game center.

Everything in the suburbs is different than its counterparts in the city. In the city, diners are small businesses that have been in operation since the dawn of time. Even the juice stand, which has expanded in recent years, is still family-owned with only the one location. Here, the diner is part of a chain, with uniforms and regulations.

Their waiter tonight—a young, uninterested man—plops down a pair of laminated menus onto the cherry red table. He murmurs something about mushroom soup, but Jensen can’t decide if that’s the special today or perhaps what killed the young man’s spirit.

“We’re gonna be three,” Nova chirps, sitting up in the booth. “Can I get a Coke while we’re waiting though? Jen, you want something?”

“Coke’s good,” Jensen says just as the waiter turns and walks away. “Or you know… yeah.”

Nova grins at him. Her pink hair is a tousled mess, but the activity has left a brightness to her eyes that is almost catching. Almost. Jensen wouldn’t want to be too cheerful.

“Do you need a booster seat?” Jensen teases. “Maybe we can set you up with one? Maybe some crayons too?”

“Yes,” his cousin asserts. “Crayons would be great. Then I could draw dicks all over your face.”

“Would they be like body outlines? Where dicks have lain on my face before?”

“That’s so gross! But yes. Exactly like that.”

“Then you have to draw one that goes like this…” He taps from his chin to his forehead and holds his hands up five inches apart. “Guy was that big, I shit you not.”

Blue eyes go wide. “Oh my god.”

“Yeah. And let’s not even talk about my dick, because that is ten times bigger.”

Opal appears at exactly the right moment, both eyebrows raised. She tucks her black, short hair back and hovers at the edge of the table. “I don’t know what I walked into, but I might just wait in the car if Jensen’s going to talk about his dick all night.”

“Not all night,” Jensen retorts, “just most of the night.”

Eventually, Opal sits down. The waiter passes by again, depositing three Cokes on the table. Opal looks at Nova, who shrugs. Three Cokes it is. There’s very little point in asking for anything else. After a clink of all their glasses, they settle in for dinner. Nova mentions to her wife that Jensen lost in laser tag—surprise, surprise—so dinner is on him tonight. This creates a tiny argument over what to get for an appetizer; Jensen referees by ordering both the cheese sticks and the nachos. The waiter couldn’t care any less.

“Test me.” Nova kicks Jensen under the table. “C’mon. I had a test today.”

For a Friday, the diner is relatively empty. Four other tables spread throughout the place is the most excitement to pass through for a while. Jensen sighs and leans back into his side of the booth.

“Two beats.”

“Too easy,” Nova snaps. “Harder.”

Opal nearly spits out her gulp of Coke, rushing to cut Jensen off before he can get to a line.

“You guys are no fun.” Flicking a packet of sugar at Opal, Jensen thinks. “Six beats, then.”

Flawless, Nova traces six beats in the air with her right hand, fingers together as if she were holding a baton. She loops over and around and back again, pink hair brushed over her shoulder and out of her way.

Both Opal and Jensen watch.

Somewhere in the middle of the eighth beat, they order. Burgers and fries all around, plus two milkshakes, one for the gals to split and one for Jensen all by himself. He might pass out from a sugar coma later, but he’ll be on the train so who cares.

Music runs in Jensen’s family. It did, anyway. Jensen lost his parents when he was twenty. A year after, he moved out to the city and started working at the University. Two years ago, Nova’s parents never made it out of a car crash. To this day, Jensen isn’t sure what he fears more—his own heart or a tunnel at night during a storm.

His parents and Nova’s were classically trained musicians.

Now, Nova is in school, training to be a conductor. She’s twenty-one, young for a conductor, but gifted and so full of talent that her association with Jensen makes him look good.

Jensen did not inherit much musical talent. He’s handy with a guitar, sings decent enough not to make ears bleed, and he has been known to play the piano with his elbows and nose before. There’s a toy store somewhere over on 111^th that has one of those large, floor-style pianos. He hopped onto it once and thought that it would play out just like his fantasy. It took two managers to kick him off it.

“Twelve beats,” Jensen prompts, “or you pay for dinner.”

From the gentle squeeze Opal gives Nova’s shoulder, Jensen knows he’s still footing the bill. Damn married folks exchanging silent communication. Taking in a deep breath, Nova starts in the correct spot. Loop after loop, her hand glides through the air, a symphony before her, and an amazed audience all around. Jensen can hear the thunderous roll of twelve beats in a measure.

His concert is interrupted by a plate of fries practically thrown onto the table.

Opal doesn’t let the waiter get away with that.

“Do you want me to get the food?” she asks the waiter, looking him dead in the eye. “Do you wanna pop a squat at the counter or go out and take a smoke break for a while? Because be my guest. I’ll do your job right here, right now if it means my family can have a decent meal. So what’s it gonna be? And choose wisely,” she growls. “If I end up doing your job, I’m taking your balls as payment.”

Unsurprising, the waiter decides to keep his balls.

“They always do,” Jensen grumbles. “For once I wanna see someone say, ‘Hey, you know what? They’re sweaty and bother me when I sit down in tight spaces. Take ‘em.’”

“Are you volunteering?” Nova asks and hugs Opal. “That was very brave.”

Pouring ketchup all over his fries, Jensen shakes his head. “Nope. I like my balls.” He points a fry at Opal. “You use that threat on any of the guys at the courthouse yet?”

The food here is good.

“Not yet.” Opal adds hot sauce to her burger. “They generally frown on threats to balls as legitimate legal arguments, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

Ten years ago, when Opal was fifteen, her family came over from the Philippines. They wanted her to be a doctor, but no amount of pressure on her to study the insides of bodies yielded them a M.D. Three of Opal’s cousins are in private practice, and two of her sisters are nurses. The best her family got was a lawyer. Jensen forgets which kind of lawyer she is, but she’s not the kind that chases ambulances or yells, “Objection!” all day.

For the rest of their luxurious meal, Opal entertains them with juicy details from cases she hears going on in the courthouse. Jensen keeps the conversation on the both of them, asking about Nova’s classes, Opal’s family, and life in general in the suburbs. By the time the check is gently placed on their table, Jensen has barely said more than one whole sentence about what he’s been up to. He keeps it that way.

It gets late. The gals start to yawn and slump together in their booth in the most adorable and sickening way. They’re one year married and still acting like they’re on their honeymoon, which is very inconvenient for Jensen, because they start to thaw out his heart.

And if that happens, then he might not yell out of his office window anymore.

And if that happens, who knows what might be next?

He might actually give a fuck the next time Stuart staples his tie to his desk.

Back in the city, Jensen goes home for an hour.

Fire Island’s Friday crowd is expecting him to appear in Cage B, though that’s not what patrons know it as. Each of the six cages suspended from the ceiling throughout the club gets a letter. Cage A isn’t any better than any other cage after it, in fact, Jensen always prefers to be in Cage B. This is a central spot near the entrance to the back of house, where bouncers and staff are the most reliably available. Cage A may be at the front of the club and the most visible to patrons, but it’s the furthest from help should the need arise.

The gals invited him to stay at their place—a cozy two bedroom loft in the downtown square—but he made up some excuse about having to go into work on Saturday. And that’s partially true. He does have work, just not the job they think he’s working.

Nova visited him once and only once in his time out here.

There isn’t much to see of Jensen’s life in the city. His apartment is sparse because he hates clutter and feels like putting too much shit everywhere would just get in the way. He doesn’t want to settle in these six hundred square feet of warped wood floors or peeling sea foam wallpaper. There is one of everything because he’s never been one for entertaining in his abode. He’d much rather go out.

Although at the current moment, he’d much rather stay in.

He tosses and turns on his narrow twin bed, causing the sheets to rustle. This building, while just as ancient as the one that houses the Translation Office, has the good fortune of air conditioning. However, Jensen is not J.D. Rockefeller and it only gets turned on in extreme weather, such as if his skin is melting off.

Eye closed, he daydreams about cranking the air up until ice forms over the pool of sweat above his upper lip. He could lay here, frozen and comfortable, buck ass naked, and forget about the world completely.

But he could also dress up in dozens of strategically placed glow sticks, a pair of gold gladiator sandals, throw on a bunch of eyeliner and slather himself in body oil that smells like roasted marshmallows—then watch men throw money at him and pretend like they’re good enough to be on his level.

That actually doesn’t sound so bad.

It does, however, involve peeling himself off the sheet and rolling off the mattress. He crawls to the bathroom, on his hands and knees, because hey, what the hell. Jules does it. And it’s not so bad; actually, it’s kind of fun. Hell of an upper body workout. Why isn’t Jules buff by now?

A couple times last week, Jared permitted Jules to crawl around their office. However, there were stringent rules placed upon the ten month old. He could only stay within the perimeter of a purple blanket Jared laid down near his desk—not Jensen’s—and he was not allowed to pull on cabinets to stand himself up, which seems unfair.

Why is he thinking of this?

And why is he laying on the bathroom floor still?

Pulling himself up—as Jules strives to—Jensen groans. Damn aches and pains. He sits on the edge of the bathtub and sighs, looking around. Without turning on the light, the bathroom looks somewhat decent. There’s no sign of the water stain on the ceiling, growing in size and changing shape every time he takes a shower. Likewise, the grout isn’t visible, and no one would be able to tell that Jensen hasn’t cleaned in a couple of weeks.  

He’d like to warn Jules that being able to stand up and walk around means that people expect certain things to be done. Paying the rent is one of those things.

Half grumbling and half whining, Jensen prepares himself to go out. He sticks a plastic comb under the faucet for a second and runs it through his hair. A dab of gel later and bam—hundred dollar hairstyle in less than a minute.

At one, he steps out, in civilian clothes. Jeans, a torn Yankees shirt he cares nothing about, and sneakers. He shoulders a black backpack to the subway, the contents of which house everything necessary to make at least a hundred dollars in tips. If he can manage to pull in a hundred bucks a night for the next three nights, he’ll have half of utilities for next month. There have been a couple of lean times when Jensen went without electricity or water, but hey, it’s a good thing that on every block in New York there’s a twenty-four hour diner and glasses of water are free.

When his parents died, Jensen split their life insurance in half.

He paid for Nova’s school outright, set up a trust with the help of a family lawyer that wasn’t complete scum, and put the rest away in an account he can’t touch until he’s forty. So, for the next fourteen years, he’s living on hand and foot.

Everyone has lapses in paying the bills.

Besides, he concludes as he arrives at the stop closest to Fire Island, if he didn’t have bills to pay he might just deprive these men tonight of someone to throw their money at.

And wouldn’t that be a god damn shame.

On Saturday, Jensen picks up twelve fares. He makes a whopping $75.24, though he rounds it up to $75.25 with a penny he finds under the front seat of the cab. Three of his twelve fares go to La Guardia, which he hates with a passion worthy of professional documentation.

Sunday has similar results, though he makes more money shuffling people to and from church. Still, he runs fourteen fares and only comes out twenty bucks ahead of Saturday’s haul. Church people are stingy. He tells one of the old guys who tips him a buck that Jesus did not die for people to be cheap with someone who just delivered them safely from point A to point B.

Jensen laughs when the man gives him the finger. He honks and gives the finger right back, laughing still.

Monday morning finds Jensen dead on his feet, but four hundred dollars richer.

Tips were great this weekend at Fire Island. So great, he agreed to six more shifts right off the bat—this weekend and the next. When he stops in at the juice bar for his morning beverage, he hands Miss Rose his briefcase as payment.

Maybe he’s a little tired.

Maybe he was just dancing inside a silver cage to booming pop music surrounded by muscular men holding ones, fives, and tens in the air like they were napkins, just a short four hours ago.

Miss Rose puts his drink on a tab she has running and doesn’t say a word about his appearance this morning or at Fire Island. They saw each other briefly on Saturday night, before she went on stage; she blew him a kiss and he thrust his cock in her direction. That’s a fucking how you do in go-go talk.

Trudging up the stairs, Jensen thinks of how Stuart might do working at La Guardia. What magical things there could he get his tie stuck in, pinned on, or severed by?

These thoughts soothe the headache he’s been lugging around since he left Fire Island. He doesn’t drink when dancing; the music is loud enough to pop ear drums. The only thing that has helped this headache so far has been pressing his drink to the back of his neck.

To add to his pain, Jensen walks into the Translation Office five minutes late.

Stuart almost jumps for joy as he begins to read Jensen his Miranda Rights and stress the importance of arriving to work on time in a consistent fashion. Every word from Stuart’s mouth is, on a good day, impossible. Today is not a good day. Each word is like road kill being scraped from hot cement.

Jared sticks his head out of their office.

“There you are!” he snaps, a phone ringing in the background. “Did you stop by the fourth floor and sign off on those copies like I asked?”

For a second, Jensen has no clue what was just said to him. He’s too tired. Jared looks like he hasn’t slept in days either, though his reason for doing so is probably way cuter than Jensen just trying to make the rent. Jensen shrugs and stares at Jared, trying to figure out the puzzle being sent.

“Yeah,” eventually blurts out of Jensen’s mouth. “I did.”

“Good. And did you pick up stamps on your way, also like I asked you to do—ten minutes ago when you first got here?”

Stamps? Hazel eyes? Jensen is confused. He nods again, once more than necessary, and looks at Stuart. “I was downstairs,” he slurs but keeps his eyes open. “Getting… sending…. signing copies and buying stamps. Stamps.”

Jules begins to cry from inside their shared office. Jared grabs Jensen by the front of his shirt and yanks him in, shutting the door and throwing Jensen into his chair.

“My god, you reek,” Jared hisses, waving his hand in front of his nose. “Like stale cologne and mangoes. Ugh.”

The world reels for Jensen.

Maybe three hours of sleep after working all weekend was inadequate in preparation for today. Plus, he forgot that his office is no longer his; he shares it with someone hell bent on doing things previously foreign to Jensen such as working and getting projects finished ahead of schedule. In the era pre-Jared, he might have been able to spend the entire morning sleeping, because once the door to his office was shut, no one was allowed in. Now, he has to somehow manage to keep his eyes open and make it seem like he’s working.

He starts by placing his right hand on the pile of to be read letters, still substantial ever since Jared found the box with more that Jensen had forgotten about. The box was technically stuffed almost behind the mini-fridge until Jared uncovered it and barked at Jensen to dig it out. An upside to this is that the mini-fridge no longer makes ghastly noises throughout the day. So there’s that.

The paper feels funny against Jensen’s fingertips. Too smooth. Almost like water. Has paper always felt this way?

An unknown amount of minutes pass like this.

“You’re hungover, aren’t you?” Jared mutters, typewriter churning away.

In truth, Jensen didn’t have a drop of alcohol all weekend, even when he gave three lap dances and his customers were generous with drink tickets. He ended up swapping out the drink tickets to Lily, one of the drag queens, and received cash instead. There was a time when Jensen might do a shot or two before a set, just to loosen up, but not anymore.

Still, he’d rather not share this much right away, especially when he’s not in complete control of what comes out of his mouth. The not-truth is easy.

Jensen places his head down on the oak desk. “So hungover. I did tequila shots off of the abs of so many men all weekend. Hey, do you know what a purple nurple is?”

For a moment, the clacking of heavy keys stops.

It’s quiet enough in the office that Jensen can hear Jules sleeping the morning away—practically bragging about his privilege as a baby to sleep whenever and wherever he pleases. Well, Jensen will show him. He’s going to go out to lunch, but in reality, he’ll probably sleep in one of the deserted offices on the third floor. Jared hasn’t been through there and found out about his secret napping spot... yet.

The longer the abrupt silence stretches, the more it alarms Jensen.

My god, is Jared having an out of body experience? Is his bossiness needed in another office building? Should Jensen contact Jared’s next of kin? Did his typewriter break? Is he looking up purple nurples in one of the thick dictionaries he set out on his second day working here?

Or is he imagining Jensen’s weekend of faux debauchery?

Briskly, Jared stands up from his desk, grabs Jules from the filing cabinet, and shuffles towards the door.

Before the slam of the door, Jared makes his voice as sharp as Jensen’s letter opener.

“Get back to work, Jensen.”

On Wednesday, Tom is not Tom.

“He’s out sick,” his replacement hisses to Jensen. The replacement is a younger version of Tom by at least twenty or thirty years, but with the bitterness and jaded quality of at least ten Toms.

Jensen might be impressed if the office mail wasn’t pitched at him.

Picking up stray letters from the floor—contemplating crawling back to his desk in an imitation of what Jules has been doing all morning—Jensen notices a handwritten letter in the bunch. It sticks out from all the typeset letters, shit they get from corporate offices, administration, and other branches of the university. Jensen needs to call the Biology department and scream at some of their TA’s for sending him so much medical junk to translate into French.

But this letter—it’s not addressed to Stuart, Ms. Amalfi, or Benji, their office manager out on leave. And it’s definitely not addressed to Jensen.

In careful block writing, Jared’s name stretches over the cream colored envelope in blue ink.

There seem to be photos inside, which give the envelope weight. Jensen tucks it into the middle of the pile before heading back to the office. Without knocking, he enters, because hell, it’s his office too. Just because Jared has been in a foul mood all week—first from Jensen’s supposed hangover, then from the temperature rising to the high-eighties—doesn’t mean he gets free reign of the entire office.

Jules looks up at Jensen from the small kingdom of his purple blanket and squeals, smiling and shaking all over. Jensen winks. This drives Jules nuts. Chubby fingers get stuck into one drooling, pink little mouth. Jensen looks away for a second; Jules is breathless in anticipation.

Still holding the mail, Jensen turns back towards Jules, his eyes crossed and tongue stuck out.

At almost eleven months old, Jules has the best sense of humor of anyone in the entire building. He laughs like he’s in a front row seat at the Apollo, and begins clapping, drool now getting everywhere.

Unable to help laughing himself, Jensen tosses the mail onto Jared’s desk.

He might die in the next few seconds but at least he got to make Jules drool with purpose.

“Sort this shit,” Jensen snips. “I don’t have time.”

More than one thing is wrong with what Jensen just did. He can almost feel the knots in Jared’s shoulders forming. Oh wait, those are his knots in his shoulders. Since when has work ever caused him so much stress?

“You of all people cannot say any of what you just said to me.” Jared slams his leather bound French to English dictionary shut. He turns in his chair to face Jensen. “You know, I can’t believe I covered for you on Monday, like I expected you to actually get some work done around here.”

Very briefly, Jensen wonders what Jared’s normal blood pressure must be.

Before either of them can continue to spar, the door to the office busts open. Ms. Amalfi appears in the doorway, as breathless as Jules was a minute ago. With a hand to her chest, she draws in one long breath and lets out that Stuart has somehow managed to staple himself and his tie in six different places and two of those places she doesn’t feel comfortable having her hands near because she’s a god fearing woman of the Lord and she’s been married to Fred for thirty years this June holy mother can Jared please come help?

Standing up, Jared shoots Jensen a look. “We’re not finished.” A softer look is given to Ms. Amalfi. “Just let me grab Jules.”

“Leave him with Jensen,” Ms. Amalfi pleads. “The man is about to chew his limbs off with his own teeth, Jared, I am not kidding.”

“Leave Jules with him?”

Jensen snorts. “What’s wrong with me?”

Jared’s nose scrunches. “Where do I start?”

“Jared!” Ms. Amalfi reaches out and places a hand on his shoulder. “Please, don’t make me beg. It’ll take two minutes to straighten the poor man out. Jensen watered a plant for me once when I was on vacation and it survived. We’ll be two seconds.”

The plant died. Jensen just bought her an identical one.

“My son is not a… listen to me,” Jared growls, low and dangerous, pointing at Jensen. “If there’s a bump, bruise, or scratch on my son, I’m taking your balls as reparations—one by one, with a cold spoon.”

Next time he sees Opal, he’ll have to mention the spoon part. That’s pretty original.

Ms. Amalfi and Jared disappear.

Freed from his cruel parental overlord, Jules immediately leaves the purple blanket and heads straight for the one outlet that Jensen has not yet covered, because it’s on his side of the office and he uses it frequently. Luckily, Jules is a baby and babies are easily thwarted simply by being scooped up.

With a poke to the yellow duck on his shirt, Jules is all smiles. And drool.

“Do you like glow sticks?” Jensen asks, tilting his head and Jules to the side. “Or… what if you and I did shots off your daddy’s desk? You can have shots of milk and I’ll do shots of legal addictive stimulants.” It’s hot as the fires of hell in this building, but Jensen could still drink an entire pot of coffee.

Hazel eyes brighten as Jensen moves around the office. “Ba ba ba?”

“Ba?” Jensen holds the tiny human in his charge like he’s seen Jared do. “I take that as a yes. Okay, now, first, I have to teach you the best way to do shots. You have to toss the whole thing back, which for you, my friend, is not a problem. I’ve seen you chug a whole bottle in ten seconds flat. You were made for collegiate drinking games. No, really, you were.”

