âi wish you could be in my body so you know what it feels like to love youâ is a very sweet apology and iâve been mulling it over for the past few days but i will not be forgiving my bumass bf
tim and reader if they were schrucy for my peanuts enthusiasts!!! pianist timberly. not proofread lol and underfinished sry gang. idek whats in it i wrote most of it in like june. hah! đđ¤law school killed me guys. like actually slaughtered and gutted my soul.
â
âHow long are you gonna practice for today? Itâs been an hour. I want you to help me with the paper we got assigned in English. You actually read the book, didnât you?â The truth was you didnât have anything better to do, leaning across the side of Timâs shiny baby grand piano. The better half of your Tuesdays and Thursdays were spent there, after classes. And while at first Tim barked and growled about scratches and dents, it softened to the occasional murmur and mutter once he realized you had no intention of stopping.
You were a constant he grew accustomed to, with your constant musing and questions. It was no different to hear you than it was the ticking of a metronome now. Responding was like breathing, he didnât have to stop his playing for it. âNo one asked you to stay. Sparknotes is free.â
His shortness was a constant you paid no mind. Tim liked you obviously, or he wouldnât keep you around. After all, you were lovely and everyone adored you. He was just shy about it, or maybe he just didnât know it yet. You were sure heâd come around, eventually.
âWhat are you playing anyway?â
âConcerto No. 2 by Rachmaninoff.â
âItâs lovely.â Turning your head, you spared him a glance to watch his expression. He was always so pretty; his features were so so gentle and he carried himself like a feathered thingâdelicate and graceful. âDoes it remind you of anyone?â
âNot exactly.â Unwavering as he usually was, his eyes were glued to the sheet music. Your eyes narrowed.
âNo one at all? No one sweet and lovely?â you pressed on.
âNope,â he responded. Straight and narrow, for all his gentle nature had to offer he always sounded blunt with you.
You crossed your arms with a huff, âyou were supposed to say me.â
The music ceased and all you could hear was the ticking of the metronome. Tim stared at the score for a couple beats before shaking his head. âYouâre not like this song at all. Youâre more like Beethovenâs Hammerklavier.â
Blessed with attention, you turned to face him with a grin. Always forgiving for him. âIs that one sweeter?â
âNo, itâs terrifying.â He didnât explain further, and you knew he wouldnât when he resumed his playing like nothing had been said.
âYou really know how to make someone swoon.â Even if you stopped smiling, you knew better than to let your feelings get hurt; shy boys always say the darnedest things.
âDo you think youâll like me when weâre older?â you asked once. His answer, like all things, wouldnât deter you. But it mightâve made things easier to endure.
âWhy would I like you when weâre older?â
You shrugged. âMaybe Iâll get really good at playing Chopin or maybe youâll just like the way I look. Youâd miss me if Iâd leave wouldnât you? Maybe you like me now and donât know it.â
With a snort he finished his piece, shuffling through his sheet music with his delicate musician hands. âOr maybe I wouldnât notice if you left, or I would finally know peace!â
And even if you were always forgiving and patient, you had your limits. There was only so much you could take in succession. Furrowing your brows, you picked your bag off the ground with a huff. You turned before you left to yell at him one more time before you left, not that heâd notice for anything. âI really am gonna be gone one day and youâre gonna feel sorry you said that!â
True to his nature Tim never reacted til you left. He wasnât entirely sure why either, maybe he was shy about itâ or maybe he just didnât want you to be right about anything. Most of the time it didnât matter when you yelled, but sometimes when you were trembling with it, it was almost enough to make his stomach drop.
He stared a little longer than usual at the door when you left. Time alone was time well spent; you were obnoxious when you interrupted, and you did often if you were feeling energetic. But he spent all this time learning to play through all you had to say, it was a waste not to have you there to say it. And while he adored playing more than anything, no one else adored his playing half as much as you.
Whatever youâd meant about being gone wasnât serious, where would you go? But it wasnât a welcome thought and he felt bad to consider it. At least for a little while.
A week later he learned you were very serious. You moved halfway across the country and you hadnât mentioned it. He had to find out when you waved goodbye to everyone else. You mightâve said something if you thought heâd hear you, but you didnât.
Beyond being very serious, you turned out to be very right too. In the weeks following your absence heâd make up questions youâd ask and heâd answer them to an empty room.
What color do you think looks best on me?
âThe one you wear the most.â
You wouldâve crinkled your nose when he said that. What color do I wear the most?
