Tim hates summer.
Specifically, he hates the heat. His overgrown hair sticks to the back of his neck, and his T-shirts cling to his chest in the worst possible way, and worst of all, it’s far too hot to wear his binder, even the ultra-light breathable WayneTech one that Bruce got for him. Plus, Gotham stinks like hell in the heat.
And he’s not even tan, for his trouble. It’s not like he’s been doing anything besides gaming and casework, and board meetings and vigilantism and melting in the AC, but still. Maybe someday he won’t look like a beacon of Gondor whenever he takes his shirt off.
Ugh.
And to make matters worse, it’s shark week. Again. He had one like four weeks ago, does he really have to go again? Really?
“Ughhhhhhh,” says Steph, lying on the table in front of him.
“It’s like you read my mind,” teases Tim. He slouches further down in his chair, feeling the cotton of his shirt squeak against the wood.
“Waffles?”
Tim sighs and presses a hand to the pain in his abdomen. “Too hot.”
It hits him in a rush. It’s like a neon sign has been flicked on in his brain, ten feet tall and flashing the words There Is Something Wrong With You. It’s not fair, it’s not right, this isn’t him, what the fuck, he’s a guy. A dude. A man. Guys don’t bleed once a month, guys don’t have a chest, not like this, what the fuck is this, this isn’t his, what the fuck, oh God — he’s crying now. What the fuck. Shark week is the worst.
“Timbo? You good?” Steph has abandoned her spot on the table to lean over him, wiggling her eyebrows in concern. “Earth to Jimothy. Timothy. Tim!”
“What?” He doesn’t want to talk about it.
“…Ice cream? I’m craving a scoop of chocolate, yeah?”
Steph is the best. Steph is the fucking best. It’s fairly obvious that Tim is crying but Steph is the best and doesn’t talk about it. Tim peels himself off of the wooden chair, wincing as he stands. He rakes a hand through his stupidly sweaty hair. He really should get it cut soon. “Steph, you’re the best.”
She grins her lopsided grin. “I am the best. You’re not so bad yourself, Timbo. C’mon, ice cream!”
They decide to walk down to Gotham proper, soles of their shoes melting against the pavement. The clouds aren’t doing anything to cool down the city. Instead, everything is shrouded in a sticky, hazy heat. Tim crosses his arms in front of his chest awkwardly, hoping that no one will recognize him.
The little ice cream shop is blessedly cool. Tim and Steph sink into plastic chairs, sweat-soaked shirts squeaking. Steph pops an overly large spoonful of chocolate ice cream into her mouth, grinning at Tim as ice cream drips down her chin. Tim wants to say something. Tim wants to tell her something.
Tim says, “Gross.”
“What? Is good!” Steph laughs around her spoon.
The hum of the air conditioner surrounds his thoughts. It’s a good day, sort of a bad good day, but a good day nonetheless. If he tries hard enough he can ignore the pain radiating through his abdomen, he can ignore all of the bad thoughts poisoning his mind. He wants to shut it out. He wants it to be over. But for now, all he can do is eat his mint chip ice cream, dried tears all over his face and still-wet blood pooling out of his body. He looks across the table at Steph, beautiful hilarious Steph, covered in chocolate and dripping with sweat. Her blonde hair is pulled into a loose ponytail, flyaways escaping like a halo.
She’s balancing the spoon on her nose. She’s the best.
“You’re the best.” Tim digs his spoon into his mostly-melted ice cream. “Have I told you? That you’re the best?”
Steph gives him a weird look. “Actually, you have. Many times. Heat getting to your brain or something, Timmy?”
He laughs a bit, wincing at the familiar pain of cramps. Steph smiles back.
When they finally leave the little shop, the clouds hang heavy above the city. The air smells like rain. In the distance, the sun sets, tinted red with smog. It’s still hot as hell. Hotter, maybe. Tim brushes the hair off his neck with an absent hand, thinking.
Steph is chattering on. “So I was reading this book that I think you would really like? It’s romance, which I know is not everyone’s cup of coffee or sludge or whatever, but you know, I really liked it and I could lend it to you …”
This is familiar. This is good.
By the time Steph’s stream-of-consciousness chatter lulls, they’re walking up the steep drive to Wayne Manor. Tim turns to her. He’s nervous, nervous beyond nervous, but he has to tell her. He has to.
Why isn’t she like the girls at his school? It’s pretty easy to tell when they like him. Even though he knows Steph like he knows Gotham, he still can’t tell. Jeez Louise, this is hard.
“Hey, uh … Steph?”
“Yeah?” She looks at him, concern written on her expressive face.
“Uhhh …” Goddamnit, Tim, you’re ruining your suave reputation!
“What is it, Tim?”
“Um … You’re really pretty, and, I, uh … Uhhh …”
“I’m pretty? I knew that,” she says, laughing, “but what is it? You’re making me kind of nervous here. Is something wrong? Are you dying?”
The pain of the cramps is long forgotten. Three words, Tim, you can do it. “I’m not dying, Steph, I …”
“You what?”
“I … uh …”
“Come on! What?”
“Um … I like you, like a lot, I think you’re really cool, and, and smart and nice and pretty, and, and, uhh …”
Steph’s blonde eyebrows practically shoot off of her face. “You’re not … gay?”
Tim’s face is on fire. This is not helping his overheated body, nor is it making him look cool. “Um. No. I’m uhh … I’m bi. Sexual. Bisexual.”
He watches her face anxiously. Even though he knows she won’t judge, even though she already knows he’s trans, coming out is always nerve-wracking.
“Oh, cool,” says Steph, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Thought so. I mean, I thought you were gay, but I was close, right?”
“Yup.” Tim grins back at her. He doesn’t know why he was so scared to tell her. This is Steph. His best friend, practically.
“Wait, so you like me? Like that?”
“Um … yeah.” Maybe he spoke too soon.
“Aw, Tim that’s really sweet and all but …” Her face folds. Tim can feel his stomach sinking. Right on cue, the cramps start up again. Great. She’s going to reject him, today of all days. He shouldn’t have told her. He should not have told her.
“You don’t … like me back?”
“Hah, sorry, Tim.” Her voice is sweet, a bit sad, like she hates to be rejecting him. “I’m actually … also gay. I mean, you’re not gay but I’m gay. I’m a lesbian.”
“Really?”
“Yes,” she says firmly. “I am.”
“Oh, sweet,” says Tim. “Glad you told me.”
He really is glad. Even though she doesn’t like him back, he’s proud of her, for telling him. For coming out. He knows firsthand how hard it can be, has experienced the pain of conditional love and the fear of the unknown, sharper than cramps just below his stomach. The sting of rejection is nothing compared to that.
They walk up to the Manor in companionable silence. It’s started to rain, thank God. The rain hisses on the hot pavement, cooling down the city and drenching the two friends. It washes away the grime of the day, from the sweat in Tim’s hair to the chocolate Steph missed with the napkin on her face.
Tim still hates summer but … it’s not so bad with a friend like Steph to share it with.
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