thena

You’re a kid. Staring into an old tv, the picture you left it paused on now burned into the screen. A new feeling swells in your chest, something cold and sharp that has your heart clawing its way out of your ribs. You’re going to be in so much trouble.

You’re a teenager. Staring at the car in the driveway, a new scratch on the side of it. It was an accident, you hadn’t meant to. That feeling—panic—comes back. You’re going to be in so much trouble, they’re going to kill you.

You’re an adult now , those days far behind you and yet, you’re stuck staring at the shattered remnants of Bruce’s favorite mug with wide eyes. Crouched on your knees in the kitchen, you try your best to sweep up the shattered shards into your palm only for them to slice through your skin.

With a wince, the pieces clatter back to the ground and break even more. Your hopes of being able to glue it back together again die on the spot.

It’s just a mug, the reasonable part of you screams.

You’re going to be in so much trouble, he’s going to yell at you, you’re going to die—

You don’t remember leaving the house, or abandoning the coffee you were making for when Bruce got back from patrol. You’re not sure how you ended up here—in the cold morning rain, in some alley by a convenience store standing entirely still, at the mercy of Gotham.

The 6am sun is barely rising, blotted out by the heavy clouds. Bruce must be home by now, must’ve seen the mess you made. You wonder if he’s angry, if he’s sweeping up the mess in a rage and planning what awful things he’s going to say to you.

At least for now, you’re blissfully unaware of it all. You left your phone, your keys, everything behind. 

You dig your fingers into your palms and stare at the brick wall next to you, examining the chips and weatherworn edges.

Something’s wrong.

Bruce feels it the moment he gets home. A lack of warmth, your warmth, to greet him when he gets back. It was a nightmarish evening, his body already aching from the strain he’d put on it.

You’re not waiting for him in the kitchen like you usually do, a cup of coffee in your hands despite his insistence that he’d rather you sleep in. Instead, he finds a shattered mug on the ground and globs of blood on the pieces, the front doors left open.

Your phone is on the floor next to the mess, your keys on the counter, your other things still hanging in a bag by the door.

Cold dread sinks into Bruce’s chest. Something is definitely wrong.

He doesn’t bother to change out of his suit as he storms around the house looking for you, his search coming up empty. There’s no sign of you anywhere. No bloodied bandages from cleaning yourself up, no note, nothing. 

It’s like you turned into a ghost.

He expects relief when he checks the cameras, or at the very least, something to take the edge off. His dread only grows when he watches the footage of you leaving the manor, still in your pyjamas, barefoot walking into the rain.

He cursed when the cameras catch you walking off the property, all traces of you lost to the city. Bruce clenches the edges of his desk, keeping his breathing steady as he wracks his brain for where you would’ve gone.

He doesn’t enjoy any of the options he comes up with.

Bruce finds you an hour later, still barefoot and in your pyjamas, standing in an alley in the rain. You’re soaked through and shivering, staring blankly at a wall.

Bruce calls your name, landing behind you with a loud thump. You don’t react, don’t even flinch at the loud noise like you usually would. His frown only deepens.

“Your hand,” he says, “are you hurt?”

He inches his way towards you, careful not to scare you in what is clearly a fragile state. Bruce says your name again, a little softer this time, a little more concerned.

He’s close enough now to cover you with his cape, draping it over your head and letting the material keep you dry. Well, dryer than you were.

He wraps an arm around you, pulling you into his body. You barely react, eyes still glazed over. He rubs a hand over your forehead, half brushing away the water droplets and half checking your temperature. You’re freezing.

“Are you hurt?” He repeats.

You blink slowly, catlike. “I’m sorry.”

His grip tightens. “Why?”

“I—” It all hits you at once, tears pooling in your eyes. “I broke your mug.”

“I don’t care about that.”

It’s enough to stun you out of your tears, out of the catatonic state you’ve been in for the past hour. “What?”

“The mug,” he repeats. “I don’t care about it. I can always buy another one.”

“But…I broke it.”

He takes advantage of your sudden lucidity to grab your hand, examining the slice across your palm. It’s thick and fairly deep, though it’s stopped bleeding now. He breathes a partial sigh of relief.

“We need to clean this, let’s get you home.”

“You’re not mad?”

He looks at you seriously. “The only thing I’m even remotely upset about is that you got hurt and didn’t take care of yourself.”

You can only stare at him like he’s speaking a foreign language. 

 Bruce pulls out a pair of your sneakers out of nowhere, passing them to you. “Come on, let’s go home.”

You’re sitting on the counter in the warmth of Bruce’s bathroom, your soaked clothes replaced with a baggy old shirt he uses for training and a pair of fleece lined sweats. They’re cozy, and more importantly, warm. 

Bruce’s lips are pulled into a tight frown, your hand held in his as he examines the large gash across your palm. He’s already cleaned it out, meticulously picking out the broken off pieces of glass embedded in your skin. 

“I’m going to cover it for now,” he explains. “Just try and do your best to not put too much pressure on it, okay?”

You swallow and nod, watching his thick fingers get to work wrapping your hand in cottony gauze.

He pauses for a moment, levelling you with a serious look. “I mean it, okay? No putting extra stress on your hand. If you need something, I’ll get it for you.”

“But—”

The look he gives you could cut through steel. “But nothing. You're not hurting yourself to avoid inconveniencing me.”

That shuts you up instantly, both the devotion and the severity he says it with stunning you into silence. You let him continue wrapping up your hand, finishing up and pinning the tail to your palm.

Bruce pats it gently, letting his hand linger on your thighs. 

“I really am sorry about the mug,” you say quietly.

“That mug will never mean more than you.” He looks up at you, dark lashes framing beautiful eyes. “Don’t ever think for a second that it does.”

You hum in agreement, sliding off the counter to your feet. They ache slightly from having them bare on the gravel. Bruce snakes an arm around your waist, beckoning you into his chest.

His lips brush over your forehead. “I love you.”

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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.

Because you couldn't even make it to the altar, could you?

Just standing there in the middle of the aisle, dressed in white, with your bouquet shaking in your hands and tears slipping down your cheeks faster than you can catch them with a pitiful tissue - making a complete, watery mess of yourself in front of everyone you love. Mascara threatening to betray you. Bottom lip wobbling. Breath hitching so pathetically you can barely even explain what's wrong because - nothing is wrong - and somehow that only makes you cry harder.

You even have Bruce Wayne, of all people, looking like he's about two seconds away from stepping in to help. Probably a little concerned you're about to bolt after he dropped half a million dollars on this wedding.

And of course Jason is moving before anyone else can.

Stepping down from the altar, black dress shoes clicking sharp against the floor, expression gone soft with an immediate sort of concern - maybe a flicker of something else beneath it, too.

Because for all his teasing and dramatics, there's probably still some ugly little part of him that wonders if you've finally come to your senses. If maybe - at the worst possible moment - you realized you don't want this. Don't want him.

He finally reaches you, looking down at you with those pretty emerald eyes, all that roughness in him gone soft in a way that almost makes you cry even harder.

