threads of an old life

If there's one person that understands the meter of your body, the nuance of your disability—it's Bruce. After all, he's the one that you understand the most clearly throughout the dissolution of sound. Through the echoing reverberation of chords that seem to while away with each enduring day.

You know the spread of his lips in articulated syllable most ardently, you understand the way your name looks when it is verbalized by him. Even if the melody of the notes is duller than it once was.

There are pros and cons. It's grounding, in a bustling din of a city like Gotham, to have the minutiae of the humdrum mollified as you walk through it.

You can still hear the necessities: the blare of a car horn, the shout of a passerby by you. But most important is the hand that guides you down the street, arm-in-arm: Bruce's, unyielding and implacable like the dawn cresting over the horizon.

As he looks down to you with a smile that you recognize as you do the rising sun, sharing a spoken missive that softens and wanes in ways it didn't used to. You grieve many things, but most of all you think you grieve the way that Bruce's voice used to sound to you, with rich timbre, with deepened bass that would hum through you.

Sometimes, when you relax in the shared expanse of the estate, you sit on lawn chair overlooking the fresh greenery that Alfred keeps well-maintained.

You can enjoy the whisper of a breeze that ghosts through you, dots your face before careening by, even if you don't hear the way that it trembles through the yawning trees that provide decadent shade. But sometimes it's enough to disguise his approach, deaden your senses to your name that he's spoken countless times before.

When you jump at the touch of his palm that curves about your shoulder, turning to look up at him with unspoken alarm—you can see the concern that drifts over his face.

The worry that he doesn't take care to speak, even though at this proximity you would understand. Simply because he knows from the raw emotion laid plainly on your face: you don't want to talk about it.

You only do in the sanctity of privacy, in the landscape of your shared bed, when the two of you have collapsed beside each other after exploring the pleasures of the flesh. As he drapes a hand over your cheek to guide your mouth to his.

As he whispers in the shell of your ear, close enough that you may hear his voice in such sterling clarity often lost to you: "I love you so much."

And the question that you're afraid to speak into the open air bubbles up, like the terror that percolates in the acreage of your ribs.

"Even if I won't be able to hear you one day?"

You watch the journey of emotions that he experiences—disbelief, alarm, fear—and admire the one that takes final prominence on the span of his expression.

Love, tempered by the furrow of a brow that underscores the veracity of the words he speaks. Words he speaks with audible level for you to hear, in deliberate articulation so there is no misinterpretation as you watch the spread of his mouth.

"Always," He says. "Even if everything else is silent—I'll always be there to call your name."

He pulls you close with the strength afforded in those muscular arms, taking cursory swipe of a broad thumb to stem the tear that slides down your cheek.

"Even if you can't hear it—I'll always love you."

You clutch onto him, your arms grasping around this buoy in tempestuous waters momentarily made silent. He presses another kiss to the crown of your head.

"And even if you can't," His voice finally takes that rich, deep bass that you remember through the haze of memories, "I'll still always say I love you."

You glance up at him through the mist of tears that clouds your vision.

"You promise?"

"I do." He says. "I'll never be complete without you."

You make a wet sniffle against the expanse of his bare chest—it only serves to make him hold you tighter. "You have such a way with words, Mr. Wayne."

"I'll say them as many times as you want, as loud as you want." He soothes in that low bass. "Whenever you want. I promise."

"Okay," You whisper. You know the truth when you hear it.

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He scoffs, but his lips curl up too. "Nothing's ever quick with you," he says, and he means it. Jason likes to savor you, worship you like no man ever has because you're his. It pains him to have to rush.

But well... how can he ever deny those pretty eyes you always weaponize?

"Fine, you win."

"I barely even tried."

"It's your eyes," he admits.

He starts gently, pushing you against the shelf—the classics section, his mind briefly notices before you crash your lips against his.

This kiss is messy and fast, your hands wandering down to palm him through his pants. He hisses, his hand sliding beneath your dress and up your ass.

He pauses, pulling back, his pupils blown. "Princess, you're not wearing anything—"

"Obviously." You roll your eyes and pull him back by his belt. "Now come on," you say impatiently.

"Fucking menace," he mutters, then presses hot kisses to the curve of your neck. For a moment, his eyes open, and they land on a book next to your head.

His body stills.

"Jason?"

He hums, his hands moving back to your waist.

"Jayyyyy." You drag his name out in hopes he'll pay attention to you.

"Gimme a sec, baby." He presses a kiss to your forehead before pulling the book from the shelf.

Pouting, you bury your face in his chest. His free hand tangles in your hair, keeping you close.

His other hand turns the book over as he reads the back.

"What book?" you ask, mumbling, accepting that you're not getting anything until you're both home.

"East of Eden."

"Sounds boring," you reply, but you perk up to look it over with him.

"'S’not. We can read it together."

You grimace. The two of you have the complete opposite taste in books.

"Sure, babe. Whatever you want…"

"That's what I thought," he says, already walking toward the desk with the book tucked under his arm. This time he’s dragging you away.

masterlist

But when it came to you, whatever little self control he had in his body, seemingly turned to dust.

It had been a week since he last saw you.

Since he decided not to trespass into your life again.

Everyday since then, you hadn't left his mind.

Your smile, your laugh, the tiny quirk of your lips, the way your eyes would squint in concentration, your art — your art of him— every little thing was strung into an ever playing loop of flashes of memories that mirrored in his eyes.

When he was at work, working on the rubber of the black tires with grease marked on his hands , he would remember the red paint smeared on your cheek. The way it looked so perfect on you, like you were painting yourself all the while painting him.

Jason needed to distract himself from his thoughts which were consumed by your presence and he does the one thing that has helped him for years.

Books.

Jason has always immersed himself in books when reality was too much to bear. Books had the ability to make you forget whatever was going wrong in one's life. He loved being the audience as the characters in the book navigate through their own life in the universe.

But even that hadn't helped.

Every time he opened a book, he remembered the way you both met. The stares in the library, the intrigue he felt in his heart, the way you stuttered, your confession to him about how you never read books, the consecutive decision to cosplay as Red Hood.

Everything that had led him to you.

Hell, he hadn't even stepped once inside the two story marvel of Gothic architecture, packed with books — his safe haven for years, in the past week.

Groaning, he lays his forearm against his eyes, rays of sunlight blinding him momentarily. The red duvet sits perfectly against his shirtless torso, crowding against the left side of his body while his right leg hung off the bed, fingertips grazing against the hard wooden floor. Jason had to leave for work in another hour.

The sound of a notification pulls him out of the early morning tornado in his head, saving him from the endless cycle of thoughts. Jason taps his palm all over the bed, trying to find the rectangular electronic. It was a little unusual for him of all people to receive texts at eight in the morning. Once he gets hold of his phone, green eyes widen before glowing like he just got a text from the love of his life— might as well be — while a smile curves at his lips.

