It's such a simple gesture, holding hands. Jason relishes the way their fingers slide together, calloused skin twining with soft skin to forge a link between two souls. Jason loves taking Peter's hand even as the fear of loving it licks at the back of his mind like waves creeping onto the early morning shores. That simple touch keeps his heart steady; it anchors him in a sea of whirling, impending judgement and inevitable failure at fitting into the frame molded for him hovering just at the edge of the horizon. While Peter blushes, Jason savors the warmth of their connection with a genuine smile he'll pass off as a side effect of the roast beef on his plate. Even as he's hardly touched a bite of it.
Jason pours himself into the balancing act between embellishing Nadia's tales with his own snark and letting thoughts and images of Peter and his freckles and those lips and eyes, God, wash over him. Peter, from his proximity, can probably catch the way Jason's blue eyes glaze into a soft shade like porcelain occasionally. Jason needs their held hands to steady him; to support him. He's beginning to become aware that there is only so long this balancing act can continue.
"The Young Republicans? Jesus," Jason replies, fondly rolling his eyes. "Speaks to your acting then, that she believed you." He waggles an eyebrow at Peter, which he can easily explain as a friendly jest to anyone else watching them but which also contains a message loaded with how likely he thinks it to be that Peter ever joins said group.
"Turned us all into a bunch of heathens," Jason proclaims, falling right in to Nadia's tone with a playful one of his own. "I'm sure our parents would be so proud."
"Some of us more than others," Nadia points out. Jason, while intelligent, harbors a tendency for obliviousness; he all but misses the knowing undertone to his sister's words. Most likely because he keeps making eye contact with Peter, and leaning further into him as much as he can get away with. At one point, his breath hitches, and he's certain Peter can feel it with how close they are.
"Me too," Jason replies, casually. He can hardly admit that the idea that he can now go out for drama appeals to him as much as finally quitting a sport upheld only for the approval of his parents; he still has to admit to himself that he much prefers acting to sports, first.
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Jason pours himself into the balancing act between embellishing Nadia's tales with his own snark and letting thoughts and images of Peter and his freckles and those lips and eyes, God, wash over him. Peter, from his proximity, can probably catch the way Jason's blue eyes glaze into a soft shade like porcelain occasionally. Jason needs their held hands to steady him; to support him. He's beginning to become aware that there is only so long this balancing act can continue.
"The Young Republicans? Jesus," Jason replies, fondly rolling his eyes. "Speaks to your acting then, that she believed you." He waggles an eyebrow at Peter, which he can easily explain as a friendly jest to anyone else watching them but which also contains a message loaded with how likely he thinks it to be that Peter ever joins said group.
"Turned us all into a bunch of heathens," Jason proclaims, falling right in to Nadia's tone with a playful one of his own. "I'm sure our parents would be so proud."
"Some of us more than others," Nadia points out. Jason, while intelligent, harbors a tendency for obliviousness; he all but misses the knowing undertone to his sister's words. Most likely because he keeps making eye contact with Peter, and leaning further into him as much as he can get away with. At one point, his breath hitches, and he's certain Peter can feel it with how close they are.
"Me too," Jason replies, casually. He can hardly admit that the idea that he can now go out for drama appeals to him as much as finally quitting a sport upheld only for the approval of his parents; he still has to admit to himself that he much prefers acting to sports, first.