Untouchable ~ A Jared Leto/MARS Fanfiction

Chapter Nine

No. Before that. Long, long before that.

Constance's home is a single-story rambler, quite nice in an unassuming sort of way, with a well-kept landscaped lawn from what I can see in the dark. As she turns into the driveway, a series of motion-activated floodlights switch on over the garage and next to the front door. From inside the house, I hear dogs begin to bark.

"Those two," Constance sighs resignedly. "We'd better get inside quick before they wake the whole neighborhood." She pushes a button on her visor and the attached double garage door opens. The barking is even louder now.

Shelby stirs as Constance drives in and parks. "Where are we?" she mumbles.

"You're at my house," Constance tells her as she shuts off the car.

"I wanna see Jared," Shelby complains. "How come I didn't get to see him?"

"You fell asleep," I explain. "We'll go back and see him tomorrow. Let's get you inside and into bed."

Yawning, Shelby grabs her backpack and follows me out of the car. Constance unlocks the door and ushers us both inside, flipping on a switch that lights up her living room. Two large dogs, both of them appearing to be lab and boxer mix, greet us, tails wagging enthusiastically.

Tentatively, Shelby reaches out a hand and one of the dogs covers it in sloppy kisses. "I love dogs," she says, petting the dog whose tail wags even harder.

"This is Roscoe and Polly," Constance tells us. "They're huge and loud but harmless. The guest room is the second door on the left. I think there might be a bunch of junk on the bed. I'll go look." She hurries off, both dogs following her.

I glance around uncertainly. Constance Leto's house is decorated in an understated and eclectic way, with an interesting mix of antiques and modern furnishings, and an array of photos on all of the walls. One wall in particular is devoted to both of her sons and I can't help but step closer and study the pictures. The photos feature Jared and Shannon in multiple environments; in the recording studio, on a mammoth concert stage, out on a hike with mountain scenery behind them, and Jared on stage receiving his 2014 Oscar for Best Supporting Actor.

"Wow," Shelby breathes beside me. I look down, startled, having forgotten she was even in the room. Shelby's staring at the pictures one by one, open-mouthed. "That's Jared? He's a singer? He's famous?" She points at a performance photo of Shannon during the era I remember him, with longer hair and wearing heavy black eyeliner. He's behind the drums, a fierce, intense expression on his face. "Look!" Shelby exclaims. "Shannon is, too!"

"Shannon's the drummer in Jared's band," I explain. "Yes, Jared is a musician and a very good actor." I point to the photo of Jared, Constance, and Shannon together, with Jared resplendent in a white tux, clutching his gold Oscar. With his hair falling around his shoulders and only a hint of beard stubble, he's absolutely stunning. "That's an Academy Award he's holding. That means he was the best actor in his category that year."

"Wow," Shelby whispers. Her eyes move to another photo, this one of Jared on stage, an endless sea of people in front of him. "He must be really, really good."

"Yes, he must be," I answer.

Constance returns to the living room where Shelby and I are looking at the many pictures of her sons, and she smiles. "Jared changes his look quite a lot, doesn't he?"

I think about the blonde-streaked emo-punk boy fourteen years ago, all of the changes since which are on display on this wall, and the heavily bearded, chestnut-haired man I instantly recognized the moment I saw him. "But those eyes and that smile never change," I say softly, almost to myself.