âYour favorite one.â
That wouldâve made you huff, maybe stomp your foot. You donât pay attention at all!
Then he wouldnât argue, but heâd silently note that he very much did pay attention; in the way you held your back straighter when you felt cute, or sulked on a bad hair day, or the way youâd strut around in your favorite pair of jeans. He just didnât want you catching on.
In the months that followed he played pieces he thought you might comment on, pretty ones that youâd ask the name of. Or the favorites youâd requested from him on occasion. Anything to feel like someone was listening, and people would listen but not in the boisterous way you did.
He heard your quips in every composition he played, even as the years went by and your face got harder to recall, he couldnât let go of your presence.
Autumns in the city were particularly spectacular in their earliest weeks, just as a few leaves were starting to trade their green for reds and browns. Summer was his favorite, fiery and passionate and dramatic like a certain requiem he couldnât shake. But autumn, especially at this time, was a close second.
The colder morning air felt the way biting into a crisp apple does, snappy and sharp and buoyant and sweet. The scent of cinnamon and pumpkin had a way of permeating about anywhere you could walk. And itâs when heâd first met you, just as the first leaf of the season fell all those autumns ago.
Those first three weeks of autumn; tepid tipping on turbulent, when the warmth of wrath met the mellowing of fall, was when he was reminded of you most. You and all your bark and the way you decided before he could introduce himself, âIâm going to marry you.â
What a liar you turned out to be.
He chanted it to himself sometimes when he missed you, not that it was your fault you had to leave. But it was your fault for nagging him all the time, hanging around him, and telling him he had lovely eyes. What a liar you turned out to be. What a liar you turned out to be.
He was so caught up in it he didnât notice the other person walking in his direction, just as preoccupied with their phone as he was with his head. The collision made him drop his sheet music. Your fault, again, for distracting him.
Heaving a sigh, Tim resolved to curse you later. When he got to the practice room. Even gone you found ways to inconvenience him.
âHey!â Just his luck the person he bumped into had a temper. âYou should at least apologize when youâ Tim?â
Turning around he had half the mind to bark
back but the words died in his throat when he saw you. With the dawning sun coming up behind you, it was almost so angelic he considered calling it a mirage and walking away. He knew it was bad, but to the point of hallucination?
But mirages didnât make his throat go dry and activate his fight or flight like this. His body had half a mind to sprint away, but his feet wouldnât move if the earth had split open.
If he could think he might consider what a stroke of fate it was, to run into you on a sidewalk, or to see you again at the same time as he did for the first. None of it registered, however. For the first time in a long time, he thought nothing at all. Couldnât form a thought if he tried.
You were really there. A small, âOh. Itâs you,â was all he could muster.
âCâmon,â you scoffed, âcanât you be happier to see me?â Youâd changed but you hadnât. You were taller, slightly, and your hair was different. But you still had that smile that your eyes couldnât shake and that air of confidence a tempest couldnât put to rest.
âLiszt,â you giggled, picking up the sheets strewn across the sidewalk. âYou havenât changed one bit! Are you going to practice? Can I come?â
He shrugged, fumbling fingers scraping the pavement to pick up the remaining pages. Heâd scream if he could scream, break into a sprint, leap for joyâ everything and anything to make sense of the situation. But his face said otherwise, serene bordering stoic as ever.
âCould I ever stop you?â
âYouâre supposed to say you miss me,â you gave him the ones you had, leaning down to infiltrate his sightline trained on the ground. âDid you?â
Flustered, Tim coughed and pulled himself upright. Furrowing his brows, he brought the papers up to cover the lower half of his face as he turned his gaze anywhere but you.
âIt was peaceful when you were gone,â he muttered.
âThatâs not a no!â
The more you had to say, the easier it was to fall into routine. It was like you never left at all, and it felt natural like it was always meant to be you draped across the wood he poured his soul in.
âWill you be going to that gala on Friday? Itâll be the first time I get to see everyone again! No one knows Iâm back, you know, it was meant to be a secret so you canât tell. Not that you would tell but Iâm warning you anyway.â
He didnât reply, tapping away at the keys like you said nothing at all. Maybe you had said nothing at all. The way things settled like they never changed, still and comfortable in his ambient noise. Being back felt like waking from a long dream, but this was reality and it was the way things had always been.
