by Nifra Idril
Jason didn't understand that it had been a relationship until years later. He just didn't get it -- he didn't want to see it, he was too young to see it, whatever the reason. Looking back, it's so obvious, so painfully, incredibly obvious that he just wants to smack himself, but at the time it'd just seemed a little weird, not too out of the ordinary. All he knew for sure back then was that after he started sleeping with that girl (Jason can't even remember her name anymore), Will changed. He started watching Jason with that look that you only see on the faces of your exes -- which Jason hadn't really understood either. He hadn't had enough exes yet to recognize it.
Jason was eighteen, and Will was a couple years older. He'd been on the football team for a year, and when Jason joined, Will didn't give him a rough time just because his family had money and he was a freshman. He gave Jason a rough time because Jason was a cocky little prick, but it was good natured, and one night Will asked Jason out for a drink after practice. So they went down to a sports bar, and since Jason wasn't legal yet Will bought him round after round after round and they stumbled back to Will's room to keep arguing about the Yankees (Will was a die hard Red Sox fan, which was perverse) in a cheerful, beer soaked fog.
Will's hair kept flopping into his eyes as he shook his head and shouted over Jason's arguments. Jason doesn't know why he remembers that so clearly, but he can see it -- blond bangs flying over Will's forehead, and Will's big hand impatiently brushing them away.
"You fuckin' -- Steinbrenner is the devil!" Will roared, and the guy in the next room over banged hard on the wall behind their heads to protest the noise.
Jason was so startled he jumped half on to Will, and the two of them fell over, sideways. Jason thinks that's how their legs got tangled up the way they did, but what with the drunk, he's never been sure.
He does know for sure, though, that somehow, someway, Will's thigh ended up pressing against his cock -- which was inexplicably hard, and Will's cock ended up pressing against his hip. And it had felt good. It had felt damned good, so Jason had pushed up against him and Will'd pushed back, and that's how it had happened the first time.
That was how it happened almost every time after, too. It was like a ritual, like if they missed one of the steps, they wouldn't end up back in that place where it was okay for Jason to grab onto Will's shoulders and just ride him.
It lasted for half a year. Jason didn't talk about it, didn't think about it, didn't acknowledge it. Will never said anything either, not really. Once or twice, he tried to, but Jason always stopped him, always interrupted with some stupid joke. Some nervous wiseass thing to say, and Will would let it go.
Will was waiting, and probably more than half in love with him, God knows why. And Jason -- Will was his best friend. He lived and died in Will's smiles. He did everything he could to make Will happy -- he even went to a Red Sox game. But he never let himself love Will, not the way he could have. Not the way he should have, the way Will deserved. He never even let himself believe that their Friday night ritual -- the two of them locked together, grinding away at one another -- was real sex. It was just masturbating. It was a circle jerk. It wasn't real. Jason didn't let it be.
And then there was that blonde. That stupid goddamned blonde, and things with Will ended. Friday nights stopped being sports bar night, and Jason stopped watching baseball.
And Jason still didn't get it. He didn't get it, and he didn't get it, and years passed, and then he graduated from college, and he saw a man who looked like Will on the street and he thought, "My God, I loved kissing Will," and it hit him.
Jason's loved a handful of people in his life, and he hasn't really been that great at it historically. Will was the worst, though. It's been years since Jason saw him, or talked to him, but it still hurts, still twists a little when Jason thinks about it because he knows he did Will wrong. He knows that maybe, they could have had something, but that's passed and Jason's always known to let the past be. This time, he's going to get it right. He's twenty-three years old, and he's learning about being a good boyfriend from his eighteen-year-old girlfriend, and backwards as that is? It's working out for him so far.
Sometimes he watches Clark Kent, though, and he wonders what the hell the kid would say if Jason sat him down, and said, "Listen. You've got a chance, no matter how fucked up you think your thing with Luthor is. You can do this right. You don't have to be so scared."
He wonders what he would have done if someone said that to him.
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