Most days, Jules fulfils his duties as faithfully as his parent. He sleeps for the first half of the day, then spends his afternoons crawling, playing with plastic spoons or soft building blocks that have been drooled over more than Jensen’s go go suit with the fire red tassels on the sides that make his ass look fantastic. There are some days—usually when New York City resembles the surface of the sun—when Jules fusses and cries until Jared has to take him into the bathroom to either nurse him or desperately try to get him to sleep. If Jared just listened to Jensen and slipped Jules some brandy every now and then, he’d be a lot less stressed out.

“Oh, thanks,” Jensen cringes the second one sticky, slightly slimy hand smacks his cheek. “Yeah, uh, I’m going to have to institute a no hands on me policy, pal.” He removes the hand, but it reappears a second later, this time firmer and more insistent.

Tears and a meltdown threaten to occur the second time Jensen tries to pry the hand away.

Of course, the phone rings, and then it’s Jensen who wants to have a meltdown.

Reluctantly, he answers, one baby hand on his face and the other tugging at the collar of his shirt like the kid thinks it’s lunchtime and Jensen is a buffet. Well, he’s wrong, but Jensen’s in no position to prove that to him just yet.

“Translation… Office.” Jensen’s voice is muffled by Jules’ hand. “Hey, pal, phone.” He puffs out a breath of air and Jules only giggles at the sensation. Great.

A blast of Greek slaps Jensen across the face from the reach of the phone. Holy fuck, someone is angry. And the problem here, besides the fact that Jensen does not want to deal with this or anyone, is that the woman on the line speaks too fast for him to understand.

He ends up pacing the room, muttering the blandest Greek words he can think of.

But then the lady commences screeching.

She wails to such a degree that Jensen sticks the receiver out away from him and tosses it on his desk. Glaring at the evil contraption, he decides to see how long this lady lasts screaming at herself.

Sighing, Jensen frowns at his partner in crime.

“You tell no one about this,” he murmurs to Jules. “Got it, pal? Or I’m gonna take candy from you. You know… cause people say… it’s like taking candy from a baby?”

Jules tilts his head, peering curiously at Jensen and his nonsense. What the fuck does Jules care about some lunatic shrieking her head off about some project? He has much better things to do with his time, and most of those things include napping.

With a smile, Jules claps his hands. Jensen shakes his head in disapproval.

“No. We are not having fun right now. See all of this?” Jensen motions to the office. “This is hell. Living hell. Remember that.”

All Jules does is point to Jensen’s desk. For a second, Jensen thinks he might be pointing at the cup of lukewarm coffee. How interesting would it be to hop Jules up on caffeine and pass him off to Jared? Would they have a baby on the ceiling? But Jensen would never try that. Caffeine in large quantities is chaos for him; it would be a nightmare for a baby.

On second glance, Jensen notices that the plastic blue spoon has somehow made its way to his desk.

“You want this?” He holds it up.

“An na ba ba.”

“Spoon. This is a spoon.”

Jules makes a grab for it. Jensen relinquishes control. Next, he hangs up the phone.

Today’s lesson from Jules, who holds a PhD in Baby, is that sometimes, happiness is one plastic blue spoon away.

That and hanging up the phone is the most wonderful feeling in the world.

For being such a good boy in his absence, Jared treats Jules to an extra bottle and some soft cookies at the end of the day. Afternoons have passed by before where Jules will get a treat and Jensen will complain about special treatment and nepotism.

But not today.

The odious phone rings twice more once Jared gets back; he answers them both. The first call is Jared’s babysitter for the night, from what Jensen gathers. It must be an important call for Jared to take it at work on university time.

“Sorry for the short notice, mom.” Oh. “Well, he only just asked me.”

Distraction. Distractions are good.

What about this letter from the to be read pile? Sure, he’s desperate enough to read work and it’s not from the Biology Department, so that’s already in his favor.

“No. I don’t know. He said Italian. I hate Italian, too much garlic. No, mom, I love garlic. But Jules isn’t exactly crazy about the taste when it’s time to nurse. Uh huh. No, mom, I liked your pasta sauce just fine the other night. Jules liked it too.”

Jared exists outside of this office. He goes somewhere every day after work and comes from some unknown placed before. The forty hours a week they’ve spent in this office are nothing in comparison to the free time outside. But so what? Jensen has a life outside of here, too. Yeah. And it’s a fucking interesting life. He watched two guys fight over who got a lap dance from him first last Saturday. People write memoirs and really awful screenplays based off of lives like his.

What the fuck has the English Department sent him this time?

Qu’y puis-je? Je connais le travail; et la science est trop lente. Que la priere galope et que la lumiere gronde… je le vois bien. C’est rop simple, et il fait trop chaud; on se passera de moi. ‘ai mon devoir; j’en serai fier a la facon de plusierus, en le mettant de cote.

Fuck.

“Yeah, he said eight. I think that’s kind of late, don’t you? I know. It’s been… a while. No, I’ll be fine. Mom, it’s just a date.”

Jensen has one go-go outfit that he saves for special occasions. It’s inspired by peacocks and Fort Knox. At this moment, he wants nothing more than to be in this outfit, because it makes him feel good. It makes him feel wanted and desired and noticed.

The translation is simple. Jensen doesn’t bother typing it. He takes a fresh sheet of letterhead and scrawls at a mile a minute.

Jared doesn’t wear a ring. He doesn’t mention anything about his personal life. But since he’s got Jules and he’s pregnant, Jensen just assumed… he assumed that there was no point in asking, mostly because he didn’t figure it out until now, now that it’s too late.

“He’s very nice.”

What can I do?

I know what toil is; and science is too slow. Let prayer gallop and light thunder… I see it clearly. It is too simple, and it’s too hot; they will get along without me. I have my duty; I shall be proud of it after the fashion of several others by setting it aside.

Second part: Ma vie est usee.

My life is threadbare.

He stuffs the paper into an envelope and scratches out the details on the front. To whatever, whoever, blah, blah, blah, building blah.

“His name’s Stuart.”

Envelope on his desk, Jensen stands, grabs his suitcase, and picks up his letter opener.

He brings down the silver point directly into the middle of the envelope, lodged in his desk. The noise is enough for Jared to whip around, eyes wide.

Jensen nods at Jules—a silent good bye.

Then he leaves.

On Thursday, Jensen hears Jared tell Ms. Amalfi about his date.

They think they’re being quiet.

He can still hear them from her office down the hall.

Stuart spent the entire night openly staring at Jared’s chest. He ordered wine and drank in front of Jared, then offered him some, then got so flustered at his mistake that he ended up pouring the glass of red all over himself and onto the lady at the table next to them. Jared had to apologize to the manager, their waiter, the lady, and the lady’s husband. Stuart paid for exactly half of his meal—down to the very last penny, in change.

Serves Jared right. Or something. Jensen’s not a spiteful person. But he can’t help but feel a sense of satisfaction upon learning these details.

Until Jared mentions the cab ride home.

The cabbie couldn’t understand Stuart’s directions to the movie theater, so they ended up going for a walk in the theater district. Neither of them had the money for tickets, but Stuart read off headlines to Jared as they strolled past. That was nice. The lights were bright and people all around them seemed so excited to be there. Where Jared comes from, the only shows or plays he’s ever been to have revolved around first graders playing Presidents.

All New York cabbies are hooligans, Ms. Amalfi chimes in. Every one of them is out to make an extra buck.

And they all drive like s-h-i-t, Jared adds. The one from the night before almost clipped at least a dozen cars and had no regard for traffic or pedestrians. Jared jot down the guy’s license and such to report him to the proper authorities.

Jabs to cabbies are nothing new. Jensen’s got tough skin when it comes to that shit.

“So did he?” Ms. Amalfi presses. “Did he really?”

“Yes.” Jared shuffles around in the hallway, probably switching Jules from one side to the other. “He kissed me.”

“Nothing set on fire? He didn’t staple his tie to anything, did he?”

“No, no, not at all.”

“All right, and?”

“…and it wasn’t bad.”

Jensen finishes one entire to-be read pile, spills coffee near Jared’s typewriter, then leaves early for the day without a word.

An entire month flutters by like the tassels on Jensen’s go-go suits.

New York in the summertime is both wondrous and hellish. People are out more, trying to squeeze in as much fun as possible before winter sets in and chokes the life out of every block, neighborhood, and borough. Parades and festivals take place weekly, encouraging the masses to spend their money and live large. Tourists and locals alike descend upon parks, bars, and nightclubs.

Fire Island does well in the summer. Drink specials are generous and the police turn a blind eye towards the activities in the back of house and in the alleyways surrounding the club. There’s one morning when Jensen leaves and he stumbles into a large, bodybuilder guy receiving head from another large, bodybuilder guy. Jensen apologizes under his breath and the first guy just laughs and says, “No problem.”

Everyone’s fucking cheerful in the summer.

With the influx of bodies moving around the city, the demand for cabs spikes. A couple of rainy days on the weekends are a bigger boon, and Jensen makes double what he usually does. It’s hell getting anywhere in the city when the weather sucks, but the attempt and the resulting tips make it better than sitting around his apartment.

On a Sunday, Jensen takes a fifty from his reserve, which he keeps lodged in a tin of band-aids in the bathroom. He breaks the fifty at a gas station on the edge of the city, puts ten into the tank, and pockets the rest. The scenery is the same on his route out of the city and into suburbia, but his thoughts look different. It’s not easy for him to stay concentrated on the road and only the road; it’s not enough for him to monitor the temperature gauge on the dashboard, fuss with the radio and avoid anything with strings or wind, or wriggle against his seatbelt.

Jensen pulls over at the halfway mark. He parks the cab on the side of the road.

Hands on the wheel, staring off into the stretch of pavement ahead of him, he can’t sort through his head.

This is bullshit.

Stuart has taken Jared out to the same Italian place three more times since the first. And every single fucking day after those dates, Jared has to report to Ms. Amalfi like it’s going to be in the papers. So Jensen gets to hear about Stuart paying in change every time until the last date, when Jared paid out of frustration.

So why?

Why is Jared dating someone who, as recently as yesterday, slammed their hand in a filing cabinet and fell ass over kettle in his chair directly after? Someone who has the most nasal voice in the universe and probably grunts three times during sex, rolls over, and falls asleep?

That’s not a fun image. Jensen shudders.

He also smacks his head against the wheel. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

This is not him. He doesn’t like Stuart, but what does he care what he’s like in bed? What does he care how he pays at restaurants when taking out attractive, fiery, stubborn as fuck, in command all the time dates?

Just sitting in his car thinking this through, Jensen’s heart beats like he ran here.

On Friday, Jules took advantage of Jared’s phone call with someone in Nice. The call took a good forty-five minutes of yelling, cursing, and threatening the balls of every French person in that office. As this was done, Jules made use of his eleven months on this earth and crawled over to Jensen. He tugged on Jensen’s jeans, and with a small, chubby fist, held up a plastic blue spoon.

“Ba?” The signature word.

Not actively talking to Jared except for work-related shit that’s absolutely necessary, also meant not playing with Jules. Sometimes, Jensen would make faces across the office, as he sat ten feet away, but it wasn’t like before.

Alone in his car, Jensen sighs.

He pulls the cab back onto the road and continues driving—away from the blaze of New York City behind him.

Jensen meets Opal at the train station. She’s surprised to see him in the cab, but he’s more surprised to see her without Nova.

“She’s finishing a paper,” Opal explains, sliding in beside Jensen. “I know she said she’d meet you but she was on a roll, and, well, here I am.” Buckling her seatbelt, she adds, “How’re you?”

It’s best not to ask how Jensen is doing, but since she has, what comes out of his mouth is a lot like Latin, the kind that takes scholars years to decipher, and when they do, it’s just a bunch of Ancient Romans describing orgies and buffets. He’s not sure what exactly tumbles out to Opal, but whatever it is, it’s enough for her to make a suggestion for tonight’s activity.

Laser tag isn’t mentioned It’s not what he needs.

“You don’t mind,” she says as they pull up to the gym, “hanging out with just me for a while?”

Parking the car, Jensen thinks this over. “If I do mind, would you pay for dinner?”

“Nah.” Opal smiles and shakes her head. “I’d just concentrate on your balls.”

They get right into it.

The gym is just like anything else in the suburbs—overly clean, sanitized, and sterile. But it’s eight bucks for each of them to use the third floor for an hour. A bodybuilder much like the guy Jensen somewhat interrupted during his blowjob hands Jensen back change for his twenty.

Jensen doesn’t have a spare set of clothes with him, but he isn’t bothered when he sweats through his shirt twenty minutes later.

Opal works him hard.

For every jab or hook he gives, she counters, pushing back, challenging him, and forcing every move he makes to count for double. Salty, clear sweat pours from him in ripples by ten to eight. When the bodybuilder receptionist comes up to find them, Opal asks for another hour. The guy discounts them to four bucks—two a piece—and sticks around, though Jensen hardly notices him.

Inhale. Punch. Exhale. Strike. Inhale. Jab. Exhale. Kick.

Following a rhythm that has built up over time, Jensen pummels the cherry red punching bag held in front of him. He hears his own breathing escalate into something closer to snarling. When he pushes Opal back an entire inch on the mat, she ditches the bag and meets him face to face. She ducks, dives, and taps him in the center of his chest. Hit.

Again, Jensen motions, circling her, searching for an in.

Her stance is defensive, solid and unyielding.

An opportunity seizes itself and Jensen takes it without question. He crosses, power punching with his right hand. His hips twist, torque increases; all he needs is a gold, feather boa, the tassels on his hips, and a pair of gladiator sandals. Then he’d be something to see, instead of the something he merely is.

He’d be beautiful.

He’s on target with his swing.

Until Opal sweeps him.

Five foot two to his six foot one, she knocks him flat on his back.

Coughing, tears run down his face from being winded and landing hard.

“Oh my… Jensen?” Opal panics, hovering over him. “I’m sorry, oh my god, don’t move!”

Is the universe trying to tell him something? Should he stop shouting out the window at work and leave the kid who regularly eggs their building alone? Maybe he’s trying to create art with those eggs? Or better yet, is this the universe’s way of literally knocking sense into him? Why does sense make him feel so achy?

Before Opal can call an ambulance for his sorry ass, Jensen sputters, “You’re… definitely… paying for dinner.”

Fifteen minutes later, with the receptionist’s help, Nova finds Opal and Jensen on a bench outside.

Jensen doesn’t even have to be on shift at Fire Island to have beefy men carry him around.

That, and the small punch Nova gives to Opal’s shoulder for beating up Jensen, makes him smile.

Tragically, Jensen is not imbibed with true wisdom and understanding after Opal kicks his ass.

He is, however, sore as fuck Monday morning.

He’s so sore that he walks twice as slow to work, which leaves him no time to stop by the juice stand and receive pity from Miss Rose.

In addition to his internal and external anguish, Monday decides that the city should try to copy the surface of the sun, Mercury, and Venus all put together. Even in air conditioned places—like the bank Jensen steps into for a moment and contemplates hiding in one of the safes—the reach of summer is inescapable. While the sweat bath is good for his pores, Jensen arrives to work drenched, and he hasn’t even begun his ascent up six floors of rickety, ancient stairs.

Heat saturates the building like old, stale oil. Jensen pushes through the gunk, promising himself that if he makes it to work today, he can rig Stuart’s typewriter to write the word “fuck” over and over again.

By 9:01, Jensen slumps into the Translation Office.

Stuart is nowhere to be found. Jensen decides to rig his typewriter later, after he’s caught his breath and the world stops pounding on the back of his head. He may or may not have a small concussion from his brush with death last night, but who needs a hospital? One of the drag queens at Fire Island is a registered nurse; he’ll get looked at there tonight if he has the energy. He slept like shit last night, though that might possibly be related to the pain in his head.

Or maybe not.

Jared isn’t in either.

There’s only Ms. Amalfi, already perched in her office and screeching Polish into the phone. It’s something about the world vaginal against the word virginal. Either way, Jensen does not want to know.

At his desk, he throws down his briefcase and glares at the paperwork set out over his typewriter. Neat, organized handwriting fills a few pages; this is Jared’s way of passive-aggressively telling him to finish this project. Jensen shoves those pages aside and, in desperation, grabs for a thick envelope from the English Department.

Are they fucking?

Jensen reads more fucking Rimbaud. He reads it out loud because he can’t stand the silence of this office and it would be too much for him to go, “Ba?”

“J’ai reve la nuit verte aux neiges cblouies, buser montant aux yeux des mers avec lenteurs.” He reads loud, steady, and deep. “La circulation des seves inouies, et l’evel jaune et bleu des phosphores chanteurs.” It’s so easy to fall into French. He grew up with it. His mother sang it to him and his father played it to him. Saint-Saens, Debussy, Ravel… they watched over his crib and his parents created music made from the stuff of starlight.

“I’ve dreamed green nights of dazzling snows,” Jared sniffs, leaning against the doorway, Jules over his shoulder. His voice is small, quiet. “Slow kisses on the eyelids of the sea, the terrible flow of unforgettable saps, and singing phosphors waking yellow and blue.”

Rimbaud almost sounds pretty.

Jared is a mess.

Despite the recommendation, Jared did not visit the fourth floor.

Jensen takes him there now. He grabs Jules’ carrier and leads the way without any protest or snide comment from Jared. It’s clear to Jensen that this has been a rough day and it’s not even ten in the morning. But it’s good that he moves a little slower today; Jared goes down the stairs one at a time, holding onto the rail, breathing hard.

The staircase is narrow.

In his carrier, Jules talks to himself in a language only he can understand. He keeps all of his secrets away from translation, except for, “Ba, ba.” Jensen can’t say that he knows what that means in any scientific or accurate way, but he has a feeling.

Halfway down, Jensen pauses for a break.

He doesn’t look over his shoulder at Jared, at first because he doesn’t want to. It would hurt.

Ten seconds pass and his reasoning shifts. He can hear Jared struggling to keep his composure. Every sniffle, every ragged inhale and exhale of breath, and every sharp swallow of tears all echoes in the stairwell. Jensen lifts up the carrier and turns it around to see Jules.

Today’s outfit is a dirty, green shirt and a pair of denim shorts. He has socks on, but one is blue, the other is yellow. Both are falling off. Jules doesn’t seem to mind any of this. He looks at Jensen with wide eyes, assessing the situation and the grownup in front of him. This time, Jensen doesn’t cross his eyes; he gives a tired, small smile. But it’s good enough.

“Ba,” Jules declares. “Ba, ba.”

Jensen licks his right thumb and wipes off a smidge of drool from Jules’ chin. Delighted, Jules coos, wiggling around in the carrier, anxious to be set free again. The muscles in Jensen’s arms flex and work as he holds the carrier, setting Jules back down so they can resume walking.

One more flight of stairs.

Through a set of heavy, oak French doors. Past a bank of offices long since abandoned. The last department to occupy the fourth floor was part of the university’s music program, three years ago. Towards the end of their time here—until they were moved to a nicer building on campus—they gave into any and every students’ whim. One of those whims was too heavy to carry out of the building during relocation, so the Dean decided to donate it to the building.

Luckily, no one on the sixth floor cared.

Except for Jensen.

He sets Jules down on the only reason for visiting the fourth floor—a baby grand piano.

Taking in a breath, Jensen looks over at Jared.

He doesn’t know much about Jared. He doesn’t know when his due date is, how this pregnancy has been going for him, how different it is in comparison to Jules, or what it’s like being pregnant and taking care of a baby at the same time. He has no idea what Jared’s mom is like, if they’re very close, if they see each all the time, if she babysits for him frequently, or anything else about his family. He has no clue about Jared’s hobbies, his favorite food, if he’s ever been to Coney Island, or if he had ever been to the juice stand before the day they ran into each other there. He doesn’t even know the very basics he knows about any other New Yorker: is he a Yankees fan? Does he fold his pizza? Has he ever eaten a hot dog in Central Park?

What he does know, in this moment, is that Jared looks at the piano and then at Jensen hoping for something.

And Jensen’s not going to disappoint him.

He doesn’t have the talent his parents did, or the natural skill Nova has, but he knows exactly which song to play. Seated, he leaves half the bench empty.

La musique est la vie.

Music is life.

Life tips into each delicate key. The song starts simple. Positioned, his hands hold back, sinking gradually into each movement. Just a few notes to start. Back and forth, with only his left hand.

A quiet clink of soft, higher notes play until his right hand joins in, playing the background, the weight, the backbone of the song. Deeper now, he shifts the melody, eyes closed, with the fragile bones in his fingers stretching.

Slow. Take it slow.

The introduction of his voice matches the depth of the song. He keeps his voice lower than he normally would, bringing it down.

“Yellow walls are lined with portraits and I got my new red fetching leather jacket. All these poses, such beautiful poses, makes any boy feel like picking up roses.” Lift. “All these poses, such beautiful poses, makes any boy feel as pretty princes.” Down. “The green autumnal parks conducting… and the city streets a wondrous chorus singing, all these poses, oh how can you blame me?”

There’s wistfulness in these lines, not to be overshadowed or buried completely by the melancholic movements. Jensen’s style is not direct. It is not forceful. The melody is simple and he does best with that, wringing out grief, regret, and frail adoration.

