saturday.

well, she slapped your arm. for a bedridden woman of 83 years, she sure had some hands on her. never underestimate an east end woman, they said.

“i did not raise you to be such an oblivious young woman!” she hisses.

"my parents raised me, gran.”

she scoffs. “whole lotta good they did with that.”

you laugh. a clear, little, tilting chuckle - the kind only she can get out of you. it’s an odd sound given the circumstances.

any floor of gotham general hospital is terribly busy, and the second is no exception. the rattling and clanking of carts, machines and beds rolling up and down the halls settle into ambience with time, but the heart monitors beeping stays incessantly loud. there’s also no shortage of doctors and nurses yelling commands and codes at each other. you can’t imagine how your gran feels being in this place for days on end.

the room itself is small, albeit cozy. the door is one of those ones without a handle that swing either way, which your very gift-full hands thank the interior designer for. helpfully informative and extremely poorly graphically designed medical posters, hand sanitizer dispensers, and various glove boxes adorn the otherwise stark-white walls. there’s a floor-to-ceiling window to the right of the bed, where the bright light from the rising sun streams in. the fluorescent lights are brighter still.

there’s less complicated-looking medical equipment than last time you visited. you’re not quite sure whether that’s because she’s doing better, or because her insurance doesn’t cover much anymore. your wrinkle your nose at the thought (or perhaps because the whole place reeks of plastic and ethanol). there’s an untouched grease-spotted batburger bag on the bedside tray, courtesy of yours truly.

…and next to it, a striped pink box.

full of even pinker peonies.

courtesy of damian-motherfucking-wayne. 

a striped pink box that your grandmother foolishly seems to think, is an irrefutable, on-his-knees, absolutely smitten confession of love.

but you've known damian since day one, and he’s literally never had a partner. ever. the concept of damian wayne and a girlfriend honestly doesn’t even compute in your brain. 

truth be told, you simply can’t imagine damian confessing to someone with a shy, neat note asking to meet up, or his hearfelt confession under the bleachers with his heart in his throat, green eyes wide from anticipation, and the fading sunset light painting his flawless skin in brighter ambers than usual. 

it’s just unfathomable to think of damian wayne taking someone on a date: him with slicked back hair and thin black-frame glasses, all dressed up in a freshly-pressed tux. smiling softly as she descends the stairs, opening the door for her to climb into the black convertible. 

and it’s pratically impossible to think about him smiling with her afterwards, driving down the highway, music blasting and wind blowing his hair out of place - them getting back home and him leaning in, eyes reverent and hands gentle. his pupils blown and his shirt unbuttoned, leaning forward and tracing his hands down her waist-

WOAH. 

okay. 

good lord. either you’ve gone absolutely insane with the worst case of senioritis ever, or you need to take a fucking cold shower and get a hold of yourself.

jesus fucking christ. damian? really? you were gonna stoop that low? wow, you really must be spiraling.

“sweetie? y’ with us?” your grandma’s voice breaks through your fantasies about damian.  ew, you think, to that whole concept, specifically the latter part of it.

“uh huh! yeah, gran, uh- sorry.”

“i know when my girl’s thinking about something.” she grins coy and cunning, the tubes in her nose shifting.

“wha- no, it’s really nothing, gran! i’m just- i’ve got debate today. i’m just… just nervous.”

the hospital was close enough to gotham high’s fancy-ass debate hall that you could walk to it. it had worked out well that you wanted to drop off the flowers and talk to your gran, but you’re beginning to regret the latter as she prattles on. 

truth be told, your nerves are shot. but that's only because damian’s debate team has maintained a one-point average on your team all year. you’re antsy for a win, more to best him than the other team. your leg bounces as your speech turns over in your head, far beyond memorised already.

“-honey, boys your age simply just don’t buy flowers anymore! he must be a real gentleman, that damian. respect for his elders, too. what a sweet boy.” she muses, brushing a hand over the flowers.

at the very real risk of being slapped again, you roll your eyes. “gran, really? he’s winning you over as well? i’m telling you, he’s really not this perfect guy that everyone thinks he is!”

she gives you a look that makes you shrink back in your chair a little.