"Too much of a crybaby to marry the likes of me?" His voice comes out with that low, gravelly little rasp - teasing, but fond - like he's trying to coax you back down to earth. Already holding your face before you can get out some watery, offended little reply, thumb sweeping carefully beneath one eye, then the other, catching tear after tear on the pad of his fingers.

"Don't tell me you're backing out on me now, baby," he mutters under his breath - quiet enough that it's just for you - while his hands keep working so patiently at your face, wiping away the wet heat of your tears only for more to replace them a second later. Trying to make you laugh when you're too busy sniffling and gasping for air to do much of anything else.

One hand comes up to cup your jaw - warm and calloused and careful against your damp skin - while the other settles at your waist the second your knees start to wobble. Holding you steady without making a spectacle of it.

Letting you clutch fistfuls of his suit jacket hard enough to wrinkle the fabric. Smear your tears all over the lapel - and probably a little snot too - and still not caring in the slightest because it's you.

And when it all starts to feel too big, he leans down until his forehead nearly brushes yours and murmurs, soft enough to melt straight through you,

“C’mon, baby. I got you.”

And then, of course, he walks you the rest of the way.

Not because people are staring at your little crashout or because things have gone awkward and uncertain.

But because there's simply no universe where Jason Todd is going to watch you fall apart on your wedding day - and not come get you himself.

So he guides you the rest of the way down the aisle, arm firm around your waist, your hand tucked tight around his, his thumb still brushing stray tears from your cheek every few steps while you shuffle along beside him - all sniffly and glassy-eyed.

Your veil catching softly behind you.

The room around you going warm and hazy and distant until it feels like it's just Jason - just the steady weight of him beside you keeping you from floating away.

Right before you finally reach the altar, he leans down one last time, mouth twitching at the corner, and murmurs in that low, amused voice of his,

"You done being a crybaby?"

Only for you to start crying even harder.

Which, okay, entirely his own fault.

When it's finally time to kiss the bride, you can bet he's kissing those watery little tears away too. Slow and sweet, a little smile pressed into it, like he can't quite believe he actually gets to keep you - gets to be the one wiping your tears away for the rest of his life.

Because if you are going to sob your way through marrying Jason Todd - the least he can do is hold you through every second of it.

You’re not sure how close they’ve gotten to you. How far behind you they are. You can’t even see where you’re going through your rain–obscured spectacles, really. You’re just moving on muscle memory and naked fear.

In spite of yourself, you spare a glance over your shoulder. Soupy white smog hazes the horizon. You’re not sure what exactly you were hoping to see, but your heart drops to your stomach nonetheless.

The flaxen light from the lamp posts above flicker tremulously, rapidly, like the heart rabbiting behind your chest.

Why the fuck did I stay after school so late? you lament, though you know exactly why. The reason figuratively and literally weighs down on your shoulders, taking the form of your oversized art portfolio and the 18 by 24 inch newsprint pad within.

The straps of the bag scrapes your shoulder, and it burns like an open wound.

It’s an unwanted burden slowing you down, and every logical fibre of your being is urging you to throw it to the curbside to lose the weight. Yet, everytime the bag begins to slip, you still find yourself shifting your weight mid–momentum to jostle it back where it belongs.

You don’t want to admit to yourself that you stayed in school to continue practicing your art because of an insatiable desire to be better than your peers; for your professor’s approval.

You don’t want to admit that you’ll probably die tonight because your bag slowed you just enough for your stalkers to stab and murder you.

That you’ll die because of your pride.

You’ve never felt stupider in your fucking life.

Breathe, you attempt to reason with yourself. Breathe.

In an attempt to soothe your dry, wrung–kitchen–cloth of a throat, you swallow and your sand-paper tongue scrapes the roof of your mouth as your saliva struggles its way down like a mouthful of cement.

Your nose is running wet and unpleasant, and it feels so much colder against the unforgiving air of Gotham Winter.

Your eyes are darting around for any sign of company, but the sidewalk you stride down is beginning to look a lot more like the looming corridors of an asylum. Black–iron fences shunt off closed apartment doors like the gates of Hell, taunting you with dead end after dead end.

Your gaze diverts as something bright and sharp glints in the distance. You squint, and the light clarifies—it’s a glowing window, just a street ahead. And framed within that heavenly square of gold, you catch the blurry, pitch-dark silhouette of a person.

Hope blooms in your chest. Someone’s there. You think she sees you. No, you know she sees you—you can barely make it out, but you feel a gaze trained on you from behind those glass panes.

Surely she knows about the gangsters behind you. If she lets you in, and you’re praying she will, maybe you’ve got a chance at holding out.

You quicken your stride as much as you can without actively running. It’s common knowledge that one should never run in Gotham unless they have to. Because once you start running, they will too, and they’re taller and stronger and faster than you, and then they’ll catch you and it’ll all be over.

It’s okay, you reassure yourself, feeling your heart swell with something that invigorates you, propels you forward like a bird mid–dive. Somebody’s watching this happen. Somebody’s seen you. She’ll let you in. It’s going to be okay.

You’ve reached the stoop of her house, just close enough to meet her gaze and take in the weathered lines around her eyes.

When you watch her face morphs from concern into horror, your gut squirms with a foresight that your mind hasn’t stomached yet. Your blood knows what she’s about to do:

With a prompt swiftness, she pulls her curtains close, and the act feels like the fall of a guillotine’s blade.

The sprout of unendurable, unforgiveable hope in your chest curdles into acid and fucking burns you. The back of your eyes begin to burn.

Of course, you think. Nobody helps anybody, anymore.

Your previous momentum becomes a deadly mistake—you trip as you frantically pivot away from her doorstep.

Then, an incoherent bellow rings out from behind you. “Hey!”

Without needing to think, your body moves on muscle reflex for you. You kick into a run—your legs pound against slickened slabs as you run faster than you’ve ever gone in your life. The terraces surrounding you blur into tarry smudges, obscured by your speed and your tears of terror.

You don’t know where you’re going anymore, and you don’t care. All you know is that every molecule in your body, every fibre of your being fucking demands that you to keep running, and you can’t stop, so you keep running, and running, and running out of breath and your heartbeat is racing in your ears like a countdown to your demise—

You’re barely conscious when a long shadow stretches out from beneath, past your pounding feet. Before you can think it through, you turn to look.

That half–second of mindless instinct costs you everything.

In that moment of distraction, the tip of your loafer catches against a groove.

Your heart lurches as you fall forward, but before you meet the ground, a grasp strong enough to crush your skull digs into your hair and yanks.

A wrangled scream escapes your lungs as you thrash mindlessly against the iron tight hold on you.

A rough shove slams you against something, and hard.

Everything goes red, black and hot with pain as the world spirals out of control. You stumble to the ground, and a storm of dust and dirt whirls up around you.

You cough, rearing up to rise. Someone kicks your stomach swift and hard, and the air propels itself out your lungs as you crumble back into a coughing heap.

With your head throbbing, you’re only half–aware of the dead-end you’ve found yourself in. You head pangs like its been bashed in with a boulder, and it feels twice as heavy to lift. You’re met with the image of scuffed pantlegs—10 of them. You’re surrounded by five seperate men.

