Boone bought a guitar once. He used to slip the strap over his shoulder and let his fingers strum the strings making noise instead of music. He never learned to play, it’s probably still in the back of his closet somewhere gathering dust.
He has a thing for musicians though. And he has a thing for Jack.
These two feelings collide when he watches Jack sit down at the piano.
“You play?” Boone asks surprised.
Jack chuckles, and the laugh lines around his eyes crinkle. Boone fights the urge to touch them, to touch him.
“A little,” Jack replies.
So he plays, his fingers racing across the keys, something classical and melancholy---Mozart maybe, or Chopin, Boone isn’t sure. It doesn’t matter. It’s good, it’s beautiful.
He watches Jack’s face as he plays; he looks so earnest, so lost in thought. His head is tilted to the right just a tiny bit, and Boone knows he’s thinking, remembering what note comes next.
Boone’s breathing a little harder than he should be. Jack stops mid song and Boone knows he’s been caught, but he can’t stop staring at Jack’s lips, at his hands, at all of him really.
Fuck it, Boone thinks. There’s a guitar in his closet he never learned to play and a mother a thousand miles away he never learned how to say no to, and a man sitting across from him he doesn’t want to say he never kissed.
So he does.
It’s hesitant, like he thinks better of it halfway there and tries to pullback but Jack places a hand on the back of Boone’s neck and forces him to close the gap. Then he’s kissing Jack Shephard. Jack’s lips are soft, but the stubble on his chin stings when it scrapes across Boone’s skin. He tastes nice and clean somehow, like mint.
Boone moves forward, trying to get closer and his hand slaps down on the keys. The sound is loud and unexpected and Jack breaks their kiss with a laugh.
“You play too?” he asks, a twinkle in his eye.
Boone grins, hopes he’s not blushing, knows he probably is.
“You have any requests?” Boone asks.
Jack reaches down and catches Boone’s hand tugging him to his feet. He leans in and whispers, “Just one.”
I've Always Had a Thing for Music Men, Jack/Boone, PG-13, music
He has a thing for musicians though. And he has a thing for Jack.
These two feelings collide when he watches Jack sit down at the piano.
“You play?” Boone asks surprised.
Jack chuckles, and the laugh lines around his eyes crinkle. Boone fights the urge to touch them, to touch him.
“A little,” Jack replies.
So he plays, his fingers racing across the keys, something classical and melancholy---Mozart maybe, or Chopin, Boone isn’t sure. It doesn’t matter. It’s good, it’s beautiful.
He watches Jack’s face as he plays; he looks so earnest, so lost in thought. His head is tilted to the right just a tiny bit, and Boone knows he’s thinking, remembering what note comes next.
Boone’s breathing a little harder than he should be. Jack stops mid song and Boone knows he’s been caught, but he can’t stop staring at Jack’s lips, at his hands, at all of him really.
Fuck it, Boone thinks. There’s a guitar in his closet he never learned to play and a mother a thousand miles away he never learned how to say no to, and a man sitting across from him he doesn’t want to say he never kissed.
So he does.
It’s hesitant, like he thinks better of it halfway there and tries to pullback but Jack places a hand on the back of Boone’s neck and forces him to close the gap. Then he’s kissing Jack Shephard. Jack’s lips are soft, but the stubble on his chin stings when it scrapes across Boone’s skin. He tastes nice and clean somehow, like mint.
Boone moves forward, trying to get closer and his hand slaps down on the keys. The sound is loud and unexpected and Jack breaks their kiss with a laugh.
“You play too?” he asks, a twinkle in his eye.
Boone grins, hopes he’s not blushing, knows he probably is.
“You have any requests?” Boone asks.
Jack reaches down and catches Boone’s hand tugging him to his feet. He leans in and whispers, “Just one.”
Boone hopes he knows the song.