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Cause he knows he's taking chances. [Test post for Peter]
Jason arrives to St. Cecilia's feeling both as though he's about to take flight and he's about to sink into empty air with only the cold, cruel autumn ground to break his fall. He breathes in the oppressive humidity of the late August day as though he might steal some of the summer sun to keep himself warm on the inside. His senior year, finally. Everything comes down to this. All of those 'encouraging' family talks and hollow laughter about how he'll make the family proud and burn brightly on at Notre Dame. All of those discussions about how he'll meet his future wife and provide his parents with grandchildren soon enough.
He shakes his head, taking a stuttering breath to calm himself. He's only just arrived. No need to let the pressure of everything build quite that high up just yet.
His parents offered to help him unpack; he waved them off with the smile he'd gotten so good at faking, gently hinting that perhaps their assistance would be better off with Nadia, who rolled her eyes, but offered him an actual smile all the same.
His family ought to have left by now. He hopes. Regardless, with one last exhale, he's on his way back to his room. He needs to see Peter more than anything. He's the only person Jason wants to see in this moment; he's the only one who will understand.
But of course, he's Jason McConnell, and making his way back to his own room is never that simple. He winds up chatting with Matt for a few minutes, before gaggles of girls try and worm his number out of him. He endures about ten minute of it before excusing himself, nearly running to his room where, hopefully, he'll find Peter.
He shakes his head, taking a stuttering breath to calm himself. He's only just arrived. No need to let the pressure of everything build quite that high up just yet.
His parents offered to help him unpack; he waved them off with the smile he'd gotten so good at faking, gently hinting that perhaps their assistance would be better off with Nadia, who rolled her eyes, but offered him an actual smile all the same.
His family ought to have left by now. He hopes. Regardless, with one last exhale, he's on his way back to his room. He needs to see Peter more than anything. He's the only person Jason wants to see in this moment; he's the only one who will understand.
But of course, he's Jason McConnell, and making his way back to his own room is never that simple. He winds up chatting with Matt for a few minutes, before gaggles of girls try and worm his number out of him. He endures about ten minute of it before excusing himself, nearly running to his room where, hopefully, he'll find Peter.
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Jason wants so much to tell Peter he loves him, but the weight of those words latches onto his heart like an anchor. He's frightened of the depths they could lead to; the outrage and the shame. The disgust and the condemnation. And even as it frightens him to say those words, keeping them quiet inside of himself also slowly robs him of himself. Jason doesn't know if Peter knows how much it costs him, trying to balance his heart and his head in one hand. It's enough that Jason thinks he can feel himself crumbling. Every time he has to push Peter's hand away and every time they have to pull away from a kiss, Jason dies a little more inside.
Again, he shoves those thoughts to deep below the surface; he doesn't need them intruding on this perfect moment, where Peter is soft against his kisses and they shift again to fit more comfortably under the blankets of the bed. Jason lets out a sigh at Peter's leg between his; with a playful grin, he softly brushes their ankles together, just reveling in the softness of their closeness. Jason places one hand around Peter's waist and covers Peter's other hand with his own.
"I see you still have your Arizona delicacy when it comes to the weather," he teases, unable to resist. He nuzzles the top of Peter's hair as he says this, to soften the teasing.
"I mean, glamour shots are useful, you know. You never know when you might need to submit one," Jason points out.
His expression softens, and sobers, a bit, at Peter's next words.
"I remember that," he says. "I'd have been screwed if it weren't for you, you know."
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"I don't think my picture would have the same effect yours does." He's murmuring against Jason's skin. He's suddenly very preoccupied with the feel and taste of him; months of prayer and biding time has finally paid off, and he has no intention of pissing away their time.
He definitely isn't ready to stop hearing Jason's voice and feeling his breath against his skin and hair either. Especially not when it gets soft and appreciative and awed like that. He backs off and tilts his eyes up to see the expression that matches the tone. He's not disappointed and moreover, he's complete jell-o under his gaze and touch.
"You got me though that public speaking class," Peter reminds him, softly. The hand between them pads fascinated fingertips over that jaw that he looks forward to staring at all day in class. "That class was torture." He understands the ridiculousness of his loving being on stage and hating public speaking, but it's there, all the same.
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"Of course it would," Jason tells him, settling further into the mattress and beginning to trace soothing circles on his boyfriend's bare skin. "You are a work of art, and anyone who can't see that is blind." Jason shivers at Peter's voice rippling against his skin; his words and feelings sink into him, and it sets his nerves on fire.
