#alisonfic

But they aren’t meant for him. Tim was never meant to hear them, even though he’s the one who’s supposed to be hearing them. Since he and Dick are together. Not like brothers or friends or a mentor and his student, no-- they’re together-together.

But, Dick’s talking to Oracle, to Batgirl, to Barbara, and maybe he doesn’t realize that there’s more than one person in this comm-link. Barbara doesn’t seem to realize either; Tim’s never heard her laugh so easily, so care-free, at least not since he became Robin.

Tim shuts off his comm because Dick and Barbara-- they’re each other’s first loves, even though Dick is Tim’s first love. Or maybe, this is just how friends talk to each other. If Steph were still aliv-- around, maybe he’d know. If Kon or Bart or anyone else were around, maybe, Tim would know.

***

Jason visits, with his Outlaw friends trailing behind him, and Tim sees the easy way Dick falls in step with them, easier than the way he falls into bed with Tim.

Laughing and smile, a lingering hand here, bumping shoulders there. It’s so intimate, but they, too, all have a history. One which Tim isn’t a part of.

Dick brushes the hair away from Kori’s face, his eyes melting in the most lovely way. When he reaches Roy, he badgers him into some old but not forgotten secret handshake. With Jason, Dick hooks an arm around the taller man’s shoulders and still tugs him down for a noogie, like he still lives at the manor and Dick’s come home for a visit.

When was the last time Dick touched Tim like that or held his hand or rubbed his shoulders? Even Jason’s eyes are softer when they land on Tim, standing far apart from the rest of them.

***

One day, he just tells Dick--

Stands behind the couch while Dick’s watching the news because Tim doesn’t think he’d be able to go through with it if he started when he was already drowning in Dick’s blue eyes, burning from his hundred-watt smile, tingling from nimble calloused fingers.

But none of those things have belonged to him in a long time.

One day, he just tells Dick--

The words fall from chapped and bitten-through lips--

“I think we should break up.”

Dick turns then, finally looks at him for what feels like the first time, finally sees Tim after months, and he has the gall to look surprised at what he finds there.

Tim watches his face morph into broken and tired and sad all at the same time, like a mirror of his own insides, and the wrinkles at the corners of Dick’s mouth and eyes become a little more visible.

And then, Tim watches as a shadow passes over Dick’s eyes and they turn cold and far away, and his face becomes passive, handsome as a stone statue, and Tim is still drowning, still burning, still tingling when all he wants to feel is nothing.

All he does is give Tim a once-over, and those burning blue eyes make Tim’s skin cold and prickle all over, and all Dick says is--

“Okay.”

--before turning back to the television.

Tim silently returns to their bedroom, and he pulls out the small box at the back of the closet. He places his heart inside, next to the picture of him and the Flying Graysons, next to his first domino as Robin, next to old receipts from late night diner visits, next to a neat stack of post-it notes filled with messy, sweet words. He places his heart inside the small box - it fits with room to spare, it might not have before, Tim had worried - and locks it there.

In the morning, Dick and all of his things are gone. It’s the first time Tim cries since Dick told him he loved him.

The one where Jason is possessed....

The demon is inside him.

Despite the salted earth around their home, the protective sigils carved into their chests, the years’ worth of spiritual training – the demon finds its way inside of Jason. He can still see out of his eyes, and he can still feel his body move, but he can’t control any of it.

It’s weird. He thought it would have made a strike as soon as possible, but he’s just living Jason’s life like he isn’t a mass of dark energy with glowing red orbs for eyes, sitting in Jason’s body like it’s a cockpit.

The demon laughs at that one. “Cockpit,” it hisses. Internally. “Cock. Pit. A pit of cocks.”

Jason doesn’t find it funny; there’s a demon in his body thinking jokes that even his twelve-year-old brother wouldn’t laugh at are funny.  He does laugh, though, on the verge of hysteria, when the demon whispers to him: “I’ll kill your brothers, one by one, break them into as many pieces as there are syllables in my true name, and I’ll make your father eat them.”

So Jason laughs. It’s all he can do. Until…until Tim, of all people, walks into the room. He looks at Jason, long and piercing, and tilts his head. The demon raises its hackles; Jason’s body doesn’t move but he can feel the demon slowly retreating to the inner most part of his mind. Further and further away each time Tim takes a step toward him.

