crossroads | bare
Title: Crossroads, For Lack of A Better Title
Fandom: bare: a pop opera
Rating: PG, fluff
Characters: Peter/Jason
Summary: Overused plot for a bare fic go!
Edited with thanks to left_of_weir.
September is the ninth month of the year, prelude to the creeping chill of October and a memory of the warmth of August. It's forward and backward - once upon a time they could hardly look at each other and now they're eager to meet eyes again.
September is an introduction, no matter how familiar the halls of St. Cecilia's are to him, arms full of a very freckly Peter. He can't help but react to Peter's arms around his middle, leaning into him heavily and holding on to him for longer than is probably necessary. It's by no means a manly hug, shoulder-bumping and back-slapping. But that's okay. They're best friends. He hasn't seen Peter all summer. Jason's not-run over to Peter and the way he not-squeezed him tightly was normal, just as normal as the not-smile on his face and the not-blush on his cheeks and how not-aware he is of everywhere Peter is pressed against him. He's allowed to hug him, portraits of saints all around them. He's supposed to hug him.
Peter gingerly detangles himself from Jason's embrace. For a moment, Jason panics. Peter's moving slowly, carefully; maybe Jason held on too long, maybe Peter knew. But Peter smiles at him. He can't know. If he did, he wouldn't be smiling.
"How was your summer?" Peter asks, still close to him. He picks up his suitcase from the floor and adjusts his Red Sox cap.
"Fine," Jason says. "Me and Nadia basically had the house to ourselves the whole time. Played a lot of basketball. It's really easy to win against yourself." He smiles. "How 'bout you?"
Peter starts down the hall and up the stairs. "It was nice," he says over his shoulder to Jason. "I didn't really do much. My mom and I went to the beach, and that was nice..."
The rest of Peter's summer gets lost as Jason tries to keep his mind off of Peter anywhere near the beach.
Their door is the same as always, shabby white paint and a brass 243 hung crookedly. Peter takes his key from the lanyard around his neck. He has to shake the knob to get the door to open, but when it does, it feels like home. He holds the door open with his elbow as he shuffles inside, suitcase rolling behind him, box in his arms, bag over his shoulder, and smiles gratefully when Jason holds it open with his toe. Their room is empty, but Jason knows that it'll be a cluttered mess by the end of the week.
"Home sweet home," Jason grins.
And there's Peter's smile again, gracious and warm. Jason can't help but smile back at him, even when he turns his back to put his things on his bed. They have their annual play-argument about Red Sox posters versus Yankees posters, and end up with both on the far wall, next to each other. Peter sets his Bible down right next to his RENT libretto on the bookshelf, and Jason slides his binder of baseball cards between them.
Shoulders and elbows bumping as they reacquaint themselves with their room and each other, conversation drifts across the air. Peter wonders what the play will be this year, and Jason wonders how the basketball team will shape up. He catches himself in the mirror smiling at Peter more than once. After a whole summer of not seeing Peter, being so close to him again makes Jason jumpy.
Two weeks later, and Jason's arm still twitches whenever Peter bumps into him, hugs him, sits too close to him, leans over him. He doesn't hear the door to their room open, or Peter's footsteps, but he hears his bag drop to the floor. It falls with a heavy thud, like reason is falling out of Jason's brain, now that Peter is here. All he can see are the freckles still splashed across Peter's cheeks from the summer sun and every other minute detail about Peter's face and his nose that Jason's (almost) come to terms with thinking his cute and the way Peter's lips are moving around words Jason isn't really hearing.
And then, before he can think otherwise, he's framing Peter's face with his hands and kissing him. Peter squeaks and his eyes grow wide. For a brief, terrible moment, he thinks that he hallucinated all the glances, touches, and blushes. But then Peter's arms come up to his shoulders and he's kissing him back.
It's as awkward and messy as every other first kiss in the history of the universe, and that's a comforting thought. It's not so different, so weird, that they're kissing and their noses are bumping together in the middle of the room. Peter's bag is upturned on the floor, and Jason's alarm clock is projecting the wrong time, and nothing around them has changed at all. But it feels like they're caught in a riptide, and they hold on to each other.
"Jason..." Peter's voice is curved with a question and Jason isn't sure if he can answer it right now.
His brain is clouded with thoughts that bang against the side of his skull. If Peter's fingers weren't light on his arms, he might have just drifted away. He's dizzy (he should start breathing now, start moving, start talking) like he's been spinning around in circles for hours.
Maybe he's lost his mind in the process.
"Jason?"
Maybe he's lost himself.
