More Jonelias Magic AU. This one is kinda short, sorry ^^
The lecture hall was filling in quickly. Jon secured a spot for himself in one of the topmost rows, giving him a decent view of the podium even if he would have to squint to make out the writing on the blackboard. And, luckily, no one questioned his presence here.
Master Bouchard arrived five minutes prior to the start of the lecture and began it exactly on time; less punctual students were still entering the hall, but they had to do so under Bouchard’s disapproving gaze. The man was very particular about schedules.
And he was a good speaker, Jon had to give him that: thorough, succinct, engaging. He kept watching his own audience, too, paying attention to their reactions, answering questions and clarifying his points when necessary.
When the lecture ended precisely ninety minutes later, a number of students would still crowd around Master Bouchard, but he excused himself with a polite smile. He had another class to teach in half an hour, and a department meeting after that. He was a busy man.
“Mr Sims. A word?”
Jon startled; he thought he was being inconspicuous, with his head kept down and a group of excitable undergrads in front of him. Nevertheless he could feel the weight of Bouchard’s gaze, and he nodded automatically, making his way forward. The other students were leaving the hall in small groups, chatting amongst themselves, mostly about nonsense. Jon closed the door after them with a sense of relief.
“I thought you took this course already,” Bouchard said.
“I did. In my second year,” Jon said. “But—”
But what, Jon? He had no reason to be here. They both knew it. And he hadn’t thought to prepare an excuse beforehand, so now he just stood there in incriminating silence, faced with Bouchard’s pale eyes and wry smile.
“You have a question,” Bouchard said. “Ask it.”
“I never said I did,” Jon said. Of course he had questions; he always did. It wasn’t such a leap to assume that. But he wasn’t entirely sure what they were as of yet.
Bouchard was waiting for them. It wasn’t—polite, exactly, to take up too much of his time; Jon watched him methodically and neatly sort out his papers and put them away into a briefcase. He had very neat, precise handwriting, Jon couldn’t help but notice.
The golden clasps snapped shut. Jon swallowed.
“Why did you come to the arena?” Jon asked. “That night, two weeks ago. You don’t usually come in that late…” He bit his tongue; now why would he say that, why would he know that?
“Few people do,” Bouchard said. “Except during exam session, naturally.”
“This isn’t an answer.”
“No. It isn’t.”
Jon shook his head, frustrated.
“Then why?” he demanded.
Bouchard said nothing in response, merely continued to watch Jon with an enigmatic smile on his lips. He didn’t owe Jon any answers, obviously; he didn’t owe Jon anything. And yet Jon desperately wanted to get them out of him.
He didn’t move out of the way when Bouchard approached the door. He ought to. But he didn’t.
“You knew I would be there,” Jon said slowly. “You wanted to see me. Is that right?”
“Yes,” Bouchard said.
“Why?”
For a long moment, he was sure Bouchard wouldn’t respond. He had to tell himself that it was fine, he didn’t actually need him to, he really ought to move and let the subject go. So he applied for a job, and didn’t get; it happened before, it would happen again. There was absolutely no reason he should stalk and harass the man who rejected him. It was juvenile, and it reeked of desperation.
But there was more to that. He knew that on a visceral level. If Bouchard had simply rejected and ignored his application, he wouldn’t show up at the arena just to see him. There had to be a reason, and if Jon asked the right questions, maybe he’d get the proper answers.