more yellow..?

Gaara had heard about runaway brides. He just never thought he would be in that situation.

He doesn't know why he expected things to be different. Maybe because people stopped being afraid of him, treating him as human when he became ruler of his land, maybe because he was nice to you. He doesn't know how to react or feel.

Weddings in the Sand Village are exuberant, much more when they're arranger for rulers or noble families. Displays of gold, beautiful gowns and fabrics used to create a mess of colors and textures that ache to blend. Food enough to feed an army, flowers, gifts, everything. Luxurious, a celebration of love and life. And he's there, at the altar, unable to do anything other than wonder just where did everything go wrong? The flowers he had picked for you quickly rotting in his hands.

He sighs.

He has always had trouble sleeping. And tonight, after everything that has happened, it's no different. He can picture you as he stares at the ceiling, maybe tonight you would've shared the bed, maybe he would've been able to fall asleep with you between his arms, safe and content, bothered by a small grain of sand that has escaped his control for a second. He can picture your wedding gown, your jewelry, your intricate hair updo, the make up, everything. And you would look beautiful, because you are beautiful. He would kiss your lips softly, tenderly, he would hold your hand the whole party, and he would dance once the alcohol made him feel a little more human, a little less awkward.

But that didn't happen. There was no gown, no banquet, no party and no nothing. There was no you.

He rises from the bed, thin bed-sheets freeing him as they snake away from his body. He stands up, stretches, takes a second to regain his senses. He walks to the window of his room, the cold night air hitting his face, making him squint his eyes slightly. He can see faint silhouettes on far away windows with lights still on, the distant laughter of a group of teenagers that have snuck away late at night to do whatever, and he can see you running as a man holds your hand. God, how he wishes that was him.

Wait just a second.

His heart stops, his eyes widen. Were you kidnapped before the wedding? Who is this man, not from a noble family, his clothes are rags. His breath hitches, and in a second he's on the ground, sand pouring out of it's enclosure as it runs to put a distance between the two of you.

"___! Get behind me." He says to you as calm as he can, his hands coming to grab you, pushing you behind him as he acts as a shield between you and the man who was with you.

"Gaara! No- Wait-"

"Don't worry, he won't hurt you." Gaara almost growls as his hand wraps around the man, engulfing him in a second. He can only gasp before he gets buried inside it, the sizzling of each particle an unsettling cacophony to your ears as you stare, horrified at what's about to happen. It crushes your lover in a second, in less time that you can blink. He's gone, reduced to a mess of blood and crushed meat and bone. You fall to your knees, Gaara seems agitated as well, breathing heavily.

You don't know how much time has passed, you can only stare at the pool of blood left behind, interrupted by Gaara's emerald eyes fixing on yours, your avert your gaze, starting to cry. In motions that seem unnatural, almost practiced, he cups your face, and kisses both of your cheeks, tasting your tears, hushing you with hesitated words and mechanical promises of your well being as he cradles you in his arms.

"Don't worry. No other will come between us again."

hope you enjoyed this!!

have a great day/night

TAGGING: @mimihaitani

“Something like that.” He settles on instead.

”Man, you’re lucky.” Sokka sighs in discontent. “All I got when I was younger—was a bunch of pulling and tugging into the tightest bun possible.”

Zuko blinks at the information before casting Sokka a side-eye. “And you wanted me to ask Katara for help?”

Sokka grins sheepishly. “I never said it didn’t come without sacrifice.”

If Zuko had known his brief mention of having some sort of hairstylist would backfire on him when his hair becomes a topic of conversation, he would have just kept his mouth shut.

Zuko’s hair has become an unbearably, obvious distraction by the end of their mission. Every wash during stay-in nights at inns has led to its own self-assured destruction, with each shower complicating the knots, wounding them tighter and tighter till the point of no return.

“Looking at that makes me grateful I don’t have hair.” Aang winces.

“Why?” Toph whips her head around, eyes widening in curiosity. “What does it look like? Describe it to me.”

