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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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God, he will never forget the first time Peter touched him. They had math together, all of them - Nadia, Ivy, Matt, Peter, and himself. He and Peter sat in the back, smiling at each other in between taking notes and giggling at the sight of each other. Jason, in his laughter, knocked his pencil off the side of his desk. Peter, ever trying to be helpful, reached for it the same time Jason did. That first time, their hands brushed, and Jason remembers all too clearly how it sucked the air right out from his lungs. He remembers his face burning, and he remembers the same flush mirrored in Peter's own expression. Throughout the years, they've found ways to 'accidentally' brush against one another; feet meeting under picnic tables and desks, shoulders glancing against one another in gym, hands pressing together as briefly as fleeting kisses in shop class, and running into one another in arched entryways. Together, they've managed to steal so many moments and make the world their own.
Rendering Peter nearly speechless makes Jason smirk, even if it does require more effort than normal, given how much he is already falling apart. And then Peter says that and bites down on his lip, and Jason jerks, both his arm and hand tightening even further as his back arches and he nearly comes just from that alone. He moans, having to concentrate so as to avoid losing control entirely then and there. "Jesus, Peter," he groans, burying his head against Peter's chest.
And then he feels the way Peter chokes on his own breath, and, this time, he doesn't fight his rising orgasm. He changes his angle to snap his hips directly against that one spot, using his arm around Peter as leverage to pull the other boy against him. Jason's whole body trembles, as he strokes and twists Peter's cock with a determined edge. All the while, moans and shudders and obscene, sweet nothings fall from his lips.
His eyes snap open at the press of Peter's forehead against his just in time to see Peter biting his lip like that. And that is the exact moment Jason comes undone. He feels it rush through him; the heat in his chest and his belly exploding like a thousand shards of glass-lit light within him. Sweat drips off him as he arches his neck, twisting and turning as though he were a restless dreamer. Only Peter can reduce him to such a sweaty and incoherent mess; he nearly sobs, overwhelmed as he is, and, with Peter, he doesn't try to hide that fact.
"Peter, Peter, oh God, Peter," he moans, body jerking and trembling. He keeps aiming for that one spot, even as pleasure nearly renders him delirious. "Come with me Peter, come on, oh God."
The force of his own thrusts, wild and unraveling as pleasure washes over him like a tidal wave, knocks Jason on his back, pulling Peter more fully on top of him.
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It hasn't really occurred to him what's just fallen from his lips, but if he had been embarrassed in the first place (and he hadn't), he was justified and satisfied by Jason's response. A little heady laugh -- a burst of breath, really -- bubbles up spills over. Knowing what Peter likes wouldn't be enough to drive him crazy like this, but his self-assured, amazing ability to congratulate himself even in the throes of passion tickles Peter. Nadia rolls her eyes about it, and Peter nearly has to cover his face to keep the other's from seeing him beam when Jason is amusing Jason. It's cute, and that's a part of Jason that feels like his, a kind of his like he feels in these moments when the only thing they need is to see a pleasure so complete that they could drown in it reflected back in one another.
Jason," he warns, but feeling Jason so close to the edge and hearing his request echoed in the voice of the only person Peter has ever, could ever, will ever love, it's enough burning that's propelled his mouth and hips and anywhere else Jason wants bursts forth. He's coming in paralyzing waves as Jason's delivering straight-up perfection to him at every point. Now, his hand is balled up in fists of hair at the back of Jason's head. He crushes his lips against Jason in an attempt to stifle what he's sure will be loud, total loss of control.
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Peter, usually always so careful with his words, is positively charming and enticing when he appears to only just realize what it is he's said. Especially when combined with that heady laugh, which makes Jason's already struggling breath catch in his throat. Again.
He hears the way Peter's voice falters and he groans again, taking care to stroke him and thrust into him to best ease his orgasm along. He loves him so much, glancing up into those sea glass eyes and seeing the same passion and desire he feels mirrored back in them. He moans, both at the hair tugging and the kiss, losing himself entirely to their mutual coming undone.
Jason keeps pumping and thrusting, savoring every point of contact between himself and Peter. Flushed, covered in sweat, and with all sorts of noises falling from his lips, Peter looks every bit the debauched angel, and it sends shivers down Jason's spine.
When they're both spent, and the hazy aftershocks begin filtering through them both, Jason pulls Peter down on top of him, bringing, too, his hand, and licking it clean right in front of Peter, just to see his reaction. His blue eyes narrow and sparkle with provocative mirth.
