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The air smells different in Mexico. Especially here, on the flagstone patio of the bar overlooking the beach, a mild breeze lifting their hair as it rolls in off the water. Downtown it’s ripe with city smell - cars and pavement and people - but this is different. The fragrance of this air is delicate, precious, mild as the night: flowers he can’t name, a spray of salt, a warmth like human touch.
The closest Jason can compare it to is a long-ago family trip to Disney World, the humid Florida air tasting faintly like greenery and sun in a way Dillon never had. This is like that, but softer. Especially after dark. Something gentle in the night air that cradles your face and kisses both cheeks when it touches your skin. That it exists in the same world as blazing Texas summer, let alone whatever winter exists up north, feels impossible. Unreal.
Then again, he’d be willing to bet everything seems more beautiful when you look around on the day you planned to kill yourself.
He dances with Lyla while music floats into the night from the speakers above the bar, drowning the sound of the waves. The fronds of the potted palms scattered around the deck brush against each other in the breeze. She kisses him - lips he’s tasted countless times, her body in his lap, the body he knows like the back of his hand. The girl that for at least three of his nineteen years he thought he would marry, grow old with, die beside.
Not anymore.
So when Riggins kisses her there’s no jealousy - the place where that once lived is empty, all of those feelings gone - and there’s something else there instead, deep and meaningful. A feeling that the three of them have something tonight that’s so infinitely precious, so strong that it’s beyond explanation. That something has tied them together, and that it’s good. That it matters.
But there’s another feeling too. He can’t name it yet. It gnaws at him just a little, deep in the pit of his heart.
Then she leaves. And it’s Jay and Riggins alone together, which is easy.
They don’t have to talk. Best friends never do. Sitting in silence with Tim is comfortable, safe, natural as breathing. Rainbow string lights blaze over their heads, the only color against the starless black sky. There’s just the faintest hint of horizon line where the sky runs into the water.
Tim stands facing him, fingers working the corner of the label on his beer bottle without looking at it. He’d barely touched a drink all day until the cruise, Riggins, who could put away a case of beer before breakfast, and so Jason should have seen before now that something was going on. He understands now that Tim had probably wanted to be as sober as possible when he’d cornered him. Maybe he could still be angry about the way it was so meticulously planned. But he’s not.
If anything, he’s dutifully impressed. Riggins only three beers deep by eleven PM is like anyone else flashing a six-week sober chip.
“We’re not going to kiss?” Jason asks, and he smiles. Because maybe he changed his mind about suicide today, but he’s still the same person for now, and old habits die hard. Because this is Jason Street’s job - saying what will make everyone else smile, trying eternally to lighten the moment. Even on the day he let water close over his head and for at least a few moments tried to push all the breath out of his lungs for good.
Tim does smile. A patented Tim Riggins grin, the very same that made one of the rally girls last year shove her thong through the slats of his locker. He stands with his hip cocked, hair falling in his face, eyes bright in the way that means he’s really smiling, not just dutifully showing off teeth. Jason knows the difference. The waves below them lap at the rocks below the deck, a sound like whispering rising tenderly below the soft music.
“C’mere,” Tim mumbles finally, and steps forward like he’s made a decision, the motion of pushing off an invisible wall. His fingers stay closed around the bottle, holding it loosely by the neck and swinging as he closes the space between them. They’re not far apart. It only takes another step.
Jason had said it as a joke. It was a joke because they’re boys, and boys don’t kiss, and Jay and Timmy definitely don’t kiss, although Jay’s hand has wrapped around the girth of Tim’s not-insignificantly-sized cock and jerked him off a couple times, and Timmy’s returned the favour, even used his mouth, and if there’s a human body Jay knows even better than Lyla’s it’s Tim’s - maybe knows it better even than his own these days, still foreign and strange to him since the chair, the damage to his spine, his left hand that won’t close.
But Jay and Timmy don’t kiss, and the one time Jay had tried, years ago, tentatively leaning towards Tim’s mouth in the back of his truck after a few too many game-night beers, Tim had turned his head and given Jason a mouthful of his cheek and hair and tensed in a way that had Jason stumbling to say, “Shit, I didn’t mean-” and Tim had said cooly, “Forget it,” and neither of them had talked about it or touched each other again until two weeks later when they agreed silently just to forget the whole thing had ever happened.
