threads of an old life

Johnny Joestar’s stomach feels unwell. a heavy, foreboding sensation sits stubbornly in the pit of his tummy, the kind that can’t be alleviated with medicine or a trip to the bathroom. it’s been churning and twisting nonstop ever since earlier today, when your group of three unceremoniously–and through no choice of his own–gained a fourth member. 

neither he nor Gyro were particularly happy about the addition but your unprecedented excitement upon stumbling across the new arrival left little room for them to voice their displeasure in fear that they would upset you somehow.

now, however, as he listens to the two of you chatting from a short distance behind him, about a topic he can’t quite catch, Johnny wishes he’d just been honest from the very start. sure, you might’ve not liked his crudeness but, at the very least, seeking your forgiveness sounds like a much easier task than what he’s stuck with currently–a potent bitterness festering deep in his chest. 

it had been ten days since the beginning of the stage and pretty good progress was being made by your team. while none of you would ever complain about a smooth journey, there had been a noticeable lack in obstacles–both terrain and enemy-wise–thus far that had gradually begun to weigh on your collective shoulders.

it came as no surprise that suspicions would be high when something inevitably did happen. it certainly didn’t help that the ‘something’ occurred whilst you were crouching by a river to refill your water canister. 

“(y/n)!” a mildly familiar voice called your name from seemingly out of nowhere. by the time you’d risen to your feet and turned around, Johnny and Gyro were already prepped for battle–the former had his nails pointed in the direction of the unwanted visitor whilst the latter had a steel ball gripped firmly in his hand, ready to deploy it at any moment.

“what’re you doing here?” Johnny’s tone oozed with suspicion as he eyed the approaching individual.

the pink-haired racer’s posture as he sat atop his horse gave off a distinct aura of pride, although his face showed less arrogance and more indifference.

up until he’d gotten his first place finish snatched from right under his nose by the mysterious racer, Hot Pants hadn’t made much of an impression on Johnny. all the ex-jockey knew was that he was a lone wolf who had neither friends nor enemies, which is why it felt all the more unsettling that he’d appeared out of nowhere and expressed an interest in you.

Johnny clicked his tongue in frustration when Hot Pants merely responded to his question with a look of utter disinterest. but his annoyance was quickly replaced by genuine surprise when you brushed past Slow Dancer with a spring in your step, waving your hand. 

“are you taking the river route, too?” you asked, gazing upward at the pink-haired man without a care in the world, completely unaware of the aching pang shooting through Johnny’s chest. 

when did you become friends? why didn’t you tell me?

Johnny’s pupils darted between the two of you as the conversation flowed without so much of a hiccup, even when Hot Pants dismounted his horse in the midst of a sentence. where one would usually find cold, uncaring eyes and a condescending scowl, the expression on the mysterious jockey’s face looked distinctly unusual as he spoke to you. 

Hot Pants’ gaze was softer, a hint warmer, and the ends of his painted lips were quirked ever so slightly upward. he looked at you with a tenderness not usually found between simple acquaintances.

it was an expression that seemed wholly unnatural on Hot Pant’s face. despite having never personally interacted up until this point, Johnny had seen the man around enough to know that he’d never shown any emotion aside from utter disinterest and indifference–until now. 

“you look like you’re ready to kill someone.” Gyro had somehow shuffled up beside him without Johnny noticing.

“oh, i’m sorry.” Johnny rolled his eyes. “i didn’t realise you were a fan of whatever this is.” he gestured meaninglessly in your direction

“don’t get me wrong, Johnny.” Gyro chuckled humourlessly as he idly adjusted the brim of his hat. “i hate it almost as much as you do.”

“tell him to fuck off then.” the ex-jockey crossed his arms over his chest with a brief huff. 

“why’s that my job?” Gyro retorted seamlessly, clearly more amused by Johnny’s reaction than anything.

a beat of silence passed by.

“... whatever.”

it’s been hours since Hot Pants weaved his way into your group, evading both Johnny and Gyro’s more subtle attempts at telling him to go away by engaging in an endless conversation with you. even though you’ve long run out of things to talk about, the pink-haired racer still remains by your side, the rhythmic striking of his horse’s hooves melding into one with the others. 

as per usual, Gyro leads the way at the very front whilst Johnny trails closely behind. normally you would be beside him, making little comments here and there about the scenery, smiling at him even when the best response he can come up with is a hum. it feels especially quiet now that you’re no longer by his side, having long strayed to the back of the pack to ride beside Hot Pants instead

Johnny sneaks a glance over his shoulder every now and then, the excuse of ‘just checking up on you’ ready on the tip of his tongue in case he ever gets called out for it, but he hadn’t. he’s stopped looking behind him entirely, though, once it had struck him how much like a pair you looked together–like two puzzle pieces slotting perfectly into place. 

he wonders if other people feel the same when they see him with you.

or rather, if they felt the same when they saw him with you. 

Johnny digs his nails deeper into Slow Dancer’s leather reins. the spots along the equipment where there would naturally be signs of wear-and-tear, now also sport two areas of significant damage–one for each hand. 

those weren’t there in the morning.

now that you’re no longer making random observations by his side to occupy his mind, Johnny can’t help but stew in his discomfort. it certainly doesn’t help that hints of dusk have begun to brush across the sky, tinting it a faint orange that grows more saturated with every second–a signal of how long he’d been procrastinating telling Hot Pants to leave, as well as a warning sign that if he doesn’t do so soon, your overnight camp could very well include the very person he wants gone. 

he decides to seize the opportunity to speak with you when the group makes a final stop for water. if he can convince you to tell Hot Pants to leave, this is the perfect place to not only part ways but also build some distance in the between for the journey ahead.

just as he’s thinking about how to bring the topic up in the most nonchalant way possible, the sudden sound of your voice jolts him out of his thoughts and his head snaps instantly in your direction, his body acting on pure instinct. 

rather than being greeted by your smiling face like he’s grown used to, he has to grapple with the revelation that, this time, you aren’t trying to get his attention. instead, he finds you talking animatedly with Hot Pants, unaware of the new pair of eyes staring intently your way. 

somehow you’d discovered something new to talk about.