Distantly, you hear one of your pencils rolls against the gravel, before falling down the grating.

You make a hopeless half sob, half laugh of a sound. Funny; you’re about to die and all you can think about is your two dollar pencil, and how you’ll never get to finish the assignment due on Monday.

Whatever noise your throat was making peters out the moment you feel something presses against your skull. It’s metal; cold as death, and yet it burns like a branding iron.

You don’t need to look to know what it is they’re holding to your forehead.

“Don’t you move,” a man’s voice sneers.

Hot tears begin falling from your eyes, joining the ice cold ones from above.

Your bag is ripped off your shoulder, and the friction of the straps against your skin burns like wildfire. Your art supplies clang as they fall and scatter.

And, as one last ‘fuck you’ from the Universe, you watch in lurid detail as your flacid, oversized sketchbook flop out unceromoniously like a corpse. It lands right in a puddle, and you watch in dull somberness as it soaks up the putrid rainwater.

You watch the rapid percolation; the way the wet blooms outwards from the centre and transforms the oatmeal color into a dark, rotting gray.

Weeks of work, undone in a matter of seconds. You hadn’t even had the time to take photos of them for the final portfolio. You carried it all this way.

You try to steady your breathing so that they won’t shoot you right here and now because of how much you’re trembling, but it just makes you hyperventilate harder.

You wonder if anybody in your class will mourn you. Whether Anna, or Harriet, or hell, even Damian will notice you’re gone at all. God, would anybody care?

You flinch as you hear a cry of outrage from a man—probably because he’s realised you’ve got nothing of worth in your bag. You screw your eyes shut, praying that this is all just some fucked up dream.

But prayers don’t get answered, not here.

It’s Gotham City, and you’re alone in the dark.

Then, you hear your captor yell. “Jesus, what is that!?”

You open your eyes just in time to see something—someone—descending from the skies above.

Before you can register it, a bright–green boot finds purchase against the stomach of your tormentor. One good kick sends the pillar–man crashing against the wall.

You stand, molasses–bound in shock. A cacophony of chaos erupts—yells and clashes.

The figure ducks low. With a sweep of a slender leg, another criminal trips and teeters like a spinning top.

Flashes of fabric ripple before you as Justice incarnate takes on five men twice his size.

Deafening gunshots boom, and you’re vaguely aware you’re screaming, but the stranger dodges the shower of bullets and repays them in spades.

He throws an arm out—blood splatters the walls as a blade guts the shoulder of a staggering, screaming man.

Swift as the wind and quieter still, the figure fights on without pause, like a sword made sentient. His feet barely meet the ground. Every punch and kick, he executes flawlessly, effortlessly, like a blade gliding through water.

You blink, and the green boots of your hero strike against the last criminal standing. The thug topples to the floor, unconscious.

You stare. The atmosphere buzzes.

You realise how loudly you’ve been breathing, now that everything’s silent. Your chest still heaves from racing adrenaline and naked fear, but the stranger seems completely unaffected, as if he hadn’t exerted himself at all.

Your disgruntled hero stands and coolly dusts his clothes off in total disinterest.

He lifts two fingers to the side of his ear. Speaking aloud to nobody in particular, he says, “Five criminals, all apprehended. Civilian unharmed. Copy…”

A car rushes past the streets behind him, and the glaring light limns his silhouette just long enough for you to take in the cape, the red vest, that green mask—

You inhale sharply, recognition dawning on you.

Your savior is none other than the caped crusader of the night. Batman’s sidekick in the flesh.

Robin—the Robin—turns to face you. The moment his eyes meet yours, an unwanted shudder ripples up your spine like a shockwave.

With an asphyxiating gaze that bores past the mask he wears, he observes you in turn.

Not trusting yourself to look at him for too long, your eyes dart about his shadowed frame, thin and wiry.

You realise, with growing disbelief, that he’s probably around your age.

You saw his strength first hand, and yet, his muscles are understated. The oversized cloak he’s swathed in doesn’t help him look any older, either. He can’t be older than nineteen.

And then there’s his height… for some reason, you thought he’d be taller.

Absentmindedly, you wonder what it would be like to paint him.

You are shocked out of your daydream when suddenly, he snarls: “You shouldn’t be out this late.”

His glare stings like antiseptic, cutting straight to your soul. You instinctively bite down on your wobbling lip, feeling a hot rush of embarrassment.

With a wrecked, weak voice, you protest, “I just… I needed…there’s this assignment…”

Every few words you manage to choke out are interspersed between wracked sobs as tears resume falling down your face.

Ducking your head down, you attempt to calm your breathing. Instead, you end up coughing violently, folding in on yourself as you choke on tears and phlegm and unending rain.

That’s when the unforgiving rain falling down on you comes to a sudden halt. You lift your head in shock, and meet Robin’s gaze.

He’s holding an umbrella with dramatically arched ribs over you. His fury has all but dissipated, and while the canopy shrouds his expression, the way his eyebrows are furrowed makes him seem almost guilty.

“Bat-brella,” he explains, answering a question you didn’t ask. “It’s an umbrella, but…”

“But bat-themed, yeah,” you finish for him, glancing up at the umbrella’s bat-patterned underside. “Does he have to name everything he owns after bats?”

The corner of Robin’s mouth briefly twitches into something suspiciously smile-like. “It’s a pathology, at this point.”

And there’s something about his voice that sounds strained; forced into something deeper and lower than it actually is. What’s more, his Gotham accent is… well, it’s not bad by a long shot, but the intonement is practiced, artificial. Everything about the way he talks makes him sound he’s trying to conceal.

Before you can savor his smile, his smile flattens back into a line. You flinch as he crouches down to your level, handing you the umbrella before reaching for his utility belt.

He dishes a flimsy Kleenex packet out of a mustard coloured pouch. “Here.”

Unsure as to what to do with his sudden kindness, and numbed by what you’re certain is going to be a traumatic memory for at least a few years, you take it, and mumble your gratitude.

Robin gives you a firm nod before he moves away towards your macerated sketchbook. Your heart cinches at the sight of it laying there like a corpse in the puddle. “Just leave it, man,” you say bitterly. “There’s no saving it.”

With an unexpected gentleness, he lifts your macerated sketchpad, cradling it. “Perhaps. The chances of saving any pages at all are extremely low.”

A pause settles as he seems to mull over his words, before saying softly, “But you’ve worked hard on your drawings. Let’s not give up on them without a fight.” He doesn’t even know you. He’s the Robin, for God’s sake. He’s probably saved thousands of crying girls, and done much more difficult things than 30-second charcoal gesture drawings.

But there’s something about his quiet acknowledgement of your efforts that overwhelms you with emotion; that makes your eyes sting with tears once more. You tense your shuddering jaw, and blink your tears away.

The sound of sirens from the distance slowly crescends in volume until it’s blaring deafeningly loud. The police finally arrive—hurried footsteps follow the slamming of car doors, the clicking of metal hand cuffs ring out through the patter of rain.

Robin calls for you, and before you know it, you’re wrapped in an orange blanket. You sit silently in a car seat while Robin stands outside talking to a police officer, probably giving them a rundown on what happened to you.