“Life is game and true love is a trophy.”

Now, up.

His voice rises. The keys play gold. The muscles in his throat work.

“You, said watch my head about it. Baby, you said, watch my head about it. My head about it, oh no, oh no, oh no. Oh no, oh no, no kidding.”

Here, the melody aches. The notes simplify. Jensen’s voice swells. He has an entire orchestra, but it’s the piano and his grief that pour out.

“All these poses of classical torture, ruined my mind like a snake in the orchard. I did go from wanting to be someone, now I’m drunk and wearing flip-flops on Fifth Avenue. Once you’ve fallen from classical virtue, won’t have a soul for to wake up and hold you. In the green autumnal parks conducting all the city streets, a wondrous chorus singing, all these poses now no longer boyish, made me a man, ah but who cares what that is?”

Up. Lift up.

Jensen, sing from here, not from here. Push your voice out. There you go, mon ami.

His hands keep time. His voice arches over long, powerful notes.

“And you… said… watch my head about it. Baby… you… said watch my head about it. My head about it, oh no, oh no, oh no. Oh no, oh no, and you… said… watch… my head about it. Baby, you said, watch my head about it.”

He scales back. The punch of the climax echoes.

Quiet now. Slow.

“My head about it, oh no, oh no. Oh no. Oh no. Oh no. No, kidding.”

The last note is the first note.

He’s afraid to open his eyes. His hands pull away from the piano. He’s going to open his eyes and he’ll be alone. This fear has not changed, not since he was thirteen and his voice changed. He would play in the living room after dinner and wait ten seconds to allow his vision back into his senses.

He would wait for his mother to press her hand on his shoulder.

Sa—

A hand presses against his cheek.

Jensen jumps. His eyes open to Jules, held up by his parent, the most concerned look on his face that a baby can muster. This tiny nose scrunches, the dimples around his mouth frame a temporary frown, and small fingers brush against the stubble on Jensen’s chin. Jules grabs Jensen’s bottom lip, his eyes asking.

All Jensen can do is return the favor.

He blows a raspberry on the palm of Jules’ hand.

“I eat baby hands,” Jensen whispers as Jules squeals. He keeps his mouth over Jules’ palm and mimics chowing down.  “Mmnomnomnomnom. Okay, okay, now fork over the other one.”

Jared nudges Jules’ left hand over.

“Eeeee!” Jules flails, his tiny mouth open wide with pure, unfiltered joy. He wriggles in Jared’s grasp until finally, he is handed over so that Jensen can eat his tummy too. And after that, Jensen is still hungry, hungrier than he’s even been. So he eats Jules’ cheeks, his nose, and his chin.

The fourth floor gets a show completely different than Jensen practicing his scales on rainy days when the pounding muscle in his chest hurts.

Settled into the crook of Jensen’s left arm, Jules coos, his cheeks rosy from so much laughing. He looks up with an expression that could be gratitude or a warning that he’s about to spit up. From the insistent fist that bumps against Jensen’s chest, he figures out that it’s just a demand for food.

“Do you…?” Jensen glances at Jared for direction. “…there’s a bathroom down here.”

Of all things, he can’t read the expression on Jared’s face. “Oh,” he says, hushed. “No, it’s fine.”

“You want me to grab a bottle from the fridge?”

“No, no,” Jared clarifies, shaking his head. He takes a shaky, deep breath. “I didn’t pump this morning, so… I can… uh… here, if that’s okay?”

No one’s blushing. Nope. Not at all.

“Gonna hand you back to daddy,” Jensen tells Jules. “So you don’t get eaten again.”

The transfer goes smoothly. Jules recognizes Jared and tugs on a piece of his hair while Jared sets up. He pulls a square cloth from Jules’ carrier and lays it over his shoulder, then unbuttons the wrinkled amber shirt he has on. Jules wiggles until he’s found a comfortable position in Jared’s arm, which rests over the top curve of his middle.

One set of hazel eyes meet Jensen’s. This time, he can read them. “I’m not daddy,” Jared murmurs softly, looking back down at Jules. “I’m mommy.”

Jules closes his eyes the second after he latches on.

And Jensen turns back to the piano. “Okay, mommy.”

He plays without another word. The fourth floor listens to a light, peaceful piece.

By the third movement, Jules naps.

And Jared’s head rests on Jensen’s shoulder.

Jules naps a full hour without interruption, until the fourth floor becomes a sauna.

At the stairwell to go up, back to the sixth floor, Jensen holds Jules in his carrier. He asks Jared to stop for a moment. In this silence between them, snippets of voices talking filter down. One of those voices belongs to Stuart, more nasal than ever.

Heat rises. So if it’s burning up on the fourth floor, the sixth floor is going to be one of the circles of hell. The ventilation in this building has always been shit, so has the lighting, the layout, and the very structure itself. Climbing back up the stairs would serve what purpose, exactly? Jensen can holler at the kid on the sidewalk from the actual sidewalk. Jules can continue his baby duties anywhere there’s a blanket available, and if Jared really, truly wants to, he can work on projects outside of the actual office.

They’re a fifteen minute walk from three different parks.

A ten minute stroll along the way is all that separates them from an ice cream parlor that serves a flavor called Triple Cherry Coconut Swirl.  

“Is it really worth going back up there?” Jensen moves towards the stairwell going down. Jules jiggles around in his carrier, excited about their potential journey to newer and better things.

One hand on his middle, the other on the small of his back, Jared looks up the stairs.

He draws in one breath and lets it out, slow and soothing.

“No, it’s not.”

Jared follows after Jensen and Jules.

“One double scoop of Triple Cherry on a cone for me.” Jensen takes out his battered, black leather wallet as he orders over the glass counter. “A kids’ cup of vanilla, also for me. And…”

“Scoop of vanilla?” Jared mumbles.

Jensen makes a face. “What? You can’t order that.”

“I can order anything I want.”

“No, no you can’t. You have to order something ridiculous. Joey, sorry, scratch my order. Make it a banana split, all chocolate, and put cherries on it like it’s your job.”

“You are going to be sick.”

“Yeah? Well at least I had fun with my ice cream.”

“…”

“Look at that.” Jensen holds Jules up to see his banana split being made. “Look at all that fluffy whipped cream sitting over three scoops of cold, creamy ice cream.”

“Root beer float,” Jared blurts out, hands flying to his mouth. “Sorry. I mean…”

Smirking, Jensen nods. “Root beer float. How many scoops of vanilla? Three? Three sounds like a good number.”

Three is a great number.

They take their frosty creations to go.

Morningside Park isn’t as crowded as Central Park.

It has thick, lush trees that serve as umbrellas for park inhabitants, forming canopies against the sun. Pockets of activity thrum throughout the expanse of green scenery. Battles are fought and won over the chess tables to the left and a musician holds court with a guitar and drum he manages to play simultaneously. The heat barely has any effect on anyone in Morningside; everyone’s too relaxed to care.

Jared spreads out the purple blanket over a patch of thick, fresh cut grass.

Jensen holds their ice creams and takes a sip from Jared’s root beer float.

After smoothing out a wrinkle in the blanket with his shoe, Jared walks over to Jensen and takes a spoonful of his banana split, careful to scoop only vanilla.

Under the shade of kind trees, Jensen’s eyes rest on Jared. He has no sarcastic comment to snip, no jokes to crack, and no not-truths to turn. His silence is honest.

“Ba, ba!”

Jules’ verbal protests cut through their moment; he wants to get the hell out of his carrier and roll around already, what gives? Struggling against his bonds, Jules begins to cry, upset that no one is rushing to resolve his problem. The carrier rocks back and forth with the violence of Jules’ desperation to be let loose into the world.

Quickly, Jared kneels down, swooping in to the rescue.

“Stay still,” Jared sighs, throttled by small, clenched fists of fury. “Baby, stay still, just give me a minute.”

Sitting down, managing not to spill anything, Jensen has to make one joke. Just one. “He’s just like the time you nagged at me to get the Steves translation done. But I think he hits harder.”

“That translation,” Jared grumbles, lifting Jules and placing him onto the blanket, “was more than two months overdue, Jensen.”

The joke is lost. Jules scoots over towards Jensen, probably because he too, would like a break from nagging. Jensen reaches over for Jules’ cup of ice cream, which is mostly soup now, but still baby-edible. As he teaches Jules how to eat ice cream, he lays down an important rule.

“Let’s not talk about work here, cool?”

For a second, Jared considers the proposition. He nods and takes back his root beer float. “Space out the spoons,” he murmurs. “If he eats too fast, he spits up.”

“I’ve seen him chug a bottle before.”

“Did you see him spit up that bottle after?”

“…no.”

With a snort, Jared rolls his eyes. “Keep feeding him like that and you will.”

Luckily, Jensen doesn’t have to worry much about the ice cream situation, because Jules ditches him in favor of scooting all over the blanket and onto the grass. Jared checks the grass for ants, determines that grass will not in fact cause any harm to Jules, and allows the baby to roam as free as a buffalo—within reach, of course.

Once the smallest of their party is settled, Jensen begins to relax. He finishes half of his banana split and means to come back to it later. Stretching over the grass so Jared can have the blanket, Jensen lays down; he looks at the trees curled above them. There’s a dog somewhere, barking happily, and he can hear bicycles whizzing past on the winding walkways that cover the park. He is not at Fire Island. He is not in his cab, honking the horn during rush hour. He is not at work. He is not at his apartment crawling from the bed to the bathtub.

He is here.

He is here with a baby tentatively placing his hands over Jensen’s stomach, pressing down to see what might happen. Jensen fights the urge to laugh and remains as still as possible. One diaper-clad, shaky butt rises slowly; Jules uses Jensen as balance.

He is here with someone who has sunshine in his hair and kindness in his touch. Jared places his right hand over Jensen’s shoulder, captivated by Jules. This is what Jules has been trying to do with the filing cabinets, but he’s never felt safe enough to go any further. Wobbly knees falter. Jules tips over and lands with his butt on the grass.

Jared wants to help him.

“Just give him a minute,” Jensen murmurs. “Just a minute.”

Tears threaten to spill over, but the breeze that flits past the three of them provides a refresher. Small hands grip onto Jensen’s shirt and pull. Lift off occurs once more. Jules stands and looks down at the grass around him, mystified by the vertical view of the world.

Proudly, Jules turns and looks at Jared first, then Jensen, and lets out a blissful squeak.

Jensen counts slowly, in his head—three, two, one…

He’s here, in this city, in this park, on this blanket, witnessing the first steps of this small human. Pink toes and feet lift up, step down, and repeat the process until they find their way to the place where all is right in the world—the arms of mommy.

Jules just needed a minute.

Jensen has taken a little longer.

Once Jules discovers walking, he is a baby on the move.

Chunky little legs teeter off towards a nearby patch of flowers. Babies are also as destructive as they are cute; Jules rips up two handfuls of flowers, and cries when Jared scoops him up and takes them away. If it doesn’t go from hand to mouth immediately—be it flowers, paper clips, rubber bands, or whatever else he finds on the floor—Jules protests. How uncool of his mother to prevent him from digesting New York’s finest flowers. People would pay good money for those flowers—they’re organic, raw, and local.

Discontent, Jules begins to cry. His face turns red, his nose scrunches up, and he babbles in rage-filled gasps of breath.

“Jules, look, look at the spoon.” Jared holds the blue spoon up and waves it around. “You can put the spoon in your mouth all you want. Look.”

Jensen thinks that Jared might try modeling the spoon concept himself, but he flinches when Jared sticks the spoon into his mouth.

Moving Jules over to get a better view, Jared laughs. “See? Wouldn’t you much rather play with the spoon? What’s Jensen doing with the spoon?”

Focus.

Stay in this moment.

“What am I not doing with this spoon?” Jensen speaks with the spoon in his mouth, then takes it out and holds it out to Jules. “Wouldn’t you like to have this spoon with all my spit?”

“Please clean that.”

“Why? He gets to drool over everything.”

“He’s a baby; he gets to do what he wants.”

“Those are the rules, huh?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve got a pretty sweet deal going on here,” Jensen whispers to Jules. “I probably wouldn’t grow up if I were you. It’s kind of overrated. I mean, sure, you get to drive cars…” Jules takes the spoon after Jensen has wiped it off on his shirt. “…and eat pizza whenever you want, but take it from me: you’ve got it made.”

“Ba,” Jules asserts, sticking the spoon into his mouth. He looks up at Jensen. “Ba.”

“Definitely, that’s right,” he agrees. “We should definitely talk your mom into letting you eat those flowers.”

A hint of a smile peeks out from Jared. “No, absolutely not.”

“Ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, ba babababa…” Wiggling in Jensen’s proximity, Jules puts his hands out in the universal sign for pick me the fuck up now. Jensen complies and is surprised when Jules settles down on his own. He rests his head against Jensen’s shoulder and maintains one hand on the spoon and the other on Jensen’s chest. Tiny fingers curl around the fabric of Jensen’s shirt, holding on tight.

Sighing and laying down, Jared closes his eyes. He curls up on his side, facing Jensen and Jules.

“So you two get to nap,” Jensen asks with a huff, “and I’m the sucker who has to stay awake?”

Responses are minimal. He gets a small snort from Jules, who proves once again why the little square of cloth should be laid down on any shoulder before contact, because he’s drooling through Jensen’s shirt. And from mommy, passed out on the blanket, hair fanned out, belly rising and falling with steady, calm breathing, Jensen gets the slightest nod.

An ache rumbles through Jensen’s chest, different than before.

He’s not sure it’ll ever leave.

An entire hour passes by.

Jensen lies down next to Jared, with Jules on his chest.

He keeps his right hand on Jules’ back at all times.

The temperature breaks and the sun begins its descent, lowering in the sky and giving the entire city a break. Jared wakes up cooler, more relaxed, and rested. He also wakes up hungry.

“Do you…” he murmurs, hushed so he doesn’t wake up Jules. His eyes flit back and forth between Jensen and Jules. “…wanna have dinner with us?”

Stretching, Jensen yawns. “Sure.”

“…I can cook, if that’s okay.”

“You mean I don’t get to take you out to a restaurant you hate and pay in change?” Fuck. Why can’t he keep his stupid mouth shut? Why isn’t it possible for him to have one nice moment for once, where he doesn’t say anything snippy or make an ass out of himself?

About to issue an apology, he’s cut off.

Jared sits up with some effort. His shirt rides up, but he doesn’t bother pulling it down. “I make mistakes, Jensen.”

An afternoon of sunlight looks good on Jared. It brings out the blue in his eyes, makes his skin a little rosier, and highlights the curlier tendrils of chestnut hair that frame his face. There could be no feathers, no sandals, no accessories that could bring out any more beauty than what Jensen sees now. Jared is already someone beautiful.

All they need to do is learn how to lay their weapons down.

“You gonna cook me something real good?” Jensen sits up, cradling Jules.

He’ll get a cab for the three of them, because they’ve all done enough walking today. If there’s a bakery near Jared’s apartment, he’ll pop over there and buy pastries or a cake, because judging from the fact that Jared drank his entire root beer float and ate the rest of Jensen’s banana split, Jared has a sweet tooth. Maybe, if Jared’s feeling generous, he can make Jensen a cup of coffee with dessert.

Smiling, Jared tucks his hair behind his ears and nods.

“You bet,” he says.

The subways of New York City are an ongoing experiment in human behavior.

Whenever the occasion arises for Jensen to take the subway, he’s always wondered what it looked like brand new, without the graffiti and years of daily abuse. According to various people he’s known throughout his life—dates, one night stands, fucks, lays, etc.—the subway here isn’t as bad in other places. It isn’t a complete dump, is what they were trying to say.

For Jules, the subway experience focuses less on wondering and daydreaming and more on wreaking havoc for Jared. The rush of the car through endless tunnels, combined with the strange lighting and hoards of people all around upsets Jules.

By the look on Jared’s face as he tries to calm Jules down, this is a daily struggle.

Jensen witnesses his first meltdowns from an eleven-month old baby and a twenty-two year old adult.

Each meltdown is drastically different, yet they carry the same amount of desperation. All Jules wants is the tranquility from the park back.

He doesn’t want to be held, he does not want a bottle, and like hell if he’s not going to pull on Jared’s hair, shirt, or face. From loud, piercing cries, Jules’ face scrunches up.

Any effort to placate him on the subway is lost.

Meanwhile, Jared’s meltdown is a more subdued affair. Jensen was able to muscle his way into the car first, therefore snagging Jared an empty seat. Though the seat helps, Jared is still very pregnant, very sweaty, very tired, and very much out of options. He’s tried handing Jules the spoon—no. He’s tried bundling Jules up in the purple blanket—no. He even tried nursing him in between a stop—no.

People around them begin staring, coughing, or clearing their throats.

Which is good, because they can go fuck themselves.

“Fork over the kid,” Jensen says, standing with his arm around a grab rail. “C’mon, give him here.”

Expecting to receive a stubborn fight about taking care of Jules himself, Jensen is surprised when Jared immediately passes him over. And boy, Jensen can see why. Jules is twenty pounds of tempestuous rage. He doesn’t give two shits about Jensen’s chin, eyes, or nose. Every ounce of muscle he’s got is focused on flailing and struggling against Jensen. Narrowly, Jensen dodges two head butts to the chin.

Jensen is about to take back what he said about forking Jules over, but he catches a quick view of Jared.

The guy looks like he’s been hit by two buses, a subway car, and a stampede of elephants. He sits in the dingy subway seat, surrounded by graffiti and annoying ads, bathed in light the color of stale bagels.

Even Jensen isn’t that much of an asshole to back out now.

So he does the only thing he can think of.

“Bum bum be dum bum bum bi dum dum,” he sings, rocking Jules back and forth. “Bum bum be dum bum bum be dum dum.”

This is the last routine he learned for Fire Island.

After this set, he had a gorgeous, muscular man named Sonny propose to him then and there. So if this can get him a marriage proposal, it can certainly calm down a crying baby.

Except Jules is a little more difficult to please than a Saturday night crowd at a bar catering to men who have sex with men. He throttles Jensen’s chest and shoulders with his fists, releasing an endless reserve of shrill cries directly into Jensen’s ear.

Desperate, Jensen ramps up his routine, hips twisting, shoulders circling. He’s working his ass like it’s two in the morning and someone just tipped him a fifty.

He adds the lyrics, just to take the rush of the car away from Jules’ immediate senses.

“No more gas in the red, can’t even get it started. Can’t even get it started. Nothing heard, nothing said, can’t even speak about it. All my life on my head… feels like I’m going insane…”

A perv to Jensen’s left, who takes advantage of the free show.

But that’s fine. Perv to the left can have the free show. Jensen’s desperate efforts are working. Jules is no longer screeching; he’s working down to only sobbing and tugging at Jensen’s ears, hair, and shirt.

Jensen ignores everything else around him and Jules. He doesn’t hear the stops, the chatter, or the tunnels. He’s back inside his cage, dressed in silver sandals, blue shorts two sizes too small, and a black, mesh tank top. Electric tassels hang from his hips, framing his ass, drawing attention to it above anything and everything else in the club. Crowds surge at the edges of his cage. Hands go up, reaching out for the long, lean line of his body.

“It’s a thief in the night to come and grab you.” Sometimes, if it’s a song he likes, he’ll sing along. No one in Fire Island hears him; the music is too loud. “It can creep up inside you and consume you. A disease of the mind it can control you. It’s too close for comfort—ooh, your mind’s in Disturbia.”

Hips swiveling, Jensen taps Jules’ nose.

“Bum bum be dum bum bum be dum dum.”

Two stops away from their destination, Jensen lets loose. He’ll never see the people in this car again and Jules is almost completely calm, his hand wrapped around one of Jensen’s fingers as they dance.

“Release me from this curse I’m in, I’ve been trying to maintain but I’m struggling… you can’t go, oh, oh, uh-oh. Think I’m gonna, I, I, I, I… Disturbia. It’s like the darkness is the light. Bum bum be dum bum bum be dum dum.”

At the 207 St stop, Jules looks at Jensen with a combination of awe and amusement.

Jensen gives a relieved sigh and checks on Jared.

Still in his seat, Jared’s face matches the hue of the red glow sticks Jensen wears on Friday nights. He makes eye contact with Jensen for a fleeting second, then hurries over to the door, hauling his messenger bag and Jules’ carrier.

Following, Jensen figures he’ll hear about how indecent his display was later on.

Before he leaves though, he kicks perv to the left in the shin.

“Thanks for watching, asshole.”

Jules babbles in total agreement.

Wherever Jared lives—it could be a mansion, a loft, a fucking box—Jensen doesn’t really get to see much of it.

Sure, he’s fed a hot, homemade meal. But he doesn’t really get to taste it, either.

By the time his plate is taken away and tossed into the sink, Jules has had his dinner too. Once Jules is down for a four to six hour stretch, Jensen finds himself getting blown in the cramped half-bath towards the front of the apartment.

