God, why was Gotham so cold? The wind alone was enough to make Dick dream of tropical islands or literal volcanoes, not to mention the sleet and the thick layer of clouds. Even a hot shower wasn't enough to warm him up after patrol. Maybe some soup? He grabbed a sweatshirt from the closet (not many left, time for laundry, ooops) and pulled it over his head on the way to the kitchen. He'd frozen a batch of chicken noodle soup last month that would be perfect for a night like this. Already the soft wool of the sweatshirt, thoughts of a hot meal, and the smell of home were soothing him, warming him—
Dick froze.
Yeah, the sweatshirt smelled good. Too good. Looking down confirmed it: the shirt was a shade of red Dick had never worn before Jason.
Jason. Who wasn't here. But his sweatshirt was.
Dick didn't remember how it came to be in his closet—no, he did. They'd run into each other during patrol, back in the early days when everything was new and exciting. So exciting that they'd fucked on the rooftop, in fact, Jason holding him up against a wall and kissing him as if oxygen and secret identities didn't matter.
Round two had taken place at Jason's place, Jason sweetly pliant under Dick's mouth. After that, well, it had been a bit too bright outside to go home in his Nightwing garb, so Jason had thrown some clothes at Dick before making him breakfast. Dick rather thought the sweatshirt had been in that pile.
Or maybe it hadn't. Dick had stolen Jason's clothing countless times, after all, loving the look in the other man's eyes when he wore them. Jason had rarely felt secure enough in their relationship to be possessive, but when he was... fingers on his hips, hands pulling him close, a mark left high enough for everyone to see...
Dick gently tilted his head against the wall and sighed. Jesus. He had to stop this. All of this. The pining and the working-as-distraction and the wanting-no-other-partner and the dreams and the emptiness.
The worst thing was. The worst thing—it was how Dick couldn't stop checking his phone, even now. He knew that Jason wouldn't call. He knew. The younger man was too much of a coward, and so was Dick, no matter how often he wrote and erased a message. They'd let each other go, after all.
He didn't even want Jason to reach out, not really, not in the part of his brain that knew it was over and that that was a good thing.
Dick pushed himself off the wall and determinedly walked to the kitchen. Soup. And sleep. This shitty fucking moment would pass. And the next, too. And the next. And there would be more space between them, more room to breathe. Eventually, Dick would feel whole again. He had to believe that.
But goddammit, he hadn't known it was possible to miss someone so fucking much.
Drabble Song Challenge 13/50: Vermissen [to miss] - Juju ft. Henning May