You stare numbly down at your knees. They’re nothing short of wrecked; bloodied and cut up like shredded beef, with flecks of dust and sludgy dirt slathered over the wounds. Next to you, your sketchpad—a sopping wet mass of a rectangle—drenches the seat next to you.

Then, there’s a tapping at the window. Robin stands outside the car door.

As you roll it down, he informs you, “Officer Montoya will be driving you home. Tell her the address. She won’t leave until she’s debriefed your guardians, and knows you’re completely accounted for.”

Robin stares at you long and hard. Then, he tells you firmly, “You’re gonna be alright.”

And if anybody other than him had said that to you, you wouldn’t have believed them. ‘You’re gonna be alright’. A reassurance tossed around so often that it barely means anything, anymore. How could anybody truly be alright, living in a city like Gotham?

And yet, something about the certainty in his voice, the intensity of his gaze fixed upon you, convinces you.

It’s not hope that fills your heart, per say. You’d imagine hope feels a lighter, warmer, invigorating. But whatever it is, his words feel like an inevitable surety.

Your dip your head into a nod. You’ll be alright.

Even as Officer Montoya drives you away into the night, you can still feel eyes trained on you from behind, somewhere in the dark.

Only this time, it’s a reassurance. A promise that Robin is watching, and that you’re not alone.

The rest of your night is equally tumultuous. You witness your parents panic through Officer Montoya’s calm explanations. You watch your father cry, and feel like a ghost spectating from another plane.

You eat a cold dinner. Take a shower, even though you really don’t want to. You stand staring down at the drain, feeling like you’re being battered by the rain all over again.

In spite of your parents pleas, you end up going to school the other day. Art college is expensive as it is, and weekly assignments don’t wait for anyone.

You very quickly find yourself regretting your decision. Apparently, an article detailing last night’s incident made it into the newspaper. There’s no photos of you in the print, but it doesn’t matter, since everyone and their mother seems to know what happened to you. It didn’t help that Professor Kovick expressed condolensces to you first thing during the lesson, drawing even more attention to your sorry ass.

From the moment you walk past the gates, you’re swarmed by well–meaning classmates with glassy worry in their eyes, who ask you questions like:

‘Oh my god, are you okay?’ (No.)

‘God, your knees are fucked. Does it hurt?’ (Doesn’t really matter if it does.)

‘You must’ve been scared.’ (Shitless, yeah.)

‘Was it really the Robin who saved you? Which one?’ (You don’t bother answering this question.)

You know they mean well, but it’s overwhelming.

So, you slip away. After Professor Kovick dismisses everyone, you turn the corner instead of going to the cafeteria and begin walking to the studio your next class is held in.

Lugging up 200 dollars worth of school–mandated art supplies up seven flights of stairs isn’t exactly something you want to do. It doesn’t help that yesterday’s exertion has left an unrelenting burn concentrated in your thighs, which taunts you the entire time you lug your leaden body up the East Building.

But at the very least, you’ll get some alone time to do some final touches on your assignment for class critique.

You doubt anybody will be in two hours early, anyway.

By the time you’ve reached the top, you’re fully hunkered over, panting pathetically. You make an indignified noise of mixed relief and exasperation at the final step. The back of your blouse is entirely soaked, and it takes you an embarrassing amount of time to catch your breath.

You tiredly stumble through the doors of the sprawling art studio, expecting to find nobody.

You find a somebody, instead.

Against the pale brick walls, a boy dressed in neat blacks from head to toe arrests your attention.

The hairs on your neck prickle. You inhale sharply, lamenting your decision to come here as you realise the last person you wanted to see today is inside.

Damian Wayne sits primly at a table. He’s got his back facing you as he busies himself with what you assume is the assignment for today’s critique.

Sunlight melts down over him like butter from the sunroofs. You used to think that the sun softened everything under it, but it only makes him look more discordent against the haze. He doesn’t belong here, not in this homey, kitschy room, with its paint–stained tabletops or hole–perforated walls.

You’re almost convinced he’s just a hollow haunting the room when he drawls in that smooth voice, “Are you going to keep gawking at me? Or are you going to enter?”

Indignation runs down your spine, like static. His voice is clear and deep like a moonlit lake. Pretty to listen to, if not for the condescension that interlaces his every word.

Feverishly, you stride past his table towards the other side of the room, putting as much distance between you and him as possible.

Sorry the commoner looked at you for too long, you think. Dickhead.

Not that you expected anything else from him. With a myriad of accolades under his bejewelled belt, and the title of high school Valedictorian to boot, you can only presume that Damian’s university application was framed, gilded, and hung in the Principal’s office for everyone to see. It’s no wonder he acts the way he does.

Seemingly having spoken his fill, the room goes relatively quiet again, disturbed only by the scratchy sound of graphite against paper–grain as your classmate toils away at his work.

You didn’t expect him to be a late finisher. If anything, you’d thought he’d be the first person to finish.

Come to think of it, why is he here? Isn’t he rich? Why is he working on art here, instead of at the sprawling art studio he most definitely has at home?

As you walk away, your curiosity prevails. You sneak a glance at Damian just in time to watch him lean backwards to observe his work, keeping his pencil still in his hand. His poise gives him the general impression of a surgeon hovering over a patient.

Painfully ironic, given how he dropped out of the best med–school in Gotham to be here.

Oh, med–school. Now, that had been a scandal near the beginning of the school year.

For years, it was common knowledge that the youngest Wayne had been studying to attend medical school in his grandfather’s footsteps, with tabloids belauding that he was on track to becoming the greatest Doctor in Gotham or whatever.

He’d gotten into the best med–school in Gotham, and right before the beginning of his sophomore year, he dropped out.

It wasn’t long before rumours began to fester: he was taking a gap year to take some sort of journey, or writing a novel. Some people even speculated that he was leaving Gotham entirely because the top med school in Gotham wasn’t up to standards or something.

Nobody could’ve possibly imagined he’d pivot one–eighty and start attending art school, least of all your art school.

He’s one of the smartest, richest children alive. He could’ve become anything he wanted to. So why did the hell he have to go ahead and become an illustration major, when it’s clear that his artistic skills exceed everyone elses?

You reach into your bag for one of the few art pieces you hadn’t lost last night. You’d left it at home before you went out for school, having been eager to get back to work after class. At least you’re proud of this one.

Small blessings, you remind yourself as your throat cinches. It’s good to be grateful for the little things. Get yourself together.

You take a shuddering breath, fruitlessly attempting to blink away your tears before they form.

Then, you blindly reach to pluck out a few of the myriad push–pins tacked along the wall.

You jolt as the sound of Damian clearing his throat resounds throughout the expanse.

“Are you alright?”

You turn and stare, genuinely baffled. Just a minute ago, he’d told you off for looking at you too long.

You squint at him in suspision. To his credit, he faces your inspection head–on with an impressively steely resolve. With his eyes slightly narrowed in perpetual judgement, and his mouth settled into a fine line, he looks no more arrogant or annoyed than he normally does.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Damian rolls his eyes, elaborates, “I heard about what happened to you last night. Are you alright?”