Because that was their unspoken rule (and remember best friends don’t always have to speak.) Because no matter what else happened, that was the line they never crossed. Because touching was carnal, just animal, but kissing - kissing was something else.
And that’s not them. That’s just to joke about.
This is a joke too, although it doesn’t feel like it at first, not when Tim leans down fluidly, naturally, and moves Jason’s chin up with his hand so he can press their lips together. Just a peck, but it’s still a kiss, unmistakable. His lips are cold and taste faintly like beer - it’s not unpleasant even though all of him smells like beer; momentary good behaviour or not, Tim never gets that smell out of his clothes.
It’s nice, actually, for a joke. Tim kisses him gently: the way the warm night air cups his face, the way the waves whisper on the sand. Jason opens his eyes to see Tim’s face closer than it’s ever been to him, feels Tim leaning over him to kiss him, the weight of his body balanced perfectly above Jason in his wheelchair, the heat from his chest pushing down into his skin, the tickle of his hair against his temple, and for a minute all of that is so overwhelming that he freezes, forgets to breathe. But when Tim pulls back he does it casually, like nothing happened. Puts that same two steps back between them like this is something they do every day, the almost-empty bottle of Mexican beer still dangling from his fingertips.
Only it’s not a joke right now. It stopped being a joke somewhere between the time Tim’s fingers hooked his chin and right here, right now, watching him tilt the bottle up and finish the drink, the word CERVEZA flashing from the soggy label in gold above where he’d peeled the corner off.
At least it’s not funny anymore.
Because Jason’s heart is beating too hard, and he can’t hear the music above the blood roaring in his ears, and there’s a numbness spreading in pins and needles down his neck as his face starts to burn the way it does when he blushes. He looks up into Tim’s face, silhouetted against the black sky, the breeze tossing his hair back from his cheeks, his bright eyes boring into him from between long, perfect eyelashes. A feeling breaks in him, a feeling so oppressively strong that it hurts to feel it. He feels himself holding his breath and has to suck in air when white starts creeping into the corners of his vision.
“Timmy,” he says in a stranger’s voice. It’s all he can manage: those two little syllables his mouth knows like his own name. His lips feel numb. He can’t think of anything else to say.
Tim just looks at him, looks for a long time, those beautiful clear eyes seeing right through him. And once again, they don’t have to talk.
“Yeah,” Tim says finally, voice hoarse.
Not a question, a declaration. Yeah as in, me too.
His voice is deep and husky and so honest, but the word trembles just enough for Jason to see he’s afraid.
Tim looks left and right. There are people on the patio with them, people in the bar, which is open to the air, but no one’s looking closely. It’s enough time for Jason to think, right, can we do this here? Is it safe in this country? Although he has his doubts about the one north of the border too.
But then Tim moves close enough that he’s standing over Jason’s legs, and Jason’s good hand flies out and grabs the hem of his shirt as though possessed by something other than his mind, and Tim crouches all the way down and leans back in and Jason opens his mouth willingly, and this time it’s not a peck. This time Tim’s hands pull their faces together.
And he’s kissing Tim Riggins. Not just kissing Tim Riggins but letting his teeth slide along Tim Riggins’ tongue, pushing his own tongue into Tim Riggins’ mouth, crushing his nose against Tim’s nose, fighting him for the top lip, grazing his teeth against Tim’s lips and tugging, biting, rewarded by helpless exhales of breath into his mouth. Every gasp and sigh from Tim makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He feels his hands shaking. All the blood in his head rushes south, leaving only a drumbeat pulse in his temples. Tim's hands slide to his neck, his shoulders, their faces pressed mercilessly together, and all he can taste is that beer and Tim’s tongue and the smell of Tim’s skin is in his mouth and throat, blotting out the smell of the air: salt and booze and home.
Jason’s arms go around Tim’s back, squeezing his perfect body against him, his right hand scraping his scalp until he has a fistful of that soft hair and tugging it - this, at least, he’d done before in the other life, the one where they didn’t kiss but where hair pulling was sometimes okay. Tim groans into his swollen mouth when his hair is pulled, and the sound shoots straight to his groin, making the fly of his jeans press unbearably into his hardening cock. He pulls harder and Tim’s head tilts pliantly back, leaving Jason staring at the tanned skin of his throat, already beaded with sweat despite the breeze, and the sight makes him so unbearably horny that he feels like he’s going to pass out.
