It's not the fact that Bart is naked that makes this moment all sorts of wrong and inconvenient.
Tim has seen Bart naked before.
Tim has seen Bart naked over video-feed.
Tim has seen Bart naked in the communal showers with Kon and Gar.
Hell, Tim's done… pleasurable activities, to put it delicately, involving a naked Bart.
The wrong and inconvenient part includes an open foyer leading to Titan Tower's common room area.
Open—meaning without obstruction, without privacy, and really, anyone could wander in as Bart makes use of his connection to the Speed Force to whir around and decorate his surroundings.
A twisted cord of rainbow-lit Christmas lights loop around Bart's thin and muscular hips, almost like a half-assed lasso, the end of it trailing off his left leg; the colors blink repeatedly against the carpet.
A merry tune—vaguely resembling "Jingle Bells"—hums past Bart's upturned lips as the very naked boy bends over and picks up a white, cardboard box of various Christmas paraphernalia.
An instinctive thought in Tim's conscious urges him to toggle the lenses in his Red Robin cowl to a different mode than visible light—anything other than allowing himself to gawk for much longer—and Tim opts for raising one of his hands to block part of his face, and thusly his view of the other boy.
"Uhh…" a form of dignified acknowledgement rolls over and promptly dies as Tim open his mouth.
Bart shifts his shoulders, rounding the eight-foot-twenty Oregon Douglas-fir situated in the corner of the common room, addressing Tim, "Do you think the ornaments should be more spread out on this side?"
He points a finger to an empty patch at the top right-hand region of the tree. "Or should I leave some space for everyone else to put up their own ornaments?"
"They look great," Tim mumbles, still not lowering his hand, "Uh, Bart, why are you—?"
"You aren't even looking at them."
"So?" Bart retorts, and Tim cracks several fingers to catch a glimpse of a somewhat calculated leer overtaking Bart's soft mouth. Would have never seen that coming from him in the Impulse years.
Then again, Tim would have laughed in the face of someone informing him that Dick took the mantle of Batman without being tied up and beaten into it.
Character expectations, especially ones thought to be perennial, were usually proven ineffectual by future circumstances.
Tim clears his throat, the feel of it both strangely dry and tacky.
"There is a time and a place," he says quietly as Bart holds up a plastic-wrapped peppermint stick in his hands, biting away the wrapping.
It stains Bart's puckering lips a brighter pink, semi-glossed with saliva; and he sucks intently on the long, ribboned candy.
Tim keeps his eyes leveled Bart's gold ones examining him.
"What's there a time and a place for?" Rose asks behind him, approaching out of the foyer, and Tim curses the universe's idea of a sense of humor.
No. It was bound to happen. Open and public space, remember?
The white-haired girl blinks several times at Bart who smiles a little at her, lips sealed over the peppermint stick, and curls his fingers in an outstretched hand in a silent, cheerful greeting.
A loud, cackling laugh. "Nice package," she observes approvingly. Tim's cheeks darken.
Bart's hand goes sideways and his thumb juts up, his own cheeks shading a brighter pink than his lips. Oh god.
"I bet that sack of yours is ripe with goodies, Kid."
Tim works his fingers underneath his cowl to clasp them against the bridge of his nose. "Does anyone else want to show up and make this more awkward?" he mutters.
A casual shrug. Rose goes for an opened, dewing Red Bull can on a tablestand.
"Solstice is upstairs napping. She might wake up hungry and come into the kitchen for a snack."
She makes a face at the frowning boy. "Lighten up for once, will you? She's probably zonked out." Rose shakes the can at Tim.
"I just came here for this. Left it behind earlier." She huffs, glancing at Bart popping the stick of candy out of his mouth.
"Bird Wonder could use some holiday cheer. Why don't you decorate him?" When Bart snorts, grinning, Tim tenses up.
"Rose is kinda right," Bart tells him when she exits, "You've been grouchy lately, Tim." He adds thoughtfully, "Grouchier."
"I appreciate that."
At the sardonic comment, Bart sidles up to Tim, boldly eyeing him, "I mean that in an 'I want to help' way."
Tim's silence does not backslide into intimidating or cold. Something metallic pings as Tim taps a device on his utility bet.
"What did you do?"
"Disrupted the cameras from tracking anyone," Tim informs him unconcernedly, "The feedback will read it as a blip. It lasts for another nine seconds."
A faint smirk.
Pieces of golden, fuzzy tinsel—almost perfectly identical to Bart's irises—shimmer against the lamplight. They knot in Bart's hair.
Tim's fingers comb roughly into the tinsel and locks of brown, hooking when Bart plants his feet against Tim's bed impatiently and arches more fully underneath Tim, lightweight gloves tracing agonizingly slow over Bart's bare, trembling stomach and back.
The panting noises escaping Bart tightens Tim inside his clothes, his balls throbbing along with his heightened pulse, and he evens out his own breathing through his nose.
Tim nods after a minute firmly, settling his weight up to his knees and hands with the heels of his palms flat to the mattress.
Bart's warm fingers reach up cautiously, touching around the edges before summoning their usual confidence and tug the Red Robin cowl down towards the nape of Tim's neck. Sweaty clumps of fine, black hair fall over Tim's nose and forehead.