It’s not even the kind of blow job that Jensen can think about in his head as it’s happening—it’s all too fast. One second he’s taking an inhale and the next his eyes are rolling back and he’s coming in Jared’s mouth. Jensen wants to tell himself that he has no problem with any of this. Who wouldn’t want to get off like this? He was fine with the single kiss they shared as they walked away from Jules’ crib, so isn’t getting blown like hitting the jackpot?

Jared spits into the sink, breathing hard.

Like he’s forgotten Jensen is still in the bathroom, Jared reaches into the medicine cabinet for a bottle of mouthwash. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Yuck,” he mutters, taking a swig of blue liquid. “Hate that taste.”

Maybe Jensen was expecting too much from this.

His cock hangs out of his jeans.

And there’s a thump in his chest.

That was not the kind of blow job given to someone who’s going to stay over, move in two weeks from now, and live happily ever after. Jensen pieces all of this together, but it doesn’t take Sherlock Holmes to deduct the signals Jared gives.

The mouthwash returns to its proper place. Jared walks out of the bathroom, fixing his hair.

After Jensen tucks himself back in, he walks out to the kitchen. Jared leans against the counter, flipping through his mail, sorting out shit to go in the shredder and shit to pay.

Jensen would love to walk out of here like he’s walked out of many situations, dates, and one night stands. He could shrug it all off, plaster a smirk to his face, make a snide comment, and tap out. That’s it. No strings attached. Yeah, this is what he does. He’s a young, single guy in Manhattan. So his coworker just blew him, big deal. He dances half naked for hundreds of men, grinds against them for extra, on a weekly basis. And when he was younger, back when grief motivated most of his movements, he fucked anyone who’d look at him for more than ten seconds—also for money.

And Jensen has never had a problem with any of that.

It’s just… two things.

He only tells Jared about one as he opens the front door to leave.

“It’s called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy—jerk.”

“I’m calling off.”

“You can’t.” Ms. Amalfi moves papers around on her desk, the shuffling audible through the receiver. “I never thought I’d say this, but we need you to work today.”

“You need me to work every day,” Jensen grumbles. If he lies in bed long enough, mold will eventually fuse his skin to the bed, and the mold will eventually form a cocoon. No one will ever dare bust open that cocoon.

“No, what I mean is that I need your keyster in that chair today actually translating things, not making goo-goo eyes at Jared when you think no one’s looking.”

“Wh—I…”

“There’s a portfolio that needs to be done by four, which Jared has been taking care of up until now.”

“So why…”

“He came in this morning, set Jules down, and just started bawling. Poor thing. I sent him home, but I still need that portfolio finished. He got through thirty out of fifty pages.”

It’s eight thirty in the morning, and at this rate, he’ll get to the office in an hour. A quick peek out his bedroom window and Jensen sees the reason for his fatigue today. Fucking rain. Distantly, he can hear a rumble of thunder.

Fifteen minutes after his attempt to call off is thwarted, Jensen leaves his apartment, umbrella in hand.

The city becomes a drain.

By noon, Jensen has had to use the phone twice for this project.

Translation is the stupidest shit. It’s subjective, so no one’s and everyone’s opinion matters all at once. Some people want translations to be personal shit; others want the most formulaic, standard, and formal translation possible. However, even the standard crap isn’t simple, because word choices are infinite and sentence structure varies. Taking over someone else’s project is double the work. Jensen typically has a more emotive translation style than the work of others.

It’s just his luck that Jared’s style is the opposite of his.

Adding to the insult, Jared’s method is completely different. Instead of the scrawls and scribbles in the margins of copies Jensen does, Jared writes on sticky notes, in neat block letters, and only in black ink. All of his work looks the same. It’s fucking depressing.

Medical translations scare the shit out of Jensen. One wrong word and he could very well be responsible for killing people. It seems like the Biology Department got the hint though after he may or may not have sent a letter indicating his willingness to dissect them all like frogs.

He can’t make this project flowery. His style must now match Jared’s. In a perfect world, they should both be able to work on projects and make it look seamless.

In that same perfect world, when Jensen escapes the office for a break, Jared and Jules would be waiting on the fourth floor with a song and an apology.

Yeah, right.

Laying off caffeine for the day does not help this project. When three thirty rolls around, Jensen becomes a cantankerous thing attached to his typewriter. His fingers are a mere extension of himself, clacking away and flying across the keys. Lunch was a sorry sandwich he bought from the juice stand. Miss Rose wasn’t in today, which is just as well, because she can always see through him and he doesn’t feel like being transparent to anyone today.

The last straw is Stuart sticking his head into the office and reminding Jensen about the project for the English Department.

Instead of chucking a stapler at Stuart, Jensen slams the door in his face. It’s a much more amiable reaction so Stuart should thank his fucking lucky stars. He can hear Ms. Amalfi mention something along the same lines to Stuart after he sulks past her office. Serves the bastard right.

Jensen never reaches crunch time with any of his projects. He finishes them early and tinkers around with shit until he’s decided that the client may have the finished product.

Currently, the clock on the wall chases at his heels. Ten minutes. The courier from this company is set to arrive in five minutes, but Jensen isn’t letting this project out of his hands until four o’clock on the god damn dot. Three more pages; fifteen hundred more words.

 He breathes in humidity and breathes out steam.

Then he does the only thing he can think of to push past the last three minutes.

He sings from his stomach, punching out long, elegant lines of song. “Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regretted rien.” The typewriter thrums, his foot taps out the beat. “Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait. Ni le mal; tout ca m’est bien egal!”

“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regretted rien. C’est paye, balaye, oubile. Je me fous du passé!”

Fuck everyone in this office right now. Fuck anyone listening.

He can hold these notes. His voice is more than this room. “Avec mes souvenirs. J’ai allume le feu. Mes chagrin mes plaisirs. Je n’ai plus besoin d’eux. Balayees les aamours, et tous leurs tremolos.”

Faster, faster, his hands might as well be bleeding onto the typewriter. Trumpets blast. The music soars and his voice matches every regal increase in tempo and forte. He changes paper. Two minutes.

“Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien. Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait. Ni le mal; tout ca m’est bien egal.” Fuck. He’s going to make it. Fuck. He’s full on shouting now, fingers punching the keys in time with the tempo. “Non, rien de rien. Non, je ne regrette rien. Car ma vie, car mes joies. Aujourd’hui ca commence… avec toi...”

Busting his office door open, Jensen shouts.

“FIN!”

The courier, already frightened from the previous screaming and yelling in French, takes a step back. Jensen ducks back into the office, where he shoves the project, project forms, and translation notes into a manila folder. Bundled up like a hellish football of paper, he slaps his initials over the top and tosses the past six and a half hours of his life into the courier’s hands.

As the courier flees, Jensen packs up his shit for the day.

He makes his way to Ms. Amalfi’s office to tell her that he’s taking the rest of the week off and he doesn’t give two shits about any project from here until next Monday. Adrenaline gives him a nice rush, but it’s wasted on beige walls, nondairy creamer, and gross instant coffee.

Stuart’s office is on the way. Jensen walks a beat slower, just to see if Stuart’s got his tie stuck in the vent again.

“Well I am quite concerned.”

Dammit, he’s on the phone.

“Would it be beneficial to take you to dinner? Tonight, ideally?”

Nasal as ever, Stuart names the Italian restaurant Jensen has heard before, in a very similar context. In fact, judging from the tone of Stuart’s voice, it’s probably the same context.

“See you at eight. Yes, until then.”

Few things would give Jensen greater pleasure than to punch Stuart in the back of the head at this very moment. But it’s either punch him or leave; the latter is the better long-term option.

The phone in Jensen’s office rings. He stands in the doorway, staring at the hated object, watching the receiver rattle around. It’s possible to answer it, but the only other person he’d consider having a conversation with at the moment is making more mistakes with someone else.

What the hell. Why not?

Jensen picks up the call.

Someone yells at him in Spanish.

Enraged, Jensen slams the receiver down six times in a row, until he’s lost his breath and the world threatens to tilt. Fuck. This. Person. Whoever. It. Is. And. Fuck. The. Phone.

Jensen doesn’t stay for Ms. Amalfi’s gratitude or her protests about his impromptu vacation.

Out on the street, he flees.

Some people with HCM can lead normal lives.

In fact, many people with HCM hardly notice the condition until something goes wrong. For Jensen, he found out when he was three, yet it was hardly any surprise to his parents. His father had it, and his father had it, and on and on and on. Lifespans on that side of the family vary; granddad made it to fifty. Dad saw forty-two, but then again, he was a heavy smoker right up until the day he died.

If he plays his cards right, Jensen figures he’s got about fourteen years of life left.

Anything after forty would be a bonus.

At the moment, he is uninterested in living life to its fullest potential. He’s slept like shit in the three nights since leaving work. And it may be five in the morning, Friday, but if he can’t sleep he might as well do something productive.

Which is why he’s crouched on the ground, with his forehead pressed against the dryer door.

His towels needed to be washed.

A headache creeps along the back of his neck, surfacing to his temple and the bridge of his nose. This kind of pain and weariness would be more acceptable had he spent last night binge drinking. In reality, he worked at Fire Island on a ridiculous seven hour shift. If clubs handed out awards for the most lap dances given to grabby men in a single evening, Jensen would have won last night by a landslide. Sure, maybe he pissed off some of the other go-go dancers who work year-round instead of picking up hours whenever Luto has them, but the DJ was decent and the money was even better.

Maybe, just maybe, he pushed himself a little too hard.

The previous nights that sleep eluded him, he kept having the same dream; it played in his head on a continuous loop, haunting every time he had his eyes shut for ten minutes.

He dreamt that he was on the fourth floor playing a sonata.

And all around him, there were unlit candles. His fingers were bleeding, but nothing distracted him from playing. Not the shortness in his breath, the ruby slickness over the keys, and not the white noise in his head—until Jared would step onto the scene, dressed in fluttering robes. The last one had been amber.

With every step Jared took towards Jensen, the candles lit themselves.

Fuck the candles, the piano, his hands…

Jensen would wake up every time disturbed by two prominent details from the scenario: Jules was nowhere and Jared wasn’t pregnant.

What does that mean?

BZZZZZZZZZZ.

“Fuck.” Jensen flails and cringes at the harsh interruption of his wallowing. He smacks his head hard against the dryer door. After cursing more, his first thought is to punch the dryer for startling him, but further investigation reveals that the dryer is still going. What the…

Oh. Shit. It’s the doorbell.

An unholy string of curses follows as Jensen crawls from the pantry, through his kitchen, and out to the living room. Six hundred square feet of space is peanuts in comparison to many apartments, but it’s fucking Caesar’s Palace when crossed on all fours.

Eventually, Jensen hauls himself up off the floor and remembers that he got home an hour ago from Fire Island. Three hundred dollars is still wadded up in the tiny pair of gold, spandex underwear he has on. The world simply isn’t ready for him yet, so he barks through the door.

“Who the fuck is it? Do you have any idea what time it is?”

He could look through the peephole to find out the answer, but he’s not confident about leaning forward and not banging his head against the door.

“Jensen?”

“Jared?”

“…I… I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

“No, just… fuck… hold on.” Magically, he refrains from mentioning that he has to put his face on. He grabs the closest thing to the door that he can find—a rainbow umbrella. Risking bad luck, he pops it open and unlocks the door.

Jared’s eyes go wide and his mouth hangs open at the sight of Jensen in the doorway, peering over an obnoxiously colored umbrella. The umbrella also says MANEATER in big, pink letters. Jensen forgot that detail. This was a gift from the Maneater club near Hell’s Kitchen; a good club, decent crowd.

“Are you… naked behind that?”

“Yes,” Jensen lies. “Completely.” In truth, he has on his underwear and one sock.

Hazel eyes try to peek over the umbrella, but Jensen deflects the attempt. He clears his throat and rumbles out, “Did you actually want something or are you lost?”

Quietly, Jared huffs, “I got your address from one of your paychecks.” Over the top of the umbrella, Jared holds up a white envelope. “And…. I guess… look, I owe you an apology. I’m sorry I… that we… that I…”

“I was fine with making out,” Jensen cuts in. “And not that it matters now, but I can’t start off fast like that. But who cares.” He doesn’t. “You didn’t have to make a trip here.”

Still holding the check, Jared persists. “Why didn’t you tell me? I had no idea you have a heart condition.”

“That,” Jensen begins to shut the door, “is only half of your apology.”

Jared muscles forward until he’s half in the door; well, his middle in the door. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have blown you without really asking and I shouldn’t have walked away from you after and pretended like you weren’t there. But I told you—I make mistakes. A lot of mistakes.”

Breathing hard now, Jared shakes his head. “And I don’t want you to be one of them, so please, Jensen, let me take you out to breakfast.”

What are his options?

He could stay here again and wait for his shift tonight, maybe try to sleep, but most likely end up staring at the ceiling above his bed. Or, he could drive out to the suburbs and ask Opal to kick his ass again, though that might be pushing the envelope.

Jensen snatches his paycheck from Jared and mulls this over.

From the other side of the umbrella, Jensen hears, “Damn, I was going to pay with that.”

“Cheapskate,” Jensen snorts, hiding a smile. “But look at you, guess you can cut a joke now and then.”

“I’ve been known to.”

“Where’s Jules?”

Jared shifts his weight, rubbing the small of his back. “With my mom. But she has to work at nine… so… uhm… that’s why I’m here so early. Plus, he kept spitting up last night so you know… I haven’t slept much.” It’s been nice to see Jared grovel for a change. “We can have breakfast, then pick him up. If that sounds okay?”

“Yeah, it does. Just give me fifteen minutes.”

As much as Jensen acknowledges the trip that Jared has taken to come here, he doesn’t shut the umbrella.

He asks Jared to wait in the hallway.

“What do you see in Stuart?”

“That’s a little personal, don’t you think?”

“Nope. Your mouth has been on my cock. That’s personal.”

“…what if mine has been on his?”

“I don’t need that image.”

“He’s not a bad guy.”

“You paid for dinner and he’s the one who asked you out.”

“I’m paying for breakfast.”

“This is apology breakfast to get you off the hook for being an asshole to me.”

“Like you haven’t been an asshole to me.”

“My mouth hasn’t been on your cock.”

“…”

“What?”

“Is that the only way for you to be an asshole? If it’s related to sex?”

“Course not. But I’m just saying. You’ve been an asshole in a more personal way.”

“Are you gonna cut me a break?”

“Nah, I like seeing you squirm.”

“Thanks.”

“And I like seeing you be humble about something for once.”

“Oh, because you are Mr. Humble?”

“How much of your lunch have you shared with me since you started?”

“What does that have to…”

“I’m asking because I never got reimbursed for my peaches. Or the tuna sandwich I split with Jules.”

“I never asked you to…”

“I’m changing the subject, dork.”

“Oh.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“I can’t say no, can I?”

“Not at this moment, nope.”

“Ask.”

“When are you due?”

“…September.”

“Really?”

“What do you mean ‘really’? Yes, really.”

“Huh.”

“What?”

“You just seem like you’re about to pop any day.”

“You’re so charming, you know that?”

“Tell me about it, stud.”

“Ugh. If you must know… I’m… I’m having twins.”

“Pffffffffft… ahem… twins?”

“You just spat coffee everywhere!”

“I did not!”

“Oh, so I guess this was all just here when we sat down?”

“Yes. Yes it was. Holy fuck—twins?”

“Everyone has this reaction. Yes, twins as in two.”

“What reaction? I react that way to lots of announcements. You know, when I found out cream of asparagus was the soup of the day I spit coffee all over the waitress.”

“How can you be such a jerk and make me laugh?”

“I’m one talented fucker.”

“I’m not agreeing to anything, but maybe. Can I ask you something now?”

“You wanna know about my ticker.”

“Well, yes, but I was going to ask about something else.”

“How I got such a fabulous ass? Why I’m so god damn gorgeous? Why my eyes are so green they’re the greenest eyes to ever have greened?”

“Jensen.”

“What?”

“Shut up for one second.”

“All right, all right.”

“My god… okay. After we pick up Jules, could we go on a date?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Was I not supposed to say yes?”

“No, no, it’s just…  most guys aren’t crazy about dates with Jules.”

“I think this is the part… yeah, it’s gotta be… where I tell you that I’m not like most guys and your eyes turn into hearts and we lean over and smooch over this plate of pancakes, then we cut to a scene where I’m making you scream my name in sexual ecstasy.”

“…”

“Or you could glare at me, that works too.”

Jules couldn’t be happier to see Jensen if Jensen had a million blue spoons attached to his body.

Jensen is the baby whisperer. Within moments of their reunion, Jules transforms from a crying, kicking, upset baby to a refined young man of the world. He may waddle over to Jensen wearing nothing but a diaper and bib, but Jensen cannot judge. Although he’s dressed in jeans and a white shirt now, just two and a half hours ago he was in an extremely similar outfit and state of mind.

The entire world brightens with every teetering step Jules takes towards Jensen. Small hands reach out as soon as he skids to a stop at Jensen’s legs—up, Jules wants up.

“Ba, ba, ba, ba, ba,” Jules says, impatiently stamping his feet. “Ba!”

“Oh, who could that be?” Jensen looks around him. “Is that? Is that who I think it is?”

In the entryway to a respectable apartment near Mt. Sinai, where Jared’s mother works as a nurse, Jensen scoops Jules up and tosses him into the air. Jules loses his shit, squealing and giggling, grabbing Jensen’s nose and yanking. The kid has a strong grip; he also has what looks like fruit punch smeared all over his mouth.

“Mom, I thought we agreed he wouldn’t run around half-naked,” Jared sighs, straining to pick up remnants of what must have been Jules’ outfit for the day.

“Honey, I tried to dress him, but you know how he gets. He got away from me twice, the little stink—oh. Hello.” A woman in her late forties walks out of the kitchen and into the entryway. She looks at Jensen and then over to Jared. “I didn’t know we had company, JT.”

“Didn’t you wonder why Jules stopped crying?” Jared lifts a small basket of assorted Jules-related toys. “Mom, this is Jensen. Jensen, this is my mom. And apparently I’m chopped liver because my baby hasn’t given me a single kiss since we got in.”

Babies are fairly easy to please. Jensen wipes Jules’ mouth with the hem of his shirt.

Mothers require substantially more effort to impress.

And from the looks of it, Jared’s mother does not like what she sees in Jensen. What saves him from much confrontation this time are two things: her impending shift at work and Jules clamoring for Jensen’s attention. After a quick handshake and “nice to meet you, ma’am,” Jensen resumes entertaining Jules, whose diaper has become a little bit stinky.

“You know,” Jensen murmurs into Jules’ cheek, “I just had breakfast, but I think… yeah, I’m still hungry! Nom nom nom nom nom!” He eats Jules’ cheek, then his nose, then his chin, and finally, his fingers. Jared and his mother are off in another room, no doubt talking about Jensen, but he’s content to stay here—stinky diaper and all.

“Baw ababa,” Jules babbles, chubby hand on Jensen’s chin. His small brow furrows a moment later, as if Jensen’s chin has responded with some philosophical remark. However, thirty seconds later, Jensen figures out the reason for the serious look—Jules is not only a little stinky, he’s also wet.

Stars, gods, and deities are thanked in Jensen’s head as Jared emerges and takes over.

“Oh, jeez.” Holding Jules out a tad, Jared sighs and turns to Jensen. “I don’t suppose I could bribe you with helping me wash and change him before we go out?”

“We putting him in the sink?”

“That’s the plan after the poop parade.”

Jensen follows Jared into the bathroom closest to the entryway. The free counter space inside the bathroom is soon occupied with one wiggly baby butt and the supplies necessary to clean it.

Jared’s mother leaves with a quick goodbye.

Jules tries grabbing at his feet, uninterested in Jared attempting to clean him up. This is where Jensen rolls in, holding the distracting feet, tickling the miniature toes attached to them. The smell from this diaper change is less than appealing, but so is the odor in the men’s bathroom at Fire Island. And afterwards there is the reward of Jules splashing around in the large sink while Jared washes him with the kind of care people reserve for handling Ming vases.

Within an hour, the three of them are bathed, clean, and free of spit up, except for Jensen, whose spit-up status remains questionable.

Outside, Jared slips on the last component to Jules’ outfit for the day: a blue sun hat.

Their party takes Jensen’s cab to the nearest petting zoo.

“Goat.”

“Ba.”

“Goat,” Jensen repeats, one diaper butt balanced on his left arm. “Goat.”

“Ba, ba,” Jules answers.

“Sheep.”

“Ama nana ba ba.”

“Sheep. Sheep.”

“Aaaaaaah.”

“Okay. Fine. Look, here, right here. What is this?” With his right hand, Jensen reveals a push pop ice cream—strawberry flavored. Jules’ eyes light up. “Ice cream,” Jensen murmurs, taking the first lick. “Ice cream mmm, yeah. Here we go.”

From the sheep to the pigs, Jules and Jensen share the push pop. By the end of the ice cream’s lifespan, they’re both wearing more than they ate. There is some regret about wearing a white shirt today, but Jensen figures it was worth it to see the tiny handprint stains all over his chest and shoulders. Before heading over to the llamas, Jensen retreats back to the shaded bench they left Jared.