Peter surrounds Jason like the sung prayers of reverent saints. He is pure and whole and good and light; he is hope and love and peace. Jason could live forever breathing in Peter's hair and eyes and lips; letting their skin all but gradually merge together as though they were part of the same sculpture. Jason smiles at the light he finds in Peter's gaze; the way it shows just how his insides have become less solid. Jason smirks a bit.
And then Peter is tracing his jaw. Jason sighs, turning his full focus on Peter. "You did really well in that class, you know that right? And mostly because of your own hard work. But I will take some of the credit," Jason grins, squeezing the arm his has around Peter. His expression softens, then. He knows how much Peter, brave, wonderful Peter, hates public speaking even as he adores the stage. "I was glad to help," he tells him, more seriously.
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"Art is what I'm going to make when I get out of here," Peter asserts, letting the desire for it to be true swell in his chest. "I think I'm going to take a double-major and just tell my mom I'm majoring in only math." He's thought about this all summer and he's excited to share it with Jason. "It would only take me an extra semester or two and then I can actually do something I like. Maybe theatre or music." He's smiling at the thought, imagining himself in a piano lab or choir or even on stage. Maybe he'd make friends, and maybe those friends would finally get to know his best-kept secret.
"You helped a lot." Peter kisses him again, enjoying the soft noise it makes when they do. "Especially the time that you--" he flushes for a second, laughing, "--stripped. As incentive." He's unable to keep from grinning ear-to-ear.
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When he's with Peter, nothing can hurt him the way it does when he and Nadia are stuck at home, both exposed to their parents' 'good intentions.' Sometimes, Jason returns to school with those intentions shining all over his skin, which he always explains away as sports injuries to those who notice. Not Peter though. Peter knows, and he soothes those intentions away with his own hands without making a big deal out of the situation. Peter is the one who sees the unshed tears when Jason gets off the phone with his father. Peter is the one to hold him when he feels safe enough to actually cry.
"You dubious art student you," Jason teases, as his own chest tightens with envy and his eyes falter. His collegiate career is all carved out for him: major in Economics, minor in Business. A promised internship at his father's company, so that he can succeed in carrying the McConnell flame beyond Notre Dame. He aches to hear Peter talk about his future plans, jealous of the way he can so go against his mother's wishes. "I can't imagine you not doing something with theatre," he says, once he manages to subdue his own envy. He lets a hand stroke across Peter's face, relishing the soft curves of his cheeks and lips. "You'll blow 'em all away; I know you will."
Jason delights in that soft kiss, how it flutters between them briefly and then vanishes, as though it were crafted in a dream. He laughs, delighting in the blush that flashes across Jason's skin. "It worked, didn't it? And helped improve your pitch, if I may be so bold." He smirks as his heart quickens at the sight of Peter's grin.
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He remembers seeing him passionate, though. It's usually in an English class. When a person is forced to read a passage aloud, no one is more captivating than Jason. Sure, Peter is biased as hell, and maybe everyone else is under the same spell he is, but Jason's eyes sparkle in that way only Peter gets to see when he's in a discussion about literature. Maybe he's a writer, Peter thinks, but his knack for public speaking shouldn't be totally wasted. That's why, last year this time, Peter mustered the courage up to ask him to go out for the musical, which was (unsurprisingly) Jesus Christ Superstar -- one of Sister Chantelle's favorites. Jason had rebuffed him quickly, and Peter stuffed the script back into his backpack with the rest of his repressed feelings and disappointments. He's just afraid Jason will never discover it on his own.
"If I'm so good, how come I'm always cast as the best friend or the brother?" Peter asks, averting his eyes so he doesn't have to admit to his shame and so that Jason doesn't see the hope deflate behind his best intentions. He'd considered going out for a conservatory, but Peter's father had managed to find it in his busy schedule to pick up the phone then and tell Peter how much it costs to take out a student loan and how Peter would get no help from him if it wasn't Notre Dame. Peter thinks that he and Jason really are cut from the same cloth for so many reasons.
"It's really hard to sing with a hard-on," Peter informs Jason, chuckling a bit. His hand moves from the crook of his neck, slowly down his chest, and he barely even notices he's doing it. "I think you improved my concentration." And ruined it all at the same time.
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In regards to school, if Jason thinks about it, he finds himself happiest in English class. People assume he endures the humanities and prefers the sciences, but the truth of it is, Jason enjoys reading books for class, and outside of it. He relishes losing himself in worlds outside of this one and the way words make him smile. Writing papers comes easiest to Jason when he's writing for his English classes. Sitting in them, he feels almost as content as he does when he's alone with Peter. And Jason knows Peter knows how much English and the humanities mean to him. He remembers Peter asking him to audition for the musical and he remembers shutting him down, even as he yearned to do so. Drama and English are so very closely interwoven, much in the same way he and Peter are now.