His name has never had a question mark attached to it before. Jason has always been Jason McConnell, boy wonder, who will have a basketball career and a trophy wife and adorable children and a nice house. The only thing that's left of that Jason is a still-smiling mask, not the confused gaze of the Jason McConnell who just kissed Peter, his best friend, and hopes that he can do it again sometime soon. His head feels a million miles away but his heart is still in the middle of his chest, beating rapidly.
"Peter," he realizes, resisting the urge to say it over and over again.
Peter trails his hands down Jason's arms and takes his hands in his own. "Jason? What the hell was that?"
"I don't...I don't know." He leans into Peter, breathing against his cheek.
"That felt like a kiss, Jase." Peter's voice is shaky.
"I think it was." He laughs into Peter's ear. Peter rests his hands gingerly on Jason's face and just looks at him.
"How did you know?" he asks shyly.
He could share a million different tiny instances, moments when he'd just felt connected to Peter. But he's not ready to give up that part of himself. Instead, Jason grins at him. "Is there a person in this school who doesn't want to make out with me?"
Peter scowls and hits Jason's chest, hard. It's not one of Ivy's playful slaps or Nadia's half-hearted punches. It's solid, and open-palmed and boyish. "Jerk."
A smile flickers across Jason's face, because even though he's gained a new something in Peter, he still has his best friend. There's nothing left of him anymore, now that he's shattered all the lies that made up who he was. There's nothing left of him anymore, so he hides in his own skin and trusts Peter to be his rock.
And because I told Dillon I would:
A failure of a poem about Jason, complete with Romeo and Juliet quotes taken out of context. I'm practically Jon Hartmere.
Somehow,
he didn't think the end
would be like this.
It's
too rash,
too unadvised,
too sudden.
And it's
too
fucking
pretty.
Wasn't it supposed to be sad?
It's not.
There's music playing,
and he's just drifting away.
Swirls of color
spin in the air.
He wonders
when he stopped finger-painting
with Nadia.
His head feels light.
He can hear voices
calling out.
Funny
how he always wanted
to call back,
before.
Now they're just making his head hurt.
Oh.
Where'd the floor go?
It was just there, he swears,
(he's always had a foul mouth)
under his feet.
Well, he doesn't need a floor
to hold him up.
Or loud voices,
or secrets,
or Juliet.
(Ivy,
he means -
Ivy.)
He has Peter.
Fandom: bare: a pop opera
Rating: PG, fluff
Characters: Peter/Jason
Summary: Overused plot for a bare fic go!
Edited with thanks to left_of_weir.
September is the ninth month of the year, prelude to the creeping chill of October and a memory of the warmth of August. It's forward and backward - once upon a time they could hardly look at each other and now they're eager to meet eyes again.
September is an introduction, no matter how familiar the halls of St. Cecilia's are to him, arms full of a very freckly Peter. He can't help but react to Peter's arms around his middle, leaning into him heavily and holding on to him for longer than is probably necessary. It's by no means a manly hug, shoulder-bumping and back-slapping. But that's okay. They're best friends. He hasn't seen Peter all summer. Jason's not-run over to Peter and the way he not-squeezed him tightly was normal, just as normal as the not-smile on his face and the not-blush on his cheeks and how not-aware he is of everywhere Peter is pressed against him. He's allowed to hug him, portraits of saints all around them. He's supposed to hug him.
Peter gingerly detangles himself from Jason's embrace. For a moment, Jason panics. Peter's moving slowly, carefully; maybe Jason held on too long, maybe Peter knew. But Peter smiles at him. He can't know. If he did, he wouldn't be smiling.
"How was your summer?" Peter asks, still close to him. He picks up his suitcase from the floor and adjusts his Red Sox cap.
"Fine," Jason says. "Me and Nadia basically had the house to ourselves the whole time. Played a lot of basketball. It's really easy to win against yourself." He smiles. "How 'bout you?"
Peter starts down the hall and up the stairs. "It was nice," he says over his shoulder to Jason. "I didn't really do much. My mom and I went to the beach, and that was nice..."
The rest of Peter's summer gets lost as Jason tries to keep his mind off of Peter anywhere near the beach.
Their door is the same as always, shabby white paint and a brass 243 hung crookedly. Peter takes his key from the lanyard around his neck. He has to shake the knob to get the door to open, but when it does, it feels like home. He holds the door open with his elbow as he shuffles inside, suitcase rolling behind him, box in his arms, bag over his shoulder, and smiles gratefully when Jason holds it open with his toe. Their room is empty, but Jason knows that it'll be a cluttered mess by the end of the week.
"Home sweet home," Jason grins.