“Are you seriously asking me if I’m alright?”

“Yes.”

“You. Damian Wayne,” you stress.

He promptly closes his eyes, as if trying to calm himself in the face of your idiocy.

“Yes,” he repeats, sounding very tired. “I’m Damian Wayne.”

You let out a laugh in amusement before you can stop yourself. The corner of his mouth twitches into a shockingly familiar smile.

Familiar, you think. How could his smile seem familiar to you, when you’ve never seen him smile before now?

It’s a nice smile, at that. Pretty. A little smug, but it makes him look less austere. You certainly prefer this to his scowls.

You clear your throat, looking away before Damian’s gaze can swallow you whole. Something about being subjected to his half–smile of his makes your heart flutter uncomfortably behind your ribs.

“I’m… yeah, I’m alright,” you say awkwardly.

Damian makes a noise at the back of his throat. Somehow, you get the feeling he doesn’t believe you. But he nods anyways, and resumes dilligently cross–hatching over the shadowy areas of his drawing.

You blink in the aftermath, pleasantly surprised.

Until now, every interaction with Damian has been strictly limited to ping–ponging snappy retorts at each other, and exchanging petty insults during art critique.

For a lack of anything else to do, you settle at the table next to his and pull out a scrappy Kraft sketchbook from your elementary school days.

You managed to scrounge it up before bed last night, considering what happened to your sketchpad for school. It’s… not ideal. Certainly nowhere near the size your Professor needs you to be working at, but it’s all you got.

Just then, the sound of a sudden rip resounds. You startle as several sheets of blank, flimsy paper get pushed into view from the other table.

Reverently let your fingertips brush over the pulp of the paper, and the only thing that stops you from gasping aloud like a total dork is Damian’s presence. The paper quality is excellent; perfectly smooth.

He doesn’t look up at you as he says, “Make no mention of it.”

So you don’t. And though his olive branch goes unacknowledged, you accept it with a secret smile none the less.

Good to be grateful for the little things, you tell yourself once again as you sit in silence with him, and get to work.

Damian, who was prone to being harsh with his words, but had never gone out of his way to hurt you on purpose. You had even considered it a charm of his, because there had always been something tender laced within his actions, that always spoke louder than his words.

When he quietly swapped his plate with yours, a quiet consideration without ever once looking up, having memorised your allergies without you realising.

When he subtly placed his hand behind your back in galas, chasing off vultures who aimed for your status, with a silent glare that places you under his direct protection.

When he carried you all the way to his bedroom after a bad sprain on your ankle from a bad fall down the stairs in his manor, with biting remarks and a tender caress over your swollen skin as he applied an ice-pack, worry creased into his brow.

Was it all a ruse?

The wound is only inflicting on itself with every memory torn apart and searched for any evidence, any signs for his dislike. You trusted Damian, which is why it hurt so much to hear him talk about you this way. As if those small moments were all mere inconveniences for him, that burdened him. You had assumed he at least reciprocated your friendship, but now… if only he had faced you instead, with an honest willingness to express how uncomfortable he was.

If it was space Damian wanted, he should have communicated it with you. Instead of mouthing it to his brothers behind your back, without allowing for your voice of input to clarify on the boundaries he wanted.

You don’t notice time passing, standing in the corner of the hallway, your heels digging into the soles of your feet—till you felt a heavy hand on your shoulder. You flinch, brushing the sudden grip off only to find Damian in your swarmed vision. Concern flickers in the green flecks of his eyes… or was it annoyance? The ability to read through his mask, it feels as if it’s been an illusion all along.

“Spaced out?” Damian taunts, one brow cocked at your strange behaviour. "I told you not to come."

I told you not to come. You’re not sure what is the appropriate response, not when you feel a clog in the back of your throat. You never had to think twice on your words before, not in front of him.

“Tired.” You admit, because at the very least, that word carried a semblance of truth. You’ve never felt more exhausted in your life, and the culprit was standing in front of you, completely unfazed. “I think I should head home.”

His eyes widen imperceptibly, not expecting you to take his words so literally. You were never one to skip out on a dance before a gala has ended, no matter how boring the event was. Often, you’d drag him by the arm as your partner, only because the look on his face was easily the best memory of the night. At least, it should’ve been.

His lips part, ready to form his signature 'I told you so', but your ghastly expression makes him hesitate. He clears his throat, offering his hand and slotting himself by your side. “Very well. I’ll escort you.”

“No.” It blurts out quick, desperate.

His surprise slips through his impassive expression. His hand still outstretched—freezes, doubt etched into the crease of his mouth.

“You should be with your family.” You reply, straining a smile. “I won’t take up more of your time.”

It was meant to sound considerate, but the quickness of your tongue made it sound like a solemn promise.

His eyes narrow in puzzlement but you’ve already turned, moving out of his reach towards the exit. He doesn’t make an attempt to stop you, and it hurts that maybe, part of you still hoped he would. To prove his statement wrong, that you mattered more than being a nuisance.

You’ll give him what he wants. Space. Maybe you needed it too, to understand the emotions weighing on you. This hurt—betrayal—shock, you needed time to process it. To reevaluate what Damian Wayne really means to you.

Damian hasn’t heard from you in two days. In the past forty-eight hours, he has tracked your location to ensure you weren’t kidnapped, or lost your phone. Both suspicions were refuted, and the only anomaly that remains is your uncharacteristic silence ever since that night at the gala.

His gaze flickers back to the opened message channel, where his text ‘Have you arrived?’ remains unread. Running a hand through his locks, this may be Damian's first—for his conclusions to come up empty. His text was a mere front, an opening to ask about your wellbeing. His confidence in your reply was absolute, and he never once considered ending up in this standstill. Despite being apart from your constant presence, he finds that you’re somehow occupying more of his mental capacity.

He should’ve went after you the moment he saw that strange, desolate expression on your face when he found you, hidden alone in the corner. Your solemn attitude rang caution bells, concern—which is why he offered to bring you back. It was instinctive, natural. He never expected your rejection. The sting caught him off-guard, words of concern trapped in his throat. He didn’t master the skill of comfort as easily as you did, with sweet, honey words easily coming to your forefront.

He’s overthinking the situation, analysing it till the details have gone runny in his hands—blurry aside from the clear vision of your back turned towards him. Still, there was something about your goodbye… that left him strangely unsettled.

"There you go again." He hears your teasing voice, already memorised in his mind—a poke of your finger against his cheek. "Overanalysing the situation. Just ask me, Dami."

He shakes his head, trying to dissuade the many possibilities that ended in zero conclusions. It’s not a big matter. Today was one of the rare occurrences where his biology classes coincided with yours, leaving a lunch break where he could demand for answers. He’s sure that once he sees your usual, brightened expression—the discomfort in his chest will disappear.

Damian waits with strained patience outside your lecture hall. Various eyes are casted onto him—a rare, Gotham Times worthy sight of a lone Wayne waiting for some mysterious figure, but the attention is none of his concern. His eyes are locked on you instead, watching you pack your bag through the open gap of the door, the AC blasting a cold breeze against his nose bridge.