"So how was your vacation?" He asks, his voice raw from wanting and their lovemaking. "Mine ended with a bang."
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That night, though, Peter feels especially confident -- however falsely -- that he will dodge the demons. What's just happened is more loving, more desperate, more alive than they've ever been together. He feels like this year is finally going to be different.
Yet guiltless and light in the fuzzy afterglow, Peter shifts his weight off of Jason to his own hip. He's still pressed firmly against his boyfriend, half-atop him with one leg tangled up in Jason's. Their slick bodies seem to expand and contract in unison as Peter huffs out breath after amazed and dazed breath. He's ready to lift his clear, sharp gaze to Jason, but when he sees Jason's mouth on his own hand, tongue greedy laving from palm to fingers, Peter flushes deeply, though any semblance of innocence in it is exposed as false by the hungry little growl that rumbles in Peter's throat. His tongue licks along Jason's lips, insistent and basic.
Many, many kisses pass before Jason finally speaks. Peter's cheek rests on Jason's shoulder, mouth nearly at his jaw, eyes tilted up to give his lover his full attention. He laughs.
"You thought of that before you even left Connecticut," Peter accuses, but there is no malice in it. He's simply just sure he's right. He can picture Jason there in the back seat, silence stretching between the McConnell tribe as he smirks to himself about some little wordplay he's going to save for his reunion with Peter. It thrills him to imagine Jason thinking about what he's going to say after some lovemaking, because that also obviously means he was thinking about it, as well.
He goes to answer the question, but three months of limited contact and doubt has him wondering if it was an actual question or a setup for a joke. He's instantly mad at himself for fucking up the vibe so soon and pushes the doubt away with a gentle kiss to Jason's jaw. "Tell me about yours." Its a request, a soft one, and he's just going to punctuate Jason's tale with kisses.
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Jason feels especially reckless and daring tonight. The love they've made between them is the stuff to move mountains, he thinks. It gives him courage, and pushes back the reality of Notre Dame and family dreams and all of the other bullshit framing his life.
Jason grins, basking in the afterglow as Peter moves to settle on his side. The late afternoon light casts an ethereal glow around Peter's entire body. Even naked and shining with sweat, he looks all the world like a subject in a classical painting, with those lips and cheekbones jutting out at angles that makes Jason's stomach twist into knots and butterflies fly loose in his chest. Jason does enjoy the way their sweaty bodies move in unison even know, both trying to catch their breath. He smirks around his fingers, watching the way Peter's flush turns him from saint to heathen in a flash of a second. That growl makes Jason shiver, a slight whimper falling from his mouth in turn. And then Peter's pushing his tongue against his lips, and Jason's smirk falters at the sensation.
God, he could lose himself just in the kisses they exchange alone. In the wake of sex, their kisses are sweeter and less feverish. Yet insistent all the same.
Jason grins again at Peter's astute observation, his cheeks aching from the strain of it across his faces. His eyes nearly burst with brightness as his nose wrinkles in Peter's general direction. "You found me out," he replies, voice soft and just a little bit teasing. He brings one of his hands to find one of Peter's, clasping their fingers together. "I definitely spent time working on that one. But less time than I spent thinking about that," he waggles his eyebrows meaningfully, "and you. God, Peter. I haven't gotten you out of my head since last year." His voice turns more gentle than normal; this is as close as he can get, for the moment, to admitting that he loves Peter.
He lets out a pleased sigh at the kiss to his jaw; these soft, assuring touches and kisses are Jason's favorite. They remind him that he's whole and alive and with the most lovely person he's ever met in his life. He tilts his jaw into it, silently requesting more. "Not much to tell, really," he says, letting his head fall against Peter's. "Mostly spent it listening to Nadia's aspirations and, of course, the Notre Dame pep talks from dear old dad." He tries to keep the bitterness from his voice, especially in such a tender moment as this. But it shows, because Jason's spent too long this summer suppressing it already. "And missing your dumb face every day, of course."
He leans down to steal a kiss from Peter, sighing against his lips. "Now," he murmurs. "Tell me about your summer. Please?"
