Forbidden (BoyxBoy)

Chapter XI: Taking the Lead

Alaric.

Jason had the willpower of an ox. He rarely stopped working, and when he did it was exclusively to have a sip of water or ask about a passage in the textbook. I would happily answer his questions, hoping the conversation would stray from the topic of work. But he was focused on the assignment, and I found myself watching him whilst he intently studied at the textbook. 

I was beginning to notice small things about him; like the way he chewed on his bottom lip mindlessly whilst he read, and the way he flicked his pencil between his middle and index fingers whilst he thought. As he read, he took notes in neat, narrow handwriting. He shifted his position a few times throughout the hour, his leg or elbow occasionally brushing up against my own. I silently noted the warmth of his skin radiating from beneath his jacket. 

After an excruciating half-hour, Jason sighed and put down his pen, wearily running his hands through his hair. He blinked rapidly before rubbing at his eyes and adjusting his legs beneath the table, his knee resting against mine. Neither of us moved, and I relished in the feeling of a warm body touching my cold flesh. 

"I can't focus." He said simply, pressing his lips together and leaning back against the couch. Neither could I. I had barely written anything down. Not that I really needed to, history was kind of my niche. You think you're real funny, don't you Alaric?

"Me neither," I admitted, closing my textbook with a slap. "I think that's enough work for today."  

He nodded in agreement and shoved a bookmark into his textbook before closing it, his eyes wandering around the room absently. I suddenly felt self-conscious about all my stuff, and thought that perhaps he thought I was a little weird to be living amongst all these antiques. What he didn't know was that I had bought each item when they were the latest trends and technologies. 

His eyes fell on the record player in the corner of the room, wedged beside my writing desk. It was on a wooden trolley, the bottom shelf converted into a record rack, which was overflowing with vinyls. 

"How old is that?" Jason asked, pointing to the contraption. 

"The record player?" I smiled, standing up and wandering over to the machine. He followed, a few steps behind me. 

"About fifty years old, it's a model from the 1960s." I explained. I stood beside it, lifting the needle from the machine. I watched as he studied it carefully, a curious smile on his face. He reached for the records beneath it, his calloused fingers paging through their covers. 

"Etta James, Stevie Wonder, ACDC, The Killers," He said out loud with a chuckle. "It's, uh, one hell of a combination." 

"I like music." I shrugged. He looked up at me with one of his wide, toothy smiles. Warmth pooled in my veins in a way that made me feel human again. 

"Which is your favourite?" Jason enquired softly, standing up straight and looking at me attentively for my answer. His speckled irises looked at me deeply, and I was suddenly scared that he could see right through me. 

It was a question I'd never thought about the answer to, because I had lived through an endless stream of music, each era with its own benefits and backfalls. I thought back to the chaotic discos Kathleen had dragged me to, and discounted the seventies. We'd been in New York in the nineties, and Berlin in the eighties. But I'd have to go further back than that to choose a favourite, to when dancing was in fashion. 

I stepped closer and bent down to look through the rack. My fingers skimmed the records as my mind whirled through the decades. Finally, a settled to a single from 1958.