Johnny can’t help but wonder if it’s something you’ve told him before, or if this is an entirely new thing he no longer has the privilege of hearing about before anyone else. 

the expression on your face makes his stomach sink to the ground, it’s one that he used to be on the receiving end of countless times in his past life. from your dilated pupils to the way you hold your hands behind your back as you gently sway side-to-side, all the while keeping your full attention on the androgynous-looking competitor who easily towers over you in height–every detail screams your budding attraction to this… stranger.

a bitter taste pollutes the back of Johnny’s mouth when he’s hit with the sudden realisation that you could easily do so much better than him; that he’s just a man with legs that don’t work who’s chasing after an impossible dream at the end of a deadly cross-country race; that his confession in the bathhouse, and the bout of intimacy that followed, can so easily mean nothing to you when you find someone so much more capable of giving you what you deserve. 

perhaps someone like Hot Pants. 

or Gyro. 

or maybe even Diego if he manages to find a way to redeem himself in your eyes.

have i lost my chance? so easily, too? the moment someone you find attractive demands your attention, you’re giving it away just like that? what about me?

Johnny wonders if he’s just been lying to himself this entire time. maybe he’d never stood a chance to begin with, and that he’d squandered his only opportunity like an idiot all those years ago when you presented your heart to him on a silver platter. 

he wonders if he’s just been limiting your choices this entire time–that if he hadn’t attached himself to you from the very start of the Steel Ball Run, you would’ve long forgotten he even existed.

if i didn’t stake my claim to you since day one, you could’ve met so many new people. you could’ve fallen in love with any one of them. 

he wonders if you'll ever grow to hate him for it.

“JoJo?” your gentle voice effortlessly cuts through the cacophonous noise of his intrusive thoughts. his bright blue eyes, sparkling with unshed tears, snap in your direction. you rest a hand against Slow Dancer’s neck as you gaze up at her rider with a worried expression on your face. 

his aching heart stutters. 

finally he has your attention, the one thing he’s been silently pining for the entire day. and yet, the longer you spend staring up at him, the harder it feels to speak. hours of mulling over what to say, and how to say it, rendered useless in a matter of seconds because for the first time in years, Johnny’s completely unsure what your response will be. 

you, the person he grew up with; his best friend who’s stuck by him thick and thin; the girl his heart has utterly surrendered itself to. Johnny used to believe he knows you well enough that he’s able to speak his mind without fear of being misunderstood but now he isn’t so sure anymore.

“JoJo?” you repeat, your other hand now reaching up to grasp his wrist gently. it’s only when your fingers make contact with his skin does he realise he’d started subconsciously digging his nails into Slow Dancer’s reins again. he loosens his fingers and swallows thickly as he takes in the tangible relief spreading through his fingers. 

“we can’t keep travelling with Hot Pants.” Johnny’s harsh tone leaves no room for negotiation. your eyes widen slightly in surprise, clearly caught off guard by the suddenness of the topic.

“why not?” you tilt your head, keeping your eyes locked to his.

Johnny feels a sudden chill drape over his skin as a bout of anxiety begins to creep its way towards his heart. 

“there’s just something off about him. Gyro and i don’t think it’s worth the risk.” he tries to sound nonchalant, like it’s nothing personal–a purely objective observation.

“well, our alliance with Gyro began right after the first stage. how’d you know we could trust him back then?” you push, stubbornly unwilling to accept the vagueness of his accusation. to be honest, you’d had a lot of fun talking with Hot Pants throughout the entire uneventful day. it would be a shame to chase him away just like that when he’s given you no reason to distrust him thus far–not to mention, you’re not a fan of how decisively he’s speaking, like his word is final no matter what you may think. 

“it’s different.” Johnny snaps, regretting it immediately when your hand draws away from his wrist in response. the movement is so automatic, so instinctual, that it registers in his head as something far, far worse than just a mere response to the harshness of his tone. “i needed him to teach me how to use the spin, you know that.” he tries softens his words. “what can Hot Pants contribute to the team? you barely know him.”

your eyebrows furrow incredulously as you huff out a harsh sigh of disbelief. meanwhile, a debilitating concoction of anxiety and guilt begins to slosh around in his twisting stomach. it’s clear that he’s upset you, and he hates himself for it already. 

“following that logic, i don’t contribute much either, do i? if anything, i’ve been doing nothing but holding you two back.” your eyes begin to glisten with tears of frustration. months’ worth of frustration that you’ve been painstakingly pushing to the back of your mind comes rushing out in waves now that you’ve gotten the confirmation you so dreaded ever receiving–that you’re being kept around out of pity rather than competence. “so why keep me around?”

behind you, Hot Pants and Gyro don’t even try to hide the fact that they’re listening to every word. if you were aware of their eavesdropping, you wouldn’t even hold it against them. you’d be curious too if your friends started yelling at each other out of nowhere. 

“that’s not true.” Johnny’s heart pounds faster and faster as panic rapidly begins to cloud his mind, and he starts speaking without thinking. “you have your Stand–”

“you and Gyro won’t even let me use it to heal your papercuts!” you cut him off with an incredulous look on your face. “i’ve only ever used it to save myself after nearly dying from my own incompetence!” you’ve backed away entirely from Johnny now, leaving a good metre of distance between the both of you. 

is that how you see yourself? 