You’re laughing at some unheard joke from this distance, and it should soothe his worries—to see you refreshed compared to your exhaustion two days ago. He understands better than anyone how exhausting those galas are, which is why he tried to dissuade you from attending in the first place. Still, you had insisted on accompanying him, much to his chagrin. He at least hoped you didn't flunk your midterms today by overexerting yourself, despite his previous warnings, or else he really wouldn't be able to restrain himself from saying I told you so.

All fleeting thoughts of teasing you are discarded at the sight of an unknown blond male, chatting you up and making you laugh as hard as you did. His foot taps in a repeating manner, discomfort swarming in his chest the longer he watched, before catching his own fretting and forcing himself to stay still. This unknown variable is not a problem. Once you spot him, you'll come to his side instead—naturally.

This reassurance paces his impatience, waiting for you to notice him as you made it towards the door. His chest rises, anticipation creeping in as your head raises—and meets his gaze.

You smile, like you always do, and it has the same application of a soothing balm over the minor migraine he's formed from over-checking your coordinates. Waiting for you to come to him, his lips part with a ready excuse for why he came to find you instead of meeting at your usual lunch spot.

Only for you to walk right past him.

He blinks, unable to process what just happened. Impossibly in a single moment, he became invisible to your eye. His mind works in overdrive, unable to piece the facts together that you just walked past him. The probabilities calculated don't align with reality, but his body reacts faster. His hand reaches out, grabbing onto your wrist impulsively—right as you made your turn towards the hallway.

You stumble, gaze flickering down to his grip in surprise. “...Damian?” You blink as if stunned, like you hadn’t just walked past him like he was a ghost.

“You haven’t responded to my messages.” He blurts out with almost immediate regret. Now, his position comes off as a confrontation, and that blond is staring at him with vague amusement. Pathetic, he feels shame burn in the back of his throat. This wasn't how it was supposed to go.

You stare at him unblinkingly, before your mouth parts in acknowledgment. “Ah, that. Tim should've updated you, did he not?”

Tim. A heated frustration arises in his chest, but he can’t figure out what exactly is stoking the fire. The realisation that you prioritised Tim's messages over his, or your strange nonchalance to his concern. “You’ve been conversing with Drake?”

“I needed his help with finding a new collection—he’s also a fan of the series.” You shrug. "With the midterms and his constant updates about the shipment from Japan, I must’ve missed yours."

“Your business with Drake isn’t my concern.” He spits out, harsher than intended. An uncomfortable slither of emotions is writhing in his chest, and the thought that you and Tim have been conversing in secret all along these past two days, bonding to something he wasn’t privy to... it was irritating.

Why had you gone to Tim instead? If you had asked him, he could've easily gotten you the collection.

“What is our relationship then?” You implore casually, eyeing his reaction. “If your concern is so situational."

Whatever he was expecting, he didn’t expect that. His lashes flutter, his composure all but ruined as his mind tries and fails to merge the you he knows, and the you in front of him. You don't seem angry. So, why was he beginning to feel a sense of dread?

“Weren’t you the one who always decided the labels for us?” He asks after a moment, his voice rough against the unexpected impact of your question.

Your expression finally flickers, disappointment slipping through the cracks of your smile. His response has displeased you, even he could read into that.

“I’ll let you answer for us this time.” You reply, and it’s distant—cold. Unlike you. “You can choose whichever you deem fit.”

“Wait.” His rushed voice sounds desperate even to his own ears. The sight of your back turned towards him is something he never wanted to see again. His gaze flickers between you and the blond, questioning. “Are we not supposed to have lunch together?”

You turn back, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Your smile reappears, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “I’m having lunch with Lawrence, so it’s okay. You don’t need to accompany me.”

Damian views the world akin to a battlefield. There are allies, enemies, changes in fronts and positions. He has fought hard to feel deserving of every position in his life, whether it had been his grandfather's heir, his father's blood son, or Robin. Right now, he feels as if his position beside you has been ripped out of his hands. Accompany? Is that how you saw it, like some sort of duty imposed on him that you could dismiss him of whenever you pleased?

"See you around, Dami." Even his nickname given by you comes off flat from your tongue. As if you were going through the motions, interacting with him from behind a wall that's suddenly been constructed without his notice.

You weren't completely ignoring him like he suspected, but this distance... feels much worse.

There was something, very obviously wrong.

You aren’t sitting beside him. In the seat reserved for you, that’s meant for you.

It had been set from the very start, maybe initially because the two of you were the only children ever-present during family business dinners... and later, with your constant chattering that the adults found had an amusing effect on him.

He's gotten used to exchanging cuts of his meals with yours, or swapping his glass if his had more ice cubes in them, because you liked your beverages freezing cold. Used to you whispering unrelated stories and jokes into his ear when his father talks business with your father, and he has to resist a quirk up his lips because it would mean that you won in your little game to crack his exterior. Now, it's as if an entire routine has been disrupted, and Damian was a man of routine.

He watches you, eyes like a hawk over your every movement, trying to detect any pause in this unreachable mask of yours. You slice your steak without fault, placing your cut between your lips as you nod along to your father's words, seated at his right hand. You don't blink an eye in his direction, and he's tempted to walk right over and drag you out of that very chair.

To corner you in a space without prying eyes, and... what? He swallows dryly, forcing himself to look back down at his untouched meal. What could he say without sounding like a lunatic?

That he suspects that he's done something wrong merely because you've switched seats today? Or that you've been skipping out on lunches with him. Or all the way back to that cursed gala, when you had refused his hand to escort you back home.

Another troubled ‘Tt’ slips past his gritted teeth, and that finally reaches your ears.

When he meets your curious gaze, a silly gust of hope appears so quickly in his chest at the luck that he's finally caught your attention. He raises a brow, a silent question, gesturing to head to a private room with the tilt of his head. You've always understood his silent words better than anyone else did.

Which is why it shocks him when you merely cast your gaze back to your father, leaving his question unanswered. He wasn't deluding himself in this occasion. You're clearly rejecting his gesture, pretending as if you never saw it.

His grip tightens, crumpling into the table cloth, shame colouring his features. He has to put an end to this. Regardless of your coy act, he knows you. Maybe you had a bet with one of his brothers—who knows what schemes they've configured after their constant interrogations during the gala, successfully running a fuse on his temper.

Or maybe, he’s displeased you with an inadequate response. You had mentioned it before, the term 'labels'. Honestly, he never once considered trapping you in something so jarringly concrete. Bonds, human connections—they were always needlessly complicated.

What you meant to him, it expanded beyond the limitations of languages. You, who saw past his sharp exterior and pushed him beyond his limits, and him, who found himself staying despite every rational thought pleading him not to expose his weakness so easily out in the open.

It was simply natural from the moment he met you, instinctive to remain by your side just as you always found a place to slot beside his. Terrifyingly easy, that he refused to let anyone see the softness you evoked out of him. It was meant for you, and only you. Now, the strike of your absence, despite being only a few feet away from him, is running a deeper cut into his conscience, tracing back to the questions that's been bombarded on him by his siblings.