It was you.

And like the past few days of having known you, you seemed to have a gift of breaking his endless cycle of thoughts.

The text from the home screen reads:

'Hi Jason, Good Morning! I know it's been a while but can we meet for dinner tomorrow? I have some news to share.

No issues if you are unable to meet.'

Jason sits up, leaning his back against the headboard as his fingers hovered over the screen. He knows he should decline. It should haven been the immediate answer after telling himself not to get involved in your life. His gaze shifts to the portrait hung in front of the bed. It was the only picture that was of him in the house. The only one he could look at everyday without thinking about what was all wrong about him. The way you had painted him made him feel like a person, not a lazarus pit monster masking in the skin of a human.

Jason reads the text again, the sparkly emojis invoking a laugh, a hoarse sound that trudges past his lips before the sound gets huddled by silence.

The first thing that left his lips today was a hearty laugh.

How long had it been since he heard the sound early morning in an empty house?

All because of you.

The glass pricks his heart further.

But his heart aches. He does want to see you again.

But what if he couldn't let go.

His heart reasons.

He could see you one more time.

Bask in your presence.

And before it could win the battle with his brain, Jason moves to the kitchen, leaving his phone on the bed.

He would reply to you be the end of the day.

Jason lied.

Your text had essentially been on his mind since the minute he received it. Every chore he worked around the house, your voice reading the text was the music he heard. It made him feel different things — wildly conflicting at that.

Scarlet painted the stretch of his cheeks at the realization that you texted him first thing in the early morning. It made him even do a little dance around the kitchen, spatula in one hand as the waffle irons hissed.

As he draws his leather jacket over his shoulders, he thinks about all the time your eyes locked onto the clothing. It was subtle but he had only caught them when he himself wasn't mesmerized by your beauty, which honestly wasn't a lot.

When he finally walks to his bike, he remembers feeling your hands around his waist, cheeks smashed against his back. He remembers the way your lips curved to a smile as you looked at the night sky of sleeping Gotham.

Without a second thought, he grabs his phone from the back pocket of his jeans and texts back to you.

"I would love too."

Jason stares at the blue message bubble.

Was he too forward?

Should he even use the word love in this?

Does this make him look too desperate? Which wasn't a lie but he didn't want to make you feel uncomfortable.

Was this the right thing to do?

He was making it harder for himself. It had only been a week yet you occupied every waking moment, even in his sleep through his dreams.

But meeting you again — seeing every feature mapped beautifully on your face — would only make it even more difficult to forget you, to stay away from you.

To stop being in love with you.

But Jason had realized one thing — he couldn't really stop loving you but he could take measures to stay away from your life.

His fingers immediately press on the blue bubble, with every intention to delete when the word 'read' appears below, along with a grey bubble consisting of three dots. The helmet on his left hand is heavy, almost acting as the anchor rooting him to his spot. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears, thudding with velocity.

Had he done the right thing?

Hell, was the message even for him?

Maybe you had accidentally sent it to him and now you were going to apologize for it.

Of course, you wouldn't —

There is a slight buzz on his right palm. You sent two message which instantly calmed his rushing heart.

you: Can't wait 🥳. I'll text you the address for the restaurant by the evening.

His hands stiffen around his phone, as he looks at the ground.

Nervousness and excitement fill his senses.

Nervousness that he gets to see you again.

Excitement that he gets to see you again.

You plant your face onto the soft pillow, feeling it's lush cotton brush against your cheeks as your lips try suppressing giggles but failing phenomenally to the point even your roommate and best friend raises an eyebrow. It's early in the morning and she knew, you were not for one to laugh without having a sip of coffee. Even a smile on your lips in the wee hours would be a sight so rare to Zara — your best friend of ten years — she might even think she was hallucinating.

"What's got you smiling like that?"

"More like who," hugging the pillow, you stare off at a distance, yellow sunlight shining bright against your paintings stacked on the wooden desk. Zara circles around in her desk chair, hair tied in a loose bun. She was always the early bird among the both of you while you were the night owl.

"And?" Her voice sounds louder as she rolls the desk chair towards you.

"It's Jason," you say, eyes lighting up like there were literal fireworks ablaze in your irises "I asked him if we could meet for dinner. And….drum roll ,please," you add, hands shifting to tap the imaginary sticks against the plastic surface of the drums.

"He said yes."

"Of course, he is the one who made Ms. grumpy giggle first thing in the morning," Zara rolls her eyes, though her lips stretch into a wide smile.

"Please,stop acting jealous," you mumble throwing the lush pillow at her. It lands straight on her face, knocking off her glasses to the floor. Zara's mouth opens, huffing before she picks up the cotton cushion.

"Me?!" The lush cotton lands on your face as you both giggle, till your stomachs ache. It's a Monday morning. Usually, you'd be up and racing against the clock to get your shit together and run to class but ever since your final project exhibit had gotten over, you had a lot of time on your hands. Zara still had a few classes left, but it was much later in the afternoon.

As your breathing calms, you both lay on the bed, legs dangling off the edges. The overhead fan zooms lazily, air drifting against your hair.

This was what you wished for when you were thirteen.

A future filled with laughter and happiness and the will to live this beautiful life, with all it's blues.

But at that time, it didn't feel like it.

For a long time.

Till you met him.

"So, why are you meeting him again?" Zara asks, hands braiding her dyed electric blue hair.

"To treat him to a full dinner. After all, he is the reason my thesis got selected as one of the few to present at the Museum."

"And nothing else?"

Zara knew all about your crush on Jason. She was like your human diary, the way you were hers. You still remember the moment you had written the words "Do not fall in love." in your journal. Zara had said with a voice full of confidence that you were going to fail your own resolution. She declared that you had already fallen even before you wrote those words.

Said she could see it in your smile.

" I might ask him if we could see each other often."

"You should." She turns, facing you. "From what you have said, it looks like he likes you too"

You hum though anxiety creeps in like a wine surrounding your limbs.

"But what if —"

" No what-ifs," Zara affirms, shaking her head "The worst thing that could happen is him rejecting you."

"Exactly!" you shout even without meaning too.

Zara rolls her eyes when you mutter a sorry.

She knew you didn't mean it and was rather a product of your anxiety.

There were small signs and based on your experience of watching a plethora of romantic films, you had a feeling Jason liked you too.

But you could be wrong.

All you could do was hope.

"Hello, Demon spawn."

Jason is leaning against the entryway, hands folded against his chest and a tight-lipped smile grazing his face. He avoided Wayne Manor unless it was regarding a mission, or on Alfred's insistence but desperate times call for desperate measures.

Damian ignores his brooding brother and continues painting the orange of the monarch butterfly onto the canvas. He had been working on the painting — the Wayne Manor garden with it's luscious bushes along with Alfred the cat, Bat cow, Titus and Goliath, all lounging against the lush green — for a while now, the final touches being the tiny butterflies zooming around the flowers.