“darling, no one’s perfect. least of all an 18 year-old boy. they might as well be the least perfect brand of person on earth. but, honey, that’s why it’s sweet that he’s trying. everyone your age is sad and stressed. this boy went out of his way to buy you flowers. doesn’t that mean something, my love?”

“he goes out of his way to irritate me. and he bought you flowers, not me! and they probably cost nothing to him!” you frown, listing off damian’s various transgressions on your fingers.

“sure, honey. just call me whenever he makes a good woman out of you.”

you seriously almost throw up in your mouth.

“gran! ew-ugh! don’t even say that!” you whine indignantly.k why does every adult in your life want you to be friends with damian so bad? you’ve gone much more than a decade hating him - super duper healthily - and now that’s out the window? and now they start about dating him? god! you really cannot afford to be clouding your mind with the annoyance, not right before the last debate of the year.

“don’t take my advice, darling. i’ve only been alive for 4 of your lifetimes!” she giggles as you stand up and round the corner. 

“i don’t think even my strongest debaters could ever change an opinion of yours once you’re set on it, gran.”

you kiss her forehead and she holds your wrist as you pull away. k “that must be the smartest thing my smartest grandchild has ever said. knock those richie mcgee’s dead, sweetie.” 

you nod after her and step out of the hospital. you worry your lip and step into the bright sunlight. the walk to the fancy debate venue is punctuated with the kind of liveliness gotham only offers in the early hours of the morning, when the streets bustle with working women and men on their way to their shifts. the sun is out, but its heat is gentle under the cover of clouds. the air is faintly humid from the rain last night, but the good kind that feels distinctly spring-like. the gotham high logo attracts a few stares as you strut down the streets. you spot a two students in a cafe across the street. they’re clearly a couple. they’re laughing and chatting with lattes in hand. k your stomach twists with a pang of jealousy.

nope nope, not the time.

you shove the emotion (ew!) down as far as it will go and swallow thickly. your extremely embarrassing “deb-ATE” playlist blasts in your tattered wired headphones, strolling the last stretch of road to get to the hall, internally reviewing your speech all the while.

the hall is bustling with students and teachers, different colours of uniforms blurring as they rush around. you make a beeline up one of the antique double staircases, having spotted the navy blue of gotham high’s uniform. the schools surrounding them keep their distance, whispering and glancing at each other. figures. 

if you’re allowed to have the tiniest bit of ego, if only to balance out damians ridiculous amount, it’d be about debate. gotham high never loses a debate. 

which is why you’re not sure exactly why you’re so nervous. it’s not like you haven’t done this a million times, it’s not like you don’t know your speech front to back, and it’s not like you really think you’re going to lose.

you align your cue cards, grip your water bottle, square your shoulders and take a deep breath. you look down at your leather shoes as you ascend quickly, staring at the creases indenting over and over on every step. they’re old, but they work. sure, they make you feel a little insecure compared to cece’s doc martens and damian’s - what you’re pretty sure are - prada lace-ups, but they work just fine. 

you meet up with your team, which consists of some of the best public speakers in gotham. they’re still finishing up and editing their speeches, but you expected that. in fact, everyone seems to be still writing and editing, except for you. it relieves you to remember, and your buzzing nerves subsiding partly. you turn to survey the area.

ah. there’s the other exception.

damian wayne is sitting there, because of course he is. the sunlight seems to have directly spotlighted him. his green eyes sparkle annoyingly bright, (seriously, sparkle.) barely clouded by his long, thick lashes. you make eye contact with him for a split second, before you damn near give yourself whiplash avoiding it. when you tentatively glance back, he’s discussing something rather passionately with his team, hands deftly flipping around cue cards as if he was a magician, who's only trick happens to be being the biggest prick in gotham, and probably the known universe.

show-off. 