âThis one is pretty, I donât think Iâve heard it before. Are you cheating on Beethoven?â It really was. A tender piece, something more cradling even than Liebestraum. It had a lilt to its melody, pulling at you like a lover leading your arm to somewhere sunny.
âHow do you know it isnât Beethoven?â
You grinned. Youâd heard enough Beethoven to last a lifetime. In Timâs attention, he was your rival, but as a composer, you knew him intimately. âI listened to him while I was away, it was like you were playing for meââ
âI donât play for you,â he barked.
You shrugged, waving your hand dismissively. âI know him well enough to know what he doesnât sound like. What is it called?â
ââŚwhatever youâd like.â If you bothered to look at him, you wouldâve seen how red his ears got past his ever stoic facade.
âIâm serious, what if I want to listen to it again.â
âThen Iâll play it again.â
You snorted, shaking your head. âWhen you talk like that, Timmy, itâs almost like you like me.â
Silence. At least from his lips. His hands kept on, more frantic than before as if playing faster would cure him of you.
âWho could like someone like you?â he huffed like a child in trouble, spitting words in quiet screams behind closed doors. âI wouldnât like you unless you were the last person on Earth.â
You sat bolt upright, whipping around to look at him. His face was pressed closer to the keys than usual, brows furrowed with a vendetta as the inklings of a red flush seeped into his cheeks.
âDid you say âifâ or âunless!ââ
Tim coughed, taking his hands off the keys to rifle through his sheet music. Even obscured by the papers he shuffled in front of his face, his blush was evident now, paired with the shifting of his gaze anywhere but you. It was cute enough to make you giddy.
ââŚIâll admit I said unless.â
âOh Timberly,â you cried, leaning dramatically against the wood of his piano, âI never thought Iâd see the day!â
Setting his papers down, he turned his head away from you. Slumped over with his hands resting dejectedly on the keys, he looked so defeated by you. âOther people are still alive you know.â
He seldom was. Defeated by you, that is. In all the time youâd known him he was ready to oppose you forever and a day. And it felt good, like he had that fight in him because he wasnât tired of you. But things wear down, you supposed, he must be tired of you by now.
You cleared your throat and took it as a cue to go. So foolish in your younger years, chasing after something that only tolerated you.
âSorry for bothering you bud! All these years, I know Iâve been a bit much at times.âYou rose to stand, slinging your bag over your shoulder. âI have to go take care of some things, but Iâll see you Friday! If you decide to go.â
And in true Tim fashion he didnât stop you when you left. He hardly said a word. Pacific, murky blue eyes trailing you on your way out. Just as quickly as you crashed back into his life, youâd just breezed out again.
You were a bit much. Very much, even. It was outrageous. Outrageous and unceasingly unjust. He heard you loud and clear when you were present, you didnât have to have the nerve to speak longer in his mind when you werenât. You were so much he found crumbs everywhere, in a stranger with the same hair color or when someone looped their oâs and dotted their iâs the way you so often did. You were far too much. The way youâd make him pour hours into his piano hoping he could string together notes that would sound even a fraction as mellifluous as your laughter.
The truth was he didnât want to go to the gala at all. Stupid. His time was better spent elsewhere, hammering out documents or studying sheet music. He didnât need to go this time either. Dick had him covered as the Wayne representative.
He didnât know why he did anyway. Sipping at whatever they put in the champagne flutes, it was palpable. Speaking when spoken to, the pleasantries were bearable.
He hoped they thought he cared, about whatever they were saying, but he wasnât listening. He was looking around the room for nothing, scanning to scan.
Tim heard you before he saw you. Laughing with every ounce of spirit you had in you, hand clutched over your mouth as if you were trying to keep your soul from escaping. Bright eyed, light incarnate, that was the you he knew.
Clearing his throat, he flashed a smile at whoever he was speaking to. âIt was wonderful seeing you, if youâll excuse me.â
Breaking away, he made his way through the crowd. He didnât come because you asked of course, that would be ridiculous. He just felt like it. But it would be rude not to say hi, considering youâd mentioned it and all.
What he failed to hear was what you were laughing about. Or rather, who you were laughing about.
Head thrown back, cheeks flushed. That was what you were so bright eyed about. Looking up at some guy that had his hand conveniently wrapped around your waist. The idiot was laughing right back. He couldnât have been that funny. You didnât like funny. Tim knew that. It wasnât serious.