Jason makes to yell, but as they share the same body, the demon pulls the reins back once more, before Jason can regain autonomy. Tim tilts his head to the other side, and Jason doesn’t think Tim even realizes how hard he’s gripping his smart phone.

“It doesn’t matter what you do; he can’t hear you.”

Outwardly, Jason’s face puts on a gentle smile and says, “Hey there, Timmy.”

“No, but he can feel you,” Jason bites back.

“Hey.” Tim pauses. “Jason.” His grip eases on his phone as he pockets it, and the demon brushes hair off of Tim’s forehead. Tim lets it-- closes his eyes and tilts his head toward Jason-not-Jason’s hand.

“No,” Jason thinks. The demon hisses a laugh, flicking his tongue out and licking his lips. “Yes.”

The one where they’re both demons....

“Jason, what did you—”

“Do you like it?” Jason grins, admiring his work from the building’s ledge. His sharp tongue darts out, tasting the air. “I made it just for you, baby.”

Tim crouches on the ledge next to him. “The dogs are a little…much. Don’t you think?”

In the street below, there’s a giant pentagram drawn in blood – bought from the grocery because they’re demons but they’re not barbarians – and at each point, there’s a human, held hostage by hellhounds not visible to their feeble eyes.

“You love the dogs.” Jason pouts and looks at him. He knows he’s right.

“I do love the dogs,” Tim appreciates. He stands up and stretches his spine, throwing his hands into the air. His hips arch and his toes point in toward each other as he moans, feeling all the sleepy tension leave his body. He yawns, exposing his throat. Jason watches him, tasting the air again, and he makes sure Tim can feel the heat of his gaze.

They’re brothers, but that’s never stopped Jason from this weird courtship that’s actually mostly belated apologies and owed favors.

Tim jumps down from the ledge to see the dogs, and Jason watches the humans, trembling at the hounds’ snarling. They’re trying to catch a glimpse of the graceful demon, slender with muscles like a ballerina’s, but the dogs keep them at bay. They were a good investment.

When Jason finally joins Tim, one of the hounds nudges the palm of his hand. They’re cute. Other than the sharp teeth, steaming saliva, glowing red eyes, and spike-ridged spines, Jason doesn’t understand why the rest of his family -- except for Damian -- doesn’t like using the dogs.

Enjolras has passed this bakery hundreds of times, but he doesn't walk in until Marius pulls him in one Thursday afternoon. His new girlfriend's father owns it, and he's only met the girl - Cosette - a couple of times but Enjolras can tell she's sweet and kind but also sharp. She'll keep Marius on his toes when he gets too lost in the clouds. This is where he meets Grantaire.

It's early, and rare, that the bakery is empty, but that's only because it isn't open yet. Grantaire had said something about the Monsieur Valjean kindly allowing him to do this. Just to show a "dear friend" something special.

The second part Cosette had told Enjolras. He hadn't been sure if those were her words, or Grantaire's.

Watching Grantaire bake makes Enjolras notice all kinds of things. He's almost a different person from the flirtatious cashier at the front of the bakery.

The apron is still present, but he's folded it down and tied it across his waist so there's only a table, practically miles of empty space, and one layer of clothing separating their bodies (two, if Enjolras counts his own).

There's flour in Grantaire's hair and on his cheek, and Enjolras doesn't think he even realizes.

Grantaire's giving him instructions on how to make a birthday cake of all things, but the blond can only think of Grantaire's fingers kneading and pulling the dough. For once, he can't think of anything to say, except to describe the slenderness of Grantaire's fingers, the strength in his hands, the flex of his biceps when he rolls the dough across the table.

Enjolras wants those hands on him, wants to tear that shirt off, buttons popping and flying. He wants to wake up one morning and walk into the kitchen, only to find Grantaire making him breakfast in nothing but the apron.

And he'd turn and wave the spatula and give him a cheeky smile and Enjolras's lips would be on his before he could finish saying "good morning." Breakfast would burn, but they'd make it again together.

It's terrible. He may be an excellent speaker, but poetry is Jehan's forte, not his. Maybe if he were Marius, he would know what to do with these feelings... but then again, round-faced, bright-eyed Marius has probably never even imagined half of the things Enjolras wants to do to his...friend? Rival? In what? (He settles simply on "Grantaire," but he won't admit to loving the way that sounds - his Grantaire.)