“A bird’s nest. A genuine nightmare.” Sokka snorts. “You might have to shave it off and start over.”

“We’ll be matching.” Aang grins.

“It’s hanging by a thread. A literal loose rubber.” Katara sighs, hand reaching out. “Let me fix it.”

“Don’t.” Zuko’s voice breaks out—defensive and panicked, before he can stop it.

Everyone freezes at his sudden outburst.

Katara pauses—retracting her hand, brows pulling together in confusion. “You prefer not being able to see past your bangs?”

Zuko pushes his bangs back, and his fingers catch once more in the knots. “See? It’s perfectly cooperative.”

Sokka scoffs. “Yeah, at least try getting your hands untangled from your hair before convincing us.”

“We’ve almost reached.” Zuko sighs in exasperation. “It’ll be sorted once we’ve landed. I don’t mind the mess, so just—look away if it bothers you.”

“You keep mentioning that.” Sokka mutters, catching onto Zuko’s slither of frustration. “What’s waiting for you back home? A five-star hair stylist to sort out that monster?”

Zuko doesn’t answer, gaze lingering on the map. Anytime now, he estimates they’ll be landing within the hour. He can only hope his impatience isn’t obvious to the others, not when he’s barely restraining the bouncing of his leg in anticipation. Partly from the mess that was his hair, but mostly because he’s itching for your warmth, your hands unravelling his knots, your fingers scratching into his scalp as you part his hair into sections.

He misses you… desperately. Time spent away from you, and the constant reminder that he can barely function without you near being part of his daily routine—till the point where he’s forgotten how to take care of his own hair and yet, still automatically refuses to let anyone assist him? Yeah, he’s done for.

“Hey! Earth to Zuko?” Sokka’s hand waves in front of his eyes.

Zuko barely restrains a groan. “What?”

“I was asking if I could get a free, personal booking with your hairstylist—”

“Absolutely not.” Zuko’s gut flares with an irrational temper, something he’s long retired since his youth. Or at least, he had assumed so that this familiar fury had been left behind in the past. Yet, just the thought of you working on anyone else’s hair except for his… leaves a dreaded hole in his gut.

“Yikes, possessive much?”

He shrugs noncommittally. Maybe he was being overly protective. His self-control always slipped when it came to you, or the thought of anything endangering the soft, rare intimacy and vulnerability he only shared with you. Your soft hums, your random ramblings as you did his hair—it was all precious to him. He’ll send a talented hairstylist to Sokka if need be, but in regards to you? He’s keeping you all to himself.

A large crowd has gathered for Team Avatar, mostly for Aang, who has grown in popularity—especially among children. The cheering, the excitement all falls flat on Zuko’s ears. His gaze fleets over the numerous unfamiliar faces in search of one in particular.

His breath stops when he spots you, waving your hand enthusiastically so you’ll catch his eye. Not that you needed to, how could he not notice you?

It doesn’t even occur to him that there’s still people around—or that the sight of the Fire Lord running towards a stranger in a crowd is unbecoming. Who cares if they’re staring—or if they notice the absolute unkempt chaos that was his hair.

When you’re within reach, his hands make contact with your waist and he wastes no time pulling you into his embrace.

“Zuko!” You gasp, fingers coming up to caress the loose strands come loose from his loose bun as you hang onto him. “Your hair—it’s a mess!”

He doesn’t care, still gripping you tight in his arms. It’s been awhile since he’s gone this long without you near—that the very sight of you consumed his rationality.

“I couldn’t.” He mutters, burying his nose into the crook of your neck.

“Couldn’t what?” You whisper, fingers resting softly on the nape of his neck, and he sighs at the touch.

“Let others take care of it.” He admits shamefully, twisting his head so you could hear him more clearly. “…That’s your duty.”

Your lips part and close, processing his admission. After a moment, you let out an amused chuckle. “You missed me taking care of your hair?”

“Yeah.” He lets out a breath. “It was driving me crazy.”

“The hair?” You guess.

