#pervycake

It’s different in the similarities.

That’s what it is. That’s what Bruce couldn’t grasp, couldn’t place since the moment he wasn’t timeless anymore, since Tim’s fingers clasped over his spine, since he found himself in Tim’s old bedroom, in the thick dust of his absence, on the covers whose clean scent didn’t get the chance to attach to someone else, to disappear on someone’s skin.   

It’s the difference in numbers, the difference of sizes that won’t remain as they were under Tim’s growing bones and the wiry strength of his muscles, under the undiluted  precision of his mind while the sum of him still weights nearly the same, the old strain trickling back into Bruce’s forearms, coiling around his biceps when he places Tim over and into the dip of his lap, the tip of his cock sliding against Tim’s inner thigh, all of him distantly tense until Tim’s hips move above his, press Tim into the underside of Bruce’s chest and his fingertips are cold, icy on his neck but his chest and belly are warm, pleasant like the heat of a fireplace, like the familiar, soft warmth of  just poured tea, like the damp, warm steam of hot coffee, staining the air above a cup. Tim’s fingers tighten on the side of Bruce’s skull and he can’t stop gripping Bruce’s hair as he rocks on his knees, tugging so Bruce has to look up as he’s fingering Tim open and that’s – that’s different too.

Tim rarely let Bruce see him before. Rarely kept his eyes open, rarely held them still as if there was fear between them, fear of Tim’s reflection not meeting the pictures underneath Bruce’s sleeping lashes, on the canvas of Bruce’s thoughts and this once, it’s Bruce who isn’t sure if he wants to be seen.

(Isn’t sure what Tim could picture, what he could think.)

He presses against him instead and flights to the corner of Tim’s frame, to the shoulder he had to put back into its socket once after patrol, once after a bad training session, Tim’s face ashen with sharp panic, with the shock of an injury, the very first serious wound, the very first self-inflicted ache and years later, Bruce finally understood. Tim wasn’t scared of the pain. Wasn’t embarrassed because he tripped and failed to evade the side of the heavy, iron table. No.

(Tim was terrified of losing the job.)

Swallowing the ancient guilt rooted in most of his memories, Bruce inhales, his mouth losing its shape, pushed into Tim’s arm and – when he exhales, the words leave along with the air.

“You’re different,” he admits, tries, tests.

Tests, because –

before, Bruce’s thumb used to overlap nearly half of his middle finger, reaching it without trouble when he closed his palm around Tim’s wrist, while now it barely covers the first, tiny knuckle. Before, Tim’s chin never smelled like aftershave, but now it carries a faint, perfumed scent, rich and fresh. Before, Tim’s neck was bare, vertebras jutting out under like sharp, cut off cliffs made out of porcelain, but now there’s a pool of faint, coloured ink spilled at the back of Tim’s head, sunrise red and distorted in places, sintered by heat.

Tim is – different.

“Well, I use way less hair gel now,” Tim answers, vaguely breathless, and squirms, teased by the touch of the tip of Bruce’s cock, held at the trace of the sensation, at the shallow suggestion of their intent, their plans.

And when Bruce doesn’t respond, doesn’t move, doesn’t allow for Tim to sink – Tim huffs.

“I grew up. And I still am. Growing. But I did grow up some already. I grew up enough,” he says and – kissing the lowest point of Bruce’s face he can – a bony, smooth place right under Bruce’s dry temple – Tim murmurs: “I finally grew into you, Bruce. That’s all.”  

And – Bruce gets it now.

(He’s different.