He's not awake enough for this. He almost believes he's back in San Francisco, but the hall just outside is too quiet for it. But the bite of heavy pining doesn't care. Tim sucks in a breath, singular and low, and he's being pulled into a hug.
He's not awake enough for this. There's several things wrong here. His arm doesn't slot well between the bodies, his good hand still feels tired and torn and it weighs against the pull of a shoulder. Tim is burying his head into the front of Jeff's chest and he smells the smell of a late party, its smoke and drink and bodies. And despite it there's the cool of December night air still clinging to Jeff Calhoun, and Tim thinks that cold relief against his throbbing head is going to kill him. Or maybe it's the lack of breathing he's doing that's going to kill him. The hot pain of a fire in his right leg, the shock after shock after shock of lungs desperate to expand.
There's several things wrong here.
Tim is sure he's crying. He doesn't know why he's crying.
He's not awake enough for this.] You're crushing me.
[High, small, airy words because he can't breathe because his ribs are barely set because Jeff is an octopus of a man, all limbs and
intelligence?
Tim's no better. He'd be hanging tight if he could, a dependency for validation and affection just suddenly there, between them.
Tim laughs, short and rough and even his throat is parched and hurt. And his chest hurts-- seriously fucking burns
and Jeff's got December air on his person, still, lightly generating a contrast against flush skin that Tim's half delirious for. He's crying, but the tears are drying fast. Tim Drake's not used to
no subject
He's not awake enough for this. He almost believes he's back in San Francisco, but the hall just outside is too quiet for it. But the bite of heavy pining doesn't care. Tim sucks in a breath, singular and low, and he's being pulled into a hug.
He's not awake enough for this. There's several things wrong here. His arm doesn't slot well between the bodies, his good hand still feels tired and torn and it weighs against the pull of a shoulder. Tim is burying his head into the front of Jeff's chest and he smells the smell of a late party, its smoke and drink and bodies. And despite it there's the cool of December night air still clinging to Jeff Calhoun, and Tim thinks that cold relief against his throbbing head is going to kill him. Or maybe it's the lack of breathing he's doing that's going to kill him. The hot pain of a fire in his right leg, the shock after shock after shock of lungs desperate to expand.
There's several things wrong here.
Tim is sure he's crying. He doesn't know why he's crying.
He's not awake enough for this.] You're crushing me.
[High, small, airy words because he can't breathe because his ribs are barely set because Jeff is an octopus of a man, all limbs and
intelligence?
Tim's no better. He'd be hanging tight if he could, a dependency for validation and affection just suddenly there, between them.
Tim laughs, short and rough and even his throat is parched and hurt. And his chest hurts-- seriously fucking burns
and Jeff's got December air on his person, still, lightly generating a contrast against flush skin that Tim's half delirious for. He's crying, but the tears are drying fast. Tim Drake's not used to
this.] I'm so screwed up, I'm sorry. I'm sorry.