Maybe he should be more surprised. Maybe horrified is the word. It doesn’t matter because the Jason Street who would have felt those things is dead. That Jason Street rolled off a boat today and didn’t come back up. That Jason Street might have died today on an operating table or maybe a year ago back in Texas after the last football game he ever played. Jason Street could be dead now, but he’s not. He’s alive. With Tim. All he’s felt for the past twenty-four hours has been an awful circle of hope and fear and grief, and that’s over now. This is something different. Something more.
He pulls Tim’s face back to his, kisses him again, hard enough to hurt. Tim’s almost in Jason’s lap, his crotch against his leg, his muscular arms holding him up just shy of crushing him. His teeth pull at Jason’s lower lip, stopping just before drawing blood, leaving saliva smeared across his mouth. He kisses his way across Jason’s cheek, brushes his lips wetly in a line from the corner of Jason's mouth to his jaw, sucking slowly at his jawbone while Jason squirms impatiently, wanting their mouths back together. Tim’s teeth graze his ear, his hair tickling Jason’s lips, and then he’s lowering his voice to whisper, his body heat warming Jason’s chest and lap. His voice comes out pitched so deep and throaty that it sends an electric current straight to his cock.
“Do you want to go back to the room?” Tim whispers.
For an insane moment he considers saying no. Considers it because the old Jason Street is still there, still trying to be the gentleman, because courtesy dictates he ask: are you sure? How do you feel about this? We don’t have to. And a part of him doesn’t want to be inside - wants the breeze out here, the smell of the flowers and the water, the warm air tracing loving fingers over his skin like it never does back home.
But then he actually imagines it. What Tim’s offering. And for a moment his brain almost shuts down with the flood of hormones, and the idea that he’d been struggling to maintain an erection since the accident sounds like science fiction.
“Yes,” he breathes instead. Nothing else.
Tim stands up. Jason’s proud to see his legs shake a little when he does. There’s still people in the bar, but no one is paying them any attention. Maybe a couple heads turned; he isn’t sure. He doesn’t really care.
They move towards the door. Twice as they’re leaving, Jason feels Tim’s hands land tentatively on the handles of the wheelchair, and he rolls himself faster out of his grip both times, irritated, because they’ve gone over this, Tim doesn’t need to help. He’s annoyed because Tim hadn’t been doing this to him all week, had been treating him completely normally until he did something truly stupid like get stuck on a curb, and the spike of frustration lasts until he realizes Tim is not touching to help move him. Tim is touching to be close. And when Tim’s hand brushes the back of the wheelchair in the elevator, so carefully, laying against it the way he’d touch a lover, Jason lets him.
But he wants those hands on his skin.
They ride up one floor.
Tim’s hands shake when he’s unlocking the door. Jason can see it happen because the plastic keyring attached to their hotel key keeps clattering against the lock. He holds the door automatically for Jason, who wheels himself into the room between the beds and turns around. For a moment he’s scared everything’s going to stop. That the change of scenery is going to be a reality check for them both, that Tim’s suddenly going to drop his gaze to his feet and say, listen, Jay, actually, I’m not-
But he doesn’t. He closes the door with a solid click that Jason feels all the way down his back and walks immediately up to where Jason’s waiting. Hesitates only when he’s standing above him, feet nudged up against the chair’s wheels, closer than anyone gets to Jason anymore, the two people he’d kissed tonight being the exception.
“Sit,” Jason says impatiently, looking up at him as he reaches for Tim’s waist. A flicker of concern crosses his best friend’s features, a fine line appearing between his eyebrows.
“You sure, Six?” he murmurs, looking down at Jay through the curtain of his hair, nervousness in his eyes. Frustration spikes in Jason’s chest again, because Tim still does this sometimes, though he hasn’t for weeks now - treats him like glass.
“Sit,” Jason repeats, more forcefully, painstakingly closing his right fist around the hem of Tim’s T-shirt and pulling as hard as he can. Tim follows him obediently down, and when he reaches Jason’s lap the anger dies, replaced by a flicker of worry that he’d overestimated his weight after all - but no. Jason’s strong. He’d forgotten that about himself. Tim sits, straddles his lap, pressed up against Jason until they can’t get any closer, and Jason holds his weight without effort.
