He shows every sign of being a commoner. His skin is sun-dappled, his hands raw from exposure and hard work. Jensen has nothing in common with the nobility, not even his way of speaking - coarse and laced with insult. There's nothing about him that should appeal to Jared, there is nothing that they could possibly have in common.
The only thing that does pull them together is their shared love for the mare, Harlequin, with her doe eyes and caramel coat. Jensen brushes her down with loving hands, and Jared watches, content as he soothes her with pats on the nose, his pale hands a contrast to the tanned ones that wield the brush.
Jensen's concentration is absolute. His eyes remain on the horse. He doesn't see Jared staring at him, doesn't see Jared's eyes rake over his hands and wonder how well those hands might grip him in a thousand forbidden places. He misses the unconscious lick of Jared's lips when he gazes at Jensen's mouth, pressed together, but with lips so plush they might as well be a court lady's painted bow of a mouth.
Or maybe he does notice. Maybe the heat Jared feels on the back of his neck as he returns to the palace is Jensen's gaze. Or maybe Jared's just falling into a fever, a delirious state where all he can think about is close-cropped hair and furrowed eyebrows, a roll of the eyes when "Your Majesty" is said, hands that stroke an animal's fur with the tenderness one strokes a lover, and now Jared is stroking himself, alone, in a lonely bed, prey to wants he doesn't know how to name.
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purple prose totally intentional :D 1/2
Date: 2011-05-19 12:44 am (UTC)The only thing that does pull them together is their shared love for the mare, Harlequin, with her doe eyes and caramel coat. Jensen brushes her down with loving hands, and Jared watches, content as he soothes her with pats on the nose, his pale hands a contrast to the tanned ones that wield the brush.
Jensen's concentration is absolute. His eyes remain on the horse. He doesn't see Jared staring at him, doesn't see Jared's eyes rake over his hands and wonder how well those hands might grip him in a thousand forbidden places. He misses the unconscious lick of Jared's lips when he gazes at Jensen's mouth, pressed together, but with lips so plush they might as well be a court lady's painted bow of a mouth.
Or maybe he does notice. Maybe the heat Jared feels on the back of his neck as he returns to the palace is Jensen's gaze. Or maybe Jared's just falling into a fever, a delirious state where all he can think about is close-cropped hair and furrowed eyebrows, a roll of the eyes when "Your Majesty" is said, hands that stroke an animal's fur with the tenderness one strokes a lover, and now Jared is stroking himself, alone, in a lonely bed, prey to wants he doesn't know how to name.