Just This Once

The way Peter tilted his head, brushing a stray dark curl from his temple with the back of a charcoal-smudged knuckle, made Jacob's stomach do a full corkscrew. It was ridiculous. Completely idiotic. He was supposed to be sketching the plaster bust of a Roman emperor, not cataloging the minute details of Peter’s profile. But how could he not? The light from the tall window, thick with dust motes and summer heat, caught the sharp line of Peter’s jaw, outlining him like he was some kind of… divine blueprint. God, Jacob was pathetic.

He pressed the charcoal harder against his sketchbook, tearing a tiny hole in the paper. Shit. The emperor’s nose was now a jagged crater. A bead of sweat traced a path down Jacob’s spine, gluing his t-shirt to his skin. It was seventy-five degrees in this old community center classroom, the air conditioner rattling like a dying mech, but Jacob felt like he was actively melting. Peter had that effect. Melting. He was a human heat sink, pulling every calorie of Jacob’s composure into a slow, agonizing liquefaction.

“Having some trouble there?” Peter’s voice. Low, smooth, like gravel smoothed by a river. It scraped against Jacob’s nerves and then settled somewhere deep in his chest, making his ribs ache. He looked up, probably too fast, his eyes wide, startled. Peter was standing over him. Peter. Over him. How had he even gotten there? Jacob’s brain, usually a frantic hamster wheel of anxieties, just flatlined. All he registered was the faint scent of something clean, like soap and… maybe something a little spicy, like cinnamon. His gaze snagged on the collar of Peter’s plain white t-shirt, where a tiny, almost invisible speck of crimson paint clung to the fabric. It was red. Like blood. Or maybe just, you know, red paint. Why was he noticing this? Why was he always noticing things that made him feel like a pervert?

“Uh… no. Yes. I mean, the nose. It’s… challenging.” Jacob gestured vaguely at the mutilated plaster emperor. His hand shook a little. He really hoped Peter didn't see that. Peter leaned closer, his shadow falling over Jacob’s sketchbook, plunging the Roman into temporary eclipse. Jacob could feel the warmth radiating off him, the subtle shift in air pressure. It was like standing too close to a roaring fire, but instead of backing away, Jacob found himself holding his breath, leaning in just a fraction.

“Here.” Peter’s voice was softer now, a murmur. He took the charcoal stick from Jacob’s suddenly numb fingers. His hand brushed Jacob’s—a feather-light contact that still managed to send a jolt straight through Jacob’s arm, up to his shoulder, and then exploded somewhere behind his eyeballs. Jacob’s entire body tensed, a wire pulled taut. He watched, mesmerized, as Peter’s long, capable fingers moved over the page. Peter wasn’t looking at Jacob. He was focused, brow furrowed just slightly in concentration, a tiny vertical line appearing between his dark eyebrows.

He drew a new line, smooth and confident, fixing the emperor’s profile with a few expert strokes. It was so simple. So elegant. How could someone be so good at everything? Jacob’s own attempt looked like a caveman had attacked the paper. Peter straightened, handing the charcoal back. Their fingers brushed again. This time, Jacob wasn’t ready for the aftershock. He fumbled the charcoal, and it clattered to the floor, rolling under his easel.

“Oops,” Jacob mumbled, his face suddenly hot. He bent down quickly, his forehead knocking against the wooden leg of the easel with a dull thunk. A small, yelping noise escaped him. He winced, rubbing his head, feeling the immediate bump forming. He knew, just knew, Peter was watching him. He could feel it, an intense, almost physical pressure, even with his head ducked under the easel, his ears burning.

When Jacob finally resurfaced, clutching the charcoal, Peter was still there, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. It wasn’t a mocking smile, not really. It was… soft. A little amused. “You okay?” Peter asked, his eyes crinkling at the corners. That was it. That smile, that concern, that low rumble of a question. Jacob’s internal monologue, which was usually a cacophony of self-deprecation, just went silent. A blank screen. His face, he was sure, was a vibrant shade of scarlet.