Tim smiles, their faces so close that the strands of his hair between them tickle Jason’s nose and lips. Jason pulls him even higher on his lap, hands settling under his shirt at Tim’s hips, fingers greedily tracing the lines of his narrow waist, the muscles under the skin, the last few notches of Tim’s perfect spine. The friction against his groin when Tim’s denim-clad hips roll into place is incredible. Tim leans in until their damp foreheads are pressed together, then their noses, and finally their lips again. His strong hands come up and caress the sides of Jason’s neck, fingers tenderly brushing the skin just shy of the surgical scar that cuts the back of his neck in two.
But Jason’s not going for tender. He wins the top lip easily this time, sucks Tim’s upper lip into his mouth and drags it over his teeth. He lets his hands slide up to the back of Tim’s skull and holds his head still, devouring his mouth with insistent pressure, forcing his tongue past Tim’s lips, biting down when he feels Tim’s tongue in his own mouth. He kisses him feverishly, not letting their mouths part until he’s so desperate for air that his lungs are screaming and he’s on the verge of blacking out.
Tim gasps when Jason lets him breathe, leaning forward desperately to chase Jason’s mouth before slowing down when he realizes he's purposefully pulled out of reach. His upper lip is swollen and pink, the bottom one slick with Jason’s spit. Jason tastes hot copper on his gums and thinks he might have accidentally bit Tim’s tongue hard enough to bleed.
“Jesus Christ, Six,” Tim groans. The grin that rises on his flushed face is no less stunning for how hard he’s breathing, shifting lightly in Jason’s lap so that Jason can feel the bulge in his jeans. Their chests are touching now, and Jason can feel Tim’s rising and falling harshly against his ribs. Tim drops his gaze almost shyly when their eyes meet again, but he laughs deep in his throat, a sound like music to Jason’s ears.
Jason slides his hands slowly back up Tim’s waist, palms cupping his delicate hips, fingers just brushing the beautiful spine with its perfectly undamaged C-7 vertebrae. Tim reaches behind himself to peel his shirt up over his head, pulling it by the back collar in a practised locker-room gesture that reveals the rest of his bare torso like magic. He drops the shirt on the floor without checking to see where it lands, and Jason fumbles to copy him, extricating himself from his own T-shirt in a movement that’s much clumsier, hampered by having only one good hand and rushing for it to be done before Tim offers to help him. But he doesn’t, and then they’re kissing hungrily again, Jason’s nails raking lightly down the front of Tim’s bare chest, Tim parting his lips eagerly to let Jason’s tongue push against his.
Jason grabs another fistful of hair and pulls it lightly, greedily swallowing the shaky groan Tim releases into his mouth. He hears Tim unzip the front of his jeans, one hand reaching into his boxers to touch himself, and Jason knocks his hand immediately away.
With Tim squirming in his lap, he raises his trembling right hand to his mouth and spits into it a couple of times - it takes a minute, because his mouth is so dry from how horny he is, but eventually he manages to drool a good amount of their combined saliva into his palm. It’s not pretty, but it does the job. He skims his fingers down Tim’s abs blindly until he reaches his waist, and when he slides his hand past the waistband of Tim’s boxers and closes his fist triumphantly around his cock, he finds him already leaking, the fabric wet against his knuckles, his palm slick and wet when he starts to move.
Tim whimpers softly. His hands fumble at Jason’s zipper, and it comes to Jason in a strange flash of memory that those hands had dressed him that morning - the pants only, because Jason could do the rest himself, had to do the rest himself for the rest of his life, all of it slowly getting easier except that pulling the pants up over his hips was now and was always going to be a pain in the ass, and so finally after Tim had asked a dozen times he’d let him help.
He remembers that now - Tim’s quick, warm hands doing his fly up, those same hands washing him tenderly all week in the hotel shower, moving over his bare skin with the cloth, making circles in the soap - slowly, carefully, devoted as a parent. Those hands gripping his bare thighs in the back of that truck, those fingers running across the stitching on a football like it was an instrument. The beer he had raised to him across that fire the day before the old Jason Street died. All these gestures come back to him, one after the other, as Tim slides his zipper down much the way he’d done it up - carefully, reverently, with frustrating decency.