"I need a favor," Jason repeats now standing upright. Damian still doesn't look at him, as he now makes tiny white spots on the black bordered wings.

"Are you even —"

"I am, Todd," He looks at his grumpy brother, a frown etched onto his tan skin. "It's a no."

"You haven't even heard what is it," Jason grumbles, hands on his hips.

"Whatever it is, it's a no,"

"Oh my god, at least listen to me," Jason's voice booms loud, echoing off the tiny art studio. His eyebrows are furrowed, chest heaving but Damian could sense something else — something that was so not his brother.

Nervousness.

"I-I need help in choosing an appropriate gift for someone who's an artist," Jason sighs, hands ruffling his hair.

Damian stares at the man wide eyed, dark green eyes the same as his mother's locked onto the giant standing in his doorway.

Did Jason 'The Red Hood' Todd just stutter in front of him?

It takes a whole minute for Damian to return back to himself.

"Didn't know you had friends, Todd."

"Wow, this is —" Jason takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves at the sight of a smirk on his younger brother's face. "I have friends and I need to buy a gift for her."

"Her?" Damian's voice is filled with as much amusement as one fifteen year old boy could muster. Jason wants to hurl himself out of the manor, but he still needed to buy a gift for you. And so, he grits out a reply.

"Yes."

"Fine, besides I have to buy something too," Damian answers before setting down the paintbrush. He takes off the multicolored apron with only splotches of the original cream material visible, and hangs it beside the door. Damian did not need anything from the store, he just couldn't let it seem like he was willingly helping his older brother.

"What do you know about her?"

"Nothing, like nothing related to art." Jason mumbles, sinking into the plush cushion of the couch on the far end of the room as Damian washes his hands.

"Todd, you should be knowing something about the person you want to buy a gift for."

"I-I don't know," Jason squeezes his eyes, the heel of his palms rubbing against them "She likes the color yellow, and she likes jazz music."

It's weird seeing Jason smile, Damian thinks. Eyes squinting into tiny curves, while his cheeks crease and lips stretch wide.

"She- She likes the sun or the sun likes her — I'm not sure. She likes to collage, she likes the dumplings from this Chinese restaurant near Gotham U," Jason takes a deep breath, looking off into the distance like you were just standing there rather than it being a blank wall. "She likes portrait paintings — the one where you paint people and she….she believes in hope."

It almost feels another layer of red hot brick was laid on his chest.

You believed in hope.

And he didn't.

He shouldn't be this happy to see you, when it was all going to end tomorrow.

He couldn't — wouldn't let him have hope.

After all it was a lie.

Damian really only wanted the specifics about what you liked — like what type of paintings you liked or materials you used. Instead he learnt about how you loved those specific Chinese dumplings and jazz music.

Jason was just as sappy as Dick when he was in love. But Damian is perceptive and he could see the minute the light around Jason dims. It almost looked like he realized something, something that he kept pushing back in his mind.

"Todd," Damian says, standing in front of Jason. He raises his voice a little at the lack of a response "Todd."

Finally, Jason looks up but there is a very thin layer of sheen covering his eyes, something that could be missed if one was not too observant. But Damian was and he didn't know what to say.

"Shall we go?"

In an hour, Jason and Damian reached the art store located in Central Gotham. It was a three story tall building tucked in between a Italian restaurant and a boutique. The smell of new stationary filled every sense of Jason as he steps into the bustling room.

Shelves of paint tubes and pallettes line the walls. In the center, were smaller crates filled with brushes of varying sizes, crayons and color pencils. He could even feel the scent of excitement oozing from Damian as the young teenagers bounces lightly on his feet, a smile curved on his lips.

"Do you remember what type of paintings she did?" Damian asks, looking at a new set of paint tubes. "Were they acrylic, watercolor, or gouache? Or maybe even oil?"

"I don't really know the difference between them," Jason scratches the back of his head, ears tinged red.

"Of course, you don't," Damian grumbles before pointing his hand at the myriad of paintings hung above the shelves. "Just point at the one that's similar to what your friend did."

There were four paintings in front — one with a cottage and kids playing outside, one with the glittering ocean and a sand castle, another with the Eiffel tower and the final one with a girl in the middle of a field of sunflowers.

Not only did the last painting remind him of you, but it was the exact type of painting you did for your final project.

"That one."

"That's a gouache painting," Damian murmurs before shifting between rows, Jason following him. He then picks up a gouache painting set with 100 colors and turns to hand it over to Jason, only to see the six foot giant crouched down on his knees.

"Todd, what are you doing?"

Jason hisses , a finger on his lips. Damian follows his older brother's line of sight to see a woman checking out the canvases by the door. She was holding her phone — a white cover with sunflowers painted on it — and Damian can only assume it was the girl his brother was in love with.

"Is that her?"

Jason did not have to reply.

The answer was all in his eyes.

The way they lit up like translucent green akin to that of a leaf when the early morning dew touched the surface. The way his cheeks were seemingly painted in red ochre. The way his jaw softened, posture relaxed like he was within the premise of his home.

Jason hadn't expected to see you. It had only been a week since the last time he saw you and seeing you now gave him this sense of euphoria he couldn't describe. You looked beautiful — a fact, really. The way you smiled at onlookers, talking to some of the women who worked there. He could only figure you were a recurring customer to the store. Jason finally lets out a breath when he sees you walking towards the elevators.

"We need to get out fast."

Within few minutes, Jason and Damian were out of the store, the new paint set in a paper bag. Damian doesn't say anything, just looked at his brother and rolled his eyes.

Why was his adult brother acting like one of the boys at school?

He would never know.

Forty-five minutes later, Damian is dropped off at the footsteps of Wayne Manor, Alfred waiting by the front door. Jason waves at the butler, who nods in response. Just as he gears up to leave, Damian turns.

"Good luck, Jason," Damian mutters before walking past the front doors of the manor.

When Jason reached his apartment, a small two bedroom house on the top floor, he immediately looked around for some gift wrapping paper. Then he decided to do something, that even he was surprised at.

Write a letter.

You see, Jason Todd was an amazing writer. He loved reading more, but that often translated to beautiful writing. An old worn out journal of his old song lyrics, poetry, and even critical essays. It's just that he never showed it to anyone. He sits at the desk in the corner, with a blank sheet of paper and pen laid in front of him and starts to write with the intention to thank you for the experience.

But as they say, when you enter flow state, you forget about everything else.

Jason wrote and wrote as the minutes flew by. A slight ring of his phone cracks his concentration. It had already been an hour since he sat and when Jason read what he had written. He realized he had written a love letter instead of what he had set out to start with. Jason does the one thing he always did with his writing — hide it. He folded the sheet of paper and stuck it in his old journal.

One day, he will have the courage to read it again.

