“Hey old man! Shouldn’t ya be dressin’ more like from your century?” Never let it be said that Jason has impulse control, never. The guy he called out to ain’t even that old, can’t be past college age, not that Jason’ll ever get to see it, but he stands by what he said. The dude is walking around like an extra from Saved By The Bell, with his collar popped and his hair brushed back. Looks fucking wack if you ask Jason, but no one ever bothers to ask anyway. Jason is a pretty loud guy, so it’s no wonder that the stranger can hear him, even if traffic is pretty shitty round this time.
The stranger turns towards him, and man oh man are those the bluest eyes Jason has ever seen. He cocks an eyebrow, and that’s all the confirmation Jason needs that this guy ain’t from his part of town. No one round here has the time to practice making expressions in the mirror.
“Coming from the kid blasting Guns N’ Roses like he ever saw the 80’s? As if.” These, as far as Jason’s concerned, are fighting words; come into his part of town and start shit talking about Axl? Fat fucking chance. As Jason runs across the street, flipping off the fucker who almost hits him, the stranger looks a bit scared. Fuckin’ rich kid scared o’ the street rat.
“Woah, woah, woah, who’re you to be talkin’ shit?” he asks, not really expecting an answer, but this guy must be one hell of a smartass. He kind of digs it.
“Timothy Drake. And you are?” He says, sticking out the palest, smoothest hand Jason has ever seen, and they’re one hell of a contrast to his darker, rougher hands. Calluses built from years of hard labor that’ll never go away catch on baby smooth hands, keeping them attached for a millisecond longer than necessary.
“Jason,” he says, not giving this Timothy the pleasure of knowing his goddamn pedigree. “So Timmy, what’re ya doin’ in this part of town?” Most people avoid this side of the tracks, at least if they know what’s good for em, and Timmy’s got I-know-what’s-good-for-me written all over him.
“Just wanted to see knew sights. Gotham’s a pretty big place; it’d be kinda lame to only know my part of town,” Timmy says, smooth as butter, and Jason is in no place to be talking to some silver-tongued bastard from the upscale part of town. He don’t need no uptown girl, but Jason’ll be damned if he does what’s good for him.
“She’s a bitch of a city, ain’t she? Hope you liked your fancy shmancy tour, but don’t ya got polo or somethin’ to be headin’ off to?” Jason’s not entirely sure what polo is, to be honest, but it sounds like something a rich boy would like.
“No, I can’t say that I’ve ever played that actually, why Jason? You into riding?” Timmy asks, smiling like the goddamn fucking devil, and Jason is now positive that this dude is full homo, like raging. He doesn’t know if it makes him uncomfortable, and that uncertainty makes him really fucking uncomfortable.
“Fuckin’ weird man, I ain’t got time to be doin’ stupid shit. Like talking to you. Now get to steppin’.” Jason says all this as he backs away, almost getting hit by another fucking car god wouldn’t that be great , but it’s his one day off so he doesn’t quite plan on dying. Yet.
“Yeah? Head back to your stoop and shitty 80’s music, Jason,” Timmy says, and boy is he pushing it. He’s just lucky that they’re standing in front of the apartment of the only old hag in the neighborhood that’ll actually call the damn cops.
“Head back to your mansion football head,” Jason yells all the way from his side of the street, and Timmy just flips him off in response. Whatever this feeling is that he’s feeling, it needs to go right the fuck away.
The next time they meet, Jason’s passing a joint back and forth between him and Roy, and spends so long staring that he hits that shit until it’s to the point of burning his finger tips. Timmy ain’t dressed like nothin’ special, just looking like a Boy Meets World extra, but his hair is greased back and damn does it have him feeling some type of way.
“Close your fuckin’ mouth Jaybird. Ya’ look like a fish, and stop hogging it will ya?” Roy says, yanking the joint from his fingers, but Jason’s not really paying attention. Right now, he’s got tunnel vision, and all he can see is Timmy. He’s got a nice buzz going on, feeling loose but not stoned, and he’s just high enough to run across the street, smacking the hood of the car of the fucker that almost flattens him.
“Timmy!” He says, probably a bit louder and more excited than necessary, but if anyone asks, he’ll blame it on the weed. “Didn’t think I’d see ya in this part o’ town again. Didja get lost on the way to your stables?” Not that he’ll ever admit it, but Jason did some research on polo. Never let it be said that his insults are inaccurate.
“Do you just look up ‘rich people’ in an encyclopedia and spit out whatever you read?” Timmy asks, cocking his eyebrow into an immaculate arch, one that Jason should definitely not be taking notice of.
“Are ya gonna introduce me to yer friend Jaybird?” Roy calls out all the way from his stoop across the street, breaking Jason from his daze of looking into those baby blues.
“Friend of yours?” Tim asks, and all Jason can do is nod dumbly and hope he doesn’t look as high as he feels. “Let’s go meet him then.” Tim grabs a firm hold of Jason’s arm, and this time they don’t almost get hit as they cross the street, something he’ll count as a win just this once.