“I wanna fuck you,” Jason whispers in Tim’s ear as his right hand keep stroking Tim’s dick, jerking him off. Tim actually moans for the first time in reply, scrunching his eyes shut and throwing his head back, the unrestrained sound making chills sweep down Jason’s back and arms. He’d expected a fight to maintain this erection, but he’s almost completely hard from the moment Tim’s fingers start touching him, and that moan doesn’t hurt. He presses his nose against Tim’s sweaty cheek, bites affectionately at his earlobe. “Do you want that?” he pants, relishing the way Tim trembles in his lap, the defined muscles rippling in his back and shoulders as he rocks his hips against Jason’s thighs.
“Yeah.” Tim's voice comes out breathy and slightly stupid, dazed with just a hint of pleading in it. The movement of his hand speeds up, his breath coming quicker and quicker as Jason watches sweat collect on his biceps and shoulders. He feels such a soft wave of affection for Tim Riggins that his chest aches.
“Keep going,” Jason urges him, pressing his lips to Tim’s ear, Tim’s fingers teasing him patiently until he’s completely hard, the veins bulging in his forearm as he works Jason’s cock. Jason reaches down with his free hand and rolls his wheelchair slightly backwards towards the beds - it’s hard work, with one hand and their combined weight: the muscles in his hand shake, sweat rising on his palm and impeding his grip, but it’s incredibly satisfying when it moves slowly where he’d directed it.
His bag is lying out on the covers, and Jason feels around with one hand for what he’s looking for: a tube of aloe vera gel made for healing sunburn, unopened after their week indoors. He can’t get it with his left hand, so he has to say a silent apology as he lets go of Tim’s dick with the other. There was a small chance Timmy had packed lube - when Jason had glanced into his best friend’s hastily packed bag in the truck he’d found exactly two changes of clothes and a sheaf of condoms longer than his arm, so that’s where that guy’s priorities were - but he didn’t feel like interrupting the sweet little noises Tim was making to ask.
“Take these off,” he whispers, catching Tim’s lips briefly against his, letting him pant into his mouth as he runs his fingers lightly under the waistband of Tim’s boxers, tickling his stomach. Tim whines softly but obeys him, shifting on Jason’s lap until he can painstakingly extricate himself from his boots, jeans, and underwear, reaching down clumsily to fight everything off his ankles so they can fall carelessly below the chair. Jason pulls him hard into another kiss once he’s naked on his lap, fist clenched in his hair, and Tim makes a deep, guttural noise into his mouth that sounds like a growl, his hand going back to Jason’s dick and stroking again until he’s fully hard.
“Need you,” Tim sighs into his mouth. Jason pulls his head roughly back by the hair.
“What was that, big guy?” he asks, smiling.
“Need you,” Tim whimpers pleadingly, softer, barely coherent. Strands of his loose hair are starting to stick to his cheeks, the rest already tangled and damp with sweat, like he’d just pulled his helmet off halfway through a hard practice. His lips are as swollen as if he’d been slapped across the mouth.
Jason braces the tube of gel between the knuckles of his left hand and his chest, opens it with his right hand, says a silent prayer he has the dexterity needed to do this while he squeezes a good amount of it into his palm, rubbing aloe over his fingers until they’re dripping with it. Tim leans into him, and Jason drops his hands obediently to his bare hips, holding him by the small of the back while he murmurs a warning in his ear and slides one soaked finger slowly, carefully, into his ass. The whimper Tim lets out when Jason’s all the way inside him is high and needy and entirely unbefitting his size and strength. He’s so fucking tight. It feels amazing.
“You okay?” Jason whispers protectively, and Tim nods hard, already panting: hot, desperate breaths tucked into the valley of Jason’s throat. Jason starts to slowly fuck him on his finger, painstakingly gentle at first, and then more purposefully, stretching him out. Tim shudders in his lap, hands balling into fists, hips jerking every so often when Jason hits the right spot. He starts shifting his hips, pushing back against Jason’s hand, and for a second Jason thinks he could come like this: listening to his little whimpers, feeling the heat of him around his finger, the soft little grunts Tim buries in the skin of his throat. “This is just my finger,” he murmurs against Tim’s temple while Tim whines into his neck. “You want more?”