After spending hours of overthinking which restaurant you wanted to take Jason to, you finally decided on the Italian diner in downtown Gotham. The restaurant wasn't too pricey and was well known for it's amazing food.

After texting Jason the address of the restaurant, you try working on an art piece as a part of your commissions but nothing really was able to distract you from the sheer excitement and part nervousness you felt for the next day. You try watching some of your favorite movies, but it hadn't helped either.

Trying to sleep was another mission. You tried closing your eyes but all you thought was how the day was going to be, hanging out with Jason after a while. Shuffling around the bed, you look up at the ceiling.

You just hope things would go the way you wished.

You just hope Jason liked you back.

Early rays of dawn flitter through the curtains, casting a deep yellow over the floorboards. Zara was up already based on the tell tale signs of clanking of utensils and some soft music playing in the background.

"Girl, you need to get up. Now!" Zara shouts from the kitchen. You whine against the duvet, tucking it over your head. You hadn't slept all that well — head filled with all the things that could possibly go wrong and the things that could possibly go right. An endless plethora of them.

"Don't you have to meet Mr. Reeves today ?"

And that's enough to make you sit up, back straight like a surfer board. Letting out a small curse you run to take a shower.

Jason is the same on the other side of the town, hair disheveled and eyebrows furrowed at the alarm. The patrol had run longer than usual yesterday paired with his lack of sleep over seeing you today, had made him almost decide not to go to work.

Begrudgingly, he gets up, looking at the portrait of himself but more specifically made by you before moving to the living room.

Jason hadn't slept well either.

After all there is a saying:

If you can't sleep, someone is thinking about you.

If someone walked into Jason Todd's bedroom, it probably looked like a makeshift clothing store. Almost all his clothes from his closet were haphazardly thrown onto the floor after trying out each of them. It had been an hour since he got back from work and another two hours until your dinner reservation.

He wasn't able to concentrate all that at work either, even earning some light comments from his boss.

You had mentioned it was just a casual dinner. But Jason had a lot of shirts, a lot of jeans and a ton of jackets. It had to be perfect. He groans, flopping onto the plush mattress. He could call Dick, but that would also ensue blackmail material for him to tease. He could call Kory but she was going to mention it to Dick in a matter of minutes, hell they might even be together at the moment.

After thirty minutes, Jason decides to wear a white t-shirt that fit perfectly, showing off his muscles and some black jeans, paired along with a maroon leather jacket. He combed his hair in different styles, to the point of seeing tutorials on YouTube but decided to go with the best one — messy hair. And with that it was time for him to leave for the restaurant.

Jason reached the small Italian restaurant fifteen minutes before the intended timing. After parking his bike, he paces back and forth in front of the entrance before leaning against the brick wall of the restaurant. He watches the people walking by, his detective eye trying to notice anything illegal happening in the vicinity.

The sound of a car door closing has him look up, only to still — his entire body transfixed at one place. There you were, thanking the driver with a smile on your face before it breaks into one filled with mirth as your eyes lock onto his. You were wearing a similar maroon leather jacket with a black dress underneath. It felt like the world had blurred, only spotlighting your figure in the stage.

You looked radiant, light emanating from your very smile.

"You-You look beautiful," Jason says, pink on his cheeks.

"I-Thank you. You look beautiful too."

"We are wearing the same jacket," you giggle, pointing at his. He nods, tugging the fabric more tighter against his back.

"Shall we go in?" you ask, looking up at Jason and he swears, he could fall (but he already fell) just by how you looked.

"Lead the way."

"I'm sorry, what?" your voice rises with every syllable uttered by the host.

"We are sorry for the inconvenience, Ma'am." The man mutters, eyes drifting to the giant behind you. But you could care less about the excuses. What did they mean the restaurant was closed due to some last minute construction and that they didn't even have the courtesy to inform you. Heat rises up to your ears, hands resting on your hips. You knew it was not really the fault of the host but of the management.

But the first segment of your plan had gone to trash.

What would Jason think?

And why was your luck so bad at times?

Jason laid a hand on your shoulder, squeezing it gently. You look at him as he stares intently at the host who fumbles around the desk.

"We could still offer you some pizza for free."

That's how the both of you ended up with two large pizzas in front of the restaurant.

"I'm so sorry Jas—"

"Hey, it's fine." He says, eyes soft. "It was their mistake and it happens at times."

You sigh looking at the boxes. There's a brief silence as the sounds of honking and people chattering fill in.

"We could maybe go to the rooftop? Of the art studio?" Jason asks.

You nod.

Jason was going to ask Bruce to check for all the inspection criteria for the restaurant later.

Gotham during the nights was a splendor of it's own. Glittering buildings, the subdued sounds of traffic not reaching so far high, the cold winds. The both of you were sat on the plush picnic mat as you eat the second slice of the pepperoni pizza.

"Oh, by the way I got selected to exhibit my paintings at the metropolitan Museum of Gotham."

"Wow, Congrats," Jason smiles. "You deserve it."

"All thanks to you," you say, taking the next slice of pizza."They really loved the Red Hood portrait the most."

"It was your talent that did wonders," Jason murmurs, looking at you."I was just a muse."

Heat rises to your cheeks, spreading through the expanse of your face. He was not just your muse for a painting but rather had become something more. Muse for love. You look at the Gotham skyline, when Jason calls your name.

"This is for you," He says, handing over a wrapped box.

"No….you didn't have to get me anything," your voice is soft as your gaze shifts between the wrapped box in front of you to Jason.

"Please, it's just a little thank you from my side," Jason pushes it lightly into your hands.

"Thank you."

You slowly open the wrapping, eyes wide with curiosity. Jason sits cross legged next to you, hands rubbing against each other in nervousness.

"You didn't," Your voice softens as you look at him. "I can't possibly accept this. It-It's too expensive."

"It's for you and you deserve it."

There's silence and your mouth aches for an argument. But his eyes are so clear with clarity that you murmur a thank you instead.

"But why did you buy it?" you ask again, gaze locked on his form.

Jason is stumped.

He wanted to tell you it was because he liked you.

He wanted to tell you it was because he is in love with you.

He wanted to tell you it was because he wanted to leave something from him with you, but he couldn't, not when the letter he wrote was tucked in between the pages of his old journal.

"A thank you for considering me your muse," he opts for instead.

"Please, anyone would consider you," You huff, like it was the most diabolical statement "You're like a walking Greek god on earth. You deserve to be remembered like it."

You did not meant to say ALL of it out loud.

Red coats Jason's cheeks. You take another slice of the pizza to distract yourself from spewing something that only needed to stay in the premise of your mind.

After a few minutes, the large pizza boxes are empty as you both witness the Gotham skyline, eyes closed as the winds of the night welcomes you into it's embrace.

It was time to say goodbye.

You hug Jason, feeling his warm flesh against your body. But your mind was riddled with thoughts.

You loved spending every moment with Jason.