But—what does she mean to you, Dames?

What would your life look like without her?

In a desperate attempt to brush off questions that aroused a panic he had never felt before, he came up with quick, venom-filled words to dissuade his brothers. Oddly enough, he never wished to reveal what you meant to him, not aloud.

It made it feel too real, too vulnerable. As if the world could swallow you whole if he admitted just how irreplaceable you were, that he couldn't envision a life without you by his side. His grandfather had made it so—that any weaknesses should be removed from its roots.

He did not want to remove you from his life, so you are not his weakness.

He's tempted to curse his brothers to oblivion. If only they hadn't sprung such obnoxious questions, then these thoughts wouldn't be invading him, and the universe wouldn't have punished him for it.

He had already felt the brimming inevitability of something bound to go wrong the moment he was faced with vulnerability. If it had been anyone else, he would have retreated in a similar manner as he always had. To not show weakness, to prove that he was above silly affections and attachments to others—but it's you.

He has to fix this. Whatever it is that's wrong. If only you would look at him, then maybe you'd see his desperation too and let him in.

Damian doesn't receive an opening till the next gala. A cruel twist of fate the universe has decided to play on him, as if openly mocking his distress, to end up right back where the entire fiasco started.

He's barely kept himself sane. In these past two weeks, you've only responded to his messages—horrible attempts of reconnection, with mere one word replies, and visited the manor to hang out with his other siblings. When he had caught you lounging on Tim's bed, ranting about the new series you both were so invested in, he nearly tore the door straight off its hinges.

He craves for your silly rants during lunches. Your presence dipping the corner of his bed as you sketched doodles of his family in their vigilante costumes. Your warm laughter that soothes a long night of patrol.

He misses you... terribly.

It doesn't help that you're a vision tonight, only worsening the trembling ache in his chest. Dressed in your favourite colour that make you so strikingly vivid, already seared into his mind as he stares unblinkingly, he doesn't realise he's been holding his breath till your heels click with an ever-increasing volume towards him. Your nearing approach is what finally snaps him out of his daze, and his hand immediately shifts. Out of mere habit, for you to hold onto his arm as always.

Your hand doesn't lift to meet his, remaining stuck to your side. It pushes him off balance, and he has to force himself to respond when you greet him.

"You...look beautiful." He admits, his voice a weakened imitation of itself. He hates this, and you look—you are beautiful. So much so that it hurts. Even if he tried to reach his hand out for you, he has the suspicions that you’ll only back away from his touch.

"Thank you." You smile politely, and the tone of your voice, practiced and composed, stings.

His lips part, ready to pull you aside and ask what he has done wrong. He is ready to do whatever you ask, to plead for forgiveness so long as that look in your eyes finally fades, anything to get you back. The real you, not hidden behind cruel distance and polite masks.

A familiar, dreadful face cuts in before he can. Damian’s gaze hardens, trained on the blond that's been trailing after you since two weeks ago, who currently has his hand outstretched for you. His scowl falters, panic swarming his instincts—when your own hand reaches out to take the stranger's invitation.

He utters your name, a weak pulse forming a lump in his throat.

You turn back, casting him a quick glance like his existence was an after-thought. "Lawrence offered to dance with me earlier. We'll catch up later, Dami."

His chest seizes completely. He doesn't process the alteration of his own steps, only finding your wrist captured between his fingers, his shoe stepped in between the gap of you and your dancing partner, functioning as an opposing barrier.

“I’m afraid—” His voice cuts in, deadly calm. “—she already has a partner for tonight.”

Your head whips around, unable to hide your shock. His jaw clenches, eyes narrowed at the suitor who's dared to try for your hand. Perhaps it's his building paranoia stemming from your continued absence, but the sight of someone taking you away by your willing hand is truly driving him mad.

It doesn't take long before Lawrence registers the message Damian sends with a single, warning glare. Hands off.

Finally able to breathe once the bastard's been chased off, he turns back to meet your gaze and is surprised to find the barely concealed anger in your eyes. You've never looked at him this way before.

That same discomfort that's plagued him constantly for the past two weeks builds in his chest at the thought that you even entertained the possibility of dancing with Lawrence. Damian had always been your dancing partner, no matter how much he claimed to dislike partaking in galas like these. If anyone was going to deal with sore feet from the accidental missteps of your heels, it will always be him.

“Is that the label you’ve decided on?” You ask, the first words uttered without that strange, distant tone you've used before. “Partners?”

“Does it displease you?” He presses, trying to gauge your reaction. “I will change it to whatever you prefer.”

You purse your lips, conflict arising in your gaze. “I don’t understand you.”

He exhales lowly. “I should say the same for you. You are the one who’s—” His jaw twitches, desperation slipping past his façade. “—drifting away.” From me, why are you acting as if I don’t matter—as if this doesn’t matter?

He shouldn't have drank all that wine from earlier.

Alcohol doesn’t affect him, not with its supposed dizzying sensation and loss of control when recklessly consumed, but it did make him bolder, his tongue sharper. Yet, seeing you trying to evade him—out of his reach, he found himself doing something he sworn to never do—being impulsive.

At the lack of your response, his hand still wrapped around your wrist tugs gently, a quiet plea for you to say something. He feels useless, small—and you're the only thing he desperately needs. To help him make sense of the chaos that's consumed his every waking thought, that's plunged and follow him into his dreams.

Eventually, you sigh. "We should talk."

A small hope reignites at this chance you've given him. It's automatic, already mapped out in his head as he guides you to an empty room on the second floor. You don't rip away from his hold at the very least, but from your strained steps, you're not ecstatic to be with him either.

Shielded from prying eyes once he shuts the door, you're quick to pull your hand out of his hold. His own mask fractures at the loss of your warmth—but when he forces his gaze away from your disconnected hands, he finally sees you shed your own to reveal your honest expression. You look tired, a mirrored reflection of the agony that’s been inflicted on him these past two weeks.

You settle at the loveseat, head resting on your palm as if the very weight of your unreadable thoughts have consumed you, leaving you exhausted. If only he could reach in and unravel them himself, to understand the change in you.

“Drifting away?” Your voice muses at his words, and it lands like a punch. Do you truly not understand what you've done to him? “You’ve seen me the entire week.”

He shakes his head adamantly, coming to stand before you, neck craned down to face your averting gaze. “I won't be easily fooled. You’re avoiding me. Standing in places you’re not supposed to be.”

It sounds childish. God, he was being driven insane the longer you stood there, finally in his sights and he just couldn’t stop drinking you in.

“Opting for the furthest seat. Skipping lunch breaks. Accepting another dance partner. Ignoring my messages. Not being by my side.” It pours out without stopping, even as he feels warmth burn at the back of his neck, reaching his ears. “Your behaviour has changed. Even when you're close, you’re out of reach.”

“And you say I’m the clingy one?” Your expression flickers, a mix of hurt and solemn amusement.

His brow creases. “When have I ever—”

His own voice echoes in his mind, in a taunting afterthought. “She’s clingy.”

The gala. The interrogations. Your sudden change in behaviour. You overheard his callous comment. His reckless mistake.