Jared did a lap around the pig pen and picked Jules up to see over the white fence. Mid-lift, Jared let out a yelp of pain.

“How you holding up?” Jensen asks, bumping his hips against Jared’s shoulder. Jules is preoccupied sucking on his fingers, curiously peering at all the different kinds of people walking past. His hair is a wind-swept mess, but it matches Jared’s.

Next to Jared on the bench are a bottle of water, a pack of gum, and a stress ball in the shape of an apple.

“Better,” Jared sighs. “Take his hand out of his mouth, please.”

“You look like hell.”

“Thank you.”

“What do you think it was?”

“They’re moving.” Jared’s nose scrunches. He pats the right side of his middle. “This one in particular.”

“You wanna go?”

Jared smiles; he looks less like hell. “And ruin your fun? No, definitely not.”

Jensen smiles back. He nudges Jules’ chin and gently pulls his hand away from his mouth. Before Jules can protest, Jensen blows a raspberry against his cheek. In retaliation, Jules smacks his hands against Jensen’s cheeks and doesn’t let go. Lips smushed, Jensen laughs.

He goes quiet a second later as Jules presses one drool-filled, strawberry-sweet, bonafide kiss to his lips.

“Muah,” Jules giggles. He smacks his lips and wriggles in Jensen’s hold, extending his hands out to Jared.

“Mommy,” Jensen murmurs, coral spreading from his ears to his cheeks and over the bridge of his nose. “That’s mommy.”

Accepting the bundle of energy that is a squirming Jules, Jared receives his own fair share of kisses, followed by the demand to be nursed.

Shoulders slumped forward, mommy shakes his head. “No, baby, juice. How about some juice?”

The appearance of the bear-shaped sippy cup excites a mutinous reaction from Jules. He shakes his head—mimicking Jared—and looks up at Jensen. “Ba!” He looks back at Jared, then again at Jensen as if to say—can you believe what mommy expects me to do? What is this shit?

“You trying to wean him?” Jensen does his best not to encourage Jules, but it’s hard to keep a straight face.

“Trying,” Jared sighs. “He’ll become hell spawn in two minutes if I don’t give in.”

“I guess it would be sorta difficult nursing three.”

“You think? Jules, look, look—mmm juice is yummy.” Jared takes a sip from the bear and smiles. Jules is unimpressed; tears cloud the horizon and his grip intensifies on Jared’s shirt, pulling without remorse.

Jensen sits down next to Jared. “Maybe he’s not ready.”

“Are you Dr. Spock?”

“I’m only trying to help.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I know. I’m just…”

“Frustrated.”

“Yes.”

“And tired.”

“Double yes.”

“And in over your head?”

“…no.”

Smirking, Jensen scoffs. “Right, well, fork over the bear.”

The bear in question has a red bow tie on, and these beady black eyes that disturb Jensen; he can’t imagine what it looks like to Jules. Clasping his hand over the bear’s face, Jensen swishes the juice and knocks back a sip right when Jules looks up at him.

“Oh god.” He’s had drinks mixed by college freshmen that have tasted better than this. “That’s swill—what the hell is that?”

One upside to this is Jared’s laughter—easy and genuine. When he laughs, his dimples flash, his mouth opens wide, and he tosses his head back. The laugh itself is charming. “It’s watered down juice from an orange. It won’t kill you.”

Still trying to keep a straight face, Jensen takes another sip. “You don’t know that. Mmm… all this juice is mine… yep… I’m gonna drink it all gone. No juice for Jules.”

For a second it seems like the ploy might work. A spark of potential interest shines in Jules’ eyes.

However, as quick as it was lit, it extinguishes. Jules thumps his fist against Jared’s chest and begins to cry at full force, putting his lungs to work at full capacity.

“It was a good try,” Jared consoles Jensen, tugging at the buttons on his shirt. “Will you fend off perverts trying to get a look at my chest?”

“What if I’m one of those perverts?”

“You don’t need to wait for me to nurse to see my chest.”

“Can I get that in writing? ‘Unlimited access to Jared’s tits.’”

“Only if I get it in writing that I get unlimited access to punch you in the back of the head.”

That might actually be a good deal.

Jensen’s second consolation prize is almost as good as the first. Cradled in Jared’s arms, eating lunch happily, Jules reaches out above his head. Bright hazel eyes look up at Jensen and a small hand opens and closes in a simpler demand.

Jules holds onto Jensen’s finger for a long while.

One of the baby goats sneezes all over Jensen’s face.

As Jared laughs, one of the adult goats pees all over Jared’s shoes.

And for one horrifying minute, they lose sight of Jules in a crowd of goats and sheep.

The end of the day sees one missing sun hat—presumably eaten by a goat—plus one sleepy baby, two exhausted adults, and one plastic bag full of Chinese take-out two buildings down from Jared’s apartment.

Sitting on the gray couch the living room, they pass a carton of sweet and sour chicken back and forth.  

Jensen kisses neon pink sauce from Jared’s lips.

He likes this pace.

The first time Jensen wakes up in Jared’s bed, it isn’t after an evening of rough sex or kinky, wild rides.

It’s after a four hour stretch of Jules going for the gold in most hours cried in one night. The source of his discomfort and rage stems from Jared repeatedly trying to wean him.

Finally, Jared listens to Jensen.

Jules just isn’t ready.

Jensen sat up with Jared while he nursed, then during the aftermath where he was sore and sad, and still after when he ran a warm bath for the poor guy.

Two weeks after the petting zoo, Jensen received the invitation to stay the night at five thirty in the morning on a Saturday.

By seven, Jules wakes up again.

And by eight, he falls asleep on Jensen’s chest, his left hand smashed against Jensen’s nose, a tuft of his hair in Jensen’s mouth, and his left foot digging into Jensen’s ribs.

It’s pretty great.

On the eve of Jules’ first birthday, Jared requests a date night.

“An actual date night,” he clarifies to Jensen at work, while they’re on break and sitting in the fourth floor. “That means your partner in crime will have to stay home with my mom.”

From his carrier, Jules smiles, oblivious to the boring conversations around him. He drools over a board book Jared bought him on their last trip to the bookstore. This one is about horses, which don’t interest Jules at all, thus, he’s slowly killing it with drool. Jensen pokes his nose and then his tummy.

Today is another duck shirt day, part of an outfit that Jensen chose this morning as they ran around late for work because Jared’s alarm is a piece of shit.

“Well, I guess,” Jensen huffs. “But we all know I’m ten times cooler than your mom.”

“I’m not sure why this is a contest.”

“I’m just saying.”  

“Because it needs to be said?”

“Precisely.”

Jared rolls his eyes; a habit that Jensen reminds him can only prepare him for the adolescent years of three children who will likely be as stubborn as their mother. “Do you want to go on a date with me or what, Jensen?”

“Since you asked so nicely…” Jensen shoots him a knowing glance. “Yeah, why not.”

Preparations are underway for Jules’ birthday.

After work, Jensen has agreed to pick up the cake from the pastry place he knows, plus the balloons. As they work their way through the rest of the lunch Jared packed for them—sandwiches, chips, fruit salad, and thick slices of Boston crème pie—they discuss logistics. Tomorrow is Saturday, which is convenient enough. If Jensen spends the night with Jared, that will give them a head start. Jensen informs Jared that assuming he would spend the night does not make him easy; but the promise of more homemade Boston crème pie does.

Dynamics at work have changed, but not by much.

Half an hour later, Jared nags at Jensen for using paperclips the wrong way.

One thing that has changed is Jensen has become far better at soothing Jared out of these fits of nagging. He discovered that nagging is a method of communication. Although Jared may actually be scolding him for sitting on a project from the Biology Department for three months to let them stew, he might also be looking for some kind of excuse to bother or potentially talk to Jensen.

“They’re paperclips for god’s sakes, not Rubix cubes.”

Or he’s just nagging.

No more subway for them.

Jensen drives them in the cab, which is not a limo by any means, but also not a subway car.

The city looks, sounds, and feels different from the inside of a cab.

Landmarks appear, stepping forward from the background to the foreground. Block by block, the buildings tell their own stories, vocalized by the tour guide driving at thirty miles an hour on a congested stretch of asphalt. The Kit Kat bar? First time Jensen ever got kicked out of a club. He’d been drinking a little too hard that fated evening four years ago and knocked into one of the bouncers. He also maybe might have spilled his drink all over that bouncer’s face, and refused to apologize for it.

Almost every block on the way to their destination has a story.

But what’s more interesting to Jensen is the soft, charcoal v-neck Jared wore tonight.

The trail cut from Jared’s shoulders to his chest creates divinity inside a yellow-checkered New York City cab.

Their first stop seems to be nothing special. Jensen parks outside an alleyway, where the brick looks slightly wet with humidity, and the pavement is rough. A set of metal stairs leading up to the roof sits in the middle of the alley and nothing else—no dumpsters, no garbage cans, not even a single empty crate. Side by side, their footsteps crunch until they reach the stairs. Jensen can feel Jared about to demand what the hell they’re doing here, and if Jensen expects him to climb those stairs tonight.

Excited, Jensen slips his hand into Jared’s.

He squeezes once.

Shuffling over two more steps to the right, he performs his first magic trick of the evening.

One solid black door without a knob is visible only from behind the stairs, at this angle.

Jensen knocks four times. With his hand over the small of Jared’s back, he leads him in when the door opens and they are warmly greeted.

Dinner is non-alcoholic cocktails and chilled sparkling wine.

Dinner is the rose blush over Jared’s cheeks when Jensen mentions to their waiter that he is personally celebrating taking out the single most attractive person in the city tonight.

Dinner is Jensen and Jared sharing a table, with only the savory marigold light of a single candle between them.

Dinner is three entrees and two desserts to share.

Dinner is Jared was married two years ago. They had a small condo in the business district. Jared did freelance translations when he wanted, but volunteered at Mt. Sinai more often. They went out all the time—like this, but not like this—and it all seemed… good. He never went to bed upset or sad; and he never went to bed too excited. Life was not unpredictable. His mother loved his husband and she loved their life together. There was security and stability and a foundation for a future.

One of the first mistakes Jared made was coming home early on a weekday from Mt. Sinai. Everyone was talking about babies lately; it’s all Jared could hear. He wanted one.

Walking in the door, Jared flipped through the mail. He hung up his coat. He stopped in the kitchen for a cookie. And then the rest played out almost like a dream. There was a sound from the bedroom. Alarmed, he went to check. He should be the only one home.

Not true.

Two people he’d never seen before were in his bed, on his pillows, sprawled out and laughing in the company of his husband.

It was strange.

Jared remembers that his mouth hung open in shock that first frantic thirty seconds. He remembers the phrase, “not what it looks like.” And he remembers someone burned his vanilla candle from Bloomingdale’s down to the wick.

Three weeks later, he was pregnant.

He would never call Jules a mistake. Ever. The only mistake Jared made there was believing that it really wasn’t what it looked like. His mother told him to stay; his coworkers and friends told him to stay. No one left a good life like that over one affair. No one left comfort and security for strange text messages at all hours, for Jared sitting inside their condo unable to stop crying whenever Jules cried, or for stretches of days when all they’d say was two words to each other and nothing else.

No one left trust funds and pensions for a little bleeding on the sheets two days after delivery and passing the remnants of what might have been Jules’ twin.

No one left a man like Alex.

No one said no to him. Not in business and not at home.

Jared wasn’t fully healed six weeks after Jules arrived. He was nauseous and exhausted and sad. But no one said no. It just didn’t happen. And once he felt himself fucked open, he shut his eyes and told himself to be grateful.

He doesn’t have names picked out for these babies.

But he remembers working on a freelance project the week after he left—Jules and suitcase in tow. The project had been shuffled around from the University of Columbia to the New York Public Library and it somehow ended up in Jared’s hands. Work got him out of his head. It got him out of Alex cutting him off of everything, claiming Jules and the twins were not his, and paying Jared ten thousand dollars to shut up.

The project centered around synthetic biology and biochemicals.

And whoever did the first translation was an idiot. However, there was hope—the second translation attempt was better, more thorough and detailed, but entirely too flowery for the assignment. Halfway through the original document, Jared found a Post-It note.

Dinner is him handing it back to Jensen.

I would rather spend the rest of the millennia with tourists from Iowa at the Statue of Liberty than translate the rest of this garbage for a bunch of assholes playing god in a lab, looking at their dicks under microscopes the whole day. STOP. CALLING. ME.

Jared finished that project.

He kept that Post-It with him when he moved out of his mother’s apartment, signed the lease for his own, and moved in.

The first night in his new life, he held Jules and looked out the window.

He decided he would be braver now, like the psychotic man who wrote that Post-It. If he didn’t like something he’d speak up. If something bothered him, people would know. And no one would get in the way of the happiness of his children.

Dinner is the celebration of that Post-It.

“But those clowns at the Biology Depart…”

Dinner is also Jared shutting Jensen up with a kiss.

Because this is Jared, his commands in the backseat of the cab are brief.

“Fuck me.”

However, a second later he backtracks, biting his bottom lip and asking, “That’s okay, right?”

And because this is Jensen, his response is fairly simple.

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Just not here.”

There is this guy that Jensen used to know quite well.

Professor Davis is a friend of Miss Rose’s and a regular at Fire Island. But he’s also one of the most respected authorities on 19^th century Victorian literature. Circles of friends led him to meet Jensen’s parents. When he wasn’t teaching, researching, or at conferences, he was either hosting dinner parties or slipping twenties into G-strings.

One of those twenties—about four years back—happened to be Jensen’s.

And one thing led to another—rent was due, Jensen was hungry, Professor Davis was intrigued, the room was dark. Jensen blew him for fifty bucks in a secluded corner of the club. Miss Rose formally introduced them one month and two hundred dollars later, where Professor Davis connected the dots.

“Donna and Alan’s boy,” he said, cheerfully, just a few minutes after their completed transaction. “My god, what a small world. Carry on, carry on, don’t you let an old spit tie up the rest of your night.”

It could have been weird. No, it could have been really fucking weird.

But it wasn’t. Professor Davis never asked for another blow job, though he upped his twenties to fifties after that. Time passed and on the sidewalk outside Fire Island they’d chat over music, New York, and Victorian oddities. They’d talk about whale bones and corpse photography and the invention of the first vibrator. It was nice to have another friend, aside from Miss Rose.

Two years ago, Professor Davis gave Jensen a spare set of keys to his apartment with the insistence that he come and go as he pleased.

Jensen knows for a fact that Professor Davis has been in England since May.

They circle back near the University. Jensen parks his cab and helps Jared out.

At this building, the doors are in plain sight. Jared’s wide eyes reflect the brilliant display of steel and lights before them. It’s no skyscraper, but it’ll do. The doorman greets them both, swinging the glass door open and signaling to the elevator operator. Up they go, higher and higher; Jensen’s arm never leaves Jared’s waist.

The elevator stops at the eighteenth floor.

A magic door opens to five thousand square feet of prime New York real estate overlooking Central Park.

There are no bad views in this apartment, but Jensen’s seen it before. He’s seen it on rainy days, sunny days, and days when breathing was a concentrated effort. He’s seen the skyline in his dreams and he’s pictured this view from inside his cage, dancing away with feathers sewn onto his hips and tassels swishing back and forth. He’s seen it well enough.

His hand slips into Jared’s.

He could never translate this.

There aren’t words in French or English to describe the charm of this smile aimed at him or the sumptuous swing to curved hips. Slivers of light from the city spark over hazel eyes. The apartment is quiet and cool.

Jensen leads, walking towards the marbled hallway.

Every footstep is the tinkling of piano keys.

No need to turn the pages of music; Jensen knows the notes. He opens another door. In this room there is not much. There are no grand ornaments, no gilded accoutrements, and no luxurious design. Lighting here is minimal, kept low. Only one piece of furniture occupies this space of oak floors and floor to ceiling windows. They can use it, Jensen mentions, if Jared trusts him.

Simply put, it’s a sex swing.

Suspended from the ceiling beam, it is equipped, in all its leathered glory, to hold up to six hundred pounds. Not a threat of harm exists to either of them.

Jared tilts his head and looks to Jensen.

There are notes there. Most of them, Jensen can read, and the ones he can’t, Jared will show him.

For once, it’s not the piano that Jensen hears or sets time to. It’s something different, something sweet and filled with grief; something purely marvelous and enchanting in its expression. Melodic and pitched high above the range of any piano, he recognizes the instrument the moment Jared’s lips meet his again.

The violin.

Piercing, exquisite, and haunting.

Tender hands frame his face.

Together, they play through the range, circling around and back to each other, swept up in greedy, famished kisses, enthralled by firm, desperate gropes. They are the counterpoint, two melodic lines sounding simultaneously.

Movements crush; accelerato, their hands trail from flat, firm plateaus to luscious, lavish curves.

One accent—a high note.

Undressed, the whole of Jared is exposed.

The air in Jensen’s throat catches. Could they be creatures? Creatures in moon and city light, creatures spun of muscle and tissue and breakable bone?

Jensen lifts his partner. He plays deeper, providing a base for the violin. His tempo is giusto—right, just right. Neither too fast nor too slow, he responds to the pleas of stringed gold laid out before him. His back arches. He leans forward and long, pale legs wrap around his waist. The heavy, curved mound between them feels warm to him. His fingers linger there, tracing, playing low A with delicacy and respect.

Were this painted, it would be an impression.

He cups the slight swell of Jared’s chest and outlines each pink, taut peak. His fingers roll. Solid and unyielding, Jensen maintains his lips over Jared’s. Low A on the piano grinds into a high E on the violin. They hold position, locked together, the weight and ache of their cocks finding friction. Gradually, bending, flexing, tilting the axis of their hips with every hard push and twist down, Jensen’s heart rate rises. His lungs make an effort; his fingers dig into meat of Jared’s thighs.

Seventh position. Harmonics in high. The blunt tip of Jensen’s cock nudges against a ring of muscle already slick.

A sharp inhale causes Jared’s chest to flutter. His exhale becomes ragged; Jensen leans down further, minding his weight. Lust makes his mouth water. He seals his lips over one pink bud. Immediately, his tongue swipes at one, ivory pearl of milk.

Jared bucks. He grips onto the sides of the swing one moment and brings his hands down to the nape of Jensen’s neck the next. In hiccups, Jared whispers how good this feels, how good he feels.

Timing is crucial.

Heady, sticky slick stripes Jared’s thighs, glistens down the generous globes of his ass. Turning him over is an option so Jensen could see the bounce and slap of these hips.

But he agrees; this is good. He feels good.

Breathing in cinnamon and the city, Jensen sinks his teeth into supple flesh. The first squirt of warm milk hits his tongue at the same time his cock breaches that ring. Every thick, aching inch of him fucks Jared open, pushing against clenching, wet walls. Slick gushes on a steamy exhale. The final drive down is rough; plunging, driving, Jensen buries himself to the hilt. His cock twitches and swells inside the tight, hungry hole. Muscles work in waves against every inch of him, pulling him in, creaming over the stretch and length of him.

Jensen slides his hands over Jared’s thighs, adjusting the angle Jared is in until…

“Move,” Jared cries out, hushed and desperate. “Move, Jen, please.”

Between them, Jared’s cock bobs, bumping against the underside of his middle and over Jensen’s. Jared is hard here, soft inside, and scorching all over. Jensen pulls out two inches, and sweeps his mouth over Jared’s once again. The first burning, voracious thrust forward results in a squelch and a moan.

No more flowery prose.

Jensen takes hold of the leather straps attached to the ceiling, secures his footing on the floor, and asks a simple question with the stillness of his hips.

Ready?

Pull back. Push in. Pull back. Push in. Leather straps jolt with the force of his thrusts. Long, lean legs spread open; Jared tosses his head back, exposing the vulnerable, elegant line of his throat. His hands alternate from skimming over the plane of Jensen’s chest, to clutching at the swing, to holding the heavy, round weight of his middle.

He’s gorgeous.

He’s pliant and sweet and dripping onto the floor with every other punch of Jensen’s hips. One warm gush over Jensen’s cock and Jared loses it, coming hard, creating a deluge.

Soaked, Jensen pulls out completely.

In fascination, he watches a stream of slick of rush out of Jared, pouring onto the floor. Jared shakes all over, his thighs trembling, both nipples leaking, one arm tossed over his eyes. The second he thinks to beg for more, Jensen pounds back in, fucking him in rough, demanding strokes, hitting the bundle of nerves that releases another flood.

Jared screams. He clamps down over Jensen’s cock, milking it, his hips stuttering and legs bucking.

He lets out a noise so feral and primitive, filled to the brim like he is filled with Jensen, that Jensen sees stars. His own eyes roll back for a moment before instinct takes over. He angles back, tilting Jared up, until his hips are slightly under Jared’s and the tip of his cock is as deep as it can be. At this altitude, with pressure, Jensen corkscrews his hips, swiveling slightly, working so that the muscles in his arms flex from the effort.