You wanted to spend more time with him.

And so you say it.

"Jason." He stills, hands midst of folding the picnic mat. Your eyes are wide and sweat runs down your forehead, despite it being cold. Jason could sense something was wrong — the way your hands twitched, the way your eyes don't lock onto his.

"Is everything o—"

"I like you."

The confession hangs in the air. No one moves and you don't dare to meet his eyes. Your heart thumps loudly and you take the moment of silence to pour all of it out.

"I have loved spending time with you in the past few days, and would-would love to see you more often."

Silence ensues and it's not comfortable, like it was tinged with guilt.

Complete silence during confessions is never really a good sign.

You look up and the minute you do, you already knew the answer. His eyes don't meet yours, rather looking at his black boots. Jason stands still, but you could see the way his hands shake a little. It was as if a cloud of somberness washed over the space, taking away it's earlier remnants of warmth and laughter.

You force a smile regardless.

"It's okay, if you don't like me," your voice is soft, normal but Jason doesn't miss the quiver in each syllable.

He hates that the reason behind it was because of his words.

Was because of him.

He was the reason a face full of sunshine was trying not to breakdown into tears. Jason's green eyes look at you, and he wants to punch himself. Your hands were trembling that you quickly hide behind your back when feeling his gaze on them. Eyes glassy, sheen coating a thin layer but your smile was the most heartbreaking part.

It was the same, but forced.

And he was the reason behind it.

"I'm sorry," Jason's voice is soft, the words almost a whisper.

You shake your head, "No, please it's fine. Just do not let this be our last meeting. I want to see you on the day of the exhibition."

Jason doesn't say anything.

What can he say?

Should he say that he liked you too?

That he loved you?

That he wished he could be with you every waking moment of his life?

That for the first time, something he had wanted come true?

But he destroyed it all again.

Like he always did with hope.

Like hope did with him.

Jason's throat feels dry and itchy, his voice strained as he mutters, "I'm sorry," before leaving the rooftop. Jason runs along the stairs, from the fifth floor to the ground floor. His chest heaves but it was not because of the physical activity he did.

No.

It was because of this weighted stone in his heart. He hurls a kick at the wall in the parking lot, but it only hurt him further. And maybe that's what he wanted.

He did the right thing didn't he?

He couldn't destroy your life.

He couldn't make you give up on hope, but why did it feel like he just did.

The thing about heartbreaks is, it happens at every age.

It just looks a little different every time.

Your heart broke for the first time when you were five as you watched a boy in the playground stamp on an ant. The boy had left, running off to play with his friends while you crouched next to the ant, tears streaming against your cheeks.

Your heart broke for the second time when you were ten, and your best friend stopped wanting to be friends with you. It was sudden and you had never found the reason behind it.

Your heart broke for the third time when you were thirteen, after a screaming match with your parents. It was never really the same again. Though you have mended your ways, words can never be taken back.

Your heart broke for the fourth time when you couldn't find the second robin — the boy who had been there with you that night.

And now for the fifth time — It was Jason.

The week following the night was agonizing to say the least.

To both of you.

You had spent the better part of the days crying or at least on the verge of crying. You hadn't realized how much it was going to affect you. You thought it was just a silly little crush, that you could get over in a day or two. But this, this made you realize that perhaps it was more. perhaps it was love.

You had fallen in love for the first time.

You tried painting — the one thing that helped during times like this. But even that fell short. All you did was paint blues and blues. Zara helped you at every moment, trying to say he was a jerk but that only made you cry further because you knew he was not. He just did not like you.

You decided maybe you had to look at something that would give you a sense of hope and you did.

Ever since the age of thirteen, when you started pursuing painting again. You had a ton of sketchbooks filled with your artistic endeavors over the years. Most of them were in your parent's house back in Star City but you carried one of them to every place you went.

Your first sketchbook.

It always gave you a sense of hope. The feeling that everything will eventually turn out alright. You pick the black covered sketchbook that had painted red and green — a number of hibiscuses on the front.

You sit against the plush of the brown bean bag on Zara's side of the room, turning to the first page of the sketch book.

A laugh escapes your lips without even meaning too, at how bad your art was back then.

But it was still art and the only reason you were able to do well now. The first page was filled with stars, and the moon. The following few pages were filled with characters from cartoons such as Spongebob Squarepants and Dora the explorer.

Then it's filled with Robin.

Colors of red, yellow, green paint over the white pages to form the silhouette of robin. Some filled with his face — freckles, heart shaped chunks of hair that framed his forehead.

You felt hope.

It might be even questionable how one could feel hope after seeing a painting.

But you did.

After all, it was Robin who gave you all this hope in the first place.

Jason was in no better shape.

He hadn't left his apartment in the last two days — skipping work and patrol alike. A number of missed calls from all his siblings, the Outlaws, and even Bruce. But Jason never got back to them. He just wanted to be left alone.

Jason had gone to work the very next day after the confession, tried acting like everything was in fact okay. But it wasn't and it didn't take much time for the cracks to form. During his day job, he misplaced items, punctured an already good tire and at the end got yelled at by his boss, who later asked the young man to take a few days off.

Patrols weren't great either.

He had beaten a thief to the pulp. There was a good reason behind it — said thief had stolen from an elderly lady — but even Jason knew this was not about it. It almost felt like he was seeing himself when he was punching the man. Wanting to pour out all his anger towards himself.

It was Dick who got him to stop by calling him Robin, not Red Hood which had made Jason even more angrier.

Jason was angry.

Not at you.

But at himself.

A knock on the door propels Jason out of his bed. It was probably some food delivery service considering he had been living off of takeout for the last two days and so he makes the mistake of not looking through the peephole because the first thing that greets him early in the morning was Dick Grayson's 24 carat smile.

Jason is fast but not faster than his older brother's reflexes as he pushes a foot against the slamming door. Jason grunts, walking back to the couch as Dick shuts the front door. He sits on his couch, cradling his foot while eyes squint in pain. Jason sighs before retrieving an ice pack and handing it over to him.

"Why are you here?"

"I can't visit my younger brother?" Dick feigns, placing the icepack on his foot. Jason doesn't bother asking how he knew of his apartment — after all, they were detectives and children of Bruce Wayne.

Dark blue eyes look around the apartment. It was simple, modest with a few nooks and crannies that felt like Jason but he could also see the stacking take-out boxes on the counter. Dick walks to the kitchen — albeit still limping — as he starts clearing out all the boxes and washes the dishes left in the sink.

Jason watches and he could only feel water bubbling up in his eyes. He lets his head fall back against the couch, eyes closed as a tear slides down.

He didn't deserve all this love.

All this care.

When he watches his older brother clean the house, it takes him back to the happy moments he shared with Dick years earlier — before everything went wrong.

Before he came back wrong.