Johnny’s so accustomed to viewing you as his lifeline that he’s completely unable to wrap his head around such a concept. you’ve always been so competent, so smart and courageous. no number of ‘failures’ has or will ever taint his impression of you.

i’d take a bullet to the head for you if it means keeping you safe. why can’t you see that?

and he tries, god knows he tries, to tell you that. 

he tries to tell you everything on his mind, no matter how embarrassing it might sound spoken aloud in front of others. but the frustration he feels inside quickly boils over into a nauseating concoction of anger, jealousy and helplessness when it suddenly dawns on Johnny that, in all your years of friendship, you’ve never had a falling out like this… not until–

“you’re really gonna let Hot Pants ruin what we have?!” he snaps. 

his mind feels fuzzy and his hearing’s suddenly muffled, obscuring every sound except for the rapid pounding of his own heart. although he misses the sharp gasp escaping your lips, he fully catches the way your face contorts into… into… 

“Johnny… what’re you trying to say?” your voice just barely registers in his head that feels like it’s about to explode at any second. 

no, don’t call me that. i’m JoJo to you. only you.

the world around him begins to spin as the raspy sounds of his uneven breaths join the thump thump thumping of his heart. there’s even a faint ringing noise coming from somewhere he can’t quite put his finger on. no matter how hard he tries, he’s unable to stop the sounds from mixing together into an unbearable cacophony that’s beginning to drive him insane. 

through his blurring vision, Johnny’s able to make out the movement of your lips but he can’t hear you. he can see you’re getting upset–the tears on your face–and he hates that it’s all his fault but he just needs the noises to stop for a bit please i just need a second to get a grip stop looking at me like that i’m sorry i’m hurting you please just let me think give me a second to think–

“this is your chance to leave me, isn’t it?! stop pretending like you care and just fuck off already!” his throat stings from how forcefully he’d yelled. 

for a split second, Johnny’s unable to grapple with the fact that he’s the one who’d just spoken to you in such a manner. he doesn’t even believe in the accusation he’d spewed so hatefully toward you–even if it did just come out from his own mouth. 

he knows your care for him is sincere. 

he knows you aren’t like the people who’ve discarded him like trash the moment he lost his worth as a human being. 

he also knows that he’d spoken on impulse with the intention of hurting you. driven by an intrusive thought that’s been idly hanging around in his head for years, for the briefest moment, Johnny had wanted to hurt you the same way he felt you had hurt him. 

i don’t think of you that way. 

but it’s too late for that revelation. 

all at once, the noises in his head cease to exist and he’s nearly thrown off by the sudden silence that engulfs him. a part of him wishes the sounds would come back. if it means he gets to take back the vitriol he’d just spewed your way, Johnny will accept any punishment with open arms. 

he realises, as well, that in spite of the deep ache still lingering in his chest, all of the bitterness that had been building up has disappeared, like it’d never even been there to begin with; leaving behind a gaping hole that something else wastes no time settling itself into. 

guilt.

it eats at Johnny from the inside out, growing more aggressive the longer you stand there in complete silence, rooted to the ground. you can’t even bear to look at him, your tearful eyes glancing off to the side at nothing in particular, as if looking at him would cause more hurt than he’s worth–like you’ve only just realised how worthless he actually is as a human being.

it had taken you a while, Johnny supposes, but everyone inevitably reaches that point eventually. it just hurts more coming from you.

“let’s make camp for the night… shall we?” Gyro suggests as he alights from Valkyrie’s saddle, his voice shattering the palpable tension in the air. “i think we all need to rest.”

“i…” Hot Pants speaks up with a solemn look on his face. “i can go. i’d never meant to cause any harm.”

“stay,” you reply before he can speak any further. the single syllable manages to somehow sound wobbly yet firm at the same time. “if you leave then i’ll go with you–” both Johnny and Gyro’s widened eyes snap toward you “–because it’s clear that i’m… i’m not wel–” you take in a shaky breath as fresh hot tears begin welling up in your swollen eyes once again.

“don’t be silly, cucciola.” Gyro’s warm hand lands atop your head, the simple gesture sending a wave of comfort all the way down to your toes. “the three of us will always be a team. even if that means having an extra person with us tonight.” his green eyes flicker briefly in Johnny’s direction before he leans over to hover his mouth near your ear.

“we both know he didn’t mean it. get some rest and we’ll figure it out tomorrow, okay?” Gyro smiles and exhales softly from his nose when you nod despondently in response. without another word, he strokes his hand along the back of your head, brushing his fingers through your hair, before stepping aside to begin setting up camp.

you learn fairly quickly that your mind contains much more intrusive thoughts than you initially would’ve guessed. the Steel Ball Run turned out to be such a struggle between life-and-death that, perhaps, your brain had been taking mercy on its poor host this whole time. now, though, it feels as though all mental defenses have utterly crumbled, and no amount of freshly cooked rabbit in your tummy or staring at your shoes can steer your mind away from its self-destruction. 

the fire that Gyro had built crackles gently a short distance away from you but it does little to stave off the natural frigidness of the night air. the coldness has long seeped into your very bones, making it difficult for sleep to claim you. so, instead, you sit, hugging your knees, staring at nothing in particular as you listen idly to the sound of Gyro sharpening his dagger and the flipping of pages from the book in Hot Pants’ hands. you can tell they’re both poorly pretending to not be glancing at you every few minutes after you turned down their offers to keep you company.

from right across you, you can feel Johnny staring at you as well but you’ve neglected to check. you’re not sure how your body would physically react if you accidentally make eye contact with him. 

even without looking at him, the aching in your chest has not subsided in the slightest despite the two whole hours that have long passed since your fight. if anything, the feeling has only gotten stronger over time–as though with every actual second that passes, the wound inflicted on your heart continues to fester and rot. 

the last time you’ve ever felt close to something like this was also because of Johnny Joestar–the strange sorrow that’s not anything like grief or fear. instead it’s something you can’t quite name, composed of the humiliation that spreads from your chest and burns at your cheeks and the nauseating sensation that comes from a bitter rejection. 

you can’t help but smile humourlessly to yourself at the unfortunate realisation.

even the incident at the hotel with Diego hadn’t cut as deep–and by that point you were so sure you could’ve had a future with him. 