He calls out your name weakly. The gravity of his mistake—it feels as if the entire universe is collapsing onto him.

You let out a sigh, and the acceptance in it terrifies him. As if you’ve already prepared yourself in these past two weeks, to fully be out of his life.

“I overheard you at the charity gala.” Your admission coincides with his guess, and your unwavering gaze leaves him stripped of all his defenses.

It's dawning on him in quickening alarm, with how each passing day, you must've lost hope in him. That his careless words must've wounded you deeply, leaving you to rightfully pull away. That he is a complete and utter idiot, who has hurt the one person he swore to protect.

"Do you feel less smothered? After all, wasn’t space what you wanted?” You ask, and there is no anger in your voice—only apathy. "It was what I needed."

The admission silences him. His heart is thudding so hard that he hears the rush of blood in his eardrums.

No. It wasn’t what he wanted. Your absence has ruined him, and it wasn’t the faults of his brothers, or revealing his vulnerability. It was all on him.

“Isn’t it better for us both, if we kept our distance?” You propose. “Since we’ve gone past the line of hurting each other. It’ll be convenient for the both of us, and less burdensome for you.”

Your calm demeanour is a bigger slap to his face than you shouting at him, demanding for him to apologise or to make things right. In the face of your acceptance, it’s as if you expected that this was the outcome he wanted.

He has a paralysing realisation, that if he doesn't beg for your forgiveness, you'll never come and seek for his repentance ever again. With every passing second, he feels time running out of his hands as your expression closes at the lack of his response, ready to abandon the room. Abandon him.

Desperation strips Damian bare of his pride when his knees hit the ground, landing harshly before you in the lowest form of begging. He doesn't give you time to process what he’s done before his fingers gently wrap around yours, caressing them with a firm grip.

“Damian!" Your expression warps in shock, meeting the intensity seared in gaze. "What are you doing? Get up—"

“I was wrong.” He admits without hesitation. “All the words I said, not a single one of them holds the truth.”

Your shock dampens, and he sees the barest hurt displayed on your expression. It pushes him to strain past his walls, to keep speaking if it meant not seeing your back turned towards him.

“You asked me to define us once, by labels.” He recalls. “I am not good with words. It has always been—difficult. To understand when to push further and when to fall back. To not act as if every situation is a death sentence if I bared my vulnerabilities out in the open, but—I know that my faults are not an excuse for my actions."

"I have broken your trust and left you feeling unsure of your position in my life, and I must correct it. You are not clingy, or a burden. You are the most important person in my life."

“The lies were nothing more than a cover... my brothers had caught onto my attachment and wouldn't give up on their interrogations.” He admits through the grit of his teeth. “They were always more observant of what I tried to push down, and my behaviour around you—it was obvious that you had an effect on me. It's as if you are the center that I gravitate towards, pulling me in towards your every whim and desire.”

“They tried to help me make sense of it, and I panicked. Selfishly, I wanted to keep my weakness a secret only known to the promises I've made for you in my mind. My fondness for you felt like a curse if I revealed it.” He whispers. “I had always assumed that what you held closest to your heart is what you should guard the most."

“I uttered those foolish words because I had assumed that if only I knew the extent of my devotion towards you, you would be safe. That we could continue as we always had, without declaring a target on your back, so that the world wouldn’t rip you away so easily.”

“I was a coward.” He murmurs, pleading in earnest. “I have mistreated you and taken you for granted. I tried to convince myself that lies were better than revealing the truth, which is that I have always coveted to by your side."

"I am deeply sorry. For ever making you feel that you're anything less than.” He breaks. "That couldn't be further from the extent to which I adore you. To which I need you. I can’t imagine a life without you, so—"

"Please—" He's never been taught to beg, but he can't lose you. Even if it takes him years, decades to regain your trust, it doesn't matter. "—it is selfish of me to beg for your forgiveness, but I will do anything. I will explain the full truth to my family. I will take on any punishment but—I can’t lose you. These past two weeks have been torture, and... I miss you."

Finally, after his chest is heaving with the burn of his confessions and a lack of oxygen, does he quiet. In the face of your coming judgement, he has never been more nervous in his life.

"Damian." You mutter. "I have not forgiven you."

His breath hitches, and despite all he's done to expect this outcome, he couldn't have been more unprepared for the impact of the blow. His hands falter around yours, and his knees have gone weak.

"W—What do you want me to change?" He can barely hear his own voice over his rapturing heartbeat. "Is it something I said? My behaviour, my actions—I can improve. I can fix this."

You give him a look that signals that you're not done. He forces himself to quiet, lips pursed as he slowly—painfully waits.

"In these past two weeks..." You admit. "I really tried to reevaluate what you mean to me."

"I understand you, more than anyone else has because you've let me in." You answer. "But just because I see you—and I know that's a vulnerability you don't easily show to people—doesn't mean that you get an easier way out."

"You did hurt me. I'm acknowledging that, and because I care about you, it hurts even worse." You reveal. "It wasn’t fair that you brought up such harsh words to describe me behind my back, and it’s not going to be something I can brush over easily, no matter the reason. I don't think we can fully go back to how it was before, not without moments where I will feel doubt. That's a trust you have to rebuild, not just with one big apology, but through your words and actions, every single day."

He nods, hanging onto every word you're willing to give him, even as your vocal admission of him hurting you feels like a vicious whip.

"But I am willing to give you that chance—to heal the hurt you've caused me, to prove that you won't pull away when you're scared I'm getting too close." You declare. "I'm giving you a chance to fix your mistake, because I know you, Dami. I know you'll keep your promises, and that you have a heart. One that's willing to change."

He lets out a shaking breath, and he finds your fingers caressing over his in a gentle touch. Not forgiving him completely, but reassuring in its warmth.

"I—" Left bare after pouring his heart out, the adrenaline rush that came from his full vulnerability has finally left his chaos-ensued mind blank.

From the very moment you had entered his life, it was an undeniable fact he had only grown to understand, to not fear—and it was that he loved you. The same distant concept he once viewed through the multiple perspectives of others, now existing right there in his beating heart. Yet, it didn't feel right in this moment. Not when you were giving him this chance to rebuild the trust he has broken. He will wait, for as long as you'll let him, he will cherish anything you'll give him.

"I know." You whisper, silently reading what he’s trying to convey through a single glance. "We'll figure us out together."

He sighs, head falling against your lap, lips brushing over your intertwined fingers—a soft, imperceptible kiss to your knuckles. It's natural, instinctive, everything he could ever want. To rest in your presence that’s finally allowed him to breathe again, surrounded by your warmth and voice.

"I thought you hated dancing." You muse.

"Not when it's with you." He admits quietly. "I haven't trained myself to bear the crushing of your heels, just for someone to take my place."

"I can't believe you called me the clingy one." Your amusement doesn't displease him, not in the slightest.

"Perhaps I shall reinstate our relationship to my brothers then." He murmurs. "I'm sure they'll have a field day once I admit that I'm the one who can't bear to be without you."

Finally, he hears the familiarity of your laugh. He has missed that.

"I'd like to see that."

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dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works