#i don't even like hs au's why was i so invested in them in 2019

[jeromevalseka]

coming back from my hiatus to inflict a fic i wrote 2 years ago on all of you :) i found it while sorting through old wips and was like...huh, i may have been on to something..........

Jonathan was at Bruce's house because apparently that was something they were doing now. He didn't mind, not really, but—and he would never admit this, even on pain of death—he wasn't the best at making friends. Or keeping them. He usually just hung around with Jerome or Jervis, hiding out under the bleachers to smoke stolen Camels, perpetually trapped in a play-act of high school delinquency. Which was—whatever. He was beyond caring about things like that. 

Bruce Wayne, though—

Bruce Wayne wasn't the type of person that Jonathan would have ever imagined himself becoming friends with. Study partners. Co-dependent acquaintances. 

Jonathan was not the usual type of person to be swept into his orbit. They were not—and he could not emphasize this point enough—in similar social groups. On every level, except physical, they did not even exist in the same world. 

And that was fine.

Bruce surrounded himself with the Tommy Elliot’s and Silver St. Cloud’s of the world. Pretty, vapid things that probably considered visiting a trap house an adventure and drove to school in Tesla’s. (There was no probably about it, actually. Jonathan knew Silver St. Cloud drove a Tesla because earlier in the year she ran over his bike with her shitty, energy-efficient, crime against humanity of a car.)

Bruce got along with his teachers. He had a special handshake with Principal Essen. He was inevitably going to end up being Prom King when the time came. He was an honor-roll student with enough extracurriculars to make Jonathan's head spin and, as far as he could tell, he had enough admirers at his beck-and-call that there was no reason he had to stoop to inviting Jonathan over to his mega-mcmansion to watch a movie.

It wasn't like they hung out. They were partners on a chemistry project once, and their study session had quickly been derailed by an impromptu lesson in shotgunning—which was a completely normal and natural thing to happen. Like, sure. Maybe Jonathan had been a teensy bit curious as to whether straight-laced golden boy Bruce Wayne would actually smoke with him, and maybe he was in over his head before he’d even grabbed his zippo, but, c’mon. He was only human. 

It wasn’t like anything world-shaking had happened.

(He tried, valiantly, not to think about how cold Bruce’s hands had been or the weight of him sitting on his legs or the way he looked, breathing out smoke: eyes lidded, pupils blown. He tried, most of all, not to think about how soft his mouth was. It was a losing battle.) 

So, they'd been partners once. Months ago. And then, again, in Leob's English class when they had to write a paper together a few weeks after the chemistry project. And, okay, maybe Bruce had started smiling at him in the hallways as if that was something he was allowed to do. And, maybe, Bruce had started spending a few days out of each week hanging around in Jonathan's threadbare bedroom pretending like he was charmed; pretending like he couldn’t buy everything to Jonathan’s name three-times over with just his lunch money. 

They were friendly. That was all. 

(Only that didn't really feel right to him. Something about the idea of it—of them—being nothing but a series of stomach-twisting accidents make his mouth go dry and ashy. He wasn't superstitious. He’d long given up the urge to want things; long resigned himself to the kind of disappointment that blooms ugly and rotten, and sinks like a stone in a stomach; disappointment that clings and chafes and oozes open like a burst blister with each little hurt—but every moment he spent with Bruce—every eye roll and bumped knee and shared song—made his chest well up with—with wanting. Bruce Wayne made Jonathan want. He made him burn-up. He made him dream. It was terrible—pinpricks beneath his nails—it ate away at him. He hated it. He hated it, and—)

He broke out of his thoughts, then. Bruce had a way of catching his attention.

Case in point:

A throw pillow worth more than his college savings slammed into his cheek.

It lacked Bruce’s usual subtlety. When he turned, instinctively, towards the direction of the throw, he found Bruce already wrapped tightly in a garish orange-and-blue quilt, lounging on his sofa with the air of a world-weary prince. He was too much—Bruce was—in ever conceivable way, by every possible count. Looking at him set his teeth on edge. His fingers twitched, hidden by ratty sleeves. Little prince, little prince...

Jonathan moved to sit beside him. He swung the throw pillow at his head in retribution. He felt like he was having a sugar rush. 

Jonathan was never a fan of sweet things. He elbowed Bruce in the side: sharp, straight to the ribs. Jonathan was never a sweet thing, himself. 

Neither was Bruce. He reached out and yanked down on a clump of Jonathan’s hair. “Don’t be an asshole.”