‘maybe Dio was right.’ you think to yourself, remembering the words he spat at you from across the threshold that very night.

“what do you know about unconditional love? it’s a pointless concept.” 

perhaps love really is just a series of mutual exchanges until either party falls short or dies.

maybe Johnny’s realising what i can offer isn’t worth the trouble of keeping me around anymore.

you feel the familiar sensation of pressure building up behind your eyes as your lips begin to quiver. you quickly prop your crossed arms atop your bent knees so that you can hide the bottom half of your face from view under the guise of resting your head.

he’s riding again. he’s gaining back his fans. he’s found a reliable companion in Gyro. he’s gonna learn how to walk again.

you should feel happy for him, shouldn’t you? the person you care for the most is regaining his sense of self and purpose in life. you should be so happy.

so why are you so sad? 

‘it’s because… maybe…’ a voice eerily similar to your own whispers in your head ‘... maybe you were never destined to find love in this life.’ 

a shiver runs up your spine as something begins weighing down your heart. 

maybe your parents were right all along. you should’ve just let them arrange whatever marriage they pleased, with a man decent enough that you could hand him both your future and your heart, and hope that he wouldn’t drop the latter as many times as you’ve allowed it to be thus far.

joining the first ever cross-continental horse race just so i won’t have to get married. how stupid. 

you scoff under your breath as fresh hot tears begin streaming down your face. as though your brain can’t ge enough of its own self-loathing, you recall yet another thing Diego had said to you a while ago.

“how naive can you be? do you really think Joestar loves you unconditionally? he only loves you because you dropped everything just for him. if he never got shot, if he was still some big shot American jockey with endless women fighting to dribble over his fucking cock, do you really think he would even bat an eye at you? he never even loved you before, you said so yourself—”

ah… in all honesty, you’d neatly forgotten all about that one. it had helped that not long after, you’d found yourself sitting barely clothed on top of said Joestar’s lap as he moaned and whimpered about how much he loves you. 

looking back on it now, you’re pretty sure Johnny had just been caught up in the heat of the moment.

he doesn’t love m–

“hey.” a different voice derails your train of thought. beside you, Hot Pants plops down before stretching out his legs in front of him, nonchalantly getting his shoes dangerously close to the fire. “it’s getting late. you should sleep.”

you hum softly in response, keeping your swollen wet eyes pinned to your shoes but making no move to lay down or rest. it would take too much energy that you don’t feel like you can afford to spend right now.

the pink-haired man beside you sighs gently, as though making an active effort not to sound frustrated or impatient. from the corner of your eye, you catch him leaning closer whilst unabashedly staring at your face. it goes on for almost a few minutes until you’re too curious not to see what he’s up to. the moment you glance over and your eyes meet, Hot Pants shoots you a faint smile. 

“so i haven’t turned invisible. good to know.” his deadpanned delivery lightens the heaviness in your chest ever so slightly. “go to sleep. you’ll feel better when you wake up. not totally better but at least not as terrible as you do now.”

“how’d you know that?” you whisper. Hot Pants shrugs.

“‘s how it’s always worked for me at least.” a solemn look flashes across his face, disappearing as quickly as it came. “even if you don’t believe me, there’s no harm trying.”

you nod before pulling your eyes away from him and stretching out your legs, mirroring his posture. you let out a heavy sigh and glance at the unrolled sleeping bag laid out beside you. it’s terribly wrinkled from nights of disuse on account of your habit of sleeping beside Johnny in his.

“i’ll leave you to it.” Hot Pants stands up and stretches. “if you really can’t sleep, you know where to find me.” he taps the crown of your head before starting to head off in the direction of his own resting spot, not too far away.

“i won’t be a bother?” you pipe up without thinking. “if i wake you up in the middle of the night?”

“of course not.” he shakes his head. “why would you be?”

Johnny Joestar doesn’t realise he’s fallen asleep until he opens his eyes and finds himself sitting in a room he hasn’t seen in years. it’s day time–not even noon yet, judging by the way the sky looks out the window to his right. Johnny looks down and notices that he’s seated on the edge of a bed he used to see all the time when he was younger. and then he realises he’s able to move his legs with almost zero effort but weirdly enough he doesn’t feel the excitement he always thought he would if he ever regained his ability to walk.

he also realises that he’s not alone. 

beside him is you–or at least, a version of your sixteen-year-old self. 

the scene feels familiar to him but not in any nostalgic way despite the setting that surrounds him. instead, he feels an immense dread tugging at his heart, though he’s not quite sure why until younger-you begins to speak. 

“it’s whatever.”

“no, i’m genuinely really sorry. i came here as soon as i woke up. you have something important to tell me right? well… now i do, too, but you can go first.” he responds automatically, his mouth and tongue moving completely against his will, like he’s no more than a soul inhabiting a shell he’s completely unable to pilot.

“oh, i mean, it’s not really that important…” you say while idly fumbling with your fingers.

an immense coldness washes over Johnny when he finally recognises exactly where this memory is from.

“it’s okay, you can tell me. mine’s kinda embarrassing, too. it’s super personal… i don’t think i can tell anyone else yet.”

“well…”

“hey, why don’t we say our things at the same time? that way it’s less awkward for the both of us.” he suggests, leaning so close to you that your noses nearly touch.

internally, Johnny braces himself for the inevitable, reminding himself over and over that this is nothing but a dream, and that he’ll wake up eventually no matter how much it hurts to relive this scene.