“Not being able to see you.” He answers honestly. There was more, there always was when it came to you. Still, he was never good with his words, so he’ll have to settle on that.

”You…” You exhale, sounding content. “I missed you too, Zuko.”

Your admission is a warm, soothing reminder of just how much he cherishes you. Only you could make him feel seen, or have such a strong desire to allow only you to take care of him. He’s meant to be a symbol, a strong leader—but there’s nothing more than he wishes for than to be whisked away to the privacy of his palace gardens, with you alone.

A loud whistle cuts through the roaring of the crowd.

Almost begrudgingly, Zuko lifts his head from the crook of your neck to meet Sokka’s smug expression.

“Sokka.” He warns, sensing mischief before it has even struck.

“What?” Sokka replies. “Just wondering when you’re gonna introduce us to your personal hairstylist.”

“What’s this about being a hairstylist?” You cock a brow.

“He’s twisting my words.” Zuko groans.

“No, I’m not!” Sokka huffs. “You’re the one bragging about having a whole team of hairstylists, even refusing help to fix that disaster messing up your good looks.”

“Bragging?” You muse, much to Zuko’s chagrin. “I’m honoured, but if you’re thinking of a team, then it’s sadly a one man show.”

Sokka grins. “Even more impressive! Could I book your services sometime—”

“No.” Zuko‘s hand out-stretches, tugging you by the waist back to his side. There isn’t a single gap left between you and him, and his gaze narrows. “Her hands will only touch my hair.”

You blink rapidly, trying to process this rare side of Zuko that you’ve never truly seen before. A slow smile teeters on your lips, a happy satisfaction lingering in your gut as you lean into Zuko’s touch. “Sorry, Sokka. Fire Lord’s orders.”

“Oh man!” Sokka stomps. “I was so close to getting a free service from the Fire Lord’s personal hairstylist. Great going, Zuko.”

“Who said anything about it being free?” You grin innocently.

“Oh…” Sokka scratches at the nape of his neck, chuckling nervously. “Two birds of a feather do truly flock together. The price only the Fire Lord is willing to pay…. Consider my request retracted, M’lady.”

Zuko’s irritation—his desperation, finally fades the moment he’s alone with you.

In fact, he has never been so, unconditionally happy in a mundane, normal manner like this. From the moment you’ve dragged him into his bedchambers, snapping the rubber that’s loosely holding onto his bundle of hair and grabbed for your comb and a new set of rubbers, he’s been needlessly pliant and cooperative.

“I appreciate the loyalty sentiment, but you’ve got to bring a comb with you next time, Zuko.” You mutter, lips bitten in concentration as you untangle his knots with your brush.

Zuko half hums in acknowledgment, too caught up in the feeling of your fingers scratching at his scalp as you re-do his hair. He’s gone so long without this, these secluded moments in his room, with your thighs over his shoulders as he sits on the floor, and your skilled hands combing through his locks.

You tug playfully when you notice he isn’t listening, and he whines.

“You listening, Fire Lord?” You tease. “Don’t you know the saying that if you leave your hair tangled, you’ll lose it all before you’re fifty? That means you won’t get my professional help anymore.”

He stiffens at the thought of you never aiding him anymore. He barely survived these past few weeks, much less losing this forever. “I’ll bring a comb.” He answers obediently.

Humming a sound of approval, you resume your hand work. ”You know..” You murmur, beginning on your first braid. “Now that it’s been mentioned, I did notice that you don’t have a hairstylist.”

He furrows his brows. “Why would I need one?” Not when I have you.

“It’s just that..” You pause, considering. “Well, I’m no expert. Only the simple braids and buns, y’know? Even for your coronation as Fire Lord, and your yearly banquets, you called for me to do your hair.”

“…I don’t want anyone else.” He answers truthfully.

Your hand falters over your braid, and he feels you start over at the top. “Even if I put your hair into pigtails?”

”You can do whatever you wish.” He shrugs. “I have no complaints as long as you’re not doing it for anyone else.”