But he also knew that look in your eyes. The way the stars imbued themselves in you to make everything else disappear. Like you were struck by lightning and brought up by a tractor beam and so enamored; so very enamored there was nowhere else to be. You used to look at him that way.
Not that it mattered. Of course. That would be ridiculous. He didnât come for you, after all.
âTim you made it!â The grating voice of his adopted brother, accompanied by the invasive hand on his shoulder, tore him out of his stupor. âOh! Bro are you okay?â
âIâm fine. What are you talking about?â
Dick shrugged, pulling out his phone to open the camera app. âYou look red. Like more than usual.â
âTim!â Dickâs loud ass caught your attention. He was gonna kill him later.
Breaking away from your entanglement, you walked over with open arms. âI didnât think youâd come!â
Pushing away Dickâs phone, Tim turned on his heel before you could get much closer. He couldnât feel it before, but his face was burning now.
âI gotta go,â he muttered, disappearing into the crowd. Blending with the throng of people like he was never there.
Youâd never seen him walk away so quickly. In fact, youâd hardly seen him walk away at all. It was always you leaving him in the practice room. Tim would insist as much. This was a first.
âWhatâs gotten into him?â you muttered. Certainly you didnât do anything offensive this time, youâd hardly said hello.
You concluded later that you mustâve done something. In the confines of his cryptic mind heâd villainized you in some way, you were certain. It made enough sense, he usually was annoyed with you. But for all his criticisms heâd never ignored you like this.
In the week following he wouldnât look at you directly when you greeted him. Heâd nod if he accidentally caught your gaze and you waved. He responded to none of the TikToks youâd sent to âtest the waters.â Or the texts.
Then it was two weeks. He coughed when you asked when heâd be practicing.
The nerve.
If he was going to be mad over nothing, he could at least tell you what nothing was.
âWhat is your problem?â You came in heated. You didnât have to ask when he was practicing, it was just a formality. You knew it down to the second. The way heâd be sat by 3, like clockwork.
âWhatâs up with you?â he barked back. Finally a reaction. If interrupting piano wouldnât bring it out of him, nothing wouldâve.
âThatâs what I just asked you. Youâve been ignoring me for weeks!â
âI always ignore you.â
You glared at him with every ounce of admonishment you could muster. The audacity of this man. He knew what he was doing.
But did he? He glared right back at you as if it werenât true. That this was just the way things were, youâd probably forgotten it, choosing only to keep the most rose tinted parts of your memory.
You held his gaze. Although it felt like you were staring forever, and there wasnât an ounce of clarity found in any of it.
You broke first. Shifting your eyes away with a âwhatever,â you tossed your bag to a forgotten corner and made your way over to sit down on the floor with your back to his bench.
Tim didnât speak and you didnât expect him to. He only ever broke silences he understood. He was staring though, you could feel it burning through the back of your skull. Waiting.
âWell donât stop for me. Play the pretty one from the other day if you arenât preoccupied.â
âWhy should I?â Heâd meant to be snarky but his heart wasnât in it. It came out half baked and borderline pathetic.
âYou said you would.â Again he was silent. âOr if you wonât, at least tell me what it is so I can look it up later.â
He wasnât one to talk anyway, you knew that. Certain as the dawning sun, you knew it. So you werenât surprised when the first notes rang through the air instead of any words he couldâve conceived.
It wasnât the gentle lull he played the first time, but it was the same song. This time it sounded something desperate, like a blind thing clawing to be seen in a way it never would.
And it ended the way it started, abrupt and halting. This was an accusation.
âAre you going to tell me what I did wrong?â
âI wrote it for you. Whatever you want to
call it, itâs yours. Well not that I sat down and thought about you, I donât do that. Not on purpose. You just occupy whatever you want to occupy. Force yourself into every crevice youâll fit in, thatâs how youâve always been.â You couldnât tell if he was talking to you or himself. It was directed at you, that was certain, but it came out rehearsed. In a way akin to something youâd tell yourself again and again.
âWell, itâs very prettyââ
âIâve written you so many of them. More than Iâd ever want to, but you wouldnât leave my mind. Itâs like breathing.â Tim cut you off, although you were certain it was unintentional. He probably didnât even hear you, sprinting for the sake of it. âYou like them, donât you? How many do I need to compose? Iâll write you a thousand if youâd ask it.â
You risked a glance backwards and you couldnât turn around after. He was staring right at you, oceanic eyes sundering you to the floor; wave after wave held you from swimming away. Whatever it was in there, it looked akin to anger, you decided. âYouâve never had to write me anything.â
âFor you to choose me. It was never a choice, Iâve always had to when it comes to you.â He let out something between a scoff and a sigh, running his fingers through his hair. From above, he was angelic, as pretty as any melody he could produce. âYou are in every piece I play and every song I summon. Ask something of me.â
And you were too much, looking at him like a deer caught in headlights. As wide as your eyes were, he still couldnât tell what you were thinking. As fleeting and enigmatic as youâd always been.