“do you love me?” you ask instead, your breath gently brushing against his cheeks as neither of you take the initiative of moving away. your question knocks the wind straight out of Johnny’s chest. 

that’s not how this memory goes.

“i do. i do love you,” he replies breathlessly as the soreness in his chest intensifies tenfold. his eyes begin watering with hot tears and his throat starts to tighten up. “i love you so much, please believe me.” 

“why?” you ask, seemingly completely unmoved by his glistening eyes and whimpering tone.

“wh… what’d you mean why?” he responds, eyebrows furrowing deeply.

“why do you think you love me?” you begin pulling away.

“do i need a reason to?” Johnny tries to will his body into leaning forward, to chase after you, but to no avail.

“if nothing bad ever happened to you,” you reply, inching further and further away. “you would’ve forgotten i ever existed.” you speak with such conviction that Johnny nearly finds himself believing you.

“that’s not true.” he stares intensely up at you, body still leaning in your direction but not moving in the slightest, no matter how hard he tries. “i would’ve still fallen in love with you. i’ll fall in love with you in every life.”

“i don’t believe you, Johnny.” you shake your head. 

“stop calling me that.” he begins to sniffle as tears flow freely down his face whilst his heart twists and aches within his ribcage. “i’m JoJo to you. i’m your JoJo.”

you rise to your feet and begin turning around, towards the door and away from him. 

“wait. don’t go. please.” he only realises he’s finally able to move when his body lunges itself forward, throwing him onto the ground like a ragdoll. 

you don’t bother turning around as your hand curls around the doorknob. 

“(y/n), wait!” Johnny cries out while he desperately tries to stand up but his legs have stopped working once again. for some inexplicable reason, he’s lost his ability to walk even in his own dreams. “(y/n)! will you just look at me?!”

your hand falls from the doorknob before you turn your head around ever so slightly, just enough that he can see your expression. it’s one that seems completely foreign to your face. you remain silent as it dawns upon Johnny that he’s gotten this same look from countless people before–pure disgust disguised as a gut-wrenching mix of pity and indifference.

he’s just never received it from you. until now.

a choked sob forces its way out of his throat when you swiftly make your exit shortly after. he calls out your name as he desperately tries to drag himself toward the door. but it feels as though the force of gravity acting solely upon him has increased tenfold, rendering all his attempts to move completely fruitless. 

Johnny begins to cry helplessly, pleading in between hurried breaths for you to return so that he can apologise. he begs for you to not leave him behind because he can’t imagine a future without you in it. he feels his face burn hot with shame with every pathetic syllable that stumbles out past his tear-stained lips but he’s in such sheer distress that his wounded pride is the least of his worries.

in the midst of it all, he realises he doesn’t even understand why it all feels so devastating–especially since he knows he’s dreaming–but somehow, for some reason, it all feels so real.

Johnny Joestar wakes up with a start, face drenched in tears as he gasps for air. his head instinctively snaps left and right, eyes frantically scanning his surroundings; his rapidly beating heart only begins to calm itself once he realises he recognises it all. he’d been in such distress in his sleep that his body woke up automatically in fight-or-flight mode.

he notices, with mild relief, that everyone else is still sound asleep, an indication that he wasn’t as noisy in real life as he was in his nightmare. but then, as he catches his breath and looks around once more, his eyes meet yours from across the dying embers of the fire Gyro had made hours ago. 

you watch silently as Johnny heaves and sniffles, his heart still pounding painfully in his chest as he gazes yearnfully in your direction. you stare at him back unflinchingly, your body remaining still except for the faint rising and falling of your sleeping bag. the bottom half of your face remains hidden from view, tucked tightly into the crumpled fabric.

he wants so badly to crawl over to you, to climb his way clumsily into your sleeping bag and feel your firm arms enclose him in a comforting embrace. he wants to rest his ear on your chest and listen to the steady rhythm of your heartbeat. he wants you to kiss the crown of his head and bury your nose in his tousled hair.

“(y/n)–” the sound comes out as barely a whimper but Johnny knows you hear him because your only reaction is to close your eyes and turn over, facing your back in his direction. he feels his mouth go bone dry as an extreme coldness begins running through his veins.

for years, ever since the incident that robbed him of everything, his life had been nothing but a series of rejections–by his own family, girlfriends-turned-exes, friends and fans. but being unwanted by the entire world never felt too bad when he had you by his side; and yet Johnny’s always been fully aware of the possibility that you, too, might leave him behind some day. 

that fear lives constantly in the back of his mind. it had latched onto his subconscious since the day you carried him out of the hospital and refused to leave, no matter how hard he tried. it didn’t matter how many times he’s received your support and affection, he’s always been ready for the day you decide he isn’t worth it any more.

now, though, Johnny realises it has not only clawed its way into the very forefront of his mind but has also long sunk its venomous fangs into his frazzled brain. he just hadn’t noticed until this very moment. 

even though he knows it’s all his fault–that he’d allowed himself to behave far too childishly earlier and he’s simply experiencing the consequences dealt to him by fate–a tiny part of Johnny holds onto the hope that he’ll be able to mend the relationship he so ruthlessly tore into. even though he’s still sniffling and hiccuping by his lonesome, he knows there’s still a sliver of a chance you’ll be able to forgive him eventually. 

Johnny Joestar goes back to sleep, trying his best to rehearse what he’ll say to you in the morning and how he’ll say it–woefully unaware that in less than half a day from now, he will be shot through the head.

series taglist (please let me know if you'd like to be added/removed for future installments!) :

You can feel her heartbeat against you, fast and needy. You slide your hand through her hair, slow strokes that make her sigh. “Jean,” you whisper, but she just shakes her head and wraps her leg tighter around yours.

