Chapter Text
The first thing George truly noticed about John was the way he sat when he read.
He tucked one of his legs up into a bent position, one foot tucked under his other thigh. Then he put an elbow down on one of his knees, the book held securely in his other hand. It looked as though, with any other person, it would be incredibly uncomfortable. But there was a natural ease to John that made the whole thing seem very relaxed.
And his hair would fall into his eyes. Poetically, beautifully. Drifting over the curve of his forehead like a stroke of paint on an impressionist's canvas. Shouldn't that obscure his vision? How could he read like that?
They'd known each other for three hours the first time George saw him do it. It hadn't necessarily caught him off guard, but it had certainly been a moment that felt like awaking from a dreamlike stupor. Up until then, John had just been his reserved, kindly roommate, whom he'd met earlier that day right after the headmaster's introductory speech.
Now he looked like a muse of old. His soft white shirt clung loosely to his skin, and a pen was tucked into his mouth in a way that drew just the right amount of attention to his gently parted pink lips.
Not that George would ever notice something like that.
He should really look away.
He should study, or something.
He should focus on anything besides the curve of his roommate's cupid's bow.
As he stared, John flicked his gaze up from the pages. Caught him staring. How mortifying, George screamed internally as he moved his eyes instantly away.
But John just let out a soft breath of air, one filled with humor. "Sizing up the new kid, are you?" he asked jokingly.
George swallowed. "No," he said. "Just...in my own head. Sorry."
John tilted his head. His hair followed suit, falling in waves around his face. "Don't worry about it." He held their eye contact for a few more seconds, just a little bit longer than what was comfortable. Then he glanced back down at his book. "Are you a fan of Jane Austen?"
George shook his head. "Can't say I've ever read any of hers. Is she the one who writes the girly romance novels?"
"You shouldn't be so dismissive," chided John gently, and George was instantly filled with an inexplicable, irrational rush of shame. "Jane is fantastic. She writes about genuine human connection persevering over the petty dramas of the world. She favors intellect and dignity - the correct sort of dignity, mind you."
"I don't like happy endings that much. They're not realistic," George stammered. Some part of him was desperate to engage with this boy on the same level of thoughtfulness he was displaying.
John smiled, and it was bittersweet. "Her endings aren't really happy endings," he corrected simply. There was a strain of sadness in his voice. "You see, her own life was quite tragic. Her sister's fiance perished, and she herself made the decision to leave the love of her life to protect him." His eyes bored into George's like two particularly bright meteors. "It puts into perspective the decisions she made about the lives of her characters, I think. She gave them happy endings because her own ending was so dreary."
George could not tell if he wished the conversation would end, or if he wished it would go on for eternity. He hung onto every word that fell from John's mouth, like honey from a hive. Meanwhile, he was more embarrassed than he'd been since last year's trigonometry exam (on which he'd scored third lowest in the whole class).
But then he and John met gazes again, and it was as soft as a sunset, and George knew immediately that he never wanted to stop knowing this boy.
"That's brave," he finally managed. "To publish your most intimate desires for the world to read."
John's eyes grew light. His lips quirked upward. "Yes," he mused. "It is, isn't it?"