Wordlessly, you stood up with your back to him. He thought you might leave; you didnât want him to see the grin you couldnât fight. If he knew how pleased you were with the situation he might take it all back.
You turned, leaning over to grasp his shoulders firmly and look him in the eye. Youâd known those eyes your whole life and they never looked as uncertain as they did now. You liked him arrogant, but you loved him enamored.
iâm posting a tim fic in a week or so (HOLD ME ACCOUNTABLE!) and i wanna do one after wheres hes a witch hunter and ur a witch idk are we into that or nah
OMG LAW SCHOOL YOU ABSOLUTE ACADEMIC WEAPON GODDESS!!! How is it going?
I have to get approval to even REGISTER for any grad courses and it takes a week :( and one of the classes Iâm taking has two seats left (think Iâll manage to get a seat? lol) but YES WE GOT THIS
AND YAYY FIC FIC FIC Iâm ready. I am seated. I would quote that one meme but I canât remember it so just imagine I did quote it
-đĽ
itâs def going⌠its a lot of work for sure! the professors berate you and the reading is extensive đ we donât even get to pick our classes they pick for u, but itâs gonna be worth it when iâm out!!!
that sounds so stressful byeâ a WEEK that cannot be the most efficient way to do things đ hoping things go well for you! you are gonna slay this academic year ik it
iâm posting a tim fic in a week or so (HOLD ME ACCOUNTABLE!) and i wanna do one after wheres hes a witch hunter and ur a witch idk are we into that or nah
Sleep on the Floor, Dream About Me // Tim Drake x GN!Reader
happy belated valentines day everyone! i have been sick out of my mind and going only a little bit crazy. i offer you: tim running after a train. HAPPY ENDING. things start looking rough BUT TRUST ME. this is for my emotional pookies that canât communicate to save their lives. i yapped too much on this one.
â
It'd been awhile since your last conversation, but you remember very clearly how flat it felt. Someone didn't reply to something else and it was never brought up again, any of it. Too bitter to chew on stale bread anymore, the two of you weren't ever so hungry. That was how things moved, you supposed
You thought of him often, especially during wind gusts. The arid weather he hated because his hands would be dry enough to crack, and you didn't know if there was anyone slipping a hand cream into his pocket for the day. Burning and brittle, his hands in biting weather, you could only hope he wasn't hurt and someone cared enough to know.
There probably was someone, he was always good enough to not be alone. And you were always so sure of your future together, you let things sit until they eroded.
It wasnât so one sided. Heâd think of you if weather was vibrant, enough to carry the scent of blue skies on a slow breeze. Temperate days, for you, meant a desire to touch the crisp air and to read your next personality into existence on your open porch. Days he knew very well, because you would always asked for a recommendation; and if he was fortunate, you would even invite him to join you on the occasion.
It was impossible to guess how you picked books now, or if you still read at all. Maybe time got the better of you these days. And it was a shame, because he had a list he kept updating on his phone for reasons he couldnât quite grasp.
Youâd met in the dingy basement of your high school. Two losers in the chess club, violently playing pawn for pawn in a way that invested you more than it should have. He was such a talker you could hardly focus on the pieces.
âDid you know dolphins have no hair? Even though theyâre mammals,â he started. He wasnât even looking at the board, and it was his turn.
If it wasnât on his time you mightâve asked what that had to do with anything, but the more he talked the more time you had to plot and anyways he sounded nice, sweet in subdued way like iced tea. âMaybe they have like micro hairs, all mammals have hair.â
Tim shook his head, ânope, theyâre slick and bald all the way through.â
âI donât think youâre right, someone wouldâve mentioned it. Theyâre not like platypi.â
âWell you donât have to believe me.â He made his move, pushing his queen forward on the board. âBut I did just beat you.â
It took you a second to process it, but he was right. He won after yapping at you the whole game, like a convoluted psychological strategy. One you were certain you wouldnât fall for again.