“No. Don’t say it like that.” She lifts her head just enough to look at you, blue eyes glassy and stubborn. “It’s not fair. We barely get you and then you’re gone again. I hate it. I hate waking up to an empty bed after this.”

Avdol sits propped against the headboard on your other side, quiet but watching everything. Her hand rests heavy on your thigh, thumb rubbing slow circles trying to memorize the feel of your skin. She looks at you with her deep eyes full of worry she tries to hide. “You do look exhausted,” she says softly. Her voice is calm, but you hear the undercurrent. “The places they send you… I wish I could go with you sometimes. Or at least know you are safe. Where are they sending you next? Do you even know yet?”

You shake your head and reach for her hand. She laces her fingers with yours immediately, squeezing once. She never has the time to tell you out loud the devotion she has for you, but you feel it in the way she looks at you, like you are something precious she can’t quite keep.

Jean sits up on her knees behind you, her hands already reaching for the brush on the nightstand. “Come on, let me fix your hair before bed,” she says, trying to sound brighter. “It always helps me feel better.” She starts working through the knots with careful strokes, every few passes her fingers linger, tracing the back of your neck or the line of your shoulder. “Remember last time? I braided it so nicely and you said it lasted the whole train ride.”

You lean back into her touch, eyes closed. The brush feels good, soothing after everything. “It did last,” you tell her. “I kept touching it on the way and thinking about you two.”

Avdol lights a cigarette and takes a slow drag before passing it to you. The smoke curls between you as you share it, fingers brushing each time. It tastes like comfort and the ache of goodbye all mixed together. “We both think about you constantly,” she says after a moment. “Jean talks about you every day. I try to stay practical, but it’s hard. This life you lead leaves us with scraps of time. I wish we could give you more than this room and these nights.”

Jean leans forward, pressing a kiss just behind your ear. “Yeah. Scraps. But they’re the best scraps.” Her voice drops, whiny again but softer. “Stay longer next time. Or take us with you on one mission. I can fight, you know that. Avdol too. We could be useful instead of just waiting here like this.”

You take another pull from the cigarette and hand it back to Avdol. “I wish it worked like that. But it’s not safe. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to either of you because of me.”

Avdol nods, but her hand tightens on your thigh. “We know. Still doesn’t make it easier.” She watches Jean brushing your hair, a small smile tugging at her lips even though her eyes stay sad. “Look at us. Clinging like this every time. You’d think we have all the time in the world.”

Jean finishes one side and starts on the other, humming a little tune under her breath. It’s the same one she always does when she is trying not to cry. “I traced your freckles again tonight,” you say quietly, glancing back at her. “I think I could do it blind next time.”

She laughs, soft and watery. “Hm, I’m adding more just to mess with you.” Her arms slip around your shoulders from behind, hugging you close. “I love you. Both of you. Even if we only get these stupid short visits. It’s enough. It has to be enough.”

The words hang there, heavy with everything unsaid. Avdol leans in and presses her forehead to yours for a moment, sharing the last of the cigarette. “We love you more than we say,” she adds. “More than we probably should, given how little time we have. But it’s true.”

You close your eyes and let them hold you, you always find yourself holding back tears. Jean’s fingers keep moving through your hair, Avdol’s hand stays warm on your skin. Morning will come soon enough, dragging you back to trains and missions and lonely hotel beds.

When you feel the tears filling your eyes, you yawn, trying to disguise your sadness with tiredness, Avdol sees it in your eyes and takes her own fingers to clean your tears. “We should sleep now,” 

Jean pouts, resting her chin on your shoulder, opening her mouth and closing it when she sees your tear stained cheeks. She nods then, freeing you from her embrace and letting you lay back in the pillows. Both of them hug you in their nakedness, pressing their bodies to be as close as possible to you. Jean hides in your neck while Avdol lets you snuggle between her breasts, keeping you warm. 

“Wake us up when you have to leave, okay?” She tells you before turning off the lights and kissing your lips one more time.

he's just so mysterious and attractive. after months of coming in, he finally talks to you? and more than 3 words, on top of that giving you his personal number? crazy. you attempt to do your work now that your clients have all come and gone. the store looks a bit more messy, the result of not tending to what needs to be done. you could have sworn you saw him pass by the store once while you were with a client.

you remember pouring the young couple a glass of wine, you feel someone staring and you looked over your shoulder, only catching a blob of a figure. he was about the same stature as Jason, but it was probably your eyes playing tricks on you, you weren't wearing your glasses either way. the man walked away quickly.