“Don’t pull out,” Jared gasps, sliding forward, his thighs slippery. “Jen, don’t pull out. It’s… I… don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop, please, don’t stop, oh… oh… f—aah!”

With the underside of his belly pressed against Jensen’s stomach, Jared comes again, this time, twice in a row. The magnitude of his orgasms ripples through Jensen, stunning his senses, making him hold on through the tempest.

He comes inside Jared, sloppy and lush.

Low E.

Jensen’s heartbeat pummels his ears.

But all he can feel is the mark of Jared’s come over his thighs and striped across his stomach. The floor is wet. They’re sweaty, messy—utterly wrecked.

“Breathe,” Jared coos, hands on Jensen’s chest. “Jen, breathe.”

Jensen gives a shaky nod.

Holy fuck.

There were metaphors and fancy words and similes before. Something about the beat and measure, the tempo, the crescendo…

Now, it’s only the rise and fall of their chests.

The curl of a smirk and a nudge to Jensen’s chin.

“Are there puddles?” Jared whispers.

Still shaking, Jensen looks down and nods.

“Should’ve warned you.”

The laugh Jensen gives relaxes his breathing.

“Should’ve… brought… towels.”

Slipping out of the swing proves trickier than getting into it. The floor is a safety hazard and they are both inelegant and wobbly. Jared falls into Jensen’s arms. He tucks his nose under Jensen’s chin; kisses appear, light and kind.

They stand like this for more than a minute.

Jared is nice.

He sits Jensen down in the kitchen and rummages through the fridge until he finds a bottle of water. After the water, he presses a cool, damp paper towel over Jensen’s forehead.

He does all of this naked.

As if this was their pocket of the world.

“Pendant,” Jared whispers, moving his hands to the back of Jensen’s neck, “des annees et des anness, je m’efforcais d’aimer ma vie. Et puis, le papillon s’est eleve, sans poids, dans le vent. N’aimer pas trop la vie, il a dit, avant disparaissant au monde.”

This voice is starlight.

Dizzy still, Jensen fumbles for the translation.

But he doesn’t have to worry.

Fingers card through his hair. “For years and years I struggled just to love my life. And then, the butterfly rose, weightless, in the wind.” One kiss presses itself to Jensen’s cheek. “Don’t love your life too much, it said, and vanished into the world.”

The apartment can’t hear the thunder of Jensen’s heart.

Jared can.

Mumbling, Jensen leans into him.

“That’s depressing.”

Jared pats Jensen’s head and kisses him, uncaring of the awkward angle.

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I guess it is.”

Two in the morning sees a break in temperature and humidity. The city smells like rain.

Sliding into the cab, Jensen nudges Jared’s knee. They’re heading back to Jared’s mother’s place to pick up Jules and sleep at Jared’s. Jared has never spent a night away from Jules and although he wouldn’t mind that tonight, Jensen is the one who offered the return trip.

“So.” He starts up the cab. “You always come like that?”

Laughing, Jared shakes his head no. “Uh, the last time I came that hard and that many times it was from something battery operated.”

“I thought I was gonna drown.”

“You might have.”

“Like a fucking Noah’s Ark.”

“It was not.”

“It was,” Jensen insists. “I was planning which animals to save while you were screaming away.”

Jared clears his throat. “You… you are joking, right? I mean… hormones and everything…”

Outside of the cab, the city lives and breathes as usual. Two in the morning means nothing in New York. People walk the pavement, neon signs mix together like watercolors as the cab drives past, and as usual, a few folks try and flag Jensen down. He’s not doing any fares this weekend and he held off on shifts at Fire Island. In two weeks it’ll be Jared’s birthday. Jensen will pick up hours and fares in between. But not tonight.

Without much traffic, the drive is short.

Short enough for Jensen to park before he replies.

It is too easy how their lips meet. His lips against Jared’s generate a sapphire spark, a coaxing shudder, and succulent sighs from each of them.

Jensen taps Jared’s chin. The scent of their come mixed together lingers still. Jared’s lips are bruised and slightly swollen. He looks exactly like what they did this evening.

“I was fishing for a compliment, honey,” Jensen murmurs. “Something along the lines of ‘your dick is magical’ or ‘monuments should be erected in honor of how good your cock can fuck me.’ Those are good starters.”

Dimples flash. One more kiss.

“Do you hear yourself talk?”

“Mmm… I would have accepted, ‘your cock should be worshipped,’ ‘fuck me again with that magnificent twelve inch cock’…”

“It’s not twelve inches, Jensen.”

“Yes it is.”

“It is not.”

“Thirteen.”

“Wh—no! Jensen! Get back here! I would have passed out if it was thirt—Jensen stop smirking! Your cock is not thirteen inches long! Jensen!”

Jules’ adventures with solid foods are interesting to say the least.

He will eat mashed up pancakes drizzled with honey, and he doesn’t turn his nose up at the slivers of peaches, oranges, and apples in a red bowl next to his plate. Tiny pieces of bacon are acceptable as well, but he has no use for toast, unless it’s smeared with jam.

Seated in his highchair, the method Jules uses to devour his breakfast can be described as curious.

Jensen tries his best to replicate this method, studying it diligently. To eat the pancakes, he has to take a bunch with both hands and mash it together in his fingers for approximately two minutes, sometimes longer. The process cannot be rushed. Babbling throughout all of this is extremely important, because these pancakes need to know who the fuck is the boss here. If it’s going to be them or the pancakes, these sorry excuses for breakfast food are going down.

Next, it is integral that the pancakes, lifted up now, get mashed into the sides of their mouths—not into their mouths, that’s a critical detail. Pieces of pancake may fall onto the floor during the great mashing, but that’s okay, that is what mommy is for.

“You’re worse than he is,” Jared grumbles, swatting the back of Jensen’s head. He ties his navy robe and fusses around the kitchen table. “I’m not picking any of this up, Jensen. Stop encouraging him to make a mess.”

Licking his fingers, Jensen shrugs and looks to his co-conspirator. “Dude, defend me here.”

Jules smiles, fingers, but not pancake, in his mouth. “Ba! Ba ba ba anana.”

“Eat,” Jared murmurs, tapping Jules’ nose. He makes an eating motion while he has Jules’ attention. “Eat, mmm so good.”

“Imagine what he’s gonna do to the cake later on,” Jensen laughs and sits back in his chair. “I’m glad I got rainbow frosting. It’s gonna look fantastic smeared all across his face.”

For the moment, Jared gives up the battle of breakfast to sit and eat his own. Picking up his fork, he digs right into the short stack of pancakes Jensen served to him. Jensen might not be a chef, but he can make decent pancakes.

After two bites, Jared points to his plate. “These are so good.”

“Thanks. I used some of the breast milk in the fridge.”

Jared chokes and sputters; his eyes widen and there’s a scolding getting prepared.

Cackling, Jensen reaches over and shares a high-five with Jules. “I told you, classic joke.”

“Real funny,” Jared grumbles, wiping his mouth. “Those bottles take me forever to pump. Baby, careful, not near your eyes.” Swerving Jules’ hands away from danger, Jared takes the opportunity to pop one piece of pancake into Jules’ mouth. “There. Breakfast is done.”

“Ba!”

“Mama.” Jared takes a sip of Jensen’s orange juice. “Mama, baby.”

“…” Jules points at Jared. He wiggles in excitement, like he knows something all the adults around him are too stupid to understand. He reaches out for Jared—up, up—and at the last minute, changes his trajectory. One small finger points to Jensen. “Ba! Ba!”

“He swore at me,” Jensen snorts. “Keep your kid in line, JP.”

“Don’t call me that,” Jared huffs back. “You sound like my mom.”

“Oh, whatever. But speaking of your mother, wanna get a quickie in before she graces us with her presence?”

Finishing his plate, Jensen’s plate, and Jules’ plate, Jared shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“How you feelin’ today anyway?”

“Bloated and gassy, thank you for asking. And I feel like eating my way through a buffet of ice cream and bacon. Are you going to finish that?”

Jensen forks over his side plate of bacon. “That’s a good business model. I could open up a buffet for pregnant people and their cravings. I’d make a fortune.”

“If you got me a tub of chocolate ice cream right now, I would pay you a million dollars.”

“I’ve never seen you order chocolate at Joey’s.”

“Caffeine,” Jared sighs, pouting. “Chocolate has caffeine.”

“Can’t be that much.”

“In the quantities my hormones tell me to eat it in, it can. Are there more pancakes?”

Before Jared can get up—which requires more effort every day—Jensen sweeps his plate away and walks over to the stovetop. Jared doesn’t have a griddle, so Jensen had to make do with a regular pan. Jared took forever in the bathroom this morning—something Jensen got blamed for because of their activities last night—so Jensen and Jules made breakfast. He never knew he could balance a baby in one arm and flip pancakes with the other. The universe has made him gifted, talented, and handsome.

“What kind of cake did you get, anyway?” Jared begins the Great Jules Clean Up, starting with small hands sticky with honey and pieces of obliterated pancake.

Jensen shrugs in his white undershirt, which is no longer as clean as it was pre-breakfast. He sets down the last of the pancakes and bacon in front of Jared and takes his seat again. “Two layer vanilla cake with rainbow frosting in the shape of a penis.”

The look of horror in Jared’s face is worth the eventual backlash.

“Was I not supposed to go to the erotic cake store?” Jensen crows, pleased with himself.

Glaring, Jared snips, “Kiss any hope of sex before my mother gets here goodbye.”

“You don’t mean that.” Jensen begins to clear the table in an effort to win some points. Apparently, buying the penis cake and making breakfast is not enough for Jared. “Hey, what’s the guest list for this thing anyway? Also, formalwear? Casual?”

Jules claps his hands over Jared’s cheeks, hitting him with drool, pancake guts, and mashed fruit. However, because the world is unfair, Jules gets away with this but Jensen remains on probation.

“I’ll be happy if he doesn’t crawl across the table,” Jared murmurs, struggling to acquire a somewhat clean baby before a post-breakfast, pre-birthday party nap. “Obviously my mother will be in attendance. I invited Roberta, but I don’t know if she will show up.”

“Who’s that?”

“Ms. Amalfi.”

“Wow. Roberta?”

“You mean you didn’t know her first name?” Jared gives an exasperated sigh and it’s not even ten in the morning. “Jensen, how long have you worked there?”

Jensen rolls his eyes. “Don’t remind me. Are there gonna be friends for Jules? Other babies?”

“Why? So you can roll around on the floor with them?”

“Yeah, why else would I ask?”

Jared hefts himself out of the chair and picks Jules up. “I… I haven’t felt very social lately. We haven’t exactly gotten to know any other babies.” With a small smile, Jared adds, “Except you, of course.”

For July, today is not that hot. It’s not sweltering in Jared’s apartment. No one is uncomfortable, sweaty, or cranky from the heat and humidity. There’s lasagna in the fridge for dinner because that’s the one thing Jules will eat without much to-do. He’ll make a giant mess of it, but more will end up actually in his mouth than the pancakes. Besides, sauce is more fun to smear all over.

Standing to meet Jared and Jules, Jensen plops kisses on two sets of dimples.

“Naturally,” he answers, brushing Jules hair out of his eyes. Jules bonks his head on Jensen’s chin and twists in Jared’s arms for Jensen to hold him. Choosing not to fight the inevitable, Jared gives in. Once again there is a baby butt on Jensen’s arm, wiggling and bouncing in excitement as Jensen blows raspberries all over.

Jensen peeks over Jules and meets Jared’s eyes.

In a quiet voice, he asks, “Do you mind if I invite some friends over today?”

The smile Jared has on does not disappear. “I don’t mind.”

“Okay.”

“Jensen?”

“Hmm?”

“Put him down for a nap, please. I’ll do the dishes.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure. Just don’t fall asleep with him.”

“Rats,” Jensen murmurs to Jules, carrying him out of the kitchen. “There goes my naptime, kiddo.”

What Jared has planned in place of naptime ends up being satisfactory.

Under the claim of saving water and multitasking, they have shower sex.

The addition of water highlights every curve to Jared.

Jensen can’t kiss him enough.

Until he’s asked—please.

Jared braces himself against the tiled wall, under the cascade of water. The door stayed open to hear Jules from the room or with the monitor, but steam builds up regardless. Chest to back, Jensen merges their lines of their bodies, cupping Jared’s chest and groping as hard as Jared grinds his hips back. Jared didn’t pump this morning. He reaches back with one arm, pushing his chest into Jensen’s hands, and they share one moan when the first spray of milk laces the tile.

Pressure leaves Jared’s chest, but it rebuilds in the center of their hips.

Heavy and flushed, Jensen pushes in. Slick and water coat his passage. Angling forward, he closes his eyes, relishing every clench, every flutter, and every thick seep of slick over him.

They move fused together.

Jensen opens his eyes to the voluptuous form in front of him, to the bounce of Jared’s pert ass over his hips, and to another steady release of milk over gray tile. Push in. Pull out. Push in. Pull out. Fuck into squelching, scorching tightness. On every other stroke he pounds against that nub of nerves that causes Jared’s thighs to tremble and his nipples to stay peaked and hard.

About to piston his hips faster, Jensen stops when he hears the word, “Wait.”

“What’s wrong?” he blurts out, concern in his voice. “Was I too…”

“No,” Jared pants, “I just… can we move?”

“Move?”

Jared nods, clenching over Jensen and shuddering. “Oh god. Yes. Move. Bed. Ride. I just need to ride you.”

After turning off the water and grabbing the monitor, they race for Jared’s bed, each of them walking like penguins. They’re still wet from the shower, and when Jared pushes himself down onto Jensen’s cock, none of that matters. It doesn’t matter that Jared’s hair hangs in messy strands or that their skin is still slippery. The only thing that matters is the desperate fucks downward Jared’s hips make. Every fifth stroke he bears his weight down on Jensen, pulsing, contracting, and gushing all around him.

The resulting visual is exquisite.

Lifted up two inches, Jared’s mouth opens in a gasp. His belly hangs low and heavy, his cock bobbing underneath. Driving down again, he rests his hands on Jensen’s legs and rolls his hips forward, fucking himself hard and fast. The headboard slams against the pale blue wall. Chest and belly heaving, Jared conducts a breakneck pace, creaming over Jensen’s cock as he hammers his hips down.

“Coming,” Jared cries out, eyes squeezed shut. “Jensen… coming… I’m…”

“Come,” Jensen growls. “Come for me, honey. That’s it. Fuck. Come, honey.”

“Ah!” Seizing, Jared pops off of Jensen, hips lifted, and a gush of slick pours out of his entrance, directly onto Jensen’s cock. At the same time, come spurts out of Jared’s cock onto Jensen’s middle, leaving him marked twice. With his thighs quaking, Jared pushes back down. The squelch of it is loud and wet. Hazel eyes flutter. While his hips are still, Jensen takes over, thrusting up in tight, fast swivels.

Jared moves Jensen’s hands.

Jensen cradles Jared’s belly.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop,” Jared whispers. “There, right there… oh… oh fuck…!”

Jared lifts off. He marks Jensen again, a deluge of slick shimmering over them both.

“Close,” Jensen warns, slipping back inside. “Honey, I’m close.”

Nodding, Jared slows their tempo, allowing both of them to catch their breath. He rocks back and forth without pushing his hips up or down. Their eyes meet. Jensen would stay breathless for the rest of his life just for this smile.

The mattress begins to squeak again, protesting against the abuse. Every squeak matches the rhythm of Jared working his hips up and down, tilting back, the underside of his belly thumping against Jared’s middle. Milk from his chest leaks down, touching not a requirement. Their muscles coil. Pressure in the base of Jensen’s cock builds. He twitches inside Jared, buried deep on a stroke in.

“Come on me,” Jared commands. “Jen, please, come on me.”

“Hold… hold on… here…”

“Hurry, I… nnnaaah… fuck!”

Fisting the sheets, Jared comes again, tossing his head back, allowing one long keen to fill the room. The force of his orgasm wrings one out of Jensen.

Jensen slips out and somehow manages to sit up. The world around him reels, but he has one hand on his cock and the other on Jared’s belly. Jared is fresh, flushed, and lovely before him. He pulls Jensen closer, crushing their lips together, and placing a hand over Jensen’s on his cock. He presses the fattened, bloated head against the top curve of his belly and Jensen shouts.

He didn’t think it’d be so hot.

He didn’t think it’d electrify him to see ropes of his come all over Jared’s middle, to see it mark him, to see it drip down and all around.

Holy shit.

“Breathe.” That’s Jared’s voice. “Jen, breathe.”

That’s all he can hear after, as the world spins.

It takes a while.

Yet he’s okay.

They are barely dressed and actually showered when Jared’s mother arrives.

Luckily, Jules saves the day and distracts her while Jensen and Jared strip Jared’s bed. It still smells like sex in the room, even with the window open, but Jared can’t stand any kind of air freshener so that’s the way it’s going to be.

“You should invest in rubber sheets,” Jensen says with a small laugh, stuffing them into one of the hampers. “Save on laundry.”

Taking out new sheets, Jared’s nose scrunches and he shakes his head. “That’s uncomfortable. Besides, it’s only when I’m pregnant. I was never able to do that before with…” He holds the sheets in his arms and smoothes out a wrinkle. “Well, you know.”

Jensen has had exes he’d rather forget. Well, he’s had exes who have caused him more than one sleepless night—an extension of nights if he’s honest, days where he moped around his apartment and ate only what was within reach of the couch. Those were sad times, and high in fiber, because often the only thing close to the couch was a can of cashews.

There were exes and lays and blips on the radar who were duds. Then there were some who pushed Jensen around, hit him, and shouted their interpretations of him and his life right at his face.

Those people sucked—not in a good way.

What’s surprising at the moment, however, is that Jensen finds himself telling this to Jared.

“Huh,” Jensen coughs. “Sorry, way to be a downer.”

Jules begins to fuss. Jensen turns towards the living room. Wet diaper? Being separated from Jared for too long? Grandma wore that awful perfume again?

A gentle hand presses over Jensen’s elbow. “Don’t be sorry,” Jared says, his voice more self-assured. “You barely tell me anything about yourself.”

It’s too natural for Jensen’s shoulders to shrug. “Not much to tell.”

Not much he wants Jared to know at the moment.

He isn’t sure where whatever it is between them is going, but two new babies require money. Jared has never asked him for anything, but Jensen wants to give him more than ice cream, cakes, and dinner.

Driving a cab on the side is not enough; tourists pay like shit most weekends. Even bartending doesn’t make as much money as one good night dancing at Fire Island. Money is money. Until he can figure out how to explain his feathers and glow sticks to Jared without feeling shame, the extra he’s been pocketing can remain a vague detail.

Looking Jensen up and down, Jared sets down the sheets. He takes Jensen’s hands and lightly pats his knuckles.

“I don’t think that’s as true as you think it is.”

Jared brings Jensen’s right hand to his lips and presses a kiss to his fingertips. Just a second later, Jared turns Jensen’s hand over and blows a raspberry to his palm.

“You tell me when you’re ready, okay?”

Another kiss and they make the bed together.

Out in the living room, Jules cannot hold down the fort any longer. Grandma has covered his face in her lipstick, which is in itself upsetting, but the awful magenta shade of it is insult to the injury.

Mommy arrives before the screaming starts.

The four of them transition to the kitchen. Jules will tolerate baths and cleanup sessions in the actual bathroom, but for a calm time of it, he enjoys the attention received when bathed in the kitchen sink. Sans diaper and t-shirt, he claps happily in the stopped side while Jared prepares a world-class bath in view of plates and silverware. Jensen leans against the counter and pokes Jules’ nose.

Aside from the scattered chaos that comes with a one year old, Jared keeps his apartment painstakingly clean. There are wipes and towels and sanitizer all in easy access for an adult wiping up everything and anything. Jared scrubs down the sink, runs water through it, and checks twice for the temperature when it’s ready to fill up.

“Undress him, please?”

“Why?” Jensen asks, speaking for the concerned look in Jules’ eyes. Bath time is fine, but walking around in the living room and drooling over the board book about butterflies seems to be the better option here.

Hardly amused, Jared looks at Jensen. “You want him to run around naked, covered in breakfast?”

“It’s his birthday, if that’s what he wants, that’s what he gets.”

“Jensen, that is ridiculous.”

Motioning between them, Jensen insists. “He’s not too hot about your plan, honey, keep talking and he’ll forget all about it. So I’m telling you, maybe he’s onto something.”

“Oh.” Jared’s eyebrows rise. “Okay, so you think he’s starting a trend.”

“Most definitely,” Jensen laughs. He pokes Jules’ tummy and tickles underneath his chin. The tides are slowly beginning to turn. “I for one support this trend and will, from now on, refuse to wear clothes whenever I finish eating breakfast.”

Cutting in, Grandma spoils the fun. She lifts Jules and places him in the water.

“You’re letting him sit there, getting cold,” she snips at both Jared and Jensen.

