lanternslit:
@demonsfist
Jason picked up a smoking habit once, three odd years ago when he was sour at the whole world. It only lasted about five months, but that was apparently long enough to permanently instill a craving whenever he feels like shit.
Roy hasn’t changed dramatically the way he has. Longer hair, but the length was always a toss-up, anyway. Thinner, though, in the arms and waist in a way that sets off some dusty, worried pangs. Jason is torn between an inherent concern for his well-being that will never dissipate, and a nasty satisfaction in knowing that the past four years clearly haven’t been a cake walk for him either.
Currently, there is a gorgeous boy (presumably) asleep in his bed three miles away, a boy that he has loved without hesitation for two years and some months. There is no doubt in him that he will continue to love Kyle, without hesitation, for as long as he’s allowed–so why does a high school fling he should have forgotten about still weigh on his chest?
Maybe they just need to talk. Maybe he just needs some closure.
“Hey,” he’s said Roy’s name aloud maybe twice in the past four years, he thinks he’d coke on it if he tried now, “what the fuck did you say to Kyle? It takes a lot to make him throw a punch.”
Four years. No preamble, right to the chase.
There’s the oddest catch in Roy’s chest. It’s the same pang he gets when he pauses with his finger over Jay’s name in his contacts. (There’s still the same series of pulsing-heart emojis next to it, because goddamn does a mother fucker know how to pine.) Four years of nothing, and now he’s looking at sweet JP all grown up. Grown up and looking kinda fucking pissed. Not what Roy let himself hope for in the most pathetic recesses of his heart.
“I didn’t say shit to him.” Roy lies through the tang of copper on his tongue, split lip still throbbing. Jay’s boy can’t even throw a good punch; Roy almost feels bad about how fast the guy had hit the ground when Roy swung back. Almost. As far as Roy’s concerned, some nobody of a kid acting like he knows shit about Roy, about Jay and Roy, needs to get some sense knocked into him.
Roy drags his knuckles along the edge of his bruised jaw, tongue pushed up between teeth and lip. “You know, he was actually pretty fucking quick to throw that punch. If Big Daddy Wayne is buying you a bodyguard now, you’d do better with one who looks a little scarier.” Except Roy fucking knows what’s going on. He knows that look, all passion and confidence, that Kyle wears like a second skin. It’s loving Jason that does that, being loved by him. Roy’s not jealous, just nostalgic. It was fun, once, to feel like that.
Jason remembers a time Roy’s mouth only lashed out at everyone else, never at him. It was so fucking special, so singular, to lean into a bastard’s side and believe you were the only one free from his scorn. Stupid, smug kid he was.
Hearing that wicked tongue directed at him, in a tone reserved for Oliver, for Dick, is like swallowing lead. He takes a few heavy steps forward, not exactly sure what he intends to do with that, but unable to stop himself.
He was never small, after puberty anyway, but he never used his size to intimidate the way he does now. He bulked up a lot after Roy left, sinking a heavy, angry energy he never had before into phases like crossfit and MMA. He goes to the gym now to maintain, to feel good, but it was almost a dangerous outlet for a time. Roy’s exit pushed him into a lot of stupid shit.
“You’re a fucking liar,” he pokes Roy in the chest, not really hard but hard enough, “you don’t just get to--pop back into my life without explaining yourself, alright? You don’t get to do that. What’s your deal, Roy?”