There's this tight feeling of guilt Jason feels when he looks at Dick — all the times he has been rude to the man though he only was helping. Jason knew he had every right to feel angry but guilt was an added emotion along with it.

After an hour of cleaning the house, Dick finally sits back on the couch.

'Succession' plays on TV, as Dick looks at Jason who is peering at the screen. But he could tell Jason wasn't really looking at the show — his mind was elsewhere. Dick unwraps the burrito bowls that Alfred had made and sets it in front of Jason.

Dick also got a bat burger since his younger brother loved them too much but even that couldn't deter Jason's apparent concentration from the large screen. He tries shaking the bowls against the teakwood of the coffee table, hoping that would divert Jason's concentration.

But nothing.

"Okay, what's wrong?" he asks, hands folded "Is this about her?"

And that get's Jason to look at Dick, "Damian mentioned about the gift you got her. Did she like it?"

"Yeah, she did," Jason murmurs, looking down at his lap.

"Then what's wrong?"

Jason stands up, walking towards his room. He couldn't be having this conversation or else it would just end up having him loose it.

But Dick, doesn't let go — he knew better.

"Just let it out Jason, you can't keep hoping —"

Hope is a lie.

You hurt hope.

He hurt hope.

It rings in Jason's head and before he knows it, it comes out through his mouth.

"I hurt her, okay!" Jason shouts, voice booming in the closed space. "She asked me out and I said no."

"But w—"

"Because I don't deserve her, Dick. I- I don't. I wanted her to like me but after she realizing she does, I knew I had to let go." Tears streak his scarred cheek , chest heaving as he continues, " And I hurt her and-and I don't know what to do. I love her but she deserves better."

And Dick does what he does best.

He pulls Jason into a hug, lets him cry on his shoulders as he rubs his back. Dick knows telling he deserved everything wasn't going to change how he felt. No words from him could do that.

Only Jason himself could.

But he was going to be there for his younger brother.

It was finally D-day.

The day your exhibit was going to live in the hallways of Metropolitan museum of Gotham. You were decked out in a white shirt and black slacks — formal enough for the event and casual enough for you to stay comfortable. It was only 9 am,but you and the two other students had come early in order to make sure all the paintings were at the right positions.

This was your dream come true.

To have your art, your paintings be part of the very same walls that hung paintings of revered artists from all over the world. The very walls you had been to every year without fail since childhood.

A small giggle escapes your lips before tears prick your eyes.

You couldn't cry. No, it was going to ruin all your makeup. But a tear slips by anyways.

Your dream had finally come true.

You sniffle, looking at your phone.

Since there was still an hour left for the museum to open, you opt to listen to songs while having breakfast at a cafe nearby.

But your eyes don't leave your phone.

You were not sure whether or not to text Jason. You wished he would come but you were not sure whether if he would. Glancing at his contact, you type 'Hi:)', before deleting the text. Sighing, you look out of the large glass windows, as kids play in the green, bubbles floating in the air. It was a beautiful day, the sun beaming brightly.

Maybe he would come.

It had been a few hours since the Museum opened. Your parents had traveled from Star City to visit the exhibition, along with a few family friends. Zara had come in early morning along with some of her friends as they look at each painting.

You received various compliments for your accurate portrayal of the vigilantes, including people who had been saved by them personally. High profile members of Gotham had also visited your exhibit, citing they would contact you for future opportunities. But with every person stepping into the pristine air of the museum, your eyes hoped it was your beloved muse.

Zara had noticed, brows lifted. You just shrug, talking with other guests. Soon, the crowd became gentle, slowly dispersing into the evening air of Gotham. The sound of footsteps has you turning around to see The Dick Grayson, along with the youngest Wayne and the billionaire's only daughter. Every citizen of Gotham knew of Richard Grayson, the first adopted son of Bruce Wayne.

He wore a three piece suit with a midnight blue tie that probably costed more than all the things you owned. Cassandra looked beautiful with her luscious black hair framing her face. Her defined arms were striking through her sleeveless black dress, as she had a soft smile on her face. The last member of the trio was the youngest Wayne, a three piece suit similar to that of his older brother's paired with a emerald green tie.

"Hi, sorry we couldn't make it earlier," Dick Grayson says, extending a hand as you shake it with your own clammy palm. "Our father unfortunately had some very boring business proposals to take care of."

"No-No issues. Thank you for stopping by," you smile through your nervousness as you stand in front of the members of the most powerful family of Gotham.

You take a step back, hands fiddling against each other as the three siblings stand in front of your portraits. Cassandra's eyes lit up as she looks at the portrait of Orphan while Dick and Damian look around the other paintings of their family members such as Batwing, Red Robin, Batgirl. Cassandra mutters a 'beautiful' as she observes each painting in detail while Damian questioned about the different techniques you had used to make the paintings.

All three of them stop in front of the largest painting among your exhibit — your robin painting.

"That's the-the second robin right?" Dick asks, turning to you with wide eyes.

"Yes, that's him," you answer, eyes focused on the painting.

Dick Grayson knew you were the girl Jason was in love with. It had been a total coincidence that he met you since the visit was supposed to be on behalf of Bruce Wayne. But Damian having seen you earlier at the art store, immediately told his older brother when he saw you talking with other patrons.

"It's beautiful," Dick says, his eyes tracing over each and every portrait. "All of them are."

"Thank you."

And Dick Grayson knew just what to do.

"What do you want?" Jason grumbles into the phone.

Dick had given him ten missed calls over the span of fifteen minutes. "Unless you're in immediate danger, I'm ending the call."

"Come to the museum, Jaybin." Dick answers, voice soft yet firm over the phone.

Jason sits up straight, red already coursing his body.

"What are you doing there? Did you stalk—"

"No, Jason. I came here along with Cass and Damian on behalf of Bruce," Dick sighs, as he looks at you standing at the far end of the exhibit. "Now just get here as soon as you can."

"I-I can't." Jason mumbles, head in his hands.

"Do you trust me?"

"…Yes," Jason sighs. He did trust his older brother, though he never says it out loud. Dick Grayson on the other side of the call was expecting a no. The answer from his younger brother takes him aback a little before he regains his composure.

"You have forty-five minutes before the museum closes."

Jason wore the first thing he could find. The museum was further into the city and along with the added evening traffic, he had to leave now to reach before it closed. With not much time on his hands, he decides to wear a black t-shirt paired with blue jeans.

Within thirty minutes, Jason reaches the marble staircase to the Museum. He could see Dick Grayson standing near the front door, looking at his watch.

"He—" Dick stops him, before giving his younger brother a firm squeeze on the shoulders.

"Cass and Dami are waiting in the car, " He continues, eyes locked with green ones. "Don't overthink it. Just go in." He gives a slight pat on Jason's shoulder before walking towards the car.

Jason finally steps inside the building.

There aren't many people at this time in the museum. He could see you standing at the far right corner of the room, looking at your phone. With every step ahead, his heart beats loudly like it was stuck in his throat. How does he explain why he couldn't come early.