“Don’t pull my hair,” Jonathan said, twisting away, aiming for Bruce’s ribs once again. Bruce let go, only to pinch at his cheek instead, pressing the skin hard between his thumb and forefinger. He hissed, “What are you? Five?”

“You’re such a baby,” Bruce said, letting go of his cheek, smoothing his thumb over the space he’d pinched. “An asshole baby.”

"Can't help what I am," Jonathan said, barely resisting the urge pass his thumb over the spot Bruce had just touched. "What’s the problem? You want me to change? Be nicer? That’s a slippery slope, you know. First, it’s don’t be an asshole, Jonny, then it’s cut your hair, Jonny; donate to the orphans, Jonny. Where does it end?”

Bruce kicked at his shin. “I’d hate to speak for every orphan, but I think most of us could care less about your charity.”

“You say that now—”

“And I’d never ask you to cut your hair. It suits you.”

They suddenly felt too close, sitting on the couch as they were. “Spend a lot of time thinking about what suits me, baby?”

"Ha,” Bruce said, his expression odd. ”I spend more time thinking about what doesn't, hotshot.” 

That wasn’t a denial. That was, probably, as close to the opposite of a denial as Bruce would give. Something rabbited nervously in his chest. "Well you can’t leave me hanging, now. You gotta tell me what else you like about me or I’ll think your just making shit up." 

"I like,” Bruce stressed the word, “to think back to when you were too nervous to be this annoying.” There wasn’t any real bite to it, but whatever strange, tenuous thing hung between them fizzled away. Jonathan couldn’t tell if he was disappointed or not. "Tommy's half-convinced that you're secretly mute, you know? You just—loom around without saying anything. And Ivy thinks that you’re the brains behind all the shit that Jerome stirs."

Jonathan hadn't known that Bruce and Ivy Pepper were close enough to warrant them gossiping about him. Though, to be fair, he also hadn’t known that Bruce was talking to people about him, at all. Which. Huh. Bruce was talking to people about him. His sugar rush came back, full force. He felt dizzy with it. 

"As if I could convince Jerome to do anything.” His mouth felt very dry. "Remember when he filled all of Strange's desk drawers with fish?"

Bruce made a face, but laughed anyways. "The lab room smelled like something died in it for weeks. You're telling me that wasn't your idea?"

"Disappointed?"

"Mm," he hummed, eyes crinkled up at the sides, looking cozy and warm and a world away. "Any chance you’ll give me Jerome’s number? Want to put a good word in for me?"

And there it was. So it went. Give and take. Push and pull. Push until the air fissured, pull until Bruce drew his line in the proverbial sand. Every time. 

Speech seemed to have suddenly fled him. He elbowed Bruce instead, hard enough for Bruce to roll his eyes and nudge his thigh with his foot, a lazy smile settling on his face.

"I'm kidding." He said, and his voice was warm. He shifted a bit in his cocoon of blankets so that his legs were suddenly in Jonathan’s lap and their shoulder’s were pressed against each other; Bruce a solid, warm line against him. His hair brushed over Jonathan’s cheek while he settled down, and if Jonathan moved his arm just so he could feel his heartbeat. This was the reason Jonathan kept wanting. This was the reason Bruce was too much—as a concept, as a person, as the sliver of whatever that he cast off to jab into Jonathan— 

 He felt as if he’d touched a live-wire, though he imagined that might have hurt less. Bruce was still talking, “I already have his number, anyways.”

“You want to date Jerome?” Jonathan asked, stomach turning inexplicably. 

Bruce choked, coughed, and then, in a hoarse, panicked voice, asked, “What? Date Jerome? No. What the—No. Just—no.” 

His teeth still hurt. His hands were shaking, hidden in his sleeves. He wished he was back home, wrapped in his own ratty comforter. He wished...Well. It didn’t matter what he wished, in the end. “Sorry for asking.”

He could feel Bruce staring at him, something doe-soft about the look his eyes, but he couldn’t face him—could only bear to keep him in his peripherals. “I don’t want to date Jerome,” he said, after a long moment, steady and firm. “I want...” He could see him wet his lips, take a breath, and continue, “I want to watch this movie. With you.”

"Good thing I'm here then," Jonathan said, something ugly welling up in his chest. He held it. He let it go. 

"Yeah," Bruce said, grabbing the remote with a frown. "Good thing." 

#mine #p: bruce x jonathan #im not gonna put this in the main tag but i'll probably reblog it a few times #anyways. i think i was kinda on to something here? #i don't even like hs au's why was i so invested in them in 2019