Chapter Text
When Jensen slept with Misha at JIBCon 2015 it was different.
It had become a kind of 'tradition' of theirs, after it had happened that first time back in 2010, post intense alcohol consumption and hours of laughing and talking and messing around in the suite. They'd done it each year after that, spend one night together in Rome, meeting up in Jensen's room, more often than not a little light-headed, but always fully aware of their actions. And it was fun, it was exciting – something to look forward to. Misha was, true to the apparently widely spread rumor, crazy in bed; he was kinky and skilled and experimenting and sweet all at the same time, and Jensen was equally surprised, and pleased, each year. They'd enjoy each other fully for hours before settling down for some cuddly sleep of which they'd never once spoken afterwards. Jensen enjoyed it, sure, but there was no need to get sentimental.
2015 was no exception. The whole trip had been pushed off course when Jared suddenly had to go back home to Texas, and Jensen had been worried sick about him all Friday and Saturday. Misha and his annual meet-up had been pushed to the back of Jensen's mind (or at least a little further back than Jared's health), until Misha quietly followed Jensen back to his room that Saturday night after dinner with the cast, closed the door behind them and turned around with a pair of what can only be described as outright flirtatious eyes. He had not forgotten. Of course not.
They barked out a relieved laugh simultaneously, and a great load of concern seemed somehow lifted from Jensen's shoulders. He so needed that. To relax, to be himself, fully and completely. Long story short: shoes and clothes were kicked and thrown everywhere, perspiration and sounds (of which there will be no mentioning here) produced, and sometime after, Jensen was fast asleep in the king size with Misha in his arms.
Except he wasn't. He was supposed to be – he usually slept like a drunk baby after sex, especially with Misha (it was almost better exercise than Tough Mudders, believe it or not) – but something kept him awake that night, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out what it was. The room was completely silent, not a sound to be heard except the faint, soothing hum of the air conditioning. It was dark, too; the heavy, creamy curtains were closed, and a single orange lamp burned softly in the far corner. Nothing could possibly have disturbed him. Except... Was that the calm pounding of Misha's heart he could feel against his side? Penetrating the skin and finding its way to his ears, mixing with the steady rhythm of his own heart beat on the way? Misha's breath was quiet, but deep – he was sleeping peacefully, and Jensen found himself unconsciously tugging the other man, with his stubbled cheek against Jensen's chest, closer, breathing in the familiar scent of the dark, slightly curly hair (which had looked pretty damn good, he had to admit, all tousled and messy at the photo session today).
Jensen didn't know how long he lay like that, listening, unable to rest, yet feeling more relaxed and safe than he remembered doing for a long time, but when the hazy foreign spring sun finally found its way into the room, he woke up, finding that Misha had already gone back to his own room to get ready for the final day of the convention.
Their final day in Rome.
Jensen though he felt a slight tug somewhere inside of him at the thought of leaving Italy so soon, and the warmth which had spread through every limb of his body the night before when Misha had mumbled and smiled in his sleep, a warmth which Jensen had welcomed gladly at the time, was gone, just like that.
Huh. He seriously needed a cold shower.
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It was a busy Sunday of panels and photo sessions, and even if Jensen did feel a lot more comfortable at conventions these days than he had in the past, guesting places like JIB was still a job, albeit a pretty awesome one. They, the cast, had long given up on trying to be too professional at these things, and had accepted the fact that what the fans wanted was for them to dance and laugh and just generally goof their way through the few questions that actually got asked, and Jensen found that he was fine with that. It was more relaxed that way, more casual. Less pressure. Still he was always aware of the extreme attention focused on his person from all angles from the moment he left his hotel room, and that there was a thing called sharing, which was fine, and another thing called over-sharing, which it was a very good idea to avoid. He'd say things he'd regret afterwards from time to time, it happened to the best of them, even the pros, but it was never something he considered a big problem.
That Sunday, however, he felt a little more nervous than usual, and he had to remind himself to concentrate on keeping his emotions and thoughts safely tugged away under the surface. He felt somehow different. Not in an uncomfortable way, just a slight flicker of... Something, in his stomach. Was he hungry? Did he eat something bad last night? Was he stressed? Or was that...? Were those – butterflies? He was frowning at himself in the bathroom mirror, thinking 'what the actual hell' and splashing his face with icy water when his phone buzzed silently in his pocket, and Misha's name spelled out in bold letters on the bright screen. Jensen could practically hear the fluttering of those damn butterflies' wings.
"Yeah?"
"Lunch?"
"Uhm, yeah, sure, okay. Where ya at?"
"I'm on my way to the green room. Meet me there in two."
They had lunch with some of the others, including Sasha and his wife. Jensen found himself smiling involuntarily whenever the two brothers would interact. They were very much alike, everybody told them so, and yet – well, there was still a difference there, a pretty noticeable difference, in both looks and personalities, and Jensen couldn't help but focus on that while munching on his pasta and sipping his coke. Misha was louder, funnier, full of ideas and inspiration. His eyes, those big, blue eyes, lighted up the whole room whenever he was deeply engrossed in conversation, beaming with passion and affection for everything around him. Jensen remembered looking into those blue eyes the night before, in the dark safety of his room, unable to look away. Misha was on top of him, so close, so alive, more than he had ever been. Jensen found himself wishing, against his will, that he and Misha could have had lunch by themselves.