maybe the dust in the air was getting to your head, or maybe it's the antiques haunting you. which reminds you, you have to dust soon. perhaps he can help you, since he's so tall. you wouldn't have to risk falling off a stool, if you did, he could catch you in his big muscular arms.. no! you wouldn't have him help you.. again. he probably would though, you remember when he carried the heavy box for you like it weighed nothing. his face so close to yours, the warmth of his arms seeping into your skin. you were way too out of it to feel his muscles flexing. if only he stuck around to help haul the other boxes. that was not fun to do on your own, and you broke a nail while picking up a box, that shit hurt!

~~~

the day is dragging on, and you decide to drink some more coffee.  you're lucky to have a small kitchenette at the back of the store. you have a tiny stove that you decided to keep after it was donated. no one really buys old appliances like these here anyways. grabbing your trusty french press, you scoop in enough coffee grounds for two coffees "just in case" you want more. all you have to do now is wait for the water to boil.

the bell rings, startling you a bit, you always lock the door when you're back here. one can never be too safe in this city. sighing, you just really need a another cup of coffee. hopefully you don't have to entertain your customer too much today.

you walk to the window, drawing the curtain a bit to peek who's outside. in your line of view is a broad chest, your eyes trail up and you see Jason with his hoodie on. he turns to the curtain opening a little and you wave at him and go to open the door. 'i'm sorry i had to lock the door i was making myself a cup of coffee.' you let him in and walk to your desk.

'sorry for interrupting' you wave him off signaling it was okay.

'don't worry about it, you weren't really interrupting anything . would you like a cup of coffee as well? totally understand if you don't want some it is quite late, don't feel obligated to say yes' you say while trying to look busy moving things around your desk.

'sure' he takes his hoodie off and you try not to sigh. his hair falls perfectly over his face. how can someone look so handsome and hot in a plain black long sleeve. your hand twitches and you get sucked back into reality, you walk back to your kitchenette. the water is boiling thank goodness. you pour the water into the french press, and turn the knob on your little ladybug timer. you walk out to your desk, and see him browsing around the store, he goes to the same corner he always likes to go and immerse himself in.

you bring over two mugs and sugar, you look for some cookies or bread you could share with him. you get cookies and take them with you. the timer buzzes and you go back to the french press. pressing down and immediately pouring the coffee into the mugs, the aroma of coffee draws him out of his corner.

you sit on your chair not expecting him to sit right across from you. 'sorry i don't have any milk or creamer'. he looks over at you his expression unreadable.

's'okay i usually like it black and a little sweet' you nod at his words, taking note of how much sugar he puts into his mug. not like you will need the information anyways.

'thanks for this, i could have helped you bring this out, y'could have put me to work' you chuckle at that.

'no problem, and it's okay, not like i had to bring out anything too heavy for the coffee' you say lightly and he smiles a bit at that.

the silence looms over the both of you as you stir your coffee. you stare into your mug looking at the black liquid swirling, trying to think of something to talk to him about.

'no books yet?' he says while sipping his coffee. you're still trying to cool your coffee down. you hum and turn over to your calendar.

'a couple more days i think, they were supposed to come in last week, but they keep flaking on me. i understand though, my supplier, he's a bit older. so i don't really mind. i'm sorry to keep you waiting' he nods along to your words.

'thought you might have lost my number' you laugh a little at that, as if you could lose it. the second he wrote it down you began to memorize the numbers.

'nooo, i'm not that unorganized' you drink some of your coffee. he finishes his and sets the mug down. he stands up and you track his movements.

'thanks for the the coffee, it was really good' his green eyes meet yours, and you nod. you will your face not to flush too much with his intense stare.

'n-no problem, go ahead and look around , i did put up some new stuff, see if you can find it' you point at him, and he turns. what? why did you do that? you drink your coffee and try not to yell out of embarrassment, you slump into your chair. you fight the urge to run back into your kitchenette so you can avoid him.

avoid looking at him that is, you want to trail behind him, pick his brain about what he thinks. he is always awfully quiet when he comes in, you reach for your tablet and press play on your 'classical’ music playlist. you felt bad after last time when he came in and you were playing your usual music. you play something softer and somber its not Bach or Beethoven, its your playlist of musical arrangements some are guitar heavy, or very synth heavy and melodic its odd music to some, but you think he might like it.

you get lost listening to the music and scrolling on eBay. you like to see what other people put up, to figure out what the person collects. browsing like this really works your brain, you try to accurately describe the product or guess the time period. you do it to pass time and it can be very amusing to see the pretty things. sometimes people are way off or have one word descriptions, and you fight the urge to send them a message of what you would put.

‘could i buy this?’ that startles you, one hand adjusting your glasses the other over your heart.

‘oh i forgot you were still here’ you extend your hand out and he passes you a small frame. the frame is intricately decorated, its a still life with a skull on it and some rotten fruit you peer up at him. your face warms. ‘good choice Jason’ you clear your throat, that came out way more intimately than intended. ‘uh i’ll just wrap this for you’ you open a drawer full of wrapping paper and get a bag to give him. ‘cash or card?'.

‘depends’ you laugh at that.

'15’ you say softly, biting your lip nervously.

‘hundred or?’ he says seriously, that makes you laugh more and nod your head.

‘no 15 dollars’ he tilts his head ‘um, actually, i painted this, i had my friend do the frame for me, but i didn’t even know they returned this to me.' you stare at the painting then look up at him. 'hmm i probably shouldn’t sell it to you’ you wrap it for him and pass him the bag. ‘keep it’.

his hands dig into his pocket and he slides you a crumbled $20, you laugh and slide it back. his hand goes over yours ‘no keep it. for the coffee and the beautiful painting’ he says softly, you look at his scarred hand over yours, then up at him. he makes you speechless you nod and he grabs the bag. ‘thanks’ he nods at you, and you smile at him softly, he walks out into the chilly air.

ahhh i was kinda scared to upload this i didn't think people would want part 2, but u guys voted for it ! (thank u🫶🏼) pls let me know if this was cute and not corny , as always feedback and comments are appreciated , i will be posting again very soon promise 🖤✨ (also sorry if the ending is abrupt again)

the antique store is littered by haunting smells, paintings, rare books, trinkets, beautiful furniture, the smell of gardenias or whatever incense you choose to use lingers in the air. you've acquired quite the collection of things from estates or donations. most of the items don't have a price tag so yes, it's that kind of antique store. which surprises you when a strange boy keeps coming in, about every month. you don't assume that he doesn't have the money, he doesn't seem like a bad person, he's bought things from you before. always with very few words and avoided eye contact, not that you were any better with eye contact, he is pretty intimidating. sometimes his face would be littered with scars, his knuckles usually bruised or bloody, but still his beauty shone through. 