“Yeah. Fine. Just… clumsy.” He managed, his voice coming out a little strangled. He wanted to say something cool. Something witty. Something that would make Peter see him as more than the guy who punched himself with an easel. Instead, he just stood there, clutching the charcoal like a lifeline, feeling the bump on his head throb. Peter chuckled. It was a low, warm sound. And Jacob, despite his throbbing forehead and mortifying clumsiness, felt a ridiculous, desperate warmth spread through him.

The rest of the class was a blur. Jacob kept his head down, pretending to meticulously shade the emperor’s toga, but every fiber of his being was aware of Peter. Peter was back at his own station, sketching, occasionally humming a low, tuneless melody. Jacob couldn't even tell if he was good at art. He was probably brilliant. Peter was brilliant at everything. Jacob just watched the subtle movements of Peter's hand, the way his shoulders shifted as he leaned into his work. It was hypnotic, distracting, and utterly useless for actually making art.

When the instructor, a kind but perpetually tired woman named Mrs. Crawford, announced a fifteen-minute break, Jacob nearly jumped out of his skin. He had been so immersed in his Peter-gazing, he’d forgotten about the concept of time. He needed a drink. He needed to splash cold water on his face. He needed to stop existing. He reached for his water bottle, fumbling it, and it rolled off his table, spilling water across the dusty floor. Of course. Because that’s what Jacob did. He spilled things. He broke things. He made a spectacle of himself.

As he knelt to mop up the small puddle with a paper towel, a hand appeared in his periphery, holding out another, thicker paper towel. Peter. Again. Jacob looked up, cheeks burning. “You really are a magnet for trouble, aren’t you?” Peter said, a quiet laugh in his voice. He knelt too, surprisingly close, helping Jacob blot the water. Their knees almost touched. Jacob could feel the air hum between them, charged with something he couldn't name, something sharp and sweet and terrifying.

“Guess so,” Jacob managed, his voice barely a whisper. He felt a nervous laugh bubble up, small and weak. Peter’s eyes, dark and incredibly observant, met his. Jacob felt a familiar jolt, a current of awareness that locked them together for a breath too long. Peter’s gaze was intense, unyielding, and Jacob couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was like being caught in the beam of a spotlight, every embarrassing thought, every clumsy movement, illuminated.

Peter didn’t say anything. He just watched Jacob, a strange, unreadable expression on his face. It wasn't pity, or judgment. It was… something else. Something that made Jacob’s throat feel tight, his breath catch. Then, Peter finally broke eye contact, turning his attention to the last drops of water. “There,” he said, his voice back to its normal, calm cadence, “all clean.” He stood up, offering Jacob a hand. Jacob took it without thinking, his fingers closing around Peter’s firm palm.

The touch was immediate, electric. Peter’s skin was warm, a little rough from the charcoal. Jacob’s entire hand tingled. He pulled himself up, a little too quickly, and stumbled, bumping against Peter’s shoulder. “Oh! Sorry,” he blurted out, pulling his hand away as if burned. Peter didn’t flinch. He just steadied Jacob with a light touch on his elbow. “Easy,” he said, his voice soft, almost a caress.

Jacob’s head spun. Too much contact. Too much Peter. He needed to get away, needed air. He mumbled something about needing the restroom and practically bolted from the room, leaving Peter standing there, alone amidst the easels and the scent of paint, watching him go. He didn’t know if he was running from Peter or from the confusing, overwhelming intensity that Peter brought out in him.

He leaned against the cool tile of the community center bathroom wall, splashing water on his flushed face. His reflection stared back at him, wide-eyed and disheveled. He was such a mess. A total, utter, embarrassing mess. And yet, through all the mortification, a small, stubborn spark remained. The memory of Peter’s soft smile, the gentle touch on his elbow, the way his voice had dropped to that low, intimate murmur. It was enough. Just enough to make Jacob’s heart hammer against his ribs, a frantic, hopeful drum in the quiet hum of the summer afternoon.