He feels Bart's fingers at his temples, sliding down over his shaven cheeks, and then back up, smoothing along the arches of Tim's eyebrows.
It is such an exceptionally gentle examination of his features that maybe it should be uncomfortable in some aspect.
Bart has seen him without the Robin mask and without the cowl. Bart has seen him without the cowl many times before now. Bart has seen him without clothes many times. Nothing ever changes when it is just them, face-to-face, without the cowls, without the superhero IDs…
"Pretty," Bart notices, mildly, teasingly, and grins largely at the blue eyes above him rolling in exasperation.
That's just it. Everything changes.
It's not an identity anymore.
It's raw emotion beyond the necessary intrinsic barriers and physical disguises.
It's just Tim and it's just Bart. Two teenage boys.
It's better this way.
"Mmm." Bart lifts his head from a pillow and angles his mouth to touch over Tim's. Soft.
Bart's eyelashes draw together. He hisses into the kiss when one of Tim's cool gloves brushes over the side of his penis, and Tim leans away to undo the armored wrist gauntlets before sliding the gloves off and folding everything neatly beside him.
"Don't need to be," Bart informs him, arching again when Tim's hand returns to stroking him. The shuddery breath releases from Bart's lips latched against Tim's neck.
"I think it's my turn…" he murmurs.
The utility belt and paracape join the bandoliers next to the gloves.
Bart eases the leg stockings down to Tim's knees, hands skimming over and ignoring the plentitude of scars—bullet wounds, knife punctures, broken pipes that had left mutilated gashes to frail human skin—as Tim unstraps and kicks off his boots with the rest of the stockings following. Tim retrieves the lubricant.
Their bodies lay flush. Bart wiggles his hips.
"Are you going to move first?"
"I can't sit still like this, Tim."
"Couldn't tell," Tim counters, smirking endearingly at the small complaint and at Bart ridiculously crossing his eyes and sticking his tongue at him.
He claims Bart's mouth into his own mouth, massaging it with his tongue, and he feels Bart's lubricated hands roam over his sides, pushing against the red body stocking and yanking it inside out over Tim's neck and head.
Tim groans when slippery hands lower, cupping his ass, spreading the cheeks a little, and oh, sh—
The low vibrations concentrate into Bart's arms and hands and fingers, into a lone finger straying against Tim's hole and rubbing around it.
Tim's thighs clench.
He pours some of the lubricant from the bottle over his hands, palming Bart's penis in faster movements, already beginning to twitch with a need to come.
Up the game. Tim adjusts himself to coat the insides of his thighs with one hand, letting out a grunt of effort.
Bart watches in some confusion before his mouth forms an 'O'.
"Tim…" he whimpers, and Tim's thighs clench around his hardened penis in response.
"What is it, Bart?"
The Tim smirk widens with smugness when Bart thrusts into him a couple times, tilting his head back with tinsel grinding into the pillowcase, screwing his expression as he comes, whimpering louder.
Bart's vibrating fingers return.
And Tim chokes out an annoyed gasp when Bart manages to flip them—lucky opportunity—but his hips jerk forward as those fingers work against his skin.
The tip of Bart's thumb grazes the head of Tim's swelling cock before Bart leans down, closing his mouth around it, and sucking hard.
Tim fights against jolting his partner with strong thrusts to point of gagging him with a cock forced down his throat—god, god, Bart—and instead grips into his bed sheets to restrain himself. "Nngn…oh f—shit, you…"
A pleasant, rhythmic hum around Tim's cock.
He realizes after a moment—it really only takes a moment with how familiar the tune is—that Bart is attempting to deep-throat him all the way in this time.
Deep-throat him… while humming to "Jingle Bells".
Tim doesn't know if that somehow killed the moment or enhanced it…
"B-Bart…" he breathes his partner's name warningly, and Bart shakes his head once, gold tinsel glimmering. He bobs up before sinking his mouth down on Tim's cock.
Tim's nails bite harder to the sheets when the first wave of his orgasm closes on him.
Bart's gold eyes shut as he tries to swallow, holding Tim in place when it rides out, and Tim's muscles relax, euphoric.
The other boy sits up, coughing into his hands heavily. Immediate concern flashes in Tim's eyes as he grasps into Bart's trembling shoulders.
"Don't need to be," Bart reminds him, regaining his breathing, and a tiny smile.
"You're okay though?"
Bart nods, "Of course I am," coughing lightly again and wiping his mouth clean with his forearm of a string of drool and Tim's come.
Tim tastes himself on Bart's pink lips—heady; salty; overwhelming—and it's a dizzying sort of pleasure and Tim needs to anchor himself to the other, wrapping a leg to Bart's waist when they settle back down. One of Bart's arms tucks to Tim's shoulder, patting Tim's neck.
"You're hard again," Tim points out, nonchalantly and Bart answers by playfully nudging against Tim's hipbone.
"Refractory period doesn't work for me."
"Do you think you could give me ten minutes to chill out?" Tim's sigh echoes. Bart quirks his eyebrows up. "It's been a long day…"
"I don't mind sleeping until then," Bart offers, burying his face into Tim's collarbone. "Wanted to spend Christmas Eve with you anyway…" he whispers.
His face softens as Tim's fingers affectionately pick away the Christmas tree tinsel from the tangles of his long, brown hair.