The same kind of music haunts her bedroom
I'm almost me again, she's almost you
The fluttering of his heartbeat is undeniable, he's holding the man he's never dreamt of and still is the man of his hopes and futures. Their embrace is warm, it battles and wins over the chill of space that always overcomes each and every room. Their embrace is all he can ask for, not quite all he dares to actually want. He's got him in his arms, though, and those arms have claim over their shared spaces, as well.
With Jason's hands cradling his face, stroking his cheeks, Thomas smiles, lets himself have this moment to feel just how radiance overtakes him right from within his chest. This is his spark of happiness. His moment to be at peace.
"You deserve better, you know," Jason's voice is soft and tender, this close his breath kisses Thomas' lips, and his smile doesn't leave even when it threatens to do just so.
"Who could be better than you?," and it's true, this is what he truly believes. There is no one who can compare, no one he feels for quite as much.
(It stings, he lets it do so when he's alone in his room or alone going through the motions, it stings because he knows he's chasing after someone who has been claimed in the far past, someone who never learnt how to let go. It stings because he fears he's giving all his love and longing, giving it to Jason when he's doomed to lose him too, like he's lost his family, his Bruce, his identity, his innocence, even, to this wretched war. Thomas knows it would be wiser to save himself from the oncoming heartache when Jason's inevitably gone, too. But it's so hard to do so, when Jason survives everything and Thomas knows his own existence is the most limited of the two.)
He opens his eyes to find Jason looking at him. There is so much left unsaid in those eyes that have seen the end of the times and lived through the rise and fall of their kind. Who can hold it against him? Who can truly blame him for letting himself feel?
"Better than me," Jason hums, leans that last inch closer and drags his lips sweetly against his mouth, "that's quite the long list."
"No, Jason," he says, adoring, and moves swiftly so he's laying on top, bodies without clothes and the contact of their skin an electrifying sensation. "There's no one better. No one else is... well, you."
"Careful," with a strained, breathy laughter, Jason moves his hands through Thomas' hair, lets his fingers get lost in the blond locks, tugs on them a little, "that sounds a whole lot like devotion. I don't fit such a pedestal."
Thomas lets his eyes fall closed again. He presses his mouth to the skin of Jason's throat, marked, too, by kisses and scars. His hands ache with his longing to hold all of Jason, to keep him forever, to love and adore him, show him just how good he is, how much he deserves.
With each of Jason's sighs, he moves lower, bites on the tenderness of a collarbone, kisses the curve of a shoulder. It taints his senses when he inevitably thinks all Waynes carry a love for this particular immortal. From Bruce to Bruce, culminating in him, they have all held the quality of loving Jason, for better or worse. And Thomas thinks that this is all on that first Bruce's actions: he was the lucky one, took all of Jason's heart for himself, didn't leave anything behind for the rest.
He wonders: am I similar to him? He wants to ask: do I remind you of him? Could I ever mean as much to you as he still does? Could you ever love me the same?
Those are the questions he keeps to himself. He already knows the answers. Only makes this all the bitter, all the sweeter. Taste that explodes in his tongue.