you relegate yourself to a couch by the window, one that faces away from damian. you tell yourself it’s purely to take in the rare gotham sunlight as you parse through your cards. you're not really reading them. your mind is still clouded with pink peonies and rolled-up sleeves. seriously, you've got to be ovulating, or have inhaled some of ivy's stray pollen particles at some point, because this is getting weird. you've been perfectly fine hating damian for so long! you still hate him! and when this weird lapse in judgement is over, you're very sure you'll go back to hating him. the status quo.

you look around to realise you've attracted your noisy-ass teammates towards you. you grimace as one after another sits down. with an exaggerated smile, you stand up and excuse yourself to “go to the bathroom super quick!”, tapping your drink bottle for plausibility. debate really has made you such a good liar.

truth be told, you have no idea where the bathroom is. but you’ve got hours before the debate, cece isn’t coming, and it’s not like you still need to write anything - so you decide to take a little stroll. 

you walk down the halls of the venue slowly, examining the framed photos of old white men and skimming the gold plaques. the lights get dimmer as you walk further, and the talking similarly fades out. you make the express decision to savour the peace and quiet while you get it. once you’re back to the main hall, damian will decidedly not let up on your point-score differences, which you’ve learnt from experience. he also comes to watch every. single. one. of your debates, and he doesn't forgive it if you stutter even once. yeah. you better remember the silence - so you’ve got something to calm yourself from kicking him in his wayne jewels while he’s scoffing at your score sheet.

speak of the devil, you think, because your nose begins to detect the sophisticated smell of damian’s rich, stupid, designer cologne - something versace, you're pretty sure. weird.

“did your grandmoth-.”

you whip around to the source of the voice. unfortunately, instinctively, and rather stupidly, your hand jerks forward. the very same hand that’s clutching your metal drink bottle. 

and fortunately, coincidentally, and wonderfully, it hits damian wayne square in the face. holy shit.

he doubles over, clutching his nose.

“motherf…” he trails off, hiding his face.

“holy shit! wayne, are you okay?” you gasp and drop the drink bottle, feeling like you’re colonel mustard caught with an incriminating candlestick. you squat to his level, babbling apologies.

“oh my fucking god, i’m sorry, shit- where the fuck did you even come from? are you hurt? oh my god- shit! shit, shit! is it broken? let me see it, wayne. you fuckwit! you could've warned me before you snuck up on me!" your emotions feel like they're on a spinning wheel. you reach out your hands to peel his off his face.

shit.

nothing’s broken, on initial assessment. but there’s a dark stream of blood coming down one of his nostrils…and all over his mouth…and hands. there’s a small purple bruise blooming under his right eye. said eyes are looking up at you, watering ever so slightly, eyebrows furrowed. a small, sick part of you wants to laugh in his face and leave him there - but that part is drowned out by the other, which is thinking much more plausible thoughts, mainly that; 

bruce wayne is going to sue you. he’s going to sue you for all that you’re worth, and then you’ll never be able to be a lawyer, or a doctor, or probably even a grocery store cashier, because he’s going to have you blacklisted from any job in gotham. 

you just stare for a second, stunlocked, mouth agape.

then, damian’s face contorts. his eyebrows raises and the corner of his mouth tilts up, blood still streaming down his philtrum. god, he’s even pretty when he’s injured. it makes you wish you hit him harder.

“surely "fuckwit" is not a real expletive. wow, park. you've resorted to making up words to insult me? i'm flattered." he’s fully grinning, expression downright venomous.

“what the fuck is wrong with you, wayne?” you yell, falling backwards from your squat, feeling slightly dizzy at the blood. 

damian just laughs. you realise three things at once. 

one, how insane you must look, yelling at a bleeding boy.

two, damian has a pretty laugh. it’s a little deeper than his voice, and it reaches his eyes. you’ve never liked it before, mostly because it was almost always directed at you. now that he’s covered in blood, it makes you feel a little woozy.

three, that east end didn’t raise no bitch - so you right yourself, dusting your uniform off.

damian stands at the same time, and now he’s staring down at you.