And there's Peter's smile again, gracious and warm. Jason can't help but smile back at him, even when he turns his back to put his things on his bed. They have their annual play-argument about Red Sox posters versus Yankees posters, and end up with both on the far wall, next to each other. Peter sets his Bible down right next to his RENT libretto on the bookshelf, and Jason slides his binder of baseball cards between them.
Shoulders and elbows bumping as they reacquaint themselves with their room and each other, conversation drifts across the air. Peter wonders what the play will be this year, and Jason wonders how the basketball team will shape up. He catches himself in the mirror smiling at Peter more than once. After a whole summer of not seeing Peter, being so close to him again makes Jason jumpy.
Two weeks later, and Jason's arm still twitches whenever Peter bumps into him, hugs him, sits too close to him, leans over him. He doesn't hear the door to their room open, or Peter's footsteps, but he hears his bag drop to the floor. It falls with a heavy thud, like reason is falling out of Jason's brain, now that Peter is here. All he can see are the freckles still splashed across Peter's cheeks from the summer sun and every other minute detail about Peter's face and his nose that Jason's (almost) come to terms with thinking his cute and the way Peter's lips are moving around words Jason isn't really hearing.
And then, before he can think otherwise, he's framing Peter's face with his hands and kissing him. Peter squeaks and his eyes grow wide. For a brief, terrible moment, he thinks that he hallucinated all the glances, touches, and blushes. But then Peter's arms come up to his shoulders and he's kissing him back.
It's as awkward and messy as every other first kiss in the history of the universe, and that's a comforting thought. It's not so different, so weird, that they're kissing and their noses are bumping together in the middle of the room. Peter's bag is upturned on the floor, and Jason's alarm clock is projecting the wrong time, and nothing around them has changed at all. But it feels like they're caught in a riptide, and they hold on to each other.
"Jason..." Peter's voice is curved with a question and Jason isn't sure if he can answer it right now.
His brain is clouded with thoughts that bang against the side of his skull. If Peter's fingers weren't light on his arms, he might have just drifted away. He's dizzy (he should start breathing now, start moving, start talking) like he's been spinning around in circles for hours.
Maybe he's lost his mind in the process.
"Jason?"
Maybe he's lost himself.
His name has never had a question mark attached to it before. Jason has always been Jason McConnell, boy wonder, who will have a basketball career and a trophy wife and adorable children and a nice house. The only thing that's left of that Jason is a still-smiling mask, not the confused gaze of the Jason McConnell who just kissed Peter, his best friend, and hopes that he can do it again sometime soon. His head feels a million miles away but his heart is still in the middle of his chest, beating rapidly.
"Peter," he realizes, resisting the urge to say it over and over again.
Peter trails his hands down Jason's arms and takes his hands in his own. "Jason? What the hell was that?"
"I don't...I don't know." He leans into Peter, breathing against his cheek.
"That felt like a kiss, Jase." Peter's voice is shaky.
"I think it was." He laughs into Peter's ear. Peter rests his hands gingerly on Jason's face and just looks at him.
"How did you know?" he asks shyly.
He could share a million different tiny instances, moments when he'd just felt connected to Peter. But he's not ready to give up that part of himself. Instead, Jason grins at him. "Is there a person in this school who doesn't want to make out with me?"
Peter scowls and hits Jason's chest, hard. It's not one of Ivy's playful slaps or Nadia's half-hearted punches. It's solid, and open-palmed and boyish. "Jerk."
A smile flickers across Jason's face, because even though he's gained a new something in Peter, he still has his best friend. There's nothing left of him anymore, now that he's shattered all the lies that made up who he was. There's nothing left of him anymore, so he hides in his own skin and trusts Peter to be his rock.
And because I told Dillon I would:
A failure of a poem about Jason, complete with Romeo and Juliet quotes taken out of context. I'm practically Jon Hartmere.
Somehow,
he didn't think the end
would be like this.
It's
too rash,
too unadvised,
too sudden.
And it's
too
fucking
pretty.
Wasn't it supposed to be sad?
It's not.
There's music playing,
and he's just drifting away.
Swirls of color
spin in the air.
He wonders
when he stopped finger-painting
with Nadia.
His head feels light.
He can hear voices
calling out.
Funny
how he always wanted
to call back,
before.
Now they're just making his head hurt.
Oh.
Where'd the floor go?
It was just there, he swears,
(he's always had a foul mouth)
under his feet.
Well, he doesn't need a floor
to hold him up.
Or loud voices,
or secrets,
or Juliet.
(Ivy,
he means -
Ivy.)
He has Peter.