Oh. God. Tim isn't expecting that it'll be so good, kissing Bruce, that it'll make him feel so real and complete and full. Bruce's tongue is a heavy weight sliding in his mouth, a heavy weight that Tim accepts with a low, half-choked moan. Tim's hands slide down Bruce's shoulders, over the broadness of the musculature beneath the thin fabric of his clothes. Tim's not good at this stuff. Sex< in general. But that doesn't mean he hasn't fantasized about certain things. With certain people.

It's now or never, because what he's learned here is that tomorrow is only a sliver of hope. Today is all that counts. The here and now of things.

Scooting up, Tim swallows against Bruce's tongue, his kiss more clumsy than anything else but more than desperate enough to make up for it. He's not like Dick, who had a girlfriend every other week or Jason, who did all right himself, or even Damian, who acted like he didn't care. He was Tim, the middle child, the workaholic. Now all he wants is to pretend he has enough experience in these things, because God knows he wants this.