“Roy, this is Timmy; Timmy, this is Roy,” Jason states simply, not really wanting to make a whole production out of this. He doesn’t want to keep these two in close quarters for much longer; he has a real bad feeling that Roy is gonna say something really fucking stupid.
“ Damn Jaybird, you shoulda introduced me an’ Timmy sooner; he’s the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen,” Roy exclaims, giving the sleaziest wink that Jason has ever seen.
“I go by Tim actually; Jason is the only person I’ve met that insists on calling me such a childish nickname,” Timmy says, and man can Jason feel his ears turn red. He knew Timmy must’ve been older than him by a bit, but he didn’t think the guy thought of him as a child.
“Aight, Tim it is. So Tim , wanna take a hit?” Roy asks as he hands over the roach, and Jason is about ready to bust a gut at the fact that Roy thinks innocent little Timmy will wanna smoke with them.
“Sure,” Tim says to Jason’s utter surprise, and he’s sure that at this point he looks even more like a fish, mouth hanging all open and shit. Between Timmy’s smooth, thin fingers is an eighth of their original joint, and as it gets brought closer and closer to those impossibly red lips, all Jason can think about is how soft those lips must be. Tim hits it, inhaling deeper than Jason thought he would, and the minimal coughing that follows proves that Timmy isn’t as innocent as originally thought.
A buzzing off to his side brings Jason out of his trance just in time to see Roy check his pager with an exaggerated eye roll. “Fucking Oliver. I gotta bounce Jay, I’ll hit you up next time I’m out of solitary. Nice to meet ya Tim, I’ll catch you around sometime,” Roy says, and with those simple goodbyes he’s off and on his way, leaving Jason and Tim to sit together in their silent, blissed out glory.
“You know...both times I’ve seen…you’ve almost gotten hit by a car? Think it’s the same dude too, must have a hit on you or somethin’,” Timmy says, punctuating the statement with morbid fucking chuckle if you ask Jason.
“Yeah, but I ain’t nearly that lucky. Only way I’m gettin’ outta this shithole is if I work myself to fucking death,” he says, entirely serious. This is Jason’s least favorite part about getting high: the part where his mouth just won’t fucking stop. He so desperately wants to backpedal, to take back all the fucking depressing shit, but now he can’t open his damn mouth.
“Wha-what? Jason, dude, you shouldn’t talk like that man. It’s not that bad and-”
“You don’t fucking get it!” Jason interrupts, and suddenly it’s like the years of pushing down his feelings, every single one, is coming back to bite him in the ass. “You ain’t from this part Timmy. You work all fucking day, and you get nowhere . I’m a dropout. Didja know that? I dropped out this year so I could work to pay fucking rent, and I’m gonna work everyday until I’m in the ground. Every day is fucking terrible, and nothing even makes me happy anymore. I mean, look at me! I’m high and all I can talk about is how much I wanna die.” There’s tears streaming down his face now; he can taste the salt as it falls into his open mouth. He much look like such a pussy, crying on his fucking stoop, but at least if anyone walks by he can blame his reddened eyes on the weed, maybe salvaging a bit of cred.
“Jason, it’s not like that. If you keep working, you’ll get promoted, and get paid more and things will get easier.” Leave it to a fucking rich kid to think the world actually works like that.
“Why dontcha be my befo-beno-benefactor Timmy? How rich are you compared to Bruce Wayne? I can just sit there lookin’ pretty, and you can pay me for it. I’ll be a trophy husband or whatever.” Why the fuck did I say that? Why in the ever loving fuck did I say that? There’s no way to fix what he’s said, no way to make it not sound gay as hell. Jason’s not like Roy; he can’t play that ‘I’ll do anything once’ role that Roy does.
“You’re too much of a smart-ass to be a trophy husband. How bout you work all day...and I stay home looking pretty,” Timmy says, and Jason about has a fucking heart attack. Are they flirting? Is that what you call this? He knew guys got together, heard enough of Roy’s highly detailed stories, but he never thought of himself like that .
“Didn’t take you for a fucking queer.”
“Didn’t take you for a homophobe.”
Jason has never considered himself one before, but this nervousness in his gut must mean that he is. All he can focus on is how close Timmy is and how if anyone saw the two of them like this, they’d kick his ass from here to Blüdhaven.
“I’m kidding; homophobes don’t look at other guys like you’re looking at me,” Tim says, and Jason’s heart about dtops.
“Well how am I lookin’ at ya if yer so smart?” He’s not sure what the answer will be, not even sure he wants to know, but all Jason knows that in this moment, he never wants Timmy to leave. He never wants this moment, the smell of weed hanging in the air between them and humidity all around and Tim’s eyes bluer than any Gotham sky he’s ever seen.
“You’re looking at me like you don’t have a damn clue how you’re feeling.”
“An’ what the fuck am I supposed to do about it?”
“Just get jiggy with it,” Timmy says, his expression unwavering. At first Jason thinks that Tim is coming onto him, asking for Jason to go upstairs and get down and dirty with him, but when all Tim does is place his soft hand over Jason’s own calloused one, he thinks things may not be all that he thought.