~~~

it's just a regular busy day, you have new inventory today, you always like sorting through the new things you get. not like you need the time to pass in the store since you actively love this job. the old creaky door opens and he comes in, the atmosphere seems to change, into something more quieter and dull.

you try to shake away the nervous feeling you get when he looks over at you when he thinks you're not looking. always with the same amount of intensity as he does with the paintings.

he's wearing his usual outfit, dark jeans with his leather jacket and dark hoodie. accompanied with his usual slouch, he seems to be too aware of his height and bulkiness. he always looks tired, his shoulders slouch down when he walks into the store. no longer seeming as on guard as you know he is when he’s walking the streets of Gotham. you notice you're staring as you're chewing on a pencil and shake yourself a bit. 

you go over to your sound system and turn up the music a bit more, you have new inventory that you have to somehow make fit into the already cluttered store. you get your dolly and go towards the back of the store. you need to haul some boxes over to your desk, mark the inventory and see how much you will sell it for, a tedious process but very necessary. 

maybe today wasn't the best day to wear a pencil skirt, but you have to do it before Sunday. that's when the rich people come in to check out your new stuff. you roll up the sleeves of your shirt, and attempt to pick up the heavy box, jesus what the fuck did you put in here again?

the box suddenly becomes lighter, you look up and the stranger is helping you carry it, he puts the box on the dolly and hauls it over to your desk without a word. you follow him and look up at him. 'thank you for that, you didn't have to' you say lightly chuckling and dusting your shirt as if you did something. he shrugs like he's suddenly aware that you were going to have to see him this up close. he's avoiding your gaze, and to not make him feel anymore awkward you start opening the box and bringing out the objects. 

'did'ya need more help, miss?' you look at him from over your glasses, surprised that he's so near you. 

'oh uh no i got it thanks again for helping me out' if he wasn't so imposing you would have ruffled his hair. his eyebrows furrow derisively. 

'i'm Jason.' he says a bit gruffly like if he hasn’t talked in years, you want to extend your hand out to shake his but that seems way to awkward so you just nod, even though that doesn’t make things as awkward

'right, hi Jason' you peer into the box you see some brass busts, these are nice they're probably 1920s they have that look to them. art deco, one's a man and the other a woman. you already know which one of your clients will wanna buy this. 

'so what's your name?' he startles you a little you thought he had left already. 

'it's on the name of the store, i'm the owner hi' you point towards the front of the store and smile. he blushes a little, you didn't mean to embarrass him you sigh. 'uh sorry, i'm not used to talking to people. i mean, strangers but let me know if you need any help with anything' you turn away from him mentally cursing yourself, you put your hand up to your forehead, you hear him snicker a bit. 

'i'm not a stranger, been here before' you nod with your whole body, though he can’t see your face, you're still afraid of him noticing how flustered he has made you feel. maybe its because you haven't talked to anyone in such a carefree way in a while, its always business. 

'never knew your name til now' you say mostly to yourself, grabbing your pen as you turn around to write on your notepad. a description of what you are selling to pretend you are somewhat busy. you hum as you do so hoping that he gets the hint to leave you alone. you need some time to recover after this interaction. 

'sorry about that, should have introduced myself, actually i had a question' you look up at him sizing him up a bit. you gesture for him to ask, not wanting to squeak out an answer. 'could you give me a tour?' your eyebrows furrow, seeing if he's actually serious, and he's waiting for your response unmoving. 

'um you've been in here before haven't you?' you say a little seriously, he nods. Fiddling with your glasses you take them off and almost bring the temple up to your lips to chew at it. 

'yeah i just wanna know more about the pieces, the history, and stuff' his eyes dart from your desk to the floor as he says it. you put your pen behind your ear so that you wont chew on eithe your glasses or pen. 

'never really done a tour of the place, but okay sure' you walk towards the front of the store and he follows, your face feels warm. 'so up here is an antique chandelier i would say late it’s early 1800s its bronze and beautiful. each part of the store has items that are within the same category, so over there are the lamps, all different decades. um this whole section has just paintings, some religious, some still lives, if you want to know the particular year or medium of one just let me know.' you look around trying to explain to him your beautiful clutter. you can see him from right behind you turning to wherever you point and looking at you. 'this rug was from a friend of mines. bronze, and porcelain candelabras, beautiful hand sculpted busts. here i have another array of oil paintings.' you walk further into your space and walk him over to a display case 'in this case it's a mixture of things , silver rings, necklaces, cameos, um compacts from the 1940s and 50s. these trinket boxes are pretty popular. those little porcelain animals are my favorite. there's sculptures in that corner' you point at a space. 'and i have some new rare books that i'll have in the store soon. it's not even the half of it but if you have a certain question about a piece or item you let me know' you do not wait for a question or for him to acknowledge what you said. 

you walk over to your desk, about to scribble in your notepad when you look over at him. he almost looks like he belongs, here the palette of his clothes strangely mixes with the background and his face, almost as perfect as the sculptures you have in store. he's definitely really handsome, and sure you were quick with your tour, and you feel a bit bad but it seems like this Jason guy just wants to talk to you, or flirt you're not sure. well he's not exactly flirting with you yet or talking, maybe he's just lonely and wants someone to talk to him. 

he's still standing where you left him looking at the display case. he turns over to look at you and your eyes widen when he does. 'are any of those books coming in any good?' you blink at the question. 

‘yeah a lot of classics and second editions, things like that’ he walks over to you slowly, or maybe it's just your nerves that make it seem that way. his hand reaches for your pen and his warm fingers brush your cold hands. he writes something in the notepad. he's even closer than before, and you're holding your breath. 

‘you let me know when they come in yeah?’ he looks up at you, and you adjust your glasses trying to get a hold of yourself. 

'um yeah yeah, course, Jason’ you say as you nod your head. he gives you a small smile, and heads toward the exit, you look down at your notepad and see his neat handwriting. it's his name and number.

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 :)

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