#also this is severely unedited so if you notice redundancy just. move on. deal with it.

[seasonal-writes]

“how do you talk to star?” - title from the song of the same name by everybody’s worried about owen (since it’s back up, ao3 link is here!) characters: jimmy (mainly)/tango cw: none unless you consider the insane amount of introspective themes throughout this thing. so! little note! guess who wrote something new and finished it. for the first time in months. it is short, i am rusty, and i DEFINITELY wouldn’t say it’s my best work but i like the concept a lot and churned this short and sweet little introspective fic last night in a writing haze! i missed four calls from my family members help.

It is based on this prompt list, specifically number 7. :) hope you all enjoy this super short, ramble-y, jimmy is very much pining one-shot! ~

Jimmy has learned it takes nothing. Barely a glance, he has found, for all of the sediment—that he thought was long stationary—to be kicked up again, to clog every artery and leave him struggling to breathe.  His conundrum lies in the side profile of Tango. The curve of the tip of his forehead, drooping into the bridge of his nose and rolling over two delicate hills of pretty, thin lips. Yes, he with the dancing eyebrows and teeth flashing, pulling against his lip when he grins and eyes that almost sparkle in sync. Tango—devastatingly, heart-achingly, undeniably and beyond beautiful Tango who has yet to notice his staring.  If Jimmy were to be grateful for anything, he’d be grateful for the obliviousness of his quarry.  Tango, in a stunning move, laughs without a care in the world. It’s so loud and clear and Jimmy feels a smirk tugging at the corner of his lip, the cause of such being obvious to anyone who may notice his ogling. Though, making a home in the corner of this crowded living room, he has no intentions of intruding. Of course, maybe he wishes he was the one making Tango laugh like that. Maybe he wishes that intoxicating gaze could be on him, rather than those who engage him. “You know, you can just go talk to him, right?” Grian asks, a gentle nudge of Jimmy’s elbow making him turn. Jimmy snorts.  Maybe that’s the problem, isn’t it? Jimmy probably could just go talk to him. He’d been watching him for so long, for so many occasions—if he were a more attentive man, he’d have studied the patterns by now. He’d understand every little joke, made a note of everything that could make him more appealing, more fun to talk to. Instead, he gets lost in it. When he tries to keep track, he fails. Being analytical was never his strong suit, and it never failed him more than when he was trying to figure out how to talk to the one he is very much in love with. The one who, as far as he knows, is very much not in love with him.  “We talk,” Jimmy says, “We’re just friends, that’s what friends do” “Yeah, Tim, and I’m just an idiot.” “You said it, not me.” Jimmy tries to say it seriously, but he can’t help the grin. “I bet he’d like to chat. You two always get along well,” Grian says, dodging the jab flawlessly and turning his eyes to Tango, the two now watching from the shadows.  “Well- yeah, I guess.”  Another problem. They did get along well. Too well, in fact. He had friends, had people who he could count on and talk to or laugh with. Jimmy even knew what it felt like to be flirted with, to be teased in that way. But it never quite felt the same when it was with Tango. And it just confused him anyway, was Tango flirting with him? Was he flirting back? He knows well that sometimes he just stumbles into things without looking first, that was no doubt. It could very well be that Jimmy was just fooling himself, wandering into something that he didn’t get a good look at before exposing his neck to the danger of misinterpretation.  Maybe, in reality, Tango was just indulging him—even if he is a really, really good guy, the concept was dangerously easy for Jimmy to trust.  “I just think that if you’d get off your perch and just go up to him, or wave or- geez, just stop staring and do something, it’d probably be fine.”  “I appreciate your suggestions, but I am comfortable right here,” Jimmy says, “He’s busy, anyway- see?” He nods up in the general direction of Tango, noting how he is casually conversing with Impulse and Zed, who keep him engaged. Grian groans.  “Not gonna be busy forever, man.” “Well, I can’t go talk to him right now, then. Maybe later.”  He feels Grian clap a hand onto his shoulder, sighing. “Whatever you say, Tim. But those feelings are just going to fester till you say something, you know.” “..I’ll- I’ll take my chances,” Jimmy mutters, swallowing hard.  He only glances at Grian for a second while he moves off into the rest of the party, not bothering to track where he’s heading once he leaves.  When he finds Tango again, there’s not much of a difference. Zed left. Impulse still has him explaining something. He can tell by how his hands move, how his gestures get big and small and create the shapes of whatever figures are drawn out in his mind. Jimmy always admired that. He’d gotten it up close, once, when Tango got into one of his redstone rambles and talked at Jimmy while he just nodded and smiled and listened, despite having zero clue about what he was saying. Jimmy may not be good at redstone, but he’s sure if he was asked what he liked about Tango, he would go into the same sort of ramble. Big hand gestures, small hand gestures—anything to properly convey how smitten he had him.  Tango had no idea.  Jimmy was sure, at this point, he was destined for a forever’s worth of pining. A lifetime of restless stomachs, of rocking heartbeats that sound more like scattered drums than something meant to keep him alive. He will spend the majority of his days avoiding the fire and getting used to the cold of the corners, growing fond of the way his eyes glaze over as if he has stared at the sun for a little too long. … and.. still.  Something inside of him roared, clawed at its cage and said let me out, said tell him. He couldn’t really tell what was holding him back—was it just fear? Anyone would be scared to confess, sure. It could be the rejection, the dreamt up, awkward and letting-you-down-easy smile. The sorry, I’m just not into you that way. Or, maybe, it was the worry that things would go well. After all, they had gotten to know each other closely. Teaming up will do that to you. Talking almost every day will do that to you. Running into each other at parties, taking walks, talking about redstoning and building and bearing your every wound to each other almost shamelessly on the bad days and sharing in the joys on the good days, as if it was always meant to be just like this. Jimmy feels himself suddenly come back into himself like a head slamming into a wall, taking note of an astonishing development.   Tango is looking at him. Impulse now gone from sight, he leans against the same wall, but he is looking. Then offering an adorable wave with a tiny smile, Tango straightens his shoulders when Jimmy waves back, like some attempt to make himself look taller—and with the rush of feelings rolling over Jimmy, he feels adrenaline-fueled laughter forcing its way to the surface; it comes out in a quiet wheeze.  It finds him right away. The familiar sensation of Jimmy’s insides dropping like a sinking building, leaving nothing but dust-caked breaths that feel sticky, catching in his throat with every other inhale. He is a ruined mess of a man. A weak, mumbled puddle of warmth and heavy pulses and heat.  He is fucked. Royally, deeply, this-is-it fucked. And they stay that way for seconds, but it feels like years, and Jimmy can’t get enough of it.  Loving someone does feel quite good, doesn’t it? And maybe, being loved right back could feel even better. If he could just get over himself and try.