“did your grandmother appreciate the flowers?” he cocks his head, somehow smug while holding one hand over his very bleeding face.

you look at him incredulously.

“jesus, wayne, that’s what you’re concerned about? i just hit you in the face with a 40oz drink bottle! you’re bleeding out of most of the fuckin’ orifices on your face!” you gesture wildly to accentuate your point.

“answer the question, park.” he steps closer to you, and suddenly the hallway’s air conditioning has stopped working! weird.

you stare up at him for a good 10 seconds, your mouth struggling to remember one of the very few languages you speak, and even why you were yelling in the first place. he looks so stupidly authoritative in this dim light, dark eyes squinted and boring into you. his black tie has fallen forward because he’s leaning down, and the tip of it rests on the middle of your chest. the smell of the blood is mixing with his cologne and it’s everywhere. the air feels charged, and you don’t want to move a muscle. you clear your throat, a weird groan-cough escaping you.

“yeah- um. she did like ‘em. said you seemed like a good kid.”

he preens at the praise and smiles down at you.

“i’m glad. i wouldn’t expect anything less.” 

and, for the umpteenth time, you remember how much of a dick he is. whatever trance he manages to keep putting you in wears off just enough for you to regain your higher brain function, and remind yourself this is damian wayne you’re thinking about. he wouldn’t know romantic tension if it roundhouse kicked his face with a nametag on. you push him away with a hand in the middle of his chest, and he moves far less than you would like him to. 

“whatever...scooch it, daddy’s money. you’re gonna get blood on my shirt. c’mon, let’s find the nurse’s office.” you scoff.

“it’s not a school, so it’s really a first-aid room.”

“do u want me to hit you harder? so you lose all speech function?”

“i’ll assume that meant “i’m very sorry for damaging your face, damian.” in some cryptic cipher im yet to understand?” he snarls, trailing behind you as you both peer down the halls for the nurses office.

“i already said sorry. you’re not getting more than one out of me.” (you’re fairly sure you already gave him three in your panicked state. but talking shit is half the game with him.)

“whatever would i do without your magnanimity, park?” he rolls his eyes. you can't see him, but you can tell. 

you turn around, grinning. “no one would be around to break your perfect face! what a tragedy.”

damian furrows his eyebrows at that, and you’re not quite sure why. thankfully, you discover the first-aid bay at the very next door. you knock on the door to no answer, so you open the door.

the bay walls are the same sterile white as your grandma’s hospital room, and it makes you stand there for a second, staring. it’s weirdly dark, the only light coming from a small, flickering lamp in the corner. you try the light switch, to no avail. there’s a small, low bed in the corner, a medicine fridge, glove boxes and a marble bench with many cabinets along the side of the wall. the room is clinically cold. it’s strikingly similar. you swallow air. 

“sit.” you point to the bed.

you hand him a bunch of tissues, and he mops up at the blood all over his hands and face. it’s somehow not gotten on his shirt.

“i'm going to wash the wound out.” he moves to stand up.

“sit down." you push on his shoulder with one finger, and he acquieses. "i’ve been patching up people since i was 9.”

he frowns, “and i have been hurt worse.”

you stop wetting paper towels and turn around to him, eyebrows raised. 

“really? i did theorise the waynes live in some kinda castle, so bouncy’s not out of the equation."

he sniffs, and you see his shoulder raise slightly in laughter. it feels like a victory. "i’m, like, 97% sure you’ve never even grazed a knee, wayne. soft hands ‘n that, y’know.” you squint.

"yes, because 97% is the highest perfectage you know of." he mutters.

"what did i get on the last history test, wayne? say it." it was 100%. you both did.

he just grumbles in response. a few minutes pass, the air conditioning buzzing and the tap running on the sink. it feels quiet, and peaceful, and despite the fact that you just almost broke his fucking face, you think spending time with damian wayne might not be the worst thing in the world. wow. this must be rock bottom.

you've stopped wetting tissues now, and you just stare at your hands.