You look up once he is at a reasonable distance, eyes lighting up and lips breaking out into a wide smile.

Oh, how you looked so beautiful.

Oh,how you were still kind enough to grace him with the same smile that he fell in love with after he broke your heart.

"Jason," you squeal, gaze locked on his face. "You're here."

"Yeah, sorry I was la—" He tries apologizing but you don't let him.

"Doesn't matter. You're here."

Jason nods, a slight smile grazing his lips as he looks at the different portraits hung up on the wall. He had already seen most of them while he was your muse. His gaze finally dropped to the center piece, the one he hadn't seen yet — the one of Robin.

But when he finally sees the painting, he takes a step back, breath hitching. It wasn't Damian nor Dick's. Not Tim's or Stephanie's, but rather his.

His.

The Robin is on the rooftop, a girl next to him with her features not too defined. He is pointing at something in the sky, his smile vibrant against the dark night background. But the girl next to him wasn't following his finger, but rather looking at him, as golden hues outline his body, gleaming brighter than the stars of the night sky.

Looking at the portrait, itches something in his brain.

He doesn't know what or why.

"Th-That's the second Robin," His voice comes out stuttering.

Jason had always thought his Robin run was useless. After all, he was reckless and emotional. But he hadn't thought he had impacted anyone's life.

"Yeah, that's him."

"Why did you not choose any of the other Robins?"

Because Jason truly wonders why him? A lot of his memories from back then was broken. All he remembered about himself as Robin was, he was a failure.

So why did you paint out of all the Robins, him?

A failure?

"Because if not for him, I wouldn't be here."

A/N: Hope you liked it :)

To join the general taglist, pls comment.

After a while, Kyle couldn’t escape you from his mind. His sketches and paintings all became overwhelmed by the shape of you: every brush stroke on the canvas mimicked your movements, every penned line remembered your face, every smeared and mixed palette yearned for your color.

And it was precisely your color that he struggled with the most. At every possible moment, he tried to recreate the color of your lips, that unique shade that painted your smile brightly, that haunted his visions and constructs—both of pen and ring. It was as if this color, bright and lovely in its near-rosy hue yet soft and gentle in how sweetly it sat on your lips, was solely yours in the universe as the world yearned to remember that ethereal vibrancy. He had spent days mixing different paints in attempt to reach anywhere near the shade of your lips; but it, as if the world wished to mock his efforts, all looked wrong.

Kyle was thinking about this heavily one evening as he dragged himself up the lonely stairs of the studio building. He should’ve been at his apartment, letting sleep find him warm on his worn couch, but the thought of you, your smile searing bright in his mind and your lips that intelligent mystery color yet to be discovered by his canvas, kept him from his much-needed rest. No exhaustion or bleary-eyed vision could cure him of the lingering in which you held firm his mind, but perhaps, he rationed, some sort of solace could be found at the tip of his inked pen.

Struggling with the old studio door, near frozen by the dropping temperatures of winter in the city, he finally made it budge open only to be met by a large box to his chest, carried only—of course, in his disheveled and slightly bruised luck—by the keeper of his dreams.

He gasped upon impact, not at the running into a large weighty box, but at the mere sight of you, utterly unprepared for your presence so late in the evening. You usually left the studio earlier than this, leaving him in company with the emptied and darkened corners late into the twilight. But, tonight, his studio key opened the door right to you.

You murmured out an apology as you tried to readjust the box in your grasp.

“Let me help with that,” Kyle said shoving his bag off his tired, aching shoulder as he reached out to take the box from your hands.

“Oh,” you said, surprise kissing at your words. How lovely it is to be greeted by such a sound that exists within you. “You don’t have to; I can handle this.”

“No, really, let me. It’s way too cold out there to be running back and forth with trash this heavy.”

He grabbed the box—heavier than he expected—from you, his fingers ever-so-slightly grazing your gloved hand in passing and binding his heart at the faint gesture. How was it that, even gloved, the slightest touch of your hand burned a warmth through his skin, a warm sensation he can only ascribe to that of the sun whose light traveled through years of distance and layers of atmosphere to finally grace him the moment he returns to Earth; your dark gloved hand in union with his bare, a pigment birthed by friction of a mortar and pestle’s kiss.

You smiled at him, a hushed thank-you for his help, as you moved to pick up the remaining trash bags tucked at the studio’s back exit and began your descent down the stairwell and into the street. Kyle followed closely behind, grateful that the box veiled him from your view whenever you turned to check on him as he felt a creeping heat rise to his cheeks and ears. The stairwell, only two short flights of stairs until chilled concrete, felt a maddening maze. Each time you turned back towards him—noticed only by the slowing of your steps, the turning of your heel, and your echoing voice of care repeated by the concrete walls at each step he took closer to you—Kyle felt his heart’s pace quicken dangerously far into terrains he couldn’t imagine let alone reach. His mind, too, lost at seas unheard of, consumed only by the very moment of contact.  

Reaching outside, you mention leaving the box on the curb; but Kyle was too preoccupied by his body betraying him with reddened cheeks, dizzying vision, and a screaming heart to hear any word you said. You rush over, then, to toss the bags in your hand to the edge where pavement sleek with ice threatens to meet the sidewalk and move the box from his hands to the curb. Maybe he imagined it, maybe he dreamt it, maybe it was the biting cold of the building’s decrepit back entrance, but he felt a spark—electrifying, captivating, and entirely warm against the sharp, cool winds eating at their limbs.

Just as his body betrayed him, his mind unflinchingly followed. All he could think, see, understand, was your hand selfishly in his. Every blink brought him conjured images of your hand crossed between his fingers dyed with reddish, pink paint, your hand lost in the waves of his messy morning hair, your hand caressing his face with your thumb singing circles along his cheek and jaw before your lips—the color still haunting him, a question left unanswered in paint—softly loved his.

“Are you coming?” You called out to him, holding the door to the building open. He didn’t even notice you walk back towards the building, too lost in his own mind’s cinema. How long did he stay standing at the edge of the chilled evening street?

He strode over to you, embarrassed at the curse his body and mind were teasing him with, only hoping you didn’t take notice of his delays. Just as he stepped into the threshold of the building, you placed your hand—gloved and warmed in the night—on the back of his shoulder, as if to urge him inside before the bitter cold affects them further, as if to shield him lightly from the chilling wind’s bites. You patted the site and before letting your hand leave him to walk in ahead, hoping to retreat into the heated studio. Kyle felt his heart tighten at this touch, a sharp pain pinching at his shoulder soon following. He had almost forgotten the injuries that decorated his body and bones from previous weeks’ work. But perhaps his shoulder whimpering in pain wasn’t already harbored on his being, but a newfound illness working to end him—an additional betrayal and embarrassment his body would cruelly enact only in your presence.