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And then that smile, wide and full. And it's for him, that's the astounding part. He's searching his memory for a time he might've seen that smile of Jason's out on the field of one of the various sports he's tried to drown his feelings in, or that one time that they took a drama class together and Peter caught Jason enjoying himself, or after one of his numerous meritorious achievements at school. Nope. Nothing that could even come close to the brilliance of that particular smile. His smile.
Jason's voice admitting his forethought snaps Peter out of his trance and he lifts his eyes to his lover's face once again. There, he sees a stark truth that he doesn't often get to see from Jason, even in their stolen moments. He looks like he's been aching, Peter thinks, to see him, to touch him, maybe even to tell him what he's just said. The fact that it's so important to him that Peter know it, not to mention the fact that he feels it at all, humbles Peter like religion. Only when Peter hangs on Jason's words like scripture, he doesn't fall flat with the guilt in his interpretation.
"I love you," Peter says simply, but the truth of it warms the edges of the statement and he covers Jason's mouth with another gentle kiss before he can be devastated by the lack of reciprocation.
He recovers with a sort of giggle at Jason's insistent nuzzles of jaw to lips. It's not like he was going to be able to refuse even playfully, so he makes quick work of pressing slow kisses along his jaw while he talks: it's the best kind of hurry-up-and-wait.
"I hope she gets cast in a better role this year." Peter sympathizes with Nadia on that. For years, they've been having quiet meetings about how they're overlooked and how the best actors always get pushed to the periphery because the show needs support. It makes no sense to either of them, but it's landed them some quality bitching time between Sister Chantelle's sassy rants and biting quips. When Jason moves on, instead of addressing the stress he knows Jason is avoiding, he pads his thumb softly over Jason's, sympathetic and supportive. "You know they're too hard on you." Another kiss, this one at the juncture of Jason's neck and collarbone, then they're kissing proper, once again.
"Mm, it was okay," Peter hums against his lips. He steals another kiss and then settles his head back on Jason's shoulder. "Lots of empty promises from my dad. Mom worked most of the time. I got this part-time job at a grocery store, saved a little money up." He shrugs. "And then my mom reminded me that we hadn't heard from Notre Dame yet and that it would mean sooo much to my father if I went there." He huffs a sigh. "So I spent my time watching movies and thinking of you, listening to music and thinking of you, and bagging groceries and thinking of you." A slow smile spreads over his face, warm as the butterflies twitching their wings around in his chest and stomach.
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This smile he bestows upon Peter know really is just for him. Jason remembers the first time he offered that smile to Peter: they were both thirteen, and fumbling around feelings and confused thoughts. They'd been paired off for science class, sent to gather leaves for a later experiment in the lab. Jason had stumbled over a stray branch root, falling right on his ass and twisting his ankle. Peter had instantly leaned down, lifted an arm under his shoulder, and helped Jason to his feet. Jason remembers well the softness of Peter's jacket against him; the way he looked and smelled of New York autumn as he kept Jason from falling over. Jason had smiled at him before he'd said thank you; the sudden twisting of knots in his stomach and the breath knocked loose from his lungs kept him from saying anything at all, at first. He remembers, too, feeling the same sense of unspeakable giddiness when Peter found him out in that drama class they took together. Now, of course, he deliberately saves that smile for when he and Peter can steal a moment or two alone.
Jason's eyes meet Peter's, and in their depth, he recognizes the aching and the longing. The heartache and yearning. The nights spent chatting with Nadia about how much he misses Peter and how dull life at home is without his best friend. In Peter's eyes, Jason sees the only soul he can love like this. The only other soul he ever wants or needs to love. Peter's gaze pins him in place for a moment. This is magic, he thinks. Real magic.
Peter tells him he loves him, and Jason feels the world around them vanish; even their sanctuary of a dorm room. All that remains are Jason, Peter, and those three words curling around Jason's heart like a vine. He aches to return the words; he wants to scream them and to sing them. He wants so very badly to say it back. But fear prevents him from doing so, as do Peter's gentle lips. He kisses him back intensely, pouring all of his unspoken words into that kiss, so that Peter might taste them instead.
"Me too," Jason nods, sighing again at the attention paid to his jaw. Peter's kisses are tender and comforting, like kittens. "She works her ass off, and the drama department here doesn't appreciate it." Jason loves Nadia; his twin sister, who seems to know him better than he knows himself, sometimes.
Jason leans into each kiss, and then his lips press into Peter's as they kiss properly once again. "I know, but I can't let them down, can I?" He replies, pulling back as that familiar sense of overwhelming dread threatens to overcome him. "Being the son of the family, and all that."