“consider finishing up sometime this century, florence nightingale. i’m bleeding all over this cot.”

“quit complaining, or i’ll get your ear next, van gogh.” you stroll over to the side of the bed. damian’s the same height as you sitting down. ugh. 

“head up.” you instruct. he does as you say. you dab a wet tissue onto his neck, where a drop of blood is trickling down. his throat flexes a little, and you see him swallow as his adam’s apple bops.

this is medicinal. orderly. clinical. you’re just helping him with an injury. absolutely non-intimate. you’ve patched a nosebleed more times can count. why are your hands shaking? 

“head back down.” you murmur, and tap his shoulder. he lowers his head, and you can see the bleeding has lessened, but the bruise has bloomed a little bit more. you dab at the spilled blood on his chin, wiping it away, praying it reveals no further bruising. on your fourth tissue, you notice the way damian’s looking at you.

his eyebrows are ever so slightly raised and his gaze is so intense it almost makes you jump. the light is low, so the blood tracing down his lips looks almost black, and his eyes look forest green, but you can see his pupils are dilated. his head is tilted slightly upwards, and his normally even skin has a faint blush cast over his cheeks. surely it’s just the lighting.

but he’s certainly staring at you, and he doesn’t stop when you notice. you ignore it the best you can, continuing to clean up the blood. you can feel his gaze the whole time. it makes your stomach feel flighty.

when the blood is mostly cleaned up, you hand him an ice pack and instruct his him to hold it to his bruise, while tilting his head up and plugging his nose to stop the bleeding. since both his hands are preoccupied, you pass the time taking some embarrassing photos, completely unsubtly.

“smile, wayne, the paps will wanna see that grin!” you strike a peace sign next to him, sticking your tongue out. he looks veritably ridiculous in the background. 

“if you're intention is to send those into the tabloids, i will make sure it doesn't ever happen.” he grumbles, side-eyeing you.

“sure y’ will, wayne.” you grin, swiping through the photos.

“your phone is made by waynetech, park. do you know who my father is?”

"boo, nepo babies are no fun.” you sigh, turning your phone off and pocketing it. “let’s see?” you step closer, and he drops the ice pack. the bruise has magically disappeared, probably because he’s wears secret rich-people snake-oil skincare or whatever. damian's face is flushed bright red at his cheeks and nose from the icepack. it suits him. for some reason, you wonder what he looks like in the winter, frostnipped nose and cheeks hidden under a thick scarf.

the bleeding has stopped as well. thankfully, you’re not gonna get blacklisted from all employment in gotham. not today, at least.

“well, we’re done here. nothin’s broken, so we can go back to the hall.” you smile tightly, washing your hands. the room feels suffocatingly small for some reason you can’t figure out.

“why'd you leave the common room?” damian’s low, smooth voice interrupts your attempt to leave the room. 

“needed to go to the bathroom.” you say, clipped and short, not facing him. you hear the rustle of the bedsheets and footsteps. 

“liar.” your heart skips a beat

“it’s full, park.” he holds up the drink bottle, tapping it. he's standing behind you, far too close for comfort.

you can smell his stupid cologne again. it makes you feel lightheaded. you just need some water…yeah, water.

“i just needed to step out, alright? what, i’m not even allowed to walk of my own free will anymore? fuck off, wayne, you’re not my keeper.” you sound a hell of a lot more confident than you feel, and a lot more defensive than you mean to.

you around to face him, backed up as far as you can, both hands on the counter. it feels cold against your hot skin. what is wrong with you today? you shift to the side in an extremely awkward manner, taking shuffling steps until you're away from his eyes.

