matrix !!

they’re surrounding him and he’s kicking them back, spinning into a one two punch, jumping up and slamming them into the ground with his thighs around their necks. he’s strong and he’s fast and he’s trained, and he refuses to go down. they knee him in the abdomen and backhand him across the face and pull on his hair and snap his arm in half and he refuses to stop fighting. they kick him to the ground and he pulls himself up by their armored clothes and he chins that one and palm strikes that one in the throat and a heavy blow to his back sends him back to the ground.

he grinds his molars and his tongue is severed and bleeding and he can’t fucking see or hear but he won’t *stay down* he can’t. he’s incapable. that’s not what he’s made of. that’s not what batman finally saw - after so long of not seeing, after only seeing the dead - once he used his sizzling eyes to peer into tim’s soul. that’s not what stephanie whispered into his ear as they were sitting side by side on the edge of that rooftop, feet swinging and tangling. that’s not what bernard knows, smiling at him with the sparkle of a thousand knowing suns. that’s what it’s all about, isn’t? every star in your universe shining its light upon you and telling you that you can do anything. that as long as you stand in the golden rays, you are invincible. untouchable.

yes. tim refuses to stay down. tim cannot lay on the ground like flattened meat, like a squashed bug. he must fight he must never give up he must never yield. they beat him they surround him they make a mess of his soft soft flesh but he is not soft. he is not easily beaten. he is the bird that has taken flight and refuses to touch the ground. he only the sky, and it’s neverending limits. he spits out the blood instead of coughing it up and he snaps that one’s arm and that one’s leg and he fights and he fights and he fights and he fights and he fights. he is the hanging rock climber, nails bleeding and scrabbling against rock, refusing to let go and fall into the abyss. he is the fighter that fights and the bird that flies and the learner who learned and the boy who grew and the man who loved and lost.

he hits the ground again and again and the sound echoes and booms, no muscle unbruised no bone unbroken. and he wheezes and groans and screams. and he pushes himself to his feet. and he haltingly puts his hands up, tightly wound into fists. he is the bug beneath the shoe that has not stopped twitching. it’s fleshy insides are painting the floor, its wings are snapped, its eyes are bulging and hanging from its fleshy head, and still it does not stop. and still it is not dead.

and still, tim is not dead. and still, he will. not. yield.

why? wouldn’t it be easier if he just stopped? they would not beat him any longer. he would not throb and agonize in this excruciating pain. it all would fade away as he sunk into the darkness. what is it all for?

this. it’s this. this is all it is. the shining sun and the whispered words and the grit and the weeping wounds and the dirt in his hair and the blood rushing in his ears and his whimpered breaths and his creaking gloves. the moment. this life that he knows, that he refuses to give up. he will not yield, and this life will not leave him. he refuses to give in, and so he breathes, and fights, so on and so on.

the endless struggle is not endless, after all. there’s so few of them left, and tim is still here. tim is still standing.

sometimes, i never want to wake up again.

sometimes, all i can do is curl my limbs around my fragile body, and pretend as though my mind isn’t shattering for the thousandth time as i try to imagine waking up in that meadow.

“Is this thing recording?”

“Bear, I don’t think you’re doing it right-”

“No I’ve got it, hold on-”

“Just hand me the camera, Bear-”

“No! Okay okay, smile, Timmy!”

“Don’t call me that-”

Tim Drake smiled a small, exasperated smile at the viewfinder of the barely working camera in Bernard’s freckled hands, rolling his eyes as Bernard fumbles with it so he can visibly zoom in further. Tim sighs, quiet with affection and endless patience, as he holds up his lit sparkler to Bernard’s own, watching as his boyfriend tries to frame their hands and Tim’s face perfectly in the shot.

“You’re so beautiful,” Bernard whispers, smiling a little with the camera covering up the rest of his face. Tim tries to suppress the light blush that immediately wants to spring into his cheeks, looking away before looking back at the camera with a small thanks. “Happy birthday, Tim. I hope every birthday from now on is the best kind.”

