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Tim's seen the way you look at the others.
The way you shrink into yourself, all bashful and shy, when Damian brushes close, leaning in to whisper a soft 'Habibti' into your ear.
The way your smile grows just a little too wide when Dick winks your way, saying something or the other with lidded eyes and a coy smile.
The way your gaze lingers on Jason's muscles when he fixes his bike, so obvious that he himself sees, smirks, and flexes until veins pop out and your pupils blow wide.
The way your laughter echoes just a little longer than usual when Duke cracks a quick joke, grinning and leaning ever so slightly closer to you with a soft, small glow emitting from him.
Tim's seen it all.
And he. fucking. hates it.
It makes his stomach churn. Douses his insides with gasoline and strikes a match nearby.
It makes everything around him shrink, focus, tunnel in until all he can see is you and whatever brother it is that has your attention right at that moment.
It makes his fists clench; makes it so that he nearly draws blood and locks his jaw in place with how set it is.
An awful feeling, sickly and green and leaving him all but wondering: why? Why don't you ever look at him that way?
That light that dances in your eyes; the way your smile turns to mush and your shoulders sink like you're slowly melting into a puddle—why is it never because of him?
Is there something his brothers have that he doesn't? Something that makes you notice them more than him?
He can't stand it. Can't stand not being the one circulating in your mind, when all you ever do is cloud his.
Day after day, night after night, your voice echoes in his head; sweet and shy; sarcastic and funny—a mix of the two, more than both, so much personality wrapped in such a lovely package.
But none of it ever for him.
Even now, as he sits on the edge of his couch, gaze dead and set square on you and the demon head chatting away in the corner, he can't help but feel that ugly churn in his stomach, only amplified tenfold by the previous events of the night—all interactions, all with his brothers, none with him.
Tim watches as you excuse yourself with a smile and a brush of your fingers against his brother's arm, heading straight for the kitchen with a pep in your step.
He waits for a beat, blinks to break free of his own stare, then gets up and follows right after.
You bite down on your lip, trying and failing to find a glass you can use to quench your thirst in this giant, godforsaken maze of a kitchen.
Okay, maybe it's not a maze, but it is a hell of a complicated storage system.
"Where the hell does Alfred put all the glasses?"
A clink answers your muttered question, and your eyes flick up, a cup ready and waiting on the kitchen counter.
"Oh, thanks—"
Using the counter as leverage, you pull yourself back up before whirling around and being met with a wall of heat pressed almost right up against you.
"—Tim?"
You blink, but he just stares back, gaze lidded and heavy, not saying a word.
"Uh, you good?"
Still, nothing.
You try shifting in place, the air a little too hot, a little too damp, but he halts you, placing one hand on the counter to your left, and one hand on the counter to your right.
Your breath hitches.
Then he speaks.
"What do they have?" he asks, almost desperately.
"Huh?"
He repeats, "What do they have..." before adding in a near whisper, "that I don't?"
He leans close, breath heavy and warm, damp and weighted, like he's shouldering the world and letting just an ocean slip out.
"That makes you look at them that way and not me?"
His voice shakes when he speaks, as though desperate for an answer, for a look, for anything, and with each word, his arms seem to flex more, veins protruding from the corner of your eye like cracks in a dam.
"Why don't you give me the same look you give all of them..?" he breathes out, expression scrunched up, pained, like you've plunged a knife through his heart instead of just standing there, leaned against the counter with wide, bewildered eyes.
"What—? Tim, what are you—?"
He cuts you off, or maybe he doesn't hear you speak in the first place, too wound up in that far‐away, yet still somehow intense gaze he's trained onto you.
"Why don't you love me..?"
It's then when his hands slip to your sides; then when your eyes go wide and his fingers curl up, scrunching the fabric of your shirt until it's all bunched up in his grip and crinkling under his knuckles.
"Why won't you look at me..?"
"Tim, what are you on about?"
He shakes, trembles, and his curled up grip slowly inches behind you, clenching and unclenching in little crawls around your waist like he's afraid to let go, like you'll disappear if he does.
"Please," he whispers—again, too far gone to respond to you, "tell me..."
You blink as he draws you closer, arms fully curled around your waist now, hips fully flushed against yours.
"What will it take..?"
So close, you're forced to look into his all-black eyes, and find your reflection staring straight back at you.
"Just one look..."
You almost jump when you feel something against your bare waist, glancing down to see the sliver of skin under your shirt being caressed by his fingers, grazed in circles that send heat down and spread around between your thighs.
"That's all I want..."
He draws your gaze back up with a shaky breath.
"That's all I ask..."
You blink, and he somehow pulls you even closer, back forced into a curve to avoid knocking into his nose.
"Just one look."
Then he finally buries his head into your neck, and whimpers one final, breathless time:
"Please..."