· · ─ · ☠︎︎ · ─ · · , i think in that moment, they smile at each other and after a beat, leon leans in and kisses him. @scottkennedys ... ⭑.ᐟ
he feels akin to an open wound, salted and bloody. the night was muzzy with mid - summer air, buzzing from the company of fruit flies and cicadas falling from nearby trees; they could investigate a room just below had they not just retire from patrol—an abhorrent stench wafting from below the cracks in the door, a ruckus of noise emitting from the cracks in the window that seemed to follow them a floor up. their own room was caked with dust; cloth blinds that hadn't been cleaned since the seventies. carpets with cum stains and a mattress full of stab wounds and shitty stitch - jobs. they're just outside of gotham, a few cities over, where buildings were one storm away from being knocked loose and turned to rubble, soot and gravel littered the streets and there was no surprise to blood stains and mysterious substances coating the pavement. had they been anyone else, perhaps innocent passerby's with luck closer to the omen of black crows, they'd be in stark danger.
he almost didn't know what he was doing here. not on this mission, per say, but by leon's side. it had nothing to do with him. but being so close, with their knees bumping to the empty sway of their legs, restless and eager to ease the tensions of her private anxieties in one way or another, made jason's heart beat quicker than he anticipated. sweet jason, with his red hood helmet discarded but staring, is tipsy. and only tipsy. he swears with two beers in. nearly laying across the expanse of the table in all but shorts and a white wife beater. the table is small and meant to act as prop or decoration (and in the past a stable surface for coke lines or burnt spoons and used needles), a pathetic plaything holding tension between the two. he's thinking too long, too much, while leon talks about all and anything. and he isn't listening, he'll admit he isn't listening, because he's too far gone in his own head at this point.
the memories of being a beaten pup in the big city, defiant and wistful and covered in rain water, looking for a place to rest his head after getting the wits knocked from his gums. he rubbed blood on his teeth that night and stained his couch cushions bloody; awoke in his bed and had leon's scent rubbed in the strands of his hair and his cock hard (albeit, secretly and shamefully. as leon left for work that morning, early morning, back turned and all jason saw was biceps and thighs and his mess of hair. they never spoke about it) and he hasn't yet returned to his own home since.
lips graze the rim of the bottle innocently. forget the thought of the bottle being skin, and tasting salt and spit and saliva, and all else; a fantasy—instead lukewarm beer falls into his mouth, swishing around until he swallows. the next time leon's knee meets his it misses by a beat, and instead he grazes just above, where his thigh meets bone, and his breath nearly catches in his throat. he can't explain this... and if he could he wouldn't dare. the words would fall helplessly on the tip of his tongue, crash together like a nasty pileup on the highway, making his cheeks tint and his heart pound stupid.
to follow his lead, his leg extends, his own knee reach up past leon's knee. he doesn't know what he's doing, why he's mimicking him, why he feels a strong desire to tease him, taunt him, get some sort of reaction from him like a child. be it facetious, or flirtatious, or otherwise. he'd accept a punch to his jaw if it meant his fingers would graze his skin for just a moment. ❛ you're quiet. ❜
and maybe it's because their room is adjacent to the water coolers and vending machines, every so often releasing a noise akin to rusted coils and broken mechanics, that makes leon's voice falter. or more likely their neighbors, reeking of cigarette smoke and body ordor, so often walking past, talking to themselves, that leon fears whatever he's saying, confidential, relating to private matters jason guesses, may get in the wrong ears—god, he's so close, a shoulders length apart. something warm stirs in his lower belly, makes his legs feel unsteady. he wants something out of him. his hands, maybe, or his knee to touch his skin again, or his eyes to follow his, for just a second. a second longer than they usually do. just to—to do what .ᐣ tease him .ᐣ make a game of it all .ᐣ he's nervous but grinning, lopsided and silly, he takes another sip of beer, all bitter and fermented. ❛ why aren't you sayin' anything .ᐣ fuckin' hate me all of a sudden .ᐣ ❜