So you asked for his number and a rematch, that he gracefully accepted. When you got distracted again, he threw the game to let you win and you knew from then on youâd never stand a chance against him. It was a sinking burning kind of feeling, a deep admiration with an undertone of never being equals. And you couldnât tell if it was because he was really better than you or if you were just so deeply charmed it rendered you senseless. But you were certain you really liked that boy.
The more you got to know him, the more ensnared you became. In some sense it felt preordained, how well you got along, enough to kick up delusion to cloud your judgement. You liked to read and he liked to talk about it, telling you his conspiracy theories on intention and metaphor and author choices in between classes. He added every song you sent him to his playlist and he listened enough to learn some on piano for you. Timâs favorite movie was your favorite movie. Chess was your burden, but in every game he fell short you excelled, like complimentary opposites.
It couldnât have been one sided. He matched every text you sent, at least enough to have your name pop up in his suggested for as long as youâd known him. If he was out and about heâd tell you, and if he was burdened heâd complain to you. Tim had a way of talking to you that was different than everyone else around him, softer in a sense like you were something to be cradled, even if you were being difficult. And you being yourself could never discern if it was out of pity for him knowing you liked him, or unabashed care because he didnât.
âI would never watch that again.â Youâd dragged him to see Little Women, only because youâd never seen it and he said it was good. But you emerged puffy eyed and emptier inside than when you came.
He laughed at you, pulling out another tissue from his pocket to shove in your direction. âI thought it was really sweet, you didnât like it?â
âItâs not sweet, itâs devastating. Joâs okay in the end, but I donât think Iâd be.â You didnât say much more than that for fear that youâd start crying again.
âYou remind me of Amy,â he offered. You scoffed, punching his arm and scooting away on the bench you occupied.
âYouâre telling me Iâm annoying and dramatic and I have bangs shaped like a barcode?â
âNo,â you could hear the smile in his voice like he was teasing you or it was really amusing, âI think youâre passionate, and in touch with your feelings, and pretty. Sheâs a good character because sheâs emotional, thereâs nothing wrong with it.â
ââŚI didnât see all that in the movie.â
âThen maybe we need to watch it again.â
âJust be quiet for now, I need to process everything,â you muttered, dropping your head to his shoulder.
He scoffed, âyouâre very brave telling me to shut up.â
âIâm only brave because I know youâll comply.â
Your companionship was good because it was easy. But it was the same ease that instilled a fear in you, if you were too boisterous or if you misinterpreted things it might ruin the ease you had. Things were comfortable as they were. You could stand everything else, as long as he was happy with you then it was fine.
Cautious but emboldened, you had a habit of testing the waters at first. Starting with the benign, telling him he was lovely or that you liked his haircut to see if heâd react. He was receptive, but you couldnât tell if he was just friendly. Then came the matter of what he liked about a person, and that was just as vague. Not that you were any better, giving the same broad answers to keep from revealing your hand.
The mistakes probably started rolling when you would seek the underhanded. You never had the courage to say anything, so it was all you knew to do. Provoke him, see what heâd say, and form a conclusion. The tipping point was in spring, after all the heat died down from finals.
âThat guy in my calculus classed asked me out the other day.â It wasnât uncommon for the two of you to share tidbits or exchange advice. Really, you were hoping for a reaction of some kind. Something that indicated disgust or at least discomfort at the thought you might consider it.
But he didnât flinch, serene as ever he tilted his head and hummed. âWhat did you say?â
You had to be careful not to stare. Whoever said eyes were the window to the soul was a liar. You never learned anything about Tim looking in his, only that you felt like you could drown. Gleaming and calculative blue, he never let anything slip. But he was watching you too, gauging your reaction in his own way.
You shrugged. âI didnât respond, I havenât opened the text yet. I hardly know him. Only that he isnât very good at calculus.â
Inconclusive. That mustâve meant you were at least considering it, and if that was the case, Tim concluded that he knew better. You wouldâve been forthright if you liked him, enough to reject some idiot from your calculus class right away. Tim never stood a chance, he decided. âYou should say yes if you want to. Youâll never know unless you go. Everyoneâs bad at something.â
And then you knew better. He never resigned, even when he was losing, because he believed it eliminated all other possibility. If he cared for you at all, he wouldnât have encouraged you.
Knowing better is a curse the burdened suffer with. Formed between the leeway of experience and intuition, with a hint of arrogance, the afflicted are slow to find ever if they are wrong.