"Because they're idiots," Jason tells him, noticing how Peter averts his gaze. "And they can't see how brilliant you are. Peter, I'm sure you'll get the lead role this time. I know you will." He leans in to kiss him again, slowly and softly. He knows about the drama department failings from both Peter and Nadia, who has her own grievances with it as well. "You're going to shine so bright in college," he almost whispers to Peter, as he tries not to dwell on the inevitable fact of how much he will diminish in college in his turn.
"Oh, really? I had no idea," Jason says in a sing-song voice, feigning innocence. And then Peter's hand is trailing down his chest, and his breath catches in his throat. Amazing how a simple touch can make him come so undone. "I'm glad to be of service to your inspiration. Does that make me your muse?" His voice comes out a little breathless.
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He's already been watching Jason for several moments, when their eyes meet. Jason's breathless and it knocks the wind out of Peter, too. "Yes," Peter says softly. His voice is a bit hoarse -- Jason has no idea of how deeply true his statement is. "Yeah, you are." It comes out more audible the second time, and the truth of it stings at the corner of his eyes. He blinks it away, lips twitching down in a flash of embarrassment, once again. He seems to be constantly oscillating between exhilarated and embarrassed tonight.
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He pauses, considering for a moment. "But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?" He almost whispers it to Peter, offering it to him with an encouraging smile. "You're my Romeo, anyway." It's a deeply personal thing to say; it comes dangerously close to admitting that he loves Peter. But the words come rushing up in his chest, and Jason can't keep them contained when their breaths mingle and the points of contact between their skin burn like embers.
And then Peter's telling Jason that he's his muse, and he has to lean in and kiss him again, cupping his face and pouring all the warmth he has into the kiss and touch.
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A sudden smile spreads over Peter's face at the recitation of the verse, but it's gone in a flash, replaced by awe, once again. His cheeks burn deeply, the breath rushes out of him, but he's not embarrassed, this time. This time, he's knocked out. Nothing so blatantly romantic or with such promise (and tragedy) has ever been said to Peter ever. The fact that it comes from Jason means Peter's chest remains caved in for a full few moments. He wants to say everything, anything, to beg Jason to come out with him so that the entire world can know that they've found something that people hope for and write about. He feels like part of a living work of art, and for the first time maybe ever, he's sure of its veracity and purity.
An eager, searching arm slithers under Jason's neck and Peter meets the other arm to lock behind Jason's neck. The silence is better anyway, Peter thinks, because the stasis of silence will preserve this fragile moment. So he presses Jason onto his back and climbs back on top of him to get as close as possible. As gravity pushes them together, Peter finally remembers to breathe and has to break away to catch up. He presses his forehead against Jason's and breathes there for several moments before opening his eyes. He can't help but let out a heady laugh when he sees his own hazy wonder reflected in Jason's eyes. How quickly the tides change between them, he thinks, and also how warm and welcoming they all are.
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Peter smiles, but then it disappears into a look of awe that renders Jason dizzy. To have someone look at him the way Peter does must be akin to that one line in that sad, French musical Nadia especially loves. Jason feels like he's looking into the face of God, when Peter looks at him like that. And as much as it frightens him, it also sends his heart soaring, as though it might never come down to Earth again. Jason's own cheeks begin to ache from the weight of the smile he bears himself in response. They don't speak, but the various lights and flickers of love and hope that catch in Peter's eyes speak volumes to Jason; he could write poetry about those eyes and the way they compliment the blush across his face.
Soon, Peter's sliding his arms around Jason's neck. Jason's breath catches again at the sensation, the way Peter tucks his arms carefully around his neck. It's lovely and warm and so utterly Peter. It sends bursts of warmth spiraling all through Jason. Peter's on top of him now, and they're still so wonderfully naked and together. Jason lets out a small noise before he can help himself. As Peter presses their foreheads together and opens those wonderfully green eyes, Jason finds himself gasping for breath as he looks up at Peter. Peter, now laughing that beautiful, haunting laugh; Jason shivers, letting the sound of it run through him. Glazed awe reflects back at him in Peter's expression; Jason feels frozen in place by the weight of what he finds in Peter's eyes.
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He's got a frustratingly good singer, too, Peter reminds himself. Compromises with his mother finally culminated in a few years of voice lessons, and only after that and the constant nurturing of Sister Chantelle and her predecessor at the middle school was Peter able to sing with any proficiency. When Peter catches Jason singing to himself, he hears perfect pitch and this rich voice that is so purely Jason. Only once or twice has Jason been singing loud enough a song that Peter knows well enough that he felt he could join in, and his soul thrives in those few moments of harmony. When Jason sings the melody and Peter has his wits about him enough to find the 5th above or below, it's like gospel to him.