“Jesus, Six,” Tim moans, throwing his head back, the bravado ruined somewhat by how badly the words are slurred together, his voice audibly shaking as Tim keeps stroking inside him. His eyes are screwed shut, his hair now completely plastered to his cheeks. He looks like he’s been running, or swimming. “Is that a fucking trick question?” he pants, digging his nails deep into Jason’s shoulders. “Need you. Come on.”
Jason’s so turned on that his dick is throbbing, but he’s gentle as he slides a second finger in along the first, painstakingly focused. Tim grabs his face and pulls their lips back together, kisses him clumsy and wet, his lips tasting like the sweat running down his skin, grunting needy and desperate into his mouth as Jason slides his fingers up and down inside him. Their teeth catch on each other's lips, Tim’s sweaty hands clasped bruisingly tight on Jason’s ears, spit stringing between their mouths. When their lips part he drops his head into the spot between Jason’s neck and shoulder and bites down on the muscle, shoulders trembling.
Jason stares at the smooth lines of muscle on Tim’s back, droplets of sweat running down his tanned skin in slow streaks, and the fear of losing his erection halfway through is replaced by fear he’s going to shoot off early, end this whole thing before it can start. He has to close his eyes to get control of himself, and even then the perfect curve of one of those strong shoulders remains stamped in his vision like the afterimage of sunlight, the bite mark on his own shoulder smarting like a reminder, the tight pressure against his wet fingers pushing him right to the edge.
He’s as gentle as possible when he slides his fingers out, and Tim takes over from there, drenching his palm in aloe and stroking Jason until he’s soaked. He pushes himself up eagerly off Jason’s legs, wraps one strong hand gently around the base of Jason’s cock and sinks slowly back down into his lap, guiding Jason inside of him. He’s still so tight, and Jason feels his body tense at the pressure, feels him trembling, but he keeps going: breathing out slowly the way they were taught for the gym, sinking onto Jason’s cock until Jason feels like he’s going to explode.
“That’s it,” Jason murmurs soothingly, shivering as he tries not to come early, trying to ignore the way the tight heat of Tim’s body is making fireworks go off behind his eyes until he’s close to blacking out. “That’s good,” he sighs in Tim’s ear, hands guiding his sweat-soaked hips, letting him take his time until he bottoms out, until they can’t get any closer together. “Is that good for you?”
Tim just grunts in answer, hands settling very carefully on Jason’s shoulders as he starts to rock his hips, starts to ride Jason’s cock like a pro. It stings suddenly that Jason can’t move his legs - he desperately wants to help with this, to set a pace, but Tim seems to be doing fine alone, settles into a slow, natural rhythm like they do this all the time. He lets his head tip back, sweaty hair falling away from his face, his throat exposed, panting and shuddering with every roll of his hips. His lips part helplessly, little gasps bleeding from his mouth which turn to whimpers when Jason starts pulling his hips forward, starts to match Tim’s rhythm using his hands.
“Does that feel good?” Jason asks breathlessly, urged to ask even though he knows he’s not getting an answer. Tim’s notoriously quiet during sex, at least when it’s Jason touching him. The most Jay’s heard out of him are the sounds he’s making now: these high, breathy whimpers and soft moans, tiny pleading girlish noises that sound completely out of place coming from their fullback. Tim’s in his own world right now, shaking as he keeps riding him, swollen lips parted, sweat running down his temples and glittering like dew on his bare chest.
Jason reaches out for the back of his head, curls his fingers gently in the hot, damp hair this time as he tries to pull Tim’s forehead to his, tries to pull them back together as close as they can get. It feels like a victory when Tim’s movements pick up, his breathing coming faster as he leans forward to stutter the word “fuck,” breathlessly against Jason’s ear, sweaty hands gripping his back for dear life, voice trembling as he starts to pant deep and hoarse, gasping for breath like he’s drowning.
Jason tries to tell himself it’s nothing special, that Tim’s just out of his mind horny after a week of unplanned celibacy, even if he did hear him getting very close with his right hand every night in their hotel room. But he’s never heard him quite like this: these harsh, needy breaths in his ear, the desperation in that one word. It makes a shiver run down his back, hands shaking on Tim’s hips.