Jason always hurts for Peter at the mention of his father. He doesn't understand how someone can continually neglect their son like that and not care. Though, clearly, Peter is fine with it, in his own way. He leans his head down to rest his chin on the top of Peter's damp, auburn locks, enjoying the way the softness of his hair tickles his lack of beard. "You know, if we both go to Notre Dame, we could be roommates again," Jason says, eyes bright with teasing and also something else. Something more. In a college environment, they could worry less about how others might view their relationship. "And you would give me a reason to actually want to go," he points out with a laugh.
Each mention of 'thinking of you' Peter says only causes Jason's head to spin more. He's dizzy enough already; but Peter possesses the gift of being able to make his head spin even more at any given moment. "I'm not sure you thinking of me while bagging groceries is supposed to be a compliment," he teases, an attempt to disguise the creeping flush on his face and the quickening of his own heart that Peter can probably hear even from his place on Jason's shoulder.
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It's too soon, Peter reminds himself, to think about these things, and it's easy to forget when he's close like he is, anyway.
Coming around from his self-pity, he sees that Jason is in a similar way in his own head and Peter untangles his hand from Jason's to cup the opposing line of his jaw. "Hey." It's a gentle call back to Earth, like being snuggled awake from a bad dream by loving arms. "They're proud of you. They'd be crazy not to be." He nuzzles in for a tender, reassuring kiss. "And when your Notre Dame letter comes, I'll sit down with you and you can leave a nice, passive-aggressive message with his secretary. Then, we'll celebrate our own way." And continue to celebrate once they're together at Notre Dame, he hopes. "I just don't know if I'll get in, Jason." His class rank isn't as high as Jason's and he's not sure there's a scholarship for being the Golden Boy's secret boyfriend. The way he averts his eyes for a second tells this wordless tale for him. He would give anything to be Jason's 'roommate' for the rest of time. Ideally, a word substitution would take place, and maybe Notre Dame is the ticket, so he remains hopeful.
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That touch, so lovely and so assuring, inspires Jason to shake off those thoughts, for the moment. Peter's hand is a balm; a pilgrim's grace that washes away Jason's sins of doubt and insecurity, however temporarily. Jason tilts his head into Peter's hand, leaning and breathing in that tender sign of affection. He sighs and lets out something of a mewl at the kiss, returning it with as much tenderness. "Pure genius, as always," he tells Peter, smiling at the thought of leaving such a message for his dad's secretary. His grin grows softer and more genuine as he dwells on the ways he can celebrate with Peter, however. "I don't know what I would do without that brain of yours." Jason leans in to press a kiss to Peter's forehead, letting one hand soothe back the damp, red curls he loves so much.
He catches the uncertainty in the way Peter suddenly looks away from him, and instinctively, he tugs Peter closer to him, peppering him with soft, sweet kisses from his forehead to his nose to his mouth. "Hey," Jason says, flashing that trademark grin reserved just for Peter. "You'll get in. I know you will. You're brilliant, Peter." He presses another kiss to Peter's lips. A teasing light illuminates his blue eyes, then. "You're such a boyscout, how could anyone say no to those eyes of yours?"
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All of that -- the years that had brought them closer and changed them and challenged every single thing they'd been taught over the years -- and Jason still can't say it. Often, Peter lets perfect days like this one lull him into the sense that he will never need it, but he can feel it: the duration and intensity of their relationship is like a fresh cut and the way that it makes Peter feel is threatening to rise to the surface and pour out like blood. He wonders how many more times he can take Jason's hand shove him away at the sound of someone walking by. He wonders how Jason can take it.
Then, Jason is kissing a sweet, smooth little line down Peter's face to his lips and he forgets again that there is any difference between out there and in here. He steals another kiss to close the yawning chasm he's developed in his belly. They're on their sides, now, and Peter pulls the blanket and sheet up over them before settling his leg between Jason's. A hand finds its way to Jason's waist, the other arm curls between them for warmth. New York is a shitload colder than Arizona, so that's always an adjustment, and they are laying in a cold, old dorm room completely naked.
"I didn't put a glamour shot in my transcript, though I'm sure you did," Peter teases back, meeting Jason's eyes with a small, peaceful smile. "I'll be getting in on brains only. You'd better put in the good word for me or I'll tell Admissions who actually passed your Calculus final."
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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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