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Tim isn’t entirely sure why he does it, why he drags the pillow between his legs. He supposes he’s desperate to savor the dream; he doesn’t dare open his eyes, doesn’t risk losing the heat; avoids thinking about how he looks, cheek pressed into the bedding as he murmurs low.
There’s something erotic about it, he guesses – about pretending. About his muscles tensing in anticipation every time he drives his weight down – slowly, painfully slow, because, well – that’s how he likes it.
Drawn out.
Teasing.
A sound drags itself from between his lips, a low groan that climbs the distance between his stumbling heart and anxious tongue. Warm palms find his hips, prompt him to move faster. Without thinking, he obeys.
It occurs to him, as he pushes up and onto his knees, as his thighs part and his body curls clumsily: he’s desperate – and he murmurs something about how perfect this is, how he needs it, until he’s sighing breathlessly into empty air.
“Rude,” a voice says, and Tim feels his toes curl. The dream sweeps him into something deeper, and he gasps when fingers thread his hair.
His lips part.
One single finger falls flat against his mouth.
“Not that I want to spoil a good show,” the voice comes again; quiet – words that tempt goosebumps to rise on Tim’s skin, “but I don’t think you were expecting an audience.”
For one long, drowsy moment, fantasy bleeds into reality; the world seems like something stagnant; the only sound is the sluggish thump-thump of Tim’s heart beating heavy between his lungs.
It’s feverishly loud.
Tim’s breath catches in wet-hot embarrassment, because he remembers – he’s not home, he’s at Jason’s – and his eyes flutter open, half-lidded and heavy.
“Good dream?” the voice asks, and this time, Tim can see the lazy grin that accompanies it – wonders how this is possible, how Jason of all people could be giving him that look – could have seen him.
“Let me guess,” Tim hums blearily, his voice sounding deep, muffled against bedding. It’s a struggle to keep his face neutral, to blink groggily as if he’s done nothing wrong. “You’re the get off in the shower type?”
His words are tired; his body aches from a long night on patrol.
The question catches Jason off guard; certainly isn’t the response he’d expected – for a moment, he looks curious, but it’s a passing emotion – brief and fleeting, replaced by folded lips and knowing eyes; the type of gaze that has Tim coming awake, because his pulse is thrumming.
“Well, I’m certainly not the wet-dream-in-someone-else’s-bed type.” Jason’s mouth curls at the corners. Tim watches him shift, feels the sheets get dragged Jason’s direction when Jason rolls onto his side, draws his arm up, and props his head idly on the upturned palm of his hand. “Not that I’m complaining.”
The sluggish warmth in Tim’s veins fans out, and he snorts in an effort to ward it off. Keeping his eyes half-mast and gaze uninterested, he offers, “What can I say,” and he purses his lips in order to blow a rogue bang from blocking his view of Jason. “I try to keep things exciting.”
A hushing noise sounds from above, and Tim feels his skin prickle as a light flow of air brushes his exposed flesh; compared to the heat trapped between Tim’s thighs, it’s a startling contrast, and he feels a chill run the length of his spine.
“Well, this certainly isn’t boring,” Jason smirks. “So, what happens next?”
The question is delivered with such innuendo that Tim can feel the flush that creeps to his cheeks; his brows furrow as he lifts himself just enough to turn away from Jason, unable to ignore the way his heart jackhammers against his ribs.
“Goodnight, Jason,” he says.
Jason laughs, all too boyish – and Tim feels him moving; when Jason speaks next, his tone is lighter. “Oh no, I’ve offended him,” he jokes, and Tim isn’t sure how this is possible – how many times have they done this, have they finished patrol and come back to Jason’s place to crash; how many times has this particular tension settled between them, and now – now it’s looming, an indelicate thing that Tim isn’t ready to have brought out and into the open.
“I mean, I just thought I’d ask,” Jason continues, sighing. “After all, you were saying my name.”
At that, Tim whirls back around; twists in order to throw a formidable glare Jason’s direction. “I was not,” he finds himself arguing, but Jason is right there, and they nearly bump noses.
Tim acts on reflex and pushes him; makes Jason lose his balance and go tumbling onto his back.
“Go to sleep,” he repeats. “You didn’t see anything.”
“Oh, I definitely saw something,” Jason retorts, and Tim’s eyes widen in warning – he’s too tired for this, but Jason is already dragging his arms up and folding them behind his head. “You owe me a pillow, by the way –”
“Ugh,” Tim pushes himself up and drags out the pillow from beneath him; it’s surprising how quickly he’s come awake, and how much strength he has when it comes to whamming Jason in the chest with it – he can’t really tell if Jason is laughing or wheezing, at least not until Jason’s suddenly up, and Tim finds that he really can’t out-maneuver someone with Jason’s build.
“Really?” Jason questions, attempting to wrench the pillow from Tim’s grip – but Tim doesn’t make it easy, and as they wrestle, he says, “Seriously Jason, you didn’t see anything—”
–and Jason lets go at the same time that Tim pulls, which sends Tim sprawling, and it’s just like sparring, just like all of the times they’ve trained; Jason manages to get atop Tim with ease, looking smug after-the-fact.