“Still sour from that incident earlier, huh?” You snort. “I could charge a high price if I revealed that I’m your only, personal hairstylist.”

His hand catches your fingers right as they moved to begin the second braid. Caressing your hand gently, he slots his fingers between your own and interlocks them. “I won’t allow it.”

“Banning my business before it even starts?” You’re poking fun, but there’s a delight in your tone that tells him you’re enjoying this.

“I’ll offer you everything I own if it means being the only one who gets to have this. What’s mine is yours.” He gestures, his other hand tracing the braid you’ve left that brushes past his shoulder. “My hair, my personal quarters, my trust—it’s all given only to you.”

Your lips part, not expecting him to take your words words so seriously. Swallowing your surprise, you smile gently as your hand runs through his locks again. “Is that why you’ve been refusing to cut your hair?”

“You—” His ears redden, and he averts his gaze. “You mentioned before that you liked men with long hair.”

You’re silent. For long enough that he’s beginning to writhe slightly under the long minutes of sitting still on the floor. Zuko feels the heat burning at the back of his neck, and he thinks the long distance away from you for these past few weeks has finally run its course and fried his brain completely.

He’s caught up in his shame, his quickness to admit something so embarrassing that he didn’t have time to process a proper excuse—before he feels your lips peck against the crown of his head.

He blinks. Did—you just kiss him? If his brain wasn’t fried before, it definitely is now.

“I only mentioned that.” You reveal slowly, head still lowered so he can hear your hushed voice. “Because I like your long hair. Not anyone else’s. I wouldn’t trade this for anything else, so don’t get it confused.”

His heart stutters, quickening in its pace as he processes your words. A small smile spreads over his mouth as he leans further back, letting you do as you pleased. You’re right. He wouldn’t trade this for anything either.

He’ll never cut his hair if it means you’ll stay here with him like this, tying childish braids into his hair that’s unbefitting a Fire Lord, but he’ll never undo them for as long as it’s to your design and liking. He’ll forget how to even tie his hair into a minuscule bun if it meant having the excuse to feel your touch. He’s long past the point of rationality, but here in this moment, he finds having you do his hair is all that he needs to feel contentment.

He’s never felt more thankful to outgrow his old haircuts.

There are too many questions, none that can be addressed in this room when Damian is staring at you like he used to, completely unguarded and softened into a blurred memory of someone who used to hold your heart delicately.

“Damian.” You mutter briskly, even when the notion of addressing him weakens you. “I need to have a talk with Dick. Outside.”

Damian’s brows furrow. “Why did you call me that?”

Your steps that are halfway turned towards the door falter. “Your name?”

“Yes. You only call me that when you are angry.” He states, trying to lift himself from the bed. The restraints tighten, marking angry red lines over his wrists, but he doesn’t even flinch as he tries to reach for you.

Dick is quick to stop him, pushing him down by the shoulders. “The doctor says no movement.”

“I have given my opinion on the doctor’s expertise repeatedly.” Damian scoffs, irritated—but his gaze is distracted, trying to meet yours past Dick's shoulders. “Beloved, if you’re mad that I endangered myself, I assure you I am in perfect health.”

“That’s not—” You swallow, feeling an awful sink in the pit of your stomach and harshly avert your gaze. “Dick, outside. Now.”

Damian calls out your name, but you’re out the door before he—or whatever version of him was waiting for you in that room, can twist your emotions further.

You hear the door close gently behind you and sense the lingering guilt that hovers in the air.

You stare blankly at the chipped paint of the hospital walls. “You shouldn’t have called me here.”

“I know.” Dick sighs, and only now can you truly hear his distress. “You should’ve seen him. He was convinced you were in danger—that we were hiding something when you didn’t show after the first hour of his consciousness.”

“I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t go back in there pretending everything’s fine.”

Dick hesitates. There's a reason you were called over—which he purposely excluded in the call. “The doctor said we have to keep his stress to a minimum. We’re worried his condition will be unstable if you’re.. not around.”