Immediately, Jules executes a coup. He did not sign up for this harsh introduction to bath time. He thought he was going to get mommy slowly placing him into the water, their cheeks pressed together, and maybe a few kisses. Expectations were set for the yellow ducky to accompany Jules shortly after, and then, perhaps, the plastic blue ring that jingles.

To Jensen, Jules has every right to be upset.

“Mom, it’s eighty degrees, there’s no way he’s cold,” Jared snaps back. He muscles his way past her. “And you can’t just throw him into the water like that, he doesn’t like it.”

The war that has started over a bath represents something larger, and Jensen knows exactly what it is.

He’s no Manhattan businessman.

But he can make pancakes and hold a baby at the same time.

Before blood is spilled over bath time, three knocks from the front door claims everyone’s attention. Jensen sighs and scoots over to the door.

“You guys couldn’t have better timing if I paid you,” he says to the miscreants hanging around the doorstep. “Come in, come in, I hope you two found your way here all right.”

Pink hair leads; black hair follows. The gals look good, but instead of the single bottle of wine he suggested they bring, they held up a grocery store, a toy store, and a liquor store on the way here. There are two bottles of wine, red and white, plus a bottle of sparkling grape juice, and bags and bags of food. After hugging both of them, Jensen declares that he’ll forgive them if in one of those bags are homemade eggrolls.

“My ma almost sent me out with the bag handcuffed to my wrist,” Opal grumbles, holding out the offering. “She says hi.” Jensen waits a beat. Opal sighs. “Nikki says hi, Elisea says hi, Margo says hi, Karari says hi, Pop says hi, and Emilia says, ‘Heyyyyyyy’.”

Looking around the apartment, Nova whispers, “This is much better than your place.”

“Oh yeah, but I find the lived-in look a little overrated. Here, let me take some of that stuff.”

“We got it,” Opal murmurs, handing Nova the keys.

“No,” he clarifies, “really. I need something to put between me and someone in there. You’ll see.”

The three of them walk into the kitchen, a swarm of paper bags, bottles, and squeals as soon as Nova discovers who exactly the birthday boy is. Jensen didn’t tell them much; he indicated that the person they’d be celebrating wears diapers and is a hog for attention, so very much like himself. He also somewhat mentioned that the birthday individual is related to someone who may or may not tolerate his shit on a daily basis.

“Hi!” Nova squeaks, shoving all her bags into Jensen’s arms. She hugs Jared and Jules. “May I?”

A little alarmed by her lack of fear from the crying mess Jules has become, Jared hands Jules over. For all of his baby whispering talent, Nova beats Jensen’s ass times ten. Jules loves the color and taste of her hair; he wastes no time in sticking a loose strand of it into his mouth. Jensen would do a lot for Jules, but he’s not going to grow out his hair and dye it pink… yet.

“The psychotic one is Nova,” Jensen shouts over Jules’ laughter and Nova’s babbling. “The one I’d rather be related to is Opal. She brought me eggrolls.”

“You have to share those,” Opal warns. She extends a hand to Jared and his mother. “Thank you for inviting us.”

Grandma shoots mommy a glance. Jared shakes his head in response and ignores the next glare. He watches Nova with Jules for a second, looks over to Jensen, and then turns to Opal.

“It’s nice to meet you both. We were in the middle of…”

“A bath?!” Nova gasps, grinning madly. “Mister Man was in the middle of a little rub a dub dub?! Why didn’t you tell me, my love? Look! You have a ducky all set here! Oh, oh, can I? Do you mind? I would love to finish, if that’s okay?”

“If you say no,” Jensen chimes in, “you’ll be responsible for tears from the two of them.”

“As long as I can sit down,” Jared answers with a sigh.

Moving to the fridge, Jensen begins putting food away. Opal unbags while he makes space in the fridge and the cupboards. Halfway through—Jules and Nova conducting their own opera of giggles and splashes in the background—Jensen passes Jared a glass of chilled apple juice. The kitchen is noisy once again with questions back and forth about jobs, school, and the birthday boy. Opal uses the denim vest she’s wearing as a makeshift towel for Nova, whose front is damp from a tsunami Jules creates.

Of course, the only person in the kitchen who remains quiet and isolated is Jared’s mother.

The expression on her face is better suited for someone whose bingo card got pissed on.

“Is my cousin less of an asshole to you than he is to the rest of the world?” Nova asks over her shoulder, drying Jules off on the countertop. “Tell me all the most embarrassing things you can think of about him and I’ll tell you mine.”

“Are you going to tell him,” Opal adds, “the baby Jensen story where he took off his diaper and smeared poop all over the floor? I love that story.”

This is terrible. Jared is laughing, Opal is smirking, and Nova is relishing being the authority to many of the most embarrassing stories in Jensen’s life. Jensen has a reputation to preserve. Not even Jules is interested in saving or defending him; he is way too busy chewing on Nova’s hair.

So far, everything is going well.

Except when he hears, “What exactly do you see in him?” Everyone looks at Jared’s mother. She shrugs and tries to look innocent. “I mean, while we’re asking.”

At least two people in the room are ready to drop kick Grandma.

Jensen claps his hands together. “Honey, you got a walkman or something like that?”

“What?” Jared blurts out. “I… uh… yeah, but…”

“No, it’s okay.” Jensen looks to Opal and Nova as well. “She asked a fair question.”

There are eggrolls waiting to be devoured, along with tubs of fresh hummus, olives, and pita bread that’s still warm in its package. And he may be mistaken, but one of the presents the gals brought for Jules looks like an entire set of new board books for him to drool over to his heart’s content. They’ve got good food to eat, presents to open, and a birthday boy to shower with attention.

So Jensen will only take two minutes of their attention for himself.

Jared rummages through a drawer in the kitchen and hands over a portable player, plus a set of headphones. Jensen checks the tape inside; not his first pick, but he can adapt.

Slipping on the headphones, he looks over at Nova and Opal. “Can I count on y’all to clap? Like this.” He sets the beat for them. “There you go. Easy, right? Perfect.”

He clears his throat.

He doesn’t always need a baby grand piano.

The beat starts off slow—one clap, five seconds between another—and Jensen keeps his voice at a lower pitch to warm up.

“I keep goin’ to the river to pray, ‘cause I need something that can wash out the pain. Your ghost, the ghost of you it keeps me awake.”

His eyes close the second the tempo ramps up. He starts to clap along, setting the beat, his voice pushing from his middle and filling up the space of the kitchen.

“I had to go through hell to prove I’m not insane. I had to meet the devil just to know his name. You never told me true love was gonna hurt. True face that I never learned.”

“I keep goin’ to the river to pray, ‘cause I need something that can wash out the pain. Your ghost, the ghost of you it keeps me awake.”

Louder.

“Give up the ghost. Give up the ghost. Stop the hauntin’, baby. Give up the ghost. Give up the ghost. No more hauntin’, baby.”

Draw it back. Soft—right here, almost a whisper.

“I… keep… goin’ to the river…”

Prep the audience.

Because his voice is awesome.

Few people ever expect the power behind it, the force with which he controls it, or the range he reaches. And for the first time in a long time, in his mind he’s not in a cage and there are no feathers. He’s just bouncing to the music in the kitchen of someone he hopes is listening.

Drums blast.

Jensen unleashes the full strength of his voice.

“I keep goin’ to the river to pray, ‘cause I need something that can wash out the pain. And at most I’m sleeping all these demons away. But your ghost, the ghost of you it keeps me awake.” Breathe. “I keep goin’ to the river to pray, ‘cause I need something that can wash out the pain. Your ghost. The ghost of you it keeps me awake.”

He opens his eyes.

And he’s not alone.

Taking off the headphones, he makes eye contact with Jared’s mother, who looks like a cartoon after dynamite went off in her face.

Satisfied, Jensen turns to Opal.

“Eggrolls now?”

Things go well.

So well, Jensen feels like stripping in joy. Who needs clothes when the living room is filled with life?

To his left are the gals on the love seat, not an inch between them, Nova still wearing Opal’s vest. Nova balances Jules in her lap, clapping his hands together to show him the basic measures of time. In between the lesson, Jensen can hear snippets of everyday life.

“When we get back, remind me to change the oil in your car.” Opal nudges Nova. “I keep forgetting.”

“You keep getting distracted—that’s different.”

“Like you’re not distracted right now?”

“Uh, excuse me, Julie and I are BFFs now. We are soul mates. Right, my love? Isn’t that right?”

“You can’t bring him home, Nov.”

“Why not? Jared won’t notice. He’s got Jen, and Jen is ten times fussier than Julie.”

“When’s your first class tomorrow?”

“Ten. Wanna have breakfast before?”

“Yes, but not at…”

“Not at the diner, got it.”

“If I want greasy food, I’ll just make everything at home and dip it in lard before I eat it.”

“We don’t have to go out, love.”

“You suggested it.”

“I’m also suggesting cuddles and waffles with whipped cream.”

“Whipped cream for the cuddles or waffles?”

“Both!”

“Nov. We tried that once. Remember?”

“Oh, you just got upset over the sheets.”

“It was a mess.”

They think he can’t hear them just because he’s sharing the long couch with Jared and Jared’s hand is on his knee. And it’s true, Jensen’s attention is skewed in one particular direction that may have something to do with kissable lips and silky, chestnut hair, but he can still hear them.

“My cousin looks happy.”

“He looks deranged.”

“That’s just his face.”

“Oh, you’re right, that is just his face.”

The only person who didn’t stick around was Jared’s mother, who left shortly after Jensen’s impromptu concert. She gave no reason, made no excuse, just got up and left. Jared didn’t seem to mind, so Jensen isn’t too worried about it. He’s more concerned about helping Jared off the couch.

“I’m huge,” Jared whines, huffing with effort, gripping onto Jensen’s hands. “These two won’t quit moving around in there.”

“Cake will help.” Jensen pats Jared’s ass as they walk over to the kitchen. “And maybe sex.”

“It’s cute that you think you’re gonna get some tonight.”

Jensen extracts the cake out of the fridge, careful not to knock over any of the leftovers from lunch and dinner. The past few hours have been all about gluttony. And try as he did, Jensen could not finish the entire box of eggrolls. Now, there’s cake to be had, along with a pot of coffee Jared has put on for the gals since they have an hour drive ahead of them.

“Why wouldn’t I get some tonight? I’m the one who bought the penis cake.”

When Jared glares, his lips purse and his nose scrunches. “There better not be an actual penis cake in there, Jensen, or I swear…”

The pink pastry box pops open before Jared can complete his threat.

“I asked them,” Jensen murmurs, placing the cake onto the counter, “if they could do a spoon. They’d never had that request before, but I think they did a bang up job, don’t you?”

One hunk of whipped cream and vanilla cake splendor takes the shape of a blue plastic spoon—Jules’ favorite toy. Happy Birthday scrawls out over the handle portion, written in bright, rainbow frosting.

The birthday boy himself won’t remember any of this—the party, the cake, the small mountain of presents for him to play with in the short time he has left being an only child. He won’t remember his kitchen sink baths or diaper wearing days or helping Jensen make pancakes by babbling into his ear and pressing kisses to his cheek.

But someone will.

Someone who has been there for Jules since day one.

Mommy will never forget.

Jensen was right—Jules looks good in rainbow frosting.

The kid covers himself with it, requiring one more bath, a bed time story, and one more wipe down before finally falling asleep.

Nova and Opal call when they arrive back in the suburbs.

And the second Jared’s face hits the pillow he’s out like a light for the next eight hours.

He is wrong about one thing.

Time passes much faster than he could have ever anticipated.

For Jared’s birthday, Jensen buys him a stroller built to seat three.

And then he fucks Jared into the mattress.

Quiet, so not to wake or startle Jules in the next room, their bodies grind and push together. Midnight heat pours over them both, inky and heady. Within minutes, the sheets are a mess. Jared’s legs are tangled up in Jensen’s, and their mouths seek locations to deliver desperate gasps and hushed, hungry moans.

The bed creaks, the headboard shakes, and all at once the world tilts with the movement of Jared’s hips sinking over Jensen’s cock. One, two, three, one, two, three, Jared keeps time for Jensen’s heart. The pace of movement doesn’t keep the headboard from going thudthudthudthudthud.

Jensen has Jared three times—twice on all fours, mounted behind him, driving into him deep and needy, and once with Jared arched above, his belly heaving, his chest leaking, and their eyes locked.

This happens often.

When they get home from work and put Jules down for a nap. When they wake up before Jules does in the morning. When Nova and Opal swing by more often instead of Jensen going out to the burbs. The gals will take Jules to the park nearby and Jensen will murmur the lyrics to “Caldonia” into Jared’s ear while groping him against the kitchen counter.

There are weekends from July to August where the only thing Jensen does the entire day is try to catch his breath and keep up with Jared.

Every time, Jared guides his hands, until they splay over the wide, heavy curve of his middle.

Together, they hold onto each other.

And everything in between.

The English Department has been pleased with Jensen’s translations of Rimbaud—one of the most depressing individuals ever to have existed.

Throughout August, Jensen works on translating the packets sent over from one of the professors who teaches a graduate seminar. Other translations exist; however, the professor prefers Jensen’s adaption. Whatever. Since the Dean is personally involved—Jensen isn’t sure how but that’s politics he doesn’t care to get involved in—this project becomes top priority. The Biology Department can call all they want; Jensen doesn’t answer the phone anymore.

“We have more urgent business,” Jared grumbles into the beige receiver. “I assure you, as I have assured you three times already within this conversation that whatever it is you sent over will be dealt with as soon as an opening is available.”

One of the busier months out of the calendar year, August zips past in a hurricane of anxious professors who all need their project done first.

“Listen.” Jared rises from his desk, not an easy task these days. One hand on the phone and the other supporting himself on the edge of the desk, he leans in, as if the person on the other line were directly in front of him. “You had three months to put in your request—no, excuse me, let me finish. You had three months to file a request. Next time you have any urgent matter, don’t wait until you return from vacation to file it and then we’ll see about removing the stick up your ass.”

Jensen swears that the phone shudders in fear after Jared hangs up. He turns around in his desk chair and peers up at his officemate, who seems to be at his wit’s end.

Eyes shut, Jared takes one deep inhale followed by a slow exhale. Jensen doesn’t have to ask about this part of Jared’s day; contractions have made their appearance, coming in around three or four times a day at odd hours. Short of evacuating the two causes behind the contractions—not an option for another two weeks—little can be done. Jared is fucking stubborn and refuses to use any leave time before the big day. He needs to save as much of it as he can for everything that will happen after the babies arrive. This means that he’s been puking in the office virtually nonstop since last week.

At least today, puking has taken a small vacation in favor of contractions.

Jules and Jensen exchange a look. Fuck. Someone has to do something. Jared is gritting his teeth in obvious discomfort; he’s got sixteen pounds of baby rolling against his ribs and internal organs. His pregnancy with Jules was easier; not one day of morning sickness at all and Jules was born at exactly forty weeks. Jared has found out that having twins is drastically different than having a singleton.

Earlier this morning, when Jared was dry heaving into the waste bin, Jules walked over from his blanket, concerned, and handed Jared a piece of toast he’d saved in his diaper from breakfast.

The gesture evoked a laugh, so it’s Jensen’s turn this time.

Jensen hopes that the twins decide to make their debut a weekend, and preferably around noon, so he’s not at Fire Island. He hasn’t officially been invited to the delivery, but if Jared needs a cab to the hospital, he could be available. Maybe. Probably.

Oh, fuck, who’s he kidding, he’d carry Jared there if he had to.

A picture of that scenario causes Jensen to smile. Shit. Smiling at work? Picking up Jules whenever he wants and pressing kisses to chubby, rosy little cheeks? Plopping Jules down on his desk from time to time to give Jared a break and playing patty-cake all afternoon? Tossing out his collection of angry Post-Its from around the University and putting up pictures of Jared and Jules at the park or at Jared’s apartment instead? Leaving Post-It’s on Jared’s desk with snippets of Caldonia on them?

Walkin’ with my baby she’s got great big feet. She’s long, lean, and lanky, and ain’t had nothing to eat.

He can hear the trumpet, the bass, and the piano mix together playfully.

She’s my baby and I love her just the same. Crazy ‘bout that woman cause Caldonia is her name.

And then—Caldonia! Caldonia! What makes your big head so hard?

It’s not a concerto or a sonata, but Jensen is fond of dancing to it whenever it pops up on the radio. He enjoys grabbing Jared and forcing him to mimic what some people call dancing.

Besides, the last few lines are sweet.

I love you. I love you just the same. I’ll always love you baby, cause Caldonia is your name.

“I know someone who’s getting ice cream after work,” Jensen says, scooting his chair closer to Jared despite the vague threat to his life in the air. “Maybe a foot rub? Jules owes you one.”

No response. Jared’s face flushes from coral to crimson; he stays perfectly still, except for his heavy breathing, which makes his chest and belly heave.

Looking to Jules for help, Jensen rolls his eyes. Great. Jules has fallen asleep in his carrier. The one person in the world who can work a smile out of Jared is dreaming about Nova’s hair and spitting up on Jensen at midnight.

Jensen decides to try a different approach. He turns back to his desk and flutters through a few papers, not really looking at anything. Maybe if it seems like he’s working, Jared will stomp over and tell him that he’s supposed to use the future tense in that particular line, not the present. Maybe. He places a paperclip on the wrong side of the page just to see what happens.

After a minute, Jensen reads a line of Rimbaud, because fuck, what else can he do?

The notes he has taken in the margins are somewhat neater than they would have been a few months ago.

Et des lors, je me suis baigne dans le Poeme de le Mer, infuse d’astres, et lactescent, devorant les azurs verts; ou flottaison blame et ravie, un noye pensif parfois descend.

His translation was approved by Jared, who gave it a quick read though yesterday.

And since then I’ve been bathing in the Poem of star-infused and milky Sea, devouring the azure greens, where, flotsam pale, a brooding corpse at times drifts by.

Unable to take the silence in the office any longer, Jensen looks up from his desk and declares, “This is such depressing shit.”

Finally—he receives a response, though in the form of a warning. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting anything,” he lies with a smile. “I’m just saying, this is fucking depressing.”

“You know what’s depressing?” Jared huffs, standing upright and rubbing the small of his back. “I’m wearing sandals today because my feet wouldn’t fit into any of my shoes.”

“It’s summer. I think we can excuse you wearing sandals to work. I wore flip flops last week.”

“And like I told you then, it’s unprofessional.” There’s the tone. Jared’s fine.

“Oh yeah, because you’re meeting the President today. Jules, why didn’t you tell me the President was dropping by?”

“He’s asleep,” Jared informs him. He sits back down, which has become a process. He must squat first, then gently lower his hips, all while holding onto the desk. But that’s a piece of cake in comparison to the challenge the stairs have become. Jensen met Jared at the juice bar this morning; they walked here together afterwards. It took them a solid half an hour to climb up the stairs.

“You wanna get out of here early?” Jensen stands and peers out the window. “Hey, that kid stopped coming by. Little snot-nosed punk, maybe he finally got a job.”

Turning back to Jared, Jensen reads the exhaustion in his expression.

He can’t keep scaling stairs like that, especially not six flights in a poorly lit, most likely structurally unsound building. This building has been here since the early part of the century, and the University has done little to maintain it. Nearly every wall possesses some crack or splinter; the ceilings wear multiple water stains; and the plumbing is unreliable.

“Hey.” Taking Jared’s right hand in his own, Jensen cooks up the most cheerful smile he can muster while at work. “Let’s get the fuck out of here. There’s a couch and a foot rub somewhere with your name on it.”

One look over to Jules and Jared’s hesitation about abandoning his post crumbles. They can go back to Jared’s place and make an early evening of it.

Thursday afternoon can be theirs if Jared agrees.

Jared mumbles the resignation speech of pregnant people everywhere: “Fine, but help me up.”

Two nights ago, Jensen woke up at two in the morning.

To his shock, he wasn’t at his apartment—he was at Jared’s. The same dream with the candles and the piano followed and found him plastered against Jared. When he woke up, sweating and confused, his right hand was over Jared’s middle.

Movement underneath his hand was only part of his daze.

At the same time he felt that kick, a rectangular object burned itself into his mind. At first, he couldn’t figure it out. He bumped his forehead in the smooth space between Jared’s shoulder blades. His heart pounded; the hairs over his arms prickled. It was no help to him that in his anxiety, he heard a piano being played from the living room.

Except, Jared has never owned a piano.

Top Lift. Controlled Interchange. Two Inch Tread. Max Gross. Three High Stacking. Brake Beam. Wide Twist Lock. Badge Plate. High Cube. Land Limit. Equipment Register. JUDYLIVESON.

That one apartment building with honeycomb windows. All of those were things he had seen on his train rides to the suburbs. They churned through him, frothing and rising until the muscles in his throat constricted against each other, forcing out all his air and guarding against any going in.

Another kick against his hand—this one more forceful—and he snapped out of it.

He was as he had fallen asleep—calm, with his heart rate at rest.

Instead of a sonata, he heard the rumble of Jared’s voice, filled with sleep.

