10

Winston shuts his locker and flinches. "Holy shit," he says, staring wide-eyed at Jason who'd apparently been hiding behind the tiny locker door. "Fuck," Winston wheezes as he realizes what just happened and he can't resist letting his gaze drift over Jason from top to bottom.

He's dressed impeccably, like always, the curls in his hair begging for someone to tug on them. The longer Winston goes without saying anything, the redder Jason's face gets and it's utterly captivating to watch. Winston is licking his lips before he even realizes where his mind has gone, and he tilts his head back to make eye-contact with Jason. Who's agreed to go out with him. And who's now standing right before him, cheeks flushed.

Jason doesn't say anything either for a long moment, just standing there, looming like a great behemoth. And also like an angel. An angel behemoth?

Winston looks into Jason's eyes, getting lost for a long minute, and when he finally manages to breathe out a "Hi," in a truly astounding display of vocabulary prowess it's in a strangely soft voice. He's not used to hearing his voice go weak like that, but Jason's eyes are so beautiful he doesn't have the presence of mind to worry about it.

Jason smiles. "Hey," he says, ducking his head slightly and scuffing his foot on the floor. The flush on his cheeks deepens, something Winston didn't even thinks was possible. It's the first time in his entire life he's ever thought somebody fit the word 'fetching'.

"Hello," says Winston, mind so muddled he's tripping over the conversation.

Jason looks at him for another long second, then starts. He pushes off the lockers just enough to no longer be leaning on them and pats at his pockets, frowning somewhat as he shoves his hands into every pocket of his letterman (?) jacket, Winston's eyes following his every move like he's under a spell. Finally, Jason pulls out a piece of pink paper that's surely been folded over at least ten times. Approximately.

When Winston doesn't immediately take, Jason says, "My number."

Winston blinks. "I didn't realize..." he murmurs, reaching out and grabbing the paper. The tips of his fingers touch Jason's for the barest second and yet it's long enough to send hid heart tripping in his chest. Lightheaded, Winston flips what foot he's putting his weight on. "Thank you," he ends up saying, turning the paper bundle over in his hands.

"Of course," says Jason. Neither of them move, and Winston opens the paper holding his breath. glitter stains his fingers with every corner he pulls open and Jason murmurs a quiet, "Sorry."

"It's fine." Winston tosses Jason a smile. He holds his hand out to Jason and showcases his pretty nails. "I like glitter," he says and shrugs a little, in hindsight realizing that maybe he shouldn't have shoved his painted nails in Jason's face. Some people don't like men who use nail-polish, he knows, and though he wishes Jason will say they're pretty he does need to be realistic.

As much as it sucks.

But Jason breathes "Cool," and his eyes widen like he really thinks that. He leans down a little to get a better look but only ends up obfuscating (?) the overhead lights and and obscuring the color. "Could you do mine?"

"Really?"

"Yeah, it looks awesome." Jason squints, "Are those little stars?"

"Yeah?" Somehow, it ends up becoming a question.

Jason grins. "Could you do basketballs on mine?" he asks and he actually jumps a little on his feet. His eyes glitter as he stands up straight again, Winston's neck bending back to follow. Jason rubs his hands together and then puts them in his jacket's pockets, rocking somewhat on his heels. In a musing tone, he adds, "Basketballs would be awesome." [add a scene later of winston painting Jason's nails with little basketballs. let's pay this setup off!]

Winston's mind blanks again at the obvious excitement Jason is displaying and for a second he has no idea what to say. Does he want to paint Jason's nails? Duh. Can he paint them without dying from a heart-attack? Debatable.

"Sure," is what Winston ends up saying, sounding a little strangled. He coughs to clear his throat and smiles up at Jason. "I'd love to," he adds, just so that there's no misunderstandings. It's possible—possible— that he's actually kind of scared of Jason misunderstanding him.

He doesn't like to be misunderstood. And he especially doesn't want Jason, a guy he likes so much he feels lightheaded just talking to him, to be the one misunderstanding.

Jason's grins is blinding, his eyes glittering even when he blocks the light. "Awesome," he jumps on his feet again. He reaches out toward Winston's shoulder, freezes, and looks at him wide-eyed. "Ah," breathes Jason. He pulls his hand back and clears his throat, ducking his head for a second before he inhales so deeply Winston can see it, and then says, "Anyway, give me a text and I'll save your number, yeah?"

"Yeah," Winston nods.

Jason bobs his head as well. He glances around, coughs softly and scratches his nose. Says, "I have class so..."

"Oh, I do too," Winston smiles. He bites his lip and scuffs his foot on the floor in an subconscious mimicking of Jason's movements. "I'll text you," he says, and Jason grins at him again.

Winston kind of wants to bottle up Jason's grin so he can keep it for liquid happiness (?).

"Cool," Jason breathes, and then the bell rings and he hurries away.

Winston is comparably very close to his next class, and he walks at a rather sedate pace toward it. He pats his hands as he goes, trying to see if he can get the glitter off, attempting to move the glitter from his hands to his pants. It's not going all that well; glitter is fucking ruthless, truly. So he stops trying to get it off and instead turns his hat this way and that as he walks, passively observing them.

It's been mere minutes and yet he's already turned the image of Jason's blush around and around in his mind. It's kind of ridiculous, he thinks, how just seeing Jason blush blanks his mind and trips his heart up and makes his stomach flutter.

Reaching his class, Winston huddles up to his favorite seat and makes himself at home, patiently lying out his notebook and four pens, all in different colors. Students hustle around him, the classroom loud for a brief moment until the bell rings again and the classroom's door shuts with a bang.

The professor, middle-aged and with hair longer than his butt, clears his throat and barges right into a lecture about statistical anomalies in historical tax records [is that a thing]. Winston straightens his back when the professor's gaze drifts over the area where he's sitting.

As soon as the professor's head is pointed another direction, Winston slumps again. He puts his hand on the desk and splays his fingers out as wide as they can go. They're a bit fatter than skinny people's fingers, but the joints are straight and the skin is clear. There's barely any hair on them, and the bright green color has a glittery shine to it in the light.

Biting his bottom lip, he thinks of Jason's expression when he asked Winston to paint his own nails. Thinks of the excitement when Jason asked for little basketballs, the joyful expression.

Winston's lip stings and he ducks his head a little when the student--name unknown, he's never once spoken to them despite sitting beside them for months--beside him twitches and sighs, erasing a whole paragraphs from their notebook.

Winston looks back down at his nails. The professor's voice washes over him, a flood of information he doesn't have the piece of mind to untangle.

Fuck.

Winston might be in love.