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rareslashTitle: Hurt the Ones You Don't
Fandom: RPS; Jack Kerouac
Pairing: Neal Cassady/Jack Kerouac
Rating: PG-13
Story Notes: The incident between Neal Cassady, Carolyn Cassady, and Allen Ginsbeg is not fiction. It really did happen. Also, much darker, my pets.
Despite the differences in their ages, four years that Neal sometimes felt excruciatingly, Jack inspired a protectiveness in Neal.
It worried him each time Jack threw one of his fits and secluded himself at his mother's house, cut off from the rest of the world. Neal would send frantic letters, asking after Jack's health, if he still drank like a fish and toked, and if he had ever paused in his manic obsession to write. The letters remained unopened and unreturned. Neal would have given up if not for the achingly worried letter he received from Gabriel Kerouac, asking for help.
Neal packed his bags and left, arriving to find Jack sitting at his old rolltop desk and a bottle of whiskey at his elbow.
"Hi, Neal," Jack said, his voice rough and low. Neal paused at the edge, hands in his pockets. Jack glanced at him once, then fiddled with the label on the bottle, peeling away the edges, then smoothing them down again until they were frayed and bits stuck to the bottle transparently.
"Hey, Jacky."
They let the silence grow inbetween them for a moment, then Jack coughed and cleared his throat.
"You never--" He stopped, then gathered himself and soldiered on. "I never walked in on you, with someone else."
Neal winced at the memory. Jack was referring to the incident when his wife, Carolyn, had walked into their bedroom to find Allen on his knees, showing Neal ecstasy. It was only after Jack's letter, begging forgiveness when Neal couldn't, that Carolyn calmed down. Allen was still not welcome in their house.
"No, you didn't."
"Why not?"
And this thin little-boy voice, wandering and buried so far alone, made Neal wonder if someone hadn't screwed up the timeline somewhere, and made Jack so much older than he should have been.
"It would have hurt you," he said simply. Jack shot him an unreadable lok.
"It hurt Carolyn."
Neal sighed and shifted from foot to foot.
"Carolyn's different. She's--my wife."
"You love her?" Jack asked, gazing seriously at the alcohol instead of Neal's face. Neal felt dried, his face stretched too tight. He grimaced to loosen it.
"I love everybody," Neal said honestly.
Jack had a better understanding of Neal than possibly anyone else. Everyone else who met Neal gave into the very human impulse to capture and own something that was free. Allen thought love would do it, and Carolyn swore marriage would. Jack knew better, never entertained any illusions about Neal's fidelity and, also in a very human way, it was precisely what made Neal hide his exploits from Jack, because he wanted them to hurt Jack and would only be disappointed when they didn't.
Jack looked at him, lifted his chin and looked at him, and Neal saw every infinite moment etched onto his face, four years of eternity wedged into the cracks and valleys and gulfs. Stones were in his eyes, and Neal found himself up and kneeling by Jack with his hands on his face in an instant.
"I love everybody," he said, pulling Jack's face down to his. "But I would never hurt you."
Jack closed his eyes and swallowed painfully.
"You should go," he said, his voice as hoarse and raw as Neal had ever heard it.
As Neal stepped off the porch, all he could think was that someone had really fucked up those four years.
Fandom: RPS; Jack Kerouac
Pairing: Neal Cassady/Jack Kerouac
Rating: PG-13
Story Notes: The incident between Neal Cassady, Carolyn Cassady, and Allen Ginsbeg is not fiction. It really did happen. Also, much darker, my pets.
Despite the differences in their ages, four years that Neal sometimes felt excruciatingly, Jack inspired a protectiveness in Neal.
It worried him each time Jack threw one of his fits and secluded himself at his mother's house, cut off from the rest of the world. Neal would send frantic letters, asking after Jack's health, if he still drank like a fish and toked, and if he had ever paused in his manic obsession to write. The letters remained unopened and unreturned. Neal would have given up if not for the achingly worried letter he received from Gabriel Kerouac, asking for help.
Neal packed his bags and left, arriving to find Jack sitting at his old rolltop desk and a bottle of whiskey at his elbow.
"Hi, Neal," Jack said, his voice rough and low. Neal paused at the edge, hands in his pockets. Jack glanced at him once, then fiddled with the label on the bottle, peeling away the edges, then smoothing them down again until they were frayed and bits stuck to the bottle transparently.
"Hey, Jacky."
They let the silence grow inbetween them for a moment, then Jack coughed and cleared his throat.
"You never--" He stopped, then gathered himself and soldiered on. "I never walked in on you, with someone else."
Neal winced at the memory. Jack was referring to the incident when his wife, Carolyn, had walked into their bedroom to find Allen on his knees, showing Neal ecstasy. It was only after Jack's letter, begging forgiveness when Neal couldn't, that Carolyn calmed down. Allen was still not welcome in their house.
"No, you didn't."
"Why not?"
And this thin little-boy voice, wandering and buried so far alone, made Neal wonder if someone hadn't screwed up the timeline somewhere, and made Jack so much older than he should have been.
"It would have hurt you," he said simply. Jack shot him an unreadable lok.
"It hurt Carolyn."
Neal sighed and shifted from foot to foot.
"Carolyn's different. She's--my wife."
"You love her?" Jack asked, gazing seriously at the alcohol instead of Neal's face. Neal felt dried, his face stretched too tight. He grimaced to loosen it.
"I love everybody," Neal said honestly.
Jack had a better understanding of Neal than possibly anyone else. Everyone else who met Neal gave into the very human impulse to capture and own something that was free. Allen thought love would do it, and Carolyn swore marriage would. Jack knew better, never entertained any illusions about Neal's fidelity and, also in a very human way, it was precisely what made Neal hide his exploits from Jack, because he wanted them to hurt Jack and would only be disappointed when they didn't.
Jack looked at him, lifted his chin and looked at him, and Neal saw every infinite moment etched onto his face, four years of eternity wedged into the cracks and valleys and gulfs. Stones were in his eyes, and Neal found himself up and kneeling by Jack with his hands on his face in an instant.
"I love everybody," he said, pulling Jack's face down to his. "But I would never hurt you."
Jack closed his eyes and swallowed painfully.
"You should go," he said, his voice as hoarse and raw as Neal had ever heard it.
As Neal stepped off the porch, all he could think was that someone had really fucked up those four years.
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