“Jen…” Jared shifted, turning his middle away from Jensen’s hand. “Blow out those candles.”

He had made no mention of his dream at all to Jared.

A minute later, Jensen slipped out of bed and hid in the laundry room for the rest of the night. He curled up on the floor and fell back asleep with his forehead against the dryer door.

Just like old times.

To tide them over for the drive home, Jensen stops their party at the juice bar.

Jared and Jules wait outside while Jensen ducks in. Before he reaches the counter he knows that Miss Rose is in. With her amber hair coifed and her blue eye shadow perfectly applied. Standing with her arms across her chest, her figure rises, formidable and unrelenting.

She wastes no time with Jensen.

“You got nerve showing up here after thirsting so long,” she snaps. “I’m used to men bailing on me, but I thought we were friends.”

Working less at Fire Island—combined with the sensitivity of Jared’s nose lately, plus Jensen’s reluctance to get out of Jared’s bed any earlier than absolutely necessary in the mornings—has taken away from his time with Miss Rose. And he knows that she’s not playing around. Shit must have gone down. But with her, it would never show. He can only tell by the way she speaks at him, not to him.

“I’ve been busy,” he replies, fully understanding that that is a fucking piss poor line. He shrugs a shoulder over to the street. “And now, I kind of need a favor.”

Meticulously groomed eyebrows arch up in response to the audacity of his statement.

“And what makes you think I feel like handing out favors to sorry assholes like you?”

It was something at Fire Island. Had to have been. Something that happened on a night he wasn’t there.

“Because,” he blurts out, “I’m happy.”

Miss Rose used to live above a laundromat. He’d go over to learn shit whenever he had the chance. If it was a good week, she’d microwave two frozen dinners and plop them down on chartreuse dinner trays so they could watch soap operas and Jensen would imitate the actors. He got good at it. His favorite line was, “This isn’t about the money, Nicole!”

Sometimes the steam from below would rise with such ferocity, it would make Miss Rose’s waterproof mascara run.

Maybe she thinks of those times too.

Her brown eyes cast over towards the window before returning to Jensen.

“Happiness is not taking on other people’s problems instead of your own.” Her voice sheds its edge. “Do you know what you’re getting into, baby doll?”

Jensen’s next answer possesses frightening, total honesty.

“I have no fucking idea, but I’m gonna find out just the same.”

Then he asks for his favor, and makes no promises to be around more often at Fire Island.

However, Miss Rose is welcome to come over on Sunday evenings before bed time.

The favor is set up for Saturday night behind Fire Island.

In the alley, Jensen refuses to take his shirt off.

In fact, he refuses to do any more than open his mouth, close his eyes, and force himself to breathe through his nose. It was raining when he ran from his apartment to the club. Back here, with his knees on asphalt, there’s no chance of hearing the slosh of raindrops against the sidewalk now. After the first two minutes, he barely registers the music from the club; it’s just as well, the DJ tonight couldn’t play a decent set out of a paper bag for a million bucks.

People mill around, in and out of the back. No one pays any attention to what Jensen is doing. It’s hardly the first or last time head has been given at Fire Island.

But the last time Jensen did this, he was left bruised and bleeding.

There’s this shit about gag reflexes, a natural reaction most people have when things are jammed down their throats. Jensen has one. He’s stuck his toothbrush too far back before and blech—everything came up. Once the threat of vomiting gets figured out, it’s only Jensen’s eyes that water.

But that’s fine. All of this is fine. He’s not upset about any of it, because he agreed to it in the first place. What he’s upset about is that the lap dance he offered to begin with wasn’t good enough. It had to be a blow job. So it’s not about getting off; it’s about control.

It has always been about control with these guys.

Choking, Jensen pushes back with his hands.

He will not hesitate to bite down and end this all—deal or no deal.

Jared has never asked him to do this.

He just can’t. He prefers to rest his head over the soft swell of Jared’s chest and tease one nipple at a time, until they turn as pink as Jared’s mouth.

Lost in the separation of his mind from his body, Jensen almost doesn’t see the flash of lights in the alley in time. He nearly misses the emergency exit ten feet away bursting open. Chaos spills forth from Fire Island in all directions.

Jensen shoves himself back, popping off, coughing and sputtering while trying to get to his feet. Sirens and the sounds of nightsticks battering against human skin blare in his head. The sea of people trying to escape Fire Island through the back causes a tsunami of panic. Jensen’s heart races. Pain laces through his chest. Out. Police raid. Out. Cops. Nightsticks. Mace. None of the cops have made it to the back… yet.

For the moment, it is surge after surge of the Saturday crowd, pushing, stomping, swarming, and stampeding to get as far away from the club as possible. It’s only a matter of time before the cops swing around.

Somewhere, glass breaks.

Drag queens and dancers scream, the most vulnerable of the lot.

Jensen can’t get his bearings.

A hand pulls at his arm.

“Quit standing there!” Miss Rose hollers. “Run!”

Shaking his head, Jensen could cry. His hand flies to his chest.

Miss Rose shoves him hard, towards the alley that cuts out to 81^st. He loses sight of her two seconds later, from the frenzy that follows tear gas released in the front of the club.

Why didn’t she tell him this had happened? Did she think it was just the one night?

Jensen muscles his way back four or five steps. He grabs at someone where she might be.

“Stay with me!” he hollers, yanking them close. “Just… stay… with me!”

Raids occur for any number of reasons.

Fire Island burns in panic behind them as they slink through the sliver of an alley that will take them out to a main street—to where they hope they find safety.

Hand in hand, Jensen and Miss Rose tumble out onto the sidewalk.

She looks at him.

He looks at her.

Gratitude is not lost on either of them.

On Sunday, despite the previous night, the deal goes through.

Jensen pays a portion of cash to make up for the fact that he technically didn’t finish the blow job. The job gets done because he also threatens to find the motherfucker and bite off his dick---piece by piece.

Besides, the guy got three fourths of a blow job and five hundred dollars in cash. That should be enough.

On Monday, Jared bears witness to one half of the deal.

“Butter my butt and call me a biscuit,” Jared gasps, placing one hand on the reflective elevator door. “I never thought it would happen.”

Leaning against the wall, Jensen shrugs.

“Some shit gets done around here, with a little bit of patience, you know.”

It has been years since the elevator last ran; no one ever really needed it that badly.

One week remains until the twins show up. Jared is at his heaviest and both babies have moved lower. Any day now and Jules will have plenty of playmates.

Like it or not, he will never be the only baby around ever again.

“We don’t get going in a minute, we’re gonna be late,” Jensen prompts. “Press the button.”

With wide eyes, Jared looks at Jensen. “Wait, are you concerned about being late?”

“Just press the button, dork.”

“Are pigs flying? Did hell freeze over? Did Rimbaud come back to life and talk to you?”

“You know, I try to do something nice for you and…”

Jared smacks a kiss to Jensen’s cheek. They stand hand in hand waiting for the elevator.

Better than the ping from the doors opening, Jensen hears, “It’s perfect, Jen.”

The ride up is smooth. Not one jolt.

Jules approves. He wiggles around in Jensen’s hold, bouncing to his own internal baby rhythm. Turning one looks good on him. He’s gained some weight, his hair has grown as messy and thick as Jared’s, and his babbling resembles words more and more every day. When he points to things, he babbles specific sounds—a marked improvement over two months ago. Jensen can’t imagine relearning every single word. He’s glad that that job is Jules’.

Ms. Amalfi is out of the office through Labor Day; therefore, Jared fills the lack of noise in her stead.

“So I told them that the first thing I want to eat after the whole thing is a big bowl of chocolate ice cream,” he rattles on, throwing his stuff down onto this desk. Jensen and Jules follow after. “Not the cheap stuff, either, but really good ice cream. Do you think I can sneak in a pint from Joey’s and eat it after? I don’t need champagne, I just want chocolate ice cream. Oh my god, I’m about to breastfeed three. I should’ve weaned you.” Turning, he bops Jules on the nose. “This is what I get for listening to a certain someone.” Next up, he bops Jensen.

“Ba,” Jules coos, waving his hands around. “Ba, ba, ba.”

Smiling wide, Jared takes his seat. “I know, baby. We’ll never listen to Jensen again.”

Bitterness coats the inside of Jensen’s mouth.

“Yeah,” Jensen murmurs. “Yep.”

Jared glances back over to Jensen, brow furrowed. “Hey, what’s going on with you? You’ve been quiet today when you should’ve been gloating over getting the elevator fixed. Oh, I hope it cost this place a shit ton of money. I personally want to see the Dean when he gets the bill.”

Just tell him.

If soap and mouthwash and toothpaste don’t get the taste out, maybe the details will.

He wants to be honest. If there’s no shame in his side jobs, then why has he waited so long to say anything?

Jensen refrains from spilling the truth when he spots a figure in the doorway of their office.

Stuart’s voice cuts through the humid air like a cleaver through bone.

“I always figured you for an upstart,” he sniffs, nose down at Jensen. “But I never thought as low of you as I do now.”

Shoulders bristling, Jensen stands up, arms crossed over his chest. “Like I give two shits what you think of me, Stu?”

“Stuart,” the man snips. “It has always been Stuart.”

“Oh yeah? Was it Stuart on my first day, when you told me I would never do this job as well as you?”

“I was not wrong.”

“Fuck off, man.”

“Apologize to Jared and I right this minute.”

Jensen frowns. “About what, exactly?”

Still seated, Jared’s eyes dart back and forth between Jensen and Stuart. Before he can demand any further explanation, Stuart holds up a manila folder. Jensen’s eyes narrow. Whatever the fuck Stuart is trying to pull, he’s doing a shit job of it. Very little prevents Jensen from rushing the guy, knocking him out, and being fucking done with this entire scenario. He’s not about to get blackmailed, especially not by someone who can’t go one week without getting his tie stuck in a pencil sharpener.

“I was out two nights prior and happened upon something curious.” Stuart flips through the contents of the folder. He peers down at whatever is inside and lists off an address.

It takes a second for the address to click in Jensen’s head.

Fire Island.

Saturday.

“Show him,” Jensen blurts out. “No, you know what? Give me that.”

Stuart gives a valiant effort to play keep-away, but he doesn’t win it. He doesn’t expect Jensen to demand that he show Jared the pictures. After a stammer, a shout, and a pathetic swipe at Jensen, Stuart’s extortion plan fails.

Over Jared’s desk, Jensen spills out each black and white picture.

Glossies of him giving head cover Jared’s careful notes and project outlines.

Jensen watches Jared’s face. He witnesses the change in his expression. Maybe he shouldn’t say anything. Maybe he should just walk away and tell himself that he didn’t care anyway. He could retreat into himself and pretend that none of this ever mattered.

Or, he could stay here and talk

“I blew him to get the elevator fixed.”

Face to face with the fifteen minutes he spent choking in a dark, grimy alley, Jensen continues.

“Could’ve paid someone else, but I had to pay for the job upfront, and it was something like two grand after everything.” His hand skims over one of the pictures where his eyes are closed. They look down at the desk as if they were gazing at fine art. “I knew that this place wouldn’t fork over the money any time soon, and I couldn’t afford bribing with just cash, so Miss Rose hooked me up. Cash and some head, guy came in yesterday and worked eight hours on the damn thing.”

He holds up a picture of himself where his eyes are squeezed shut, cock beating against his face.

In black and white, it almost looks classy.

“It was a smooth ride up,” he murmurs, setting the photograph down. “Don’t you think?”

Jared doesn’t respond.

Hazel eyes stare at the spread of photographs amassed in front of him. If he wanted, Jensen could provide Jared a play by play of it all. There’s the time he thought he was going to vomit for sure. There’s the five seconds of time where he was completely out of it—out of his body, the alley, and almost the entire world.

If he had to, he’d carry Jared to the hospital.

And if he had to, he’d offer head to more elevator service men so that Jared and Jules wouldn’t have to go through any pain in the six floor climb day in and day out.

“I told you he was not to be trusted.” Oh. My…

“You’re still here?” Jensen snaps at Stuart. “Why don’t you take pictures, Stu? Or does it not matter to you since I’m not sucking dick right now?”

“You…”

“I what? Can’t you let my boyfriend break up with me in peace? Get your sorry ass out of here before I stick your tie into your asshole and pull it out of your mouth.”

Stuart doesn’t give up. The man is determined to see his plan through—spot Jensen by coincidence on Saturday night, follow him to the back, take pictures of his debauchery, present them to Jared on Monday, watch Jared fuck Jensen up, and swoop in as hero of the day to receive kisses and thank yous from Jared.

Well, Jensen might have his ass tossed out onto the street in a few seconds, but his breakup deserves some privacy. If he can’t give head to someone in an alley without fucking paparazzi, he should at least be able to have his heart broken without prying eyes.

Fist raised, Jensen prepares to smash Stuart’s face in.

“That’s enough.”

Jared places his hand over Jensen’s and pulls back.

His eyes puncture Jensen’s.

“Why did you do this?” Motioning to the photos, Jared lets go of Jensen’s fist. “Tell me why.”

‘To fix the elevator.”

“And why did you want to fix the elevator?”

The truth leaves Jensen’s mouth without worry or hesitation.

“Because I love you and you don’t deserve the physical toll it takes to get up those stairs. You deserve fair and equal treatment.”

Standing up at his full height, Jared cuts a formidable figure; however, more intense still is the way in which he searches Jensen’s eyes. What he finds must not be so bad.

“That’s the first time,” Jared murmurs, “you’ve ever called me your boyfriend… or said I love you.”

“You want me to yell it out the window?”

“No.” The most minuscule smile flashes. “Please don’t do that.”

They have had this tendency to become entirely wrapped up in each other, so that they don’t always realize other people occupy the same space. This happens again, on the verge of Jared about to say something very important back to Jensen.

Stuart lunges at Jensen.

He knocks the wind out of Jensen when they collide against Jared’s desktop. On the filing cabinet less than two feet from them, Jules shrieks in terror. Jensen reels, trouble in his chest, twisting him and Stuart away from the cabinet. Office supplies dig into Jensen’s back. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Jules picked up and taken away.

Good.

Gasping for breath, Jensen works his knee into Stuart’s stomach, but it’s not enough.

Not another word punches out of either of them.

Large, strong hands grasp onto Stuart’s shoulders and rip him off of Jensen. Stuart finds himself hurtled across the office, thrown face first into Jensen’s typewriter. A snap sounds. That’s his nose and front teeth breaking. Blood gushes out in a spray all over Rimbaud.

Jared stomps his foot into the small of Stuart’s back.

“Stay the fuck over there,” he snaps. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

He turns to Jensen, but goes back to Stuart and kicks him in the stomach.

“And that’s for staring at my chest.”

Jensen could almost laugh.

If he wasn’t fairly certain he was having a heart attack.

“911?” he asks, breathless, slumped on the floor, loosening his shirt collar. He actually bothered wearing a button down today and he gets beat up. Figures.

Kneeling down, Jared nods. “I called from Roberta’s desk.”

“Ju…les?”

“On her desk. Jen, breathe. You need to breathe.”

“Tryin’…” He gives a shaky thumbs up. “Don’t… dump me… until… we’re at… the hospital… ‘kay?”

At least the EMTs will be able to take the elevator up when they get here.

Jared holds Jensen against his chest. He’s shaking hard enough to practically go into labor. If Jensen could, he’d snap at Jared to calm down himself.

Of all the sounds in New York City, Jensen passes out to Jared humming.

Jared watches Jensen’s head as he falls deep into gunmetal darkness.

The doctor is late.

Nurses scatter when they see Jared appear at their station for the tenth time in an hour.

“I’m not typically an angry person,” Jared huffs, approaching the bank of files and computers. “But I want an answer now. Is the doctor going to grace us with his presence any time soon or should I go get a degree in medicine myself, because that would take less time than this.”

The poor staff in the ICU has had its hands full with a parade of pissed off visitors. They have had to deal with Opal, Nova, Jared, and a pissed off twelve month old who will begins to cry nonstop when taken away from Room 407.

For the moment, Nova and Opal are out cleaning and airing Jared’s apartment. They’ll be moving a few things from Jensen’s, though Jared has been told that ‘few’ might be over-exaggerating.

Jensen slept fourteen hours straight once the medical team stabilized him.

Jared slept two of those hours.

Two days in the ICU and Jensen needs one more set of labs from the cardiologist before he’s cleared for discharge. Since Jared isn’t currently speaking to his mother, he can’t pull strings through connections and he never volunteered on this floor so he’s left with his charming personality to get things moving. And by charming, he means absolutely surly. No one works harder than the nurses in a hospital, but someone has to get their ass on a phone and yell at the doctor. If they don’t want to do it, Jared will.

One brave nurse steers Jared away from the station.

She assures him that she will use every bribe in the book to get the cardiologist up here.

Somewhat satisfied, Jared retreats.

Being on his feet at the moment is not ideal. Still, he makes his way over to stand at Jensen’s bed, where he is currently asleep. Jared starts his routine—smooth out the sheets, fluff Jensen’s pillows, check to make sure that weird machine that massages Jensen’s legs is still working, and carefully move any wires and tubes out Jensen’s way.

Finished, Jared waddles over to his next order of business, who, upon sniffing, requires a diaper change.

Since there isn’t a changing table in the room, Jared has been changing Jules on the visitor’s chair or on the meal tray next to Jensen’s bed. He wipes it down after every use, though Jensen insists that any possible germs would die once exposed to the frigid air in the ICU. It is freezing in here. Jared never thought he’d be sick of air conditioning.

“Ba om ba ba ba,” Jules sighs, looking up at Jared while he’s being changed. “Ba ba ba.”

“You’re picking up this kind of language from Jensen,” Jared murmurs. “Don’t make me wash that mouth out with soap, because I will, young man.”

“Don’t… be so… hard on the kid.”

HCM is a condition where the walls of the heart are too thick. Blood can’t always pump out fast enough to meet the demands of the body. Jensen’s heart has been through a lot in the last week.

And for a long time before that.

Jared looks over his shoulder and smiles at the bearded patient. “Bout time you woke up.”

“Just in time,” Jensen yawns, stretching and moving against the oxygen line over his nose, “for a… clean… baby. Fork ‘im over.”

“With or without the diaper?”

“Does it matter?”

“Do you want to get peed on?”

Smirking, Jensen shakes his head. “Didn’t… know… we were… being kinky.”

There are surgical options, but the way it’s been explained to Jared is that the risks attached to surgery outweigh many of the benefits. Jensen’s father died from this; all Jensen can do now is avoid some of the mistakes his father made.

Last night, in tears, Nova shared something with Jared.

Jensen’s mother died when he was three years old, from a sudden stroke. She had been doing laundry at the time, with Jensen nearby as she folded towels. The way Nova remembers the story, told from her own parents, Jensen’s father came home and found his wife sprawled on the floor. Gone.

The coroner estimated that Jensen sat with her body for two hours before Jensen’s father arrived.

Three years old, he waited there all by himself, sitting against the dryer.

There are more than a few things Jared has wanted and needed to know about Jensen. The story about his parents is one of them, as is the dream they’ve both shared multiple times without knowing. Jensen hides his grief well. It was only a matter of time before Jared felt it, too.

 “Ba.”

“Hey.” Jensen takes Jules into his arms. Jared minds his IVs. “Y’know… I didn’t… have breakfast.”

The labored breathing should go away in another week. But he’ll have to take it easy.

Though it seemed to hurt Jensen, Jared made arrangements for someone else to drive him to the hospital should the twins arrive in the next week, which, hopefully they do because Jared is done with being pregnant. Opal and Nova have rented out a hotel room a block away from Jared’s apartment. Jules has been the most excited about that outcome.

“Nom.” Jensen kisses Jules’ cheek. His movements are slower, and he can only hold Jules for a few minutes at a time. But all three major areas of kisses are hit—cheek, nose, and chin.

A nurse pops in. The cardiologist is five minutes away.

Jensen scoffs when Jules places a hand over his mouth. “Hey. That’s… not… nice. Do that… to momma… when he starts… nagging me.”

Prepared to lecture Jensen about the difference between nagging and gentle reminders about his health, Jared moves forward. Jules should have a nap soon and maybe Nova can take him down to the cafeteria for a walk while Jared helps Jensen get dressed. They’re leaving today. Jared can feel it. Or maybe that’s a contraction. Either way, he’s done with this place… for now.

“All right, I know two people who should sleep,” Jared announces. He leans over to scoop Jules up. “What… what are you holding?”

Babies are sly creatures. They grab onto things like lightning. Jared has found all sorts of interesting accessories Jules has pilfered from the office—Post-Its, erasers, pencils—stuck in his carrier.

At the moment, Jules holds up his plastic blue spoon.

And before Jared can stop it from happening, he bops Jensen on the nose with it.

The ICU patient laughs. Jared sighs.

But they all go quiet when they hear something else, something far more monumental than the machines whirring or the pages over the hospital intercom.

“Dada.”

Jules sticks the spoon into Jensen’s mouth.

He repeats himself, displeased with the lack of response he receives. 

This time, no one minds that the doctor is late.