Knowing better made communication between the two of you sparser over the years. At first you hung out less, and then you spoke less. When college started, you went to different schools and even texts got sparser, until they stopped. You knew better than to bother a busy boy, he was gentle and lovely and the world would caress him without what little you had to offer. He knew better than to speak without being spoken to, you were decisive and assured and wouldâve said something if you wanted something.
It'd be better to say anything happened at all, a fight that led the two of you to ruin. But itâs the benign that scars, left to be prodded at instead of ripped off from the source. It would always be benign with Tim, a conceder at his core.
But he thought of you always, especially on windy days when his hands were dry enough to crack. You never told him where you got your hand cream and he never found one that smelled quite the same, mild and sweet like kisses from droplets of rain.
And you missed him so dearly at the bookstore. No amount of reviews on Goodreads compared to his commentary. You hadnât read anything so soul seeking since his last recommendation, and it was getting discouraging to keep searching.
Youâd gotten a job offer in a different city. It was far enough to make a commute unrealistic, practically across the country from Gotham. You would take it, because itâd be stupid not to, and you had nothing left here. Itâd be stupid to stay over the leftover feelings you had for a boy that hardly liked you.
However, youâd feel dreadful leaving anyway. Especially without saying anything. You wanted him to know even if he didnât care to know, and you wanted a last book for the road. One youâd never read, or only pick up if you were very desperate. So you swallowed your inhibitions and asked to meet, just once before you moved; and he agreed.
âSo you reached out just because youâre leaving.â You picked the bookstore you met at, he picked the cafe after the trip. To your surprise he still remembered your order. Timâs had changed, shifting from a cute americano in his early college days to a straight and narrow cold brew.
When you asked him what you should look into next he dragged you straight to the back of the store where they kept the obscurities, thumbing through the french philosophers to find something palpableâ and that was the end of that.
âWell when you put it like that, it sounds terrible!â You didnât know how he managed to sip it with a smile on his face, like it wasnât bitter and intolerable. But he always had a mild temperament, swallowing tar like it was honey.
âYou know what I mean, but congrats! Where are you going?â
âStar City.â Something flickered across his face, but you knew better than to think too hard on it and you didnât want to. Honestly the whole day had been at least a little painful, because it felt like nothing had happened. Things were just as comfortable and natural as youâd left them, and after this you really would leave them.
âBetter crime rate than Gotham,â he offered.
âThatâs not hard to do,â you shrugged.
âWhen do you leave?â
âIn two hours actually, Iâm going by train.â
Timâs mouth pressed into an âo,â setting his cup down as if taken aback, before settling back into his easygoing demeanor. âOh youâre killing me, thatâs all I get?â
You laughed, both because it was a little ridiculous and because he was clutching his pearls. âYeah, itâs not like you really reached out or anything.â
He gave you a nod, pressing his lips together. âRight.â
The short silence that settled after felt jarringly long, and it brought you back to the present. Things werenât like they were, youâd just forgotten for a moment.
âWell it wasââ
âDo you thinkââ He started the same time you did, pausing in tandem to laugh it off.
âSorry, you go ahead,â you offered.
âNo, itâs okay, never mind.â
You squinted at him, it was a question you wanted to hear, if only to know what he was thinking. Although you didnât want to prod either, never one to force his hand. âOkay.â
âCan I see you off at the station?â
âThatâd be cool.â
The trip to the train station was faster than youâd anticipated. You werenât taking much with you, just a suitcase and travel bag that he helped lug up and into your train compartment. Standing by the platform now, it was just about time for you to board before it left.
âYou have everything with you?â
âYup,â you nodded, âthank you carrying my suitcase for me.â Not that you asked, he offered.
âAlways,â he smiled, he was looking at you a little longer than he shouldâve. Even if you were trying to be oblivious, you couldnât ignore his gaze. Still, it wasnât for you to acknowledge or think on. âI guess this is bye then, for a little while.â
Your heart was beating so loudly, it shook your very core. It couldâve been from anything; nerves moving so far, regretting things last minute, fear of leaving for good, being close enough to touch him as you were about to embark far enough to forget.
Shoving the thoughts aside and the sinking feeling in your stomach, you threw your arms around him just to remember his form and how warm he felt against the cold of the winter air. Even if it was better to forget, you didnât want to, holding tightly for a few breaths before burying your head in his scarf and muttering a small, âthank you for everything. Goodbye.â
Before he had a chance to respond, you let go, briskly making your way to your train car. Although, you werenât convinced he wouldâve said anything, just standing there staring like you said something very shocking. Standing at the doorway, you smiled and waved, hoping the last heâd see of you looked pretty.