“Thanks again, it’s so much colder than the weather report said it would be,” you said with a grin holding onto each word, banishing any frigid air from the studio space. You were taking off your coat and gloves; at the sight of this, Kyle began doing the same with his coat, leaving it to hang on the rack next to yours. It was as if his mind lost its capacity to think for itself; had your gentle touch along the map of his shoulder numbed him whole?

“Yeah,” Kyle replied winded almost, as if this was the only words he could manage to say.

“Do you want some coffee or something?”

“Sure, yeah, coffee’s good.”

Kyle followed after you as you walked towards the open kitchenette that stood at the back of the studio for the residents and staff. You were rubbing your hands together, an attempt to banish the lingering cold that kissed your fingers not long ago; intrusively, he imagined his lips a better aid.

“So,” you began, your voice breaking him free from the tortuous path his mind of imagined futures taunted, a silent suffering vexing him the closer he reached your orbit. “How’s the residency going? Hopefully the studio’s been helpful?” You said as you started the coffee maker.

Your back was turned towards Kyle, sitting on the couch directly behind you. Despite, the comedown Kyle was masking, everything about this moment felt like a breathing painting: its near-stillness as the glow of the studios’ harsh lighting was drowned out by the golden lamps that decorated this secluded corner of the world, its honey-warmth framing you in the comfort of shadows—chiaroscuro reinvented at your presence. The chilling wind of the world outside occasionally scratching at the window stood no chance against the subtle warming beauty of this. You reached above, grabbing two mugs from the upper cabinets—the center of the frame re-imagined. Even in such practiced rituals, you moved achingly with grace, shadowed and sepia-toned hands hugging the base of one mug, your other hand caressed against the withered counter. A painting in motion, performed entirely for his eyes alone; and he craved the feeling of your hand close to his once more. The coffee dripped into the pot; he felt his heart threaten to explode.

“Yeah, yeah, it’s,” Kyle stumbling over his words, freeing himself from the hue of rich browns and golden streaks. “It’s going really well. The studio, it’s great—I like it.” If only his words carried the same eloquence as yours, the same suave as the imagined painting before his eyes.

“That’s good.” You turned to smile at him.

Another painting emerged at the sight. The unnamed color of your lips mocked him, but he didn’t care right then: there was poetry to be read in the light bathing your smile.

“What are you working on now?”

“What?”

You smiled again, giggling almost as the words came forth. “Like with your paintings and sketches. Or is it a secret?”

“It’s a side-project,” Kyle admitted, before realizing that the contents of his sketchbook, the mess of his studio room, are all of you. He couldn’t show you his mountain of sketches or the brush strokes attempted in your likeness; but, what were the chances you’d recognize your own lips etched a million times onto the well-loved paper of his sketchbook? Do people, scorned lovers or star-kissed angels, recognize themselves in this way? He watched you hand him coffee, your hand inching closer to his before departing so soon once more. Would you recognize the contours of your hand backing away from his? Would you remember the gap in space and time left unmarked and unmet by your hands with his? “A secret side-project.”

The night carried on like this, his eyes becoming the pen memorializing these moments shaded by the sound of your laugh, by the smell of evening coffee. The conversation flowed and expanded into every possible corner, of art and television, of music and shitty neighbors, of the studio’s owner no one really liked. He could spend a lifetime like this: sitting across from one another sharing coffee and laughter and smiles, the world moving at its own pace unbothered.

“Hey, do you want to get something to eat?” You asked, suddenly and quickly, catching Kyle somewhat off-guard with how your words stumbled, almost, before letting your question fall into the air.

If he wasn’t mistaken, it sounded like you were nervous. But what was making you nervous? And why? And, if you were nervous, should he, too, be nervous? He felt the earlier thrashing of his heart again, that violent beating against his chest, reigniting his nerves. It didn’t help that he was distracted by you once more, but only now did he observe the subtle tint of rose and spring that emerged glowing from the depths of your skin, a dusting of a rosy color hiding behind the well of beauty across your face. Perhaps it was just him now noticing the winter-bitten redness to your nose and cheeks, or the way your lips were slightly reddened by the warmth of your drink—how beautiful the color looked on you in this moment, and how near impossible it was to recreate.  

Then, it finally hit him, the color that has evaded him for weeks, but kissed the depth of your features and lips: blackberry jam. Somewhere lost in the sweet and tang, the complexity of this rouge was entirely yours. It was this color, the one that caressed the upper corners of your eyelids and brushed your cheeks into a winter life, that tinted his dreams in a blackberry-jam haze that acrylic or oil or reality—other than what chance was held on the contours of your lips—couldn’t recreate. It was, beautifully, only yours, and his heart constricted at this truth.

“There’s this sushi place around the corner,” you continued, your voice in its melodic cadence dragging him back to reality again. “If you—”

“Yeah, yea- yes,” Kyle blurted out louder than expected. He hated the way his words always betrayed him in moments like these, announcing their anxiety instead of protecting his cool. He cleared his throat, attempting to reclaim his last shred of dignity: “I could go for some sushi.”

You smiled, another of those life-altering smiles, a love letter from the stars. “Great.”

You smiled, and Kyle thinks he could die right there on this old, dusty couch carrying the art and lives of so many; but none like you, none like this.

“Let me just put this stuff away and we can head over.”

for example in no man’s land storyline she has pale skin and white features and she helps bruce in this one:

when i first saw her i didnt think she was talia lmao. and i always can guess even from her shadow.

another example is talia in tom king’s run. talia appears in these issues and starts a fight with selina— which is a ridiculous plot to mention.

and as you can see she is depicted as a brown skinned woman— in a story where she is told as evil and jealous ex.

in her first appearances, she was also depicted as pale and she was a much more different character than she is now. she was passionate, brave, loyal, loving and caring and she was not afraid to cry in front of people. she was so well with her emotions. and she was such a colorful person.

in shadow war, she was depicted as a brown skinned woman and she was neither good or weirdly evil. she was morally ambiguous mostly. i liked this depiction of her more, esp when we consider how her depiction have been since 2000s

in one of my favorite talia stories, batman chronicles #8, she was depicted as pale skinned and personally i have no problem with that. she is an arab chinese woman and both arabs and chinese people can be pale and dark skinned. this “color skin range” is not just one stereotypical thing. in a lot of regions throughout the world, it changes.

and another example is gotham city sirens (16-19 ? not sure) in the cover she has paler skin but in the story itself she is brown and eventually (spoilers) we learn that she had evil intentions.

so personally, it might not be my place to talk about this since i am neither arab or chinese let alone being an arab chinese woman, i dont have any problem when she is depicted as pale or dark skinned; the problem is her being “evil” while she is brown skinned and “good” when she is pale skinned. for me, her skin color shouldnt keep changing according to the stories because imo that’s racist af. i hate it when writers decide her skin color according to her intentions.