Tim smiles again, helplessly melting at the sincerity he hears in his boyfriend’s voice. “Only if you’re there,” he says, his fathomless eyes glittering with the fluttering light of the sparklers in the darkness of the night. Wind blows through their clothes and ruffles his hair just right for the video, the sea breeze carrying notes of salt on it as they taste it and feel it on their skin. Their legs are pressed close together, sinking into the shifting sand.

All day Tim had been bombarded with well wishes and gifts thrown at his face by his family and friends, pulled every which way and getting confetti thrown into his face as they surprised him with a birthday party at his and Bernard’s shared apartment. It was a good day. His heart had never felt so full. But it quickly got overwhelming, and he was relieved when things started to wind down, and more people left as the hours passed.

Once everyone had either left or fallen asleep in his living room, he had expected for it all to be over. He had gone to his and his boyfriend’s room to change so he could fall into bed, exhausted, when he had stopped short at the sight of Bernard, wide awake and changed into comfortable clothes prepped for the cold, sitting on the ledge of the window with a bag on his shoulder.

Tim had sighed heavily, shaking his head as he moved further into the room to look for his tennis shoes. “Where are we going, baby?” he had whispered, hopping on one foot as he shoved the other into its matching sneaker.

Bernard had laughed, his long blonde hair shuffling with the night breeze, his smile backlit by the stars and the moon. He had been the most beautiful thing Tim had ever seen, and Tim knew he would follow him anywhere. Tim didn’t know why he didn’t think his boyfriend would do something more for him, something between just the two of them. But he had been happy to jump out of that window to follow after him.

And now here they were, their sparklers burning down to the nub, the moon hidden by the clouds, the beach empty and filled with midnight’s secrets, Bernard holding his camera and filming this video of Tim, smiling at him with all the adoration in the world, their shared breaths loud in the quiet.

“How much longer are you going to record for, Bern?” Tim asks, shuffling closer as the wind whips up again, trying to keep from shivering as he steals more of his boyfriend’s warmth. Bernard laughs softly, leaning closer to Tim and keeping the camera between them as he captures Tim’s sparkling deep blue eyes, his beauty marks, his ruffled black hair, his button nose.

“As long as I want to capture this moment,” Bernard says, breathing the words into the air like he only ever wants Tim to hear him.

Tim’s laugh will sound crackly through the audio of the video, like this camera is a device only meant for bottling moments of the past in that exact way that makes your chest ache, and your teeth sing of nostalgia.

Tim gently lays his hand atop the camera, and pushes it down so that Bernard’s hands let it fall softly into the sand between them, and Tim leans ever closer. The sparklers are nothing but burning embers now, also to be forever buried at this beach, and so there’s nothing stopping him from holding Bernard’s hands in his own, the warmth and the texture and the safety more of a birthday present then the camera (which Bernard planned to give to Tim, so that Tim could get back into photography) or the sketch pad and pencils (Tim was experimenting with drawing lately, but only doodles on notes when he had the time.)

And now that the camera is pressed against Tim’s knee, it only sees darkness. But it hears as Tim whispers, “Thanks, Bear. For taking me out here. I didn’t know I needed this until we got here.”

And Bernard just breathes out a quiet giggle, the sound of their hair brushing together making it seem as though they had pressed their foreheads together.

“You’re welcome. I want you to be able to remember this, any of it, forever,” Bernard says, murmurs, his clothes rustling as he shifts impossibly closer. “I love you.”

Tim’s reply is so quiet the camera barely captures it. “I love you too. More than anything.”

And after a few minutes of utter quiet, that’s where the recording ends.

Tim replays it every birthday, in the darkness, his lips curling as he stares back at his own face.

“You’re so beautiful.”

Even if the camera hadn’t been there, Tim doesn’t think he’d ever forget that. Not in a thousand years. Not in a million birthdays.