“Fuck,” Tim whimpers again as Jason’s hands pull him closer, a slow, steady rhythm building between them, shuddering for breath as his chest heaves faster and faster, his hips rocking into a punishing pace, every muscle in his body gone tight. His hands clasp Jason's shoulders, and this time when their foreheads collide his mouth seeks out Jason’s lips again, kissing him greedily, whining against his teeth. His head falls back when the kiss breaks, eyes lightly shut, biting down on his lower lip as his hair falls to his shoulders. Jason’s mesmerized by the sight of him: the muscles moving in his perfect chest, his own spit glossy on Tim’s bite-swollen lips, those beautiful long eyelashes, Tim’s knees digging into his sides just above where sensation ends.
“Jay,” Tim whines finally, trembling legs squeezing Jason’s hips tight, and it’s that word that finally pushes Jason over the edge. “Jay,” he moans pleadingly, again, sucking in a shuddering breath, repeating it like a prayer: “Jay-”
Jason can’t take it anymore: he comes immediately, hard, the orgasm cresting in him like a wave, something close to the way it used to before the accident. He reaches down blindly and starts jerking Tim off, hard and fast, his hand so wet from precum and sweat and the inside of Tim’s body that lube never crosses his mind. Tim’s moaning properly now, leaning his face into Jason’s neck to stifle the sound, his hot, panting breaths heating the thin skin of his throat. His arms go around Jason tight, squeezing their bodies together, face buried deep in the crook of Jason’s shoulder as Jason works his cock, encouragement spilling furiously from Jason’s lips as the weight of Tim’s body and the smell of his skin wipes out the rest of his senses:
“Oh, fuck, Timmy. Come on. That’s it. That’s it.”
Tim cries out into his neck, shudders hard and comes all over his chest and hand, arms still viced around Jason in the tightest hug, face still tucked away like a kid so that Jason’s speaking through a mouthful of his hair. Tim’s chest heaves against his, breathing frantically through his orgasm, hips bucking into his hand, the prettiest whimpering noises leaving his throat. Then he’s finished, only Tim tightens his arms around Jason instead of letting go, and Jason’s arms go carefully around him, holding him back.
As their breathing slows they stay wrapped in each other's arms, Tim’s muscles relaxing as Jason softens inside him, the silence loud in the little room. Tim still doesn’t lift his head, and for a moment a black fear spreads into Jason’s heart, a fear that in the aftermath Tim - what? Wouldn’t love him anymore?
But it had been Tim who had said those words that morning, each of them breaking against his insides like an artillery shell. Words that could bruise; three words so painstakingly honest that he had taken the only way away from them by throwing himself off the edge of a boat.
So no, he doesn’t think he’s ruined anything.
Tim’s racing heart is slowing; Jason can feel his pulse. His breath is still coming soft and strong into Jason’s shoulder, back rising and falling against his hands. Jason cups the back of his head carefully, rubbing Tim’s scalp tenderly with the pads of his fingers, the other hand holding reverently to the base of his spine.
Tim finally raises his head and meets Jason’s eyes, his own slightly bloodshot, his cheeks very pink. Jason feels a rush of emotion that he realizes is jealousy, thinking of all the girls who have seen him flushed and glowing like this after sex, recognizing suddenly the then-nameless feeling that had grated the edge of his heart when Tim and Lyla had kissed.
“You okay, Six?” Tim murmurs, his voice faint and breathless, rougher than usual. Jason feels himself smile in reply. He doesn’t have to say anything. Tim understands.
Moving slowly, Tim gets up carefully from Jason’s lap, this thing hanging deep and nameless between them for a moment: the thing they can’t take back, that Jason wouldn’t want to take back, not for his legs again, not for anything.
For a second it’s only quiet. Jason can feel Tim’s cum soaking wet on his stomach and chest, and it occurs to him that Tim is going to be the one to clean him off, regardless of what Jason says to him, how much he argues, no matter if he can do it himself; that he’s going to do it loyally and instinctively, the way he lifted him into the truck from the beach, the way he offers to wash his back in the shower. That Jason might not like it, might complain or fight but that Tim will do it anyway, will always do it anyway, driven by a devotion that goes beyond words.
But before he does that, Tim leans down, hands holding Jason’s ribs, and he kisses him one more time on the lips. Then again, on the cheek.
Then once more for good measure.