FICLET. HETALIA ["general relativity"]: do i dare disturb the universe? (matthew/mr. jones)
Long past time I posted this. For the Canada/America fic "General Relativity," which is currently in progress here. Apparently I can't not write fic in this universe. /headdesk BUT IT'S SO MUCH FUN. ♥ Also, cliché title is cliché, but oddly appropriate amirite? Thank you, T.S. Eliot :)
Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?
Matthew/Mr. Jones ; based on the fanfic "General Relativity."
Matthew contemplates, very briefly, whether or not he is doing the right thing. If he worries too hard about it, he'll come up with a million reasons why making this move is not a good idea-okay, why it's an atrocious idea-and never go through with it, and fall victim to a long life of misery contemplating what ifs.
That isn't how Matthew wants to live.
So he just walks into Mr. Jones's office one Tuesday and says, "Hi. Will you go out with me?" Then he remembers, "If you want."
Mr. Jones looks up from his Air and Space magazine, which is spread open to a centerfold, and beams. "Oh, hey, it's you!" he exclaims brightly, as though Christmas has come eight months early. "Where to?" Matthew sighs inwardly and reminds himself to be even less subtle. Act like a truck, he thinks. Be a truck, Matthew Williams. All the finesse of an eighteen-wheeler, and he might get you.
But he thinks it fondly. Really, he does. It's impossible for him, at this point, not to be fond of nearly everything about Mr. Jones, from the smudge of ink on his chin, to the way the light fires his hair gold, to the ratty faux fur collar of the jacket he insists on wearing even now, in May, when the winter has finally begun to recede. (Matthew makes a mental note to ask about the jacket one day. He wants to push it carefully off Mr. Jones's shoulders, reverent, and kiss the shadows that form in the hollow of his throat until Mr. Jones goes incoherent.)
"I mean-like that, Mr. Jones," he clarifies. "Dinner, maybe. Something…legitimate."
Matthew sees his professor curl in on himself, sees how the wood grain of his desk suddenly captures his attention, sees his smile tremble at the edges but remain fixed. "Matthew-um. I don't think-we probably shouldn't."
"You don't want to," Matthew says flatly, and that's hard to believe, for some reason. After all this time spent waiting, wondering, stressing, supposing, falling, giving himself over, it is unimaginable that his rejection will be this easy, this mundane. I always had this to fall back on, he realizes numbly. This possibility. Now what do I have?
"No! I mean, yes, I do!" Mr. Jones exclaims, putting up placating hands. Matthew can almost watch him backpedal, still heartwarming somehow as he fumbles for words. "I really, really do, just-" Just you're my student, Matthew hears in the dull quiet. We could get caught. Lots of stuff's at stake. He wouldn't be wrong to marshal any of these arguments; instead, Mr. Jones seems to give up, says, "Okay. Okay, when?"
Matthew simply exists for a long moment; takes in Mr. Jones's restless eyes, the uncertain, boyish, upward curve of his mouth, the color in his cheeks, and wonders how hard it was for him to say yes. Maybe it wasn't difficult at all. I put that blush there, Matthew thinks with something approaching giddy disbelief. Oh, god.
"Six o'clock Friday is good," he breathes, then clears his throat. Repeats it again. Revels in the fact that he isn't dreaming. Mr. Jones's answering grin, wide and exuberant, stays with him for hours.
Do I Dare Disturb the Universe?
Matthew/Mr. Jones ; based on the fanfic "General Relativity."
Matthew contemplates, very briefly, whether or not he is doing the right thing. If he worries too hard about it, he'll come up with a million reasons why making this move is not a good idea-okay, why it's an atrocious idea-and never go through with it, and fall victim to a long life of misery contemplating what ifs.
That isn't how Matthew wants to live.
So he just walks into Mr. Jones's office one Tuesday and says, "Hi. Will you go out with me?" Then he remembers, "If you want."
Mr. Jones looks up from his Air and Space magazine, which is spread open to a centerfold, and beams. "Oh, hey, it's you!" he exclaims brightly, as though Christmas has come eight months early. "Where to?" Matthew sighs inwardly and reminds himself to be even less subtle. Act like a truck, he thinks. Be a truck, Matthew Williams. All the finesse of an eighteen-wheeler, and he might get you.
But he thinks it fondly. Really, he does. It's impossible for him, at this point, not to be fond of nearly everything about Mr. Jones, from the smudge of ink on his chin, to the way the light fires his hair gold, to the ratty faux fur collar of the jacket he insists on wearing even now, in May, when the winter has finally begun to recede. (Matthew makes a mental note to ask about the jacket one day. He wants to push it carefully off Mr. Jones's shoulders, reverent, and kiss the shadows that form in the hollow of his throat until Mr. Jones goes incoherent.)
"I mean-like that, Mr. Jones," he clarifies. "Dinner, maybe. Something…legitimate."
Matthew sees his professor curl in on himself, sees how the wood grain of his desk suddenly captures his attention, sees his smile tremble at the edges but remain fixed. "Matthew-um. I don't think-we probably shouldn't."
"You don't want to," Matthew says flatly, and that's hard to believe, for some reason. After all this time spent waiting, wondering, stressing, supposing, falling, giving himself over, it is unimaginable that his rejection will be this easy, this mundane. I always had this to fall back on, he realizes numbly. This possibility. Now what do I have?
"No! I mean, yes, I do!" Mr. Jones exclaims, putting up placating hands. Matthew can almost watch him backpedal, still heartwarming somehow as he fumbles for words. "I really, really do, just-" Just you're my student, Matthew hears in the dull quiet. We could get caught. Lots of stuff's at stake. He wouldn't be wrong to marshal any of these arguments; instead, Mr. Jones seems to give up, says, "Okay. Okay, when?"
Matthew simply exists for a long moment; takes in Mr. Jones's restless eyes, the uncertain, boyish, upward curve of his mouth, the color in his cheeks, and wonders how hard it was for him to say yes. Maybe it wasn't difficult at all. I put that blush there, Matthew thinks with something approaching giddy disbelief. Oh, god.
"Six o'clock Friday is good," he breathes, then clears his throat. Repeats it again. Revels in the fact that he isn't dreaming. Mr. Jones's answering grin, wide and exuberant, stays with him for hours.