“tt. you know i did not say that. also that is horrible bedside manner.” he cocks his head and hands you the drink bottle, then opens the door for you.

you scowl at him and step out. you two walk out the hallway together, to many looks and whispers, even from gotham high students themselves. you just roll your eyes and try to walk the furthest distance from damian that’s possible in a crowded atrium. you manage to get fuck-all done for hours, scrolling on your phone and studying what you should would otherwise be doing at school, studying what you wouldn’t otherwise be doing at school, texting your parents and grandma to check on them, practicing your speech, looking over at damian, and before you know it, its 5 minutes until 7, and the debates are all in full swing. 

your heart is racing no more or less than it usually does, and your team offers each other encouraging words outside the room. you say nothing, just stare, laser focused, through the window at the adjudicator, trying to read her body language. she’s a short, older woman with butterfly locs and a well-fitted pantsuit. you examine her mannerisms, whether she nods or smiles, at what points she writes down notes.

you saw damian do it once in year seven - just stare at the adjudicator for a good long while before any of his other teammates arrived. you couldn't quite figure out why, until you tried to replicate it thrice and started noticing things. ever since then, it’s been your go-to. he’s never accused you of copying, if he’s ever noticed.

and it works, too. it helps you get in their head, it helps you understand what makes a win, where the winning point comes from, who you’re appealing to. sometimes you really have to give damian credit. as much as he comes off stoic and indifferent, he understands people, and he knows how to figure out what they want - then, it's just a matter of whether he feels like to giving it to them or not. you'd never say that to his face, though. he doesn't need a bigger ego.

the debate goes off without a hitch. the air in the room is tense, and as third speaker of the negative team, you’re the very last to speak. damian and his team sit in the back row, the former having only gotten here 5 minutes before your speech. a practiced technique he does, entirely to throw you off. you prattle off facts and statistics, inflecting on all the right words - you stutter once, but you recover like it’s nothing. you smile at mrs,pantsuit as you round out the speech with your closing line, and bask in the applause the room delivers as you stroll back to your table. the adjudicator asks for a minute to deliberate points, but both teams know the outcome.

you smile sweetly at the first speaker of the affirmative team, a tall brunette boy with large brown eyes and an international school accent. he winks back, grinning large despite their obvious loss. you scoff and your teammates snicker as they congratulate you and themselves on the obvious win. you can’t help but stare over at damian, who - uncharacteristically - isn’t examining you for things to comment on. he’s looking over at mr international school, with his nastiest death glare - usually reserved for when the most rambunctious and irritating popular boys in class attempt to speak to him.

the adjudicator clears her throat and announces, “gotham high wins by 6 points. best speaker goes to third speaker, negative team. congratulations to both teams.” 

you grin as your tesm erupt into cheers. your team pats you on the back, praising the end of your yearly best speaker streak. you glance at damian’s team in the back - he isn't smiling the slightest. his green eyes snap to yours, and your ears light up with redness, feeling exposed. he stands up and stalks out of the room without a word. 

you distantly wonder if he feels particularly passionately about the detriments of electric cars on the gotham economy, and takes offence at your speech. you do the appropriate smiling, and shake the affirmative teams hand, including mr international school’s - who holds your hand and eye contact a little longer than necessary. you smile at him, because he’s not not cute, and possibly the solution to your ovulation problem. “nathan”, he introduces himself as. nathan and some fancy french last name you've already forgot.

you step out into the atrium before you make a dumb desicion involving that brunette and his pretty french accent. you shrug your backpack over your shoulder and trot down the stairs.

you peek outside the large double doors, and spot a silhouetted figure on the garden footpath. the moonlight mists over the garden, scattering across the large, glassy koi pond, which damian is currently gently kicking rocks into. and because all your smarts are in academics and none in common sense, you stroll towards him as casually as possible.

his back looks broad and solid in the white shirt. his hairs slightly mussed where he's clearly ran a hand through it, and his tie hangs lower than usual, but his shirt remains completely buttoned and his posture is straight, eyes steeled and the single most impressive poker face you've ever had the misfortune of playing battleshio against. year 8 was an interesting time.

one of the very few immovable facts you know is that damian wayne isn’t the type to ever fully, properly, entirely relax. you pick up a handful of rocks and stand. you glance over at him. he’s looking down into the dark pond, oddly…angry?