Here, on top of Jason, Peter finds himself light-headed, again. He drapes himself on top of Jason carefully in the safety of a kiss. He can feel the blood migrating away from his brain, again, that familiar coil threatening to unravel with sparks of electricity. He closes his eyes against Jason in an effort to get ahold of himself. After a moment, he looks at his watch, discarded on the bedside. "It's 6:30," Peter breathes, turning his eyes back to his lover. "We have 15 minutes to get to the cafeteria if we want to eat." The school always serves dinner the night before the first day of the school year, but it is scarcely populated. It might be a good way to take a breather, and Peter's body definitely feels the need to refuel, just in case he'll need the stamina.
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Jason also enjoys Peter and his voice, too. Peter, with his calm, gentle cadence, the opposite of the gruffness and screeching politeness that echoes horribly in Jason's memories. Peter, who sings like a lark and sends butterflies down Jason's stomach every time he returns to their room to find him rehearsing for his latest play. Jason recalls one particular afternoon, last spring; the sun shining through their window, cascading in ribbons and bathing everything in a luminous glow. And Peter, looking and sounding like a Disney prince, standing by the window and indulging in a song that tugged on the latches of Jason's heart. Jason remembers his arms snaking around Peter's lithe waist; he remembers the sweetness of his skin combined with the fragile loveliness of his voice. He remembers singing along with him, caught up in the moment and his heart's true intentions. Peter had turned in his arms, then, and they'd begun making an entirely different melody, then. They melted to the floor as their bodies began to sing. Jason shivers a bit as the memory seeps into his current thoughts.
Peter draped on top of him sends all sorts of thrills running throughout Jason; he's growing dizzy, again, and if they don't move soon, he's not going to be able to let Peter even think about getting food. "I suppose you raise a good point," he says with a smile that is half-mischief and half-regret at having to move from this comfortable position. He yawns, but he makes no move to get up just yet. "We do need sustenance, as growing boys, after all." And then the teasing returns to his gaze. "I hope you're not planning on sleeping, tonight."
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"Not at all," Peter responds; it's matter-of-fact and simple, and it's also true. Still, he's not all business and he braces his arms on either side of Jason's head to better lean over him. "I haven't even heard you make that noise I like yet." A quick nip of a kiss on Jason's lips and he's up. On his way over to his pants, he tosses Jason's at him with a quick smile.
Muscle memory from hurried nights kicks in, and Peter's dressed quickly. He's already buttoning up his shirt when he bumps his closet door closed. He frowns quickly when he sees his hair, wild and tousled and actually not presentable at all. A quick glance to his bag leads to him snatching a smaller bag out of it. "I'm gonna go clean up. Do you just want to meet there?" Maybe this way Peter doesn't have to risk Jason telling him they should leave separately. It's not like he'd go out looking like that anyway, but now he has an excuse if he needs it.
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He turns his gaze briefly to their entwined hands before bringing his big, blue eyes to meet Peter's glance. "And what noise is that, pray tell? I seem to recall you being fond of many noises I make." Jason's tendency towards being a smartass comes second-nature to him. He always wonders what part of the family he and Nadia inherit that trait from; certainly not either of their parents. He grins into the brief kiss bestowed by Peter, and then he's rolling to move into a sitting position himself.
He catches his own pants with a smirk. "Nearly forgot I even needed these, really," he remarks as he begins dressing himself. His own muscle memories from those nights kicks back in as well, and he's dressed within moments. He manages to ruffle his hair into something that almost looks presentable; something he'll explain away as a memento of a quick rugby match. Or something sports related.
He moves to stand behind Peter, wrapping his arms around his waist and pulling him against his chest. Smirking, he leans into Peter's mussed hair and kisses it, before ruffling it just to be a jerk. "Yeah, I can meet you there," he says, grateful to Peter for making the suggestion. "I'm sure Nadia will be at our usual table already."
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He'd only added insult to injury when Peter's hair had been brought into the fray.
"It might take me longer now," he teases, using the that reflected tenderness to sooth his aching soul. "God knows what you just did to it." He's walked down the hall to the bathroom in worse states, though. All discretion is taken out of the post-sex shower when you have to run down the hall to get to the bathroom.
"I'll see you there," he continues. Peter presses his lips against Jason's for a quick second -- his stomach drops as it always does -- and then he's turning to go. He's looking forward to using the time he has to sublimate his longing and frustration into styling his hair just right.