[He's never had ice cream cake before. Not once, in his miserable life, has Tim Wright had ice cream cake.]
[And he likes it.]
[And this is pathetic--like, really, honestly pathetic, but there's a thought that's crept up from the back of Jay's head that he's not fully willing to smother: He did something right.]
[He pried into Tim's early years, dissected what he could, laid the whole thing bare for the internet to pore over and comment on and theorize about. He learned what kind of medicines he's allergic to, picked apart his childhood anxieties, watched him grow up, in a way, through the eyes and the scrawled notes of doctors. When faced with the kid himself, the flesh-and-blood person the notes couldn't fully describe, he hadn't been able to do a thing. He barely pried a scrap of useful information out of him, and more than that, he hadn't been able to assuage his fears, hadn't been anything but a vaguely threatening stranger, prying into his life again.]
[It's not like a slice of cake can fix any of that.]
[But maybe, for once, he's not making Tim's life worse.]
[And it's pathetic, to feel like that's some sort of accomplishment, like giving the guy cake instead of splitting his chest open and broadcasting his secrets on the internet is anything other than the bare minimum. And maybe Tim's not happy, exactly (anhedonia) but Jay gave him something he liked, and it made Jay...well, not exactly happy himself, but...]
[It feels good, to know that Tim likes the cake.]
[At the risk of sounding like an after-school special, maybe that's what having an actual friend's supposed to be like. Just, where it feels good to see the other person...somewhere approximately in the neighborhood of happy.]
[Or maybe he's overthinking it.]
[Sounds about right.]
[He takes a bite of his own slice, and--god, sweeter than he remembers. Good, though. Tim's not wrong.]
Welcome to, uh. [He gestures, wide and awkward.] Ice cream cake.
no subject
[And he likes it.]
[And this is pathetic--like, really, honestly pathetic, but there's a thought that's crept up from the back of Jay's head that he's not fully willing to smother: He did something right.]
[He pried into Tim's early years, dissected what he could, laid the whole thing bare for the internet to pore over and comment on and theorize about. He learned what kind of medicines he's allergic to, picked apart his childhood anxieties, watched him grow up, in a way, through the eyes and the scrawled notes of doctors. When faced with the kid himself, the flesh-and-blood person the notes couldn't fully describe, he hadn't been able to do a thing. He barely pried a scrap of useful information out of him, and more than that, he hadn't been able to assuage his fears, hadn't been anything but a vaguely threatening stranger, prying into his life again.]
[It's not like a slice of cake can fix any of that.]
[But maybe, for once, he's not making Tim's life worse.]
[And it's pathetic, to feel like that's some sort of accomplishment, like giving the guy cake instead of splitting his chest open and broadcasting his secrets on the internet is anything other than the bare minimum. And maybe Tim's not happy, exactly (anhedonia) but Jay gave him something he liked, and it made Jay...well, not exactly happy himself, but...]
[It feels good, to know that Tim likes the cake.]
[At the risk of sounding like an after-school special, maybe that's what having an actual friend's supposed to be like. Just, where it feels good to see the other person...somewhere approximately in the neighborhood of happy.]
[Or maybe he's overthinking it.]
[Sounds about right.]
[He takes a bite of his own slice, and--god, sweeter than he remembers. Good, though. Tim's not wrong.]
Welcome to, uh. [He gestures, wide and awkward.] Ice cream cake.