“you win your debate?” you inquire, throwing a rock and watching it disturb the water. the ripple breaks the moon’s reflection into small semicircles.

damian nods, hands behind his back. “you got best speaker? or someone else?”

“we both know the answer to that.” he deadpans. you nod and throw another rock, this time harder, the ripple reaches the edge of the pond where you both stand.

you nod, feeling awkward but not comfortable.

"why’d you come out here?” you ask, throwing in three rocks at once. they land separately and heavy, and you feel a little spray of water on your shins.

a beat passes, in which you think asking that was a mistake.

“nathan rochefouclaude is a bigot and a snake, just like his father. you'd be doing the smart thing - for the first time in your life - to stay far away from him."

...not what you were expecting to hear.

"how would you know that? all he did was smile at me."

"he winked."

"so? thats hardly degenerate activity."

"i heavily disagree."

"you'd heavily disagree with me if i said the sky was blue, wayne. that doesn't prove anything." you throw your hands up in frustration.

you look at him. he’s looking down at you already.

"my father's met his. stay. away."

"what makes you think i'll listen to you?"

"you have to."

"make me." you hiss, tilting your head.

he steps closer, and you push at his broad shoulder with one hand. this time he doesn't move at all. it makes you even angrier at him.

"he literally just fucking winked at me! newflash, i've got rights! what do you care if i go fuck him?" you're not going to, but you want to provoke him. you want him visually as angry as you are. you want to have an effect on him. some, any, even the tiniest one. "what difference does it make to you?"

he curls his lip in what is an animal level of snarl. "leave, then."

"you can't tell me what-"

"leave, right now. go do whatever you will with that debauched specimen of a man. then come back and tell me just how that turns out for you."

you don't move.

you got what you wanted. you got him angry. and it doesn't feel good at all.

he glares at you, chest slightly heaving. you shake your head and let out a small sigh. he's probably right, but he doesn't need to be that much of an asshole about it.

you offer him the last rock you’re holding, a nice flat one. “peace offering. ‘s a good one for skipping. d’y know how to do that?”

he rolls his eyes. “just because i’m rich, doesn’t mean im not a person, park. i have skipped rocks before.”

“oh, i dunno, wayne. i just assumed that the only bodies of water you’ve been around are pure spring waterfalls and olympic-sized gold-plated swimming pools. yet here you are, in front of the poor man’s sea, a pond.” 

he looks over at you, and if you squint, you can see amusement in his expression. it makes you feel like you won something. it makes you feel so much more than those adjudicators' words do. 

you wave your hand, “look, d’ya want the rock or not, richie rich?”

“is that the best you could come up with? that is quite literally just the same word twice.”

“no, it’s an old movi- haven't you-? okay, just don’t worry about it. skip the rock, wayne.”

he takes the rock, gingerly holding it with two fingers, and flings it so far that it clears the pond altogether and lands in the grass on the other side, with a small shump noise.

“alright then.” you raise your eyebrows. he clears his throat. “‘m gonna go inside. maybe get involved in some debauchery."

he frowns at you.

"jokes, wayne. congrats on the debate, i guess…don’t open up that nose wound.” you murmur.

the rustling of the leaves, the chirping of cicadas and your footsteps across the gravel are the only noises you can hear. the flowers leech a wonderful scent into the air. the cold nips at your nose, flushing it red.

“park?” it’s barely a whisper, but the wind carries it.

you turn around far too quickly. “yeah?”

“check your phone.”

you frown, and then realise what he means. you open your camera roll and see every photo of him in the first-aid office gone.

every photo except one. you tap on it, and it enlarges to the size of your screen. the quality is shitty and grainy because of how low the lighting is, but its clear what it is. you, holding up a peace sign, grinning with all your teeth, and damian, with both hands up to his face, staring right at you. it makes your stomach flip for a reason you can't figure out.

huh. you decided to shove whatever that emotion down as far as it will go, and walk to your car. you sit in there, staring into the garden, and a horrible, sickening thought forms in your mind. 

you might be friends with damian wayne.