To your surprise, he started approaching the train when the doors started shutting. âWait! I have something to ask you!â
âWhat?â The doors clanged shut, as you made your way to the nearest window. When he made eye contact with you, he opened his mouth to speak but his words were muffled by the plexiglass.
âI canât hear you!â you yelled.
Pressing his hands to glass, eyes wide and pleading, he yelled back. âDo you think we wouldâve ever worked out?â
âWhat?â Your heart dropped as the train started to roll forward, making that sick feeling bubble up again. You made your way to the back of the train car, looking for him through the windows as you tried to keep your balance on the shaky floor.
âWould we have worked? Did you like me at all?â Both of you were yelling at the tops of your lungs, turning heads you couldnât be bothered to perceive.
âWhere is this coming from?â If you were in the right state of mind, youâd be mad, or at least annoyed. All these years and a few hours, his timing couldnât have been worse.
Pressing hard against the back door of the car, you pushed it open to stand on the balcony. He was running after you, somehow keeping up despite the train slowly picking up its pace.
âI liked you! Iâve liked you for as long as Iâve known you,â he screamed between breaths, âand I had to let you know before you go!â
In the distance, someone was yelling at him to get off the tracks as if heâd hear it. Tim nearly tripped on a fence in his way, but he cleared it and recovered in a way that left you concerned and impressed.
You wanted to cry or laugh or throw up, all at once. You didnât have time to think through any of it, and it was frustrating that heâd never said anything, but it was relieving to know anyway. Gripping the railing to keep steady, you screamed back as loudly as you could, to be heard and to bite back tears. âYour timing is terrible!â
âI know, and my legs hurt and Iâm kind of winded, but I needed you to know!â He was sprinting now, loosening the scarf around his neck.
âWhat did you like about me!â
Despite claiming to be winded, he had enough energy to give you an incredulous look. âYouâre on a train!â
âAnswer!â you barked. Taking his scarf off, he threw an end in your direction that you managed to catch, holding on as he continued running gripping the other end.
âYou are temperamental and irrational and emotional.â All the things you hated about yourself. You lifted the end you were holding, threatening to let go, making Tim shake his head. âAnd kind, and genuine, and it makes you beautiful! Everything about you aligns to make you the perfect person and I will never meet anyone like you again!â
He let go of the scarf, you were moving faster than he could run now and you knew it. There wasnât time to think it over or stand stunned, as he got farther away by the inch, the foot, the meter; eyes hopeless and pleading. But when it came to Tim, the answer was very clear. Even if you took the time, you would always choose him in every outcome.
Clutching the fabric to your chest, you screamed. âWill you pick me up at the next stop!â
âI will!â It wasnât very loud, eaten up by the wind and the engine and the growing distance, but it was no less clear to you; ringing in your ears. Watching as he slowed to a stop, hands on his knees to heave, you couldnât wipe the smile off your face or the tears running down your cheeks.
reposting bc i got depressed and remembered i wrote this and it was my real life btw lmao except it was so much worse in an insidiously intimate way and he did not run after me when i got on a train to move away he just became a stranger and there is nothing left in my hands now. you should know better than to carry water in your hands, i should know that!
hey queen itâs been forever đ hope youâre doing good! just wanted to let you know that Iâve become an academic weapon and am now doing a masterâs AND bachelorâs degree simultaneously (I think Tim would be very proud) and it is the best and worst decision Iâve ever made (how do people do this) but anyways thought Iâd share sorry if itâs super unrelated to everything else lol
-đĽ
HEY BAE I AM ALIVE AND WELL AND WORKING ON A FIC!!! CONGRATSSS OMG okay academic weapon!!! how is it? iâm sure its a lot of work but these things pan out long run đââď¸đââď¸ iâm working on my JD (whoo hoo law school.. :/) so iâm in a very similar boat but WE GOT THIS
i hate logging onto league because every game i play is fine until i press tab and see the handless shit eating apes with cordyceps that are my teammates, and then i press enter and see them typing like itâll save them. nothing will save you now.
iâve been on the weightloss grind (makes me crazy and inhuman). hit the goal physique enough to not be so crazy, iâm gonna get back to writing for u lovelies