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Their evening panel went alright. It was a bit messy, and he could not remember a single question they'd answered afterwards, but there were lots of laughs and much cheering, so that was fine. He liked having Misha's full attention, too, and felt comfortable that the blush in his cheeks and sweat in his palms could be blamed on the projectors lighting up the stage, since Misha seemed to be hot as well. When it was over, and all of them had said thank you, goodbye and see you next year to all the lovely, satisfied fans, Jensen returned to his room, determined to get a quick shut-eye before dinner with the entire cast and crew there.
The room was cool and quiet, and falling hard on the bed and staying there, on his back, the slight ringing in his ears slowly fading, was the best feeling in the world. He was so tired. Exhausted. But he still couldn’t stop himself from smiling.
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Jensen didn't say much at dinner, but he laughed, and listened, and had too much sweet red Italian wine. When in Rome, right?
His bed, the print of his own body from earlier still visible on top of the snow-white covers, looked tempting once again when he finally got back late that night. He packed a few of his things together and cleared up a bit – he had an early plane to catch in the morning – before getting ready to turn in. When he pulled aside the covers, a thought, which had been stirring in the back of his mad mind all freaking day, creepily showed its guilty head and made Jensen stop in his trails.
Maybe Misha was still awake?
Alright, deep breath. What if he was? Why the hell would that matter? Well... No. Once a year, that was their unspoken rule. That was acceptable, innocent almost.
The hell it was. It was dirty, and hot, and perfect, and Misha's eyes were so blue, and they'd looked at Jensen across the dinner table tonight and spoken a million unsaid words to him and him alone. Or had they?
The butterflies were still. Jensen rubbed a hand over his face and sighed deeply into the dim, lonely room. He knew he'd read too much into those looks, into Misha's attention to him, his little smiles and inside jokes, his hands on Jensen's shoulder. But he had one, and only one, chance to find out. Tomorrow before noon he'd be steadily on his way back to Texas, back home, far from panels and lunches and late-night pillow talks in Indian-Russian.
Screw this.
"Jensen?"
Misha's voice sounded a little tired, but awake. Jensen swallowed hard.
"Uhm, yeah. You still up?"
"Yes?"
"Okay. Uhm."
"What is it? You okay?"
Okay? Did he sound worried, because never meant to. He didn't want Misha to be concerned, that would be horribly embarrassing.
"Yeah, 'course, why wouldn't I be? I was just wondering..."
"I'll come over, one second."
The phone went quiet. Jensen hated himself for the way his hand was shaking as he put the phone back on the night stand. What the hell was going on?
Jensen answered a drumming knock on the door five minutes later, and Misha came casually into the room, turned around swiftly and kissed Jensen on the mouth, softly at first, and then with a little more vigor as he wrapped his warm, smooth arms around Jensen's shoulders. When they pulled apart, Jensen had momentarily forgotten his own name. Misha was grinning, the son of a bitch.
"That is why you called, right", he teased, his voice clear and confident.
Jensen searched for his own somewhere down his dry throat, and when he found it, it was as rough with passion as it was weak with emotion.
"Yeah."
It was barely above a whisper, but he accompanied it by a shy smile, teeth and all, and Misha's eyes went all soft, and he kissed Jensen again, smiling against his lips, and slowly releasing the tension in Jensen's shoulders. Misha started trailing little impish kisses along Jensen's jawline until he reached behind his left ear, tugging lazily at the lope. Jensen wrapped his arms further around Misha's lower back, dragged them upwards and pulled him into a tight hug. He buried his face in the crook of his friend's neck, and closed his eyes. Then he finally found the strength his voice he needed to say:
"I just missed you."
Misha didn't say anything, at first. The words resounded off the walls and returned to envelop them like an invincible cloud of protection in the quiet air of the room. The air conditioner hummed its usual tune. Jensen held his breath.
Misha finally pulled away from the hug only to look Jensen straight in the eyes, blue and green intertwining effortlessly.
"We said goodnight, like, 35 minutes ago."
There was no humor in the way he said it, but something else instead, Jensen noticed – like incomprehension or expectation, or both. It kindled Jensen's growing courage.
"No, really missed you. Touching you, holding you, you know. Kissing you." He paused before continuing.
"Is that bad?"
He could have sworn he saw Misha blush, even in the growing darkness, broken only by the smoldering light from the orange lamp. He looked down, the effect of Jensen's words tugging at the corners of his beautiful mouth, before leaning in and resting his cheek against Jensen's chest, just like he'd done in bed the night before. Jensen held him close, kissed the top of his head, keeping both of them upright on the thick carpet, still in front of the door.
"No, it's not bad. It's very, very not bad. It's pretty wonderful, actually."
Misha’s words vibrated against the racing beat of Jensen’s heart.