It doesn’t happen like either of them expect, however; the pillow gets dragged between them, half-caught beneath Jason’s thighs and above Tim’s hips, and it’s impossible to miss the sharp sound that puffs from Tim’s mouth just before he claps his hands over his lips.
It isn’t until Jason pokes at his arm that Tim realizes he’s clenched his eyes closed; he shakes his head abysmally certain this is his death day, and swallows hard when Jason shifts his weight, and gods he shouldn’t have, because oh, that feels really, really good – and Tim, chewing his lower lip, peeks open his eyes.
“Hey,” Jason says, his expression a bit more serious than Tim would have expected – though there’s some amusement to it, hiding in the corners of Jason’s lips.
“Hey.”
A silence sprawls, inciting Jason to lean forward; his weight causes Tim to inhale deeply, bringing Jason to ask, “So. What were you dreaming, exactly?”
Tim’s eyebrows knit. “Jason.”
“Contrary to Timothy Drake’s Power of Assumption,” Jason says, hands settling into the bedding on either side of Tim’s shoulders, “I’m not making fun of you.”
The frown marring Tim’s features doesn’t leave; in fact, he lets disbelief claim his gaze. “But you are embarrassing me. Get off.”
Jason sighs. “Right here? Right now? I thought we already decided I was too boring for that.”
“Jason,” Tim says, a bit quieter, because every shift in Jason’s weight presses the pillow tighter to his groin, and there’s something undeniably erotic about being pinned in place. “You already know what I was dreaming about.”
Something – some unreadable emotion – flickers in Jason’s eyes, and for a moment, he seems to lose his boyishness; Tim isn’t sure what to make of it, and finds himself caught off guard when Jason sits back and drags a hand through his hair, just before scratching at the nape of his neck.
“Maybe not this time,” he says, and Tim feels his heart pounding; when Jason is serious, the entire world seems to slow, and all Tim can do is listen. “But…other times…you’ve definitely said my name.”
It’s the type of admission that has Tim’s adrenaline going, and he feels himself go so incredibly rigid that he knows Jason feels it – and damn, Jason isn’t even looking him in the eyes anymore—
“So…” Jason continues, trying to smother any silence that threatens to sit between them. “I guess I’m just looking for clarity, babybird,” his gaze dances back, intent on meeting Tim’s. “What’s on your mind?”
It’s unfair, Tim thinks, to be trapped here; fear and anxiety wring themselves dry in his gut, and he shakes his head, stubborn. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, because he can still play this off, he can still get out of it, he can still—
“I think, one time, I was doing this,” Jason’s voice delivers the sinuous stretch of words, and Tim watches him move; follows Jason’s head down to his torso, where he places a raw kiss onto the soft fabric of Tim’s shirt.
Tim feels like he can’t breathe.
Jason edges forward, places his lips just a bit higher and this time, lifts his eyes to catch Tim as he does so.
“Jason…”
“And I think I’ve figured out that you like it slow,” Jason tells him, sitting a bit straighter. “And that you –”
“Jason,” Tim interrupts again, and he knows his cheeks are hot, that his embarrassment is a wildfire that’s spread to his neck – that his voice sounds uneasy, and ragged. He swallows, and the sound is audible.
Somehow, Jason isn’t tense; he seems completely in control, which is baffling. He looks soft around the edges, pliant, as if he plans to ease Tim into the fact that something between them has shifted, no matter the fact that Tim’s struggling to keep balanced.
“Just tell me you like me,” Jason says, and he’s close enough that Tim feels the warmth of his breath on the skin of his neck. “Hurry up and admit it so I can tell you I feel the same way.”
Tim’s heart beats through his shirt; it’s difficult not to look at Jason like he’s never seen him before, like this is brand new, something wholly unreal, and he feels every fiber tingling restlessly, and he can’t believe it, because what?
“Now you’re making fun of me,” he says, words caught between impatient breaths, and Jason has the nerve to look annoyed, to roll his eyes with a belabored sigh.
“Pretty sure this is a confession,” he states, before absently flicking the cushion trapped between them. “Also pretty tired of being jealous of a pillow. Can’t say I’ve ever envied an inanimate object before, so congrats on that.”
Tim stares quietly, all too aware of his silence when Jason simply waits him out, and he gives up chewing his lower lip in order to say, “Well…in the pillow’s defense, I’ve always pictured you…behind me…”
Jason takes it, eyes glittering as he raises an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”
Tim doesn’t think he can admit to anything else, at least not tonight; he swallows, hard, before saying, “I can’t believe this is happening.”
Jason exhales before scratching at his neck, shrugging loosely. “Well, I for one can’t believe you’ve spent months confusing me with a pillow—”
“Months,” Tim repeats with a whimper.
“—I mean, do you see the resemblance? Because I will bet cold hard cash this pillow’s never spent a day in the gym, and –”
“Jason.”
Jason pauses to say, “What? It’s true.”
“I like you, too.”
“Dream me or real me?” Jason questions, bringing his hand to rest over his heart. “Should I put on a pillow case?”
Tim rolls his eyes and murmurs, “What you should do is kiss me.”
And so Jason does.