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Tequila Tellings

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“An’...And thiz’un,” Jason fell against Dick, who groped for a good enough hold to support Jason’s drunken weight.  “‘S’bout ‘is eyes.”

 

“I don’t think I--okay, okay, I’ll take it,” Dick tried to protest when Jason insistently pressed yet another crumpled piece of paper into his hand, but teal eyes were doing their bleary best to convey that it was vitally important Dick read the note.  “I really think you should be giving these to--”

 

Read .” Jason’s demand was enforced by him grabbing Dick’s face and squishing his cheeks in, which Dick couldn’t fathom was the purpose of.  Quite honestly, Dick had been thrown for a complete loop earlier when he’d popped in on Jason and found the man a bottle and a half deep in tequila, surrounded by crumpled piles of letterhead, and writing furiously on a clean piece.

 

The moment Dick was spotted, however, he’d been yanked to the floor, and Jason had begun forcing love letters , of all things, into his hands and had nearly gone to tears when Dick expressed an uncertainty to read them.  He’d only faltered for a heartbeat when Jason slurred out in explanation, “It’s ‘cuz Tim...‘cuz...perfect,” punctuated by the most adoring sigh Dick had ever heard come from anyone’s mouth in his entire life.  He was nearly certain Jason would have no recollection of this evening, considering how openly emotional he was being.  So read them he had, lest Dick have a sobbing behemoth of a man plastered all over him.    

 

And.  Jesus.  There was a sonnet to Tim’s fingers, and how much Jason liked watching him peel bananas.  There was a nearly unintelligible paragraph regarding the way Tim chews his lip when he’s thinking, with bolded words like ‘plush’ and ‘velvety’ and -- much to Dick’s confusion -- ‘Botox-shaming’.  The ode to how much Jason desperately wanted to give Tim a shampoo, condition, and blow out was richly littered with adoration and sweet musings, followed by a very embarrassingly detailed description of what else Jason would like to “blow out”, that Jason nearly got teary-eyed over when Dick stuttered through the words.

 

Not to mention the haiku about Tim’s butt, which was...enlightening.

 

And so it went on and on.  Dick skimmed the newest addition, full of similes and metaphors likening Tim’s eyes to the sky and the ocean, and very specifically to “the neon blue sign at that new car wash on the corner of Quincy and Main”.  He looked up at Jason then, who was watching him with a hazy gaze, waiting for him to continue reading.

 

“Hey,” he murmured, and Jason must have been just cognizant enough to recognize his tone, because he tried -- tried being a key term -- to sit up straighter.  “You really love Tim, huh?”

 

The sharp, shaky inhale Jason took at the question was all the answer Dick needed to understand, and when Jason placed a hand over his mouth, Dick smiled at him.  “Tomorrow morning, you should write a sober one of these,” he gestured outward to all of the notes.  “And then you should go give it to Tim.”

 

“I don’t,” Jason frowned heavily, and continued, “‘M not good with words.” Dick’s abrupt laughter pulled the drunk man’s mouth into a tighter line.  “S’not funny.”

 

“Jason,” Dick smiled openly and reached out to ruffle his pseudo-brother’s hair.  “I just spent the last forty-five minutes learning firsthand that you are very good with words.  You just need paper to get them out.”

 

Jason’s eyes widened at that, and he glanced down quickly at the love letters scattered around them, the motion causing him to tilt dangerously, but he caught himself on an elbow before he could collapse completely to the floor.  “Do you really think--?”

 

“Yes,” Dick insisted, then for good measure, “And before you even ask, yes, I think he would be open to what you have to say.”

 

The intensity of the happiness radiating from the smile Dick received was almost enough to convince him that he wouldn’t be reminding Jason of his very important role in getting the two of them together.


Almost.