You whip your gaze to meet his, but he's looking back at the door, where his youngest brother laid—unaware of the turmoil that was happening outside. You suck in a breath. “It’s not my job to be his keeper.”

“I know. That’s why I’m asking you… as a friend." He pleads, looking back at you. "He’s my brother, and I know something happened between the two of you—and that he’s been stupid, which is why he ended up getting a concussion in the first place.”

His suggestion is loud in the silence, that the possibility of Damian's impulsivity which led to his injury is because of you. It couldn't be true. Not when he made it so evidently clear that you mattered the least to him out of everything in his life's priorities.

“He doesn’t want to admit it.” Dick tries. “He never does when it comes to his emotions, but he needs you. I know you won't believe me, not when he’s the one that should’ve told you, but you saw that look on his face. It’s like he finally allowed himself to breathe when he saw you.”

“So—" Your hands flail, desperate to release some tension. "What do you expect me to do?”

“Just.. be around him, the same way it was before, till he gets his memories back.” He sighs again, running a hand through the mess of his hair, knowing how unfair it sounds. "If anything, it may help speed up his recovery. You won't have to deal with him for long."

Your fingers run over the crescent moons your nails have indented into your palms. The silence drags, and you know there's already a conclusion being made without your consent. “...This is insane.”

—

“Something's wrong.” Damian comments, watching you shuffle around his apartment, well, you had to get used to it being your shared apartment again—when he straight up refused on staying over at his family's manor.

Something doesn't quite cut it. “Nothing's wrong.” Your voice is stiff even to your own ears and as you pull out the kitchen drawers. Your heart squeezes at the sight of your mugs still kept inside, unchanged since you moved out.

It wasn’t just the mugs, but almost everything inside the apartment—as if time has frozen within these walls, because he didn’t throw any of your leftover belongings away.

“I can feel it. There is something you’re hiding.” He pushes.

"Since when were you the empath?" Taking out a dusty mug, you rinse it over the open tap, focusing heavily on the task to avoid his prying stare. “Dick said not to tell you.”

“It doesn’t matter what Grayson said.” Despite obvious instructions from the doctor, Damian disregards them and moves abruptly from the couch, hand still clutching an icepack to the back of his head. “You can tell me anything.”

You slam down the mug with more force than necessary, causing a loud screech through the air. It freezes the atmosphere in the apartment, and you make the mistake of glancing over to see his reaction. Taken aback, the rarest hurt displays itself across his face, forcing you to look back down at the counter. This is going to be impossible.

"Damian, please sit down." You plead, refusing to look at him. "You're not meant to be moving."

His frustration ticks. You can feel it in the barest hunch of his shoulders, because the curse of reading his habits still comes so easily. He rounds the counter, stopping right in front of you. His free hand comes to lift your chin with the intention of forcing you to meet his gaze, but you grab his clothed wrist before he can even come close to contacting your skin.

Shock doesn't come close to describing the parting of his lips, the widening of his pupils. "You are angry." He states, but it comes out in a huff of disbelief.

"Damian." Your voice comes out as a warning. "You should be resting."

"No."

"Why?" You snap.

"The woman I am in love with is clearly upset with me, and I have no recollection of why." He answers briskly. "You’re calling me by my birth name which I have never hated more to hear, because it means I have disappointed you. Forgive me, if I am concerned."

The word 'love' sets off the wrong trigger.

“Love? It didn’t seem like it when you broke up with me.” It spills out before you can stop it. You suck in a breath, already regretting it. There goes your promise to Dick.

You expect his expression to fall into the one you’re familiar with, cold—cutting, but as the seconds pass, the hit doesn’t come like you expect it to. His brows knit together in complete bafflement. “Why would I do such a thing?”

You shrug, an aloof act that fools not even you. You’re the last person who can answer a question that’s been haunting you since he did it. “Beats me.”

“I would never—ever leave you, Beloved.” His voice is strained, as if the mere thought confounds him with disbelief. "If this is your punishment for me going on that mission without your permission, I am sorry. Just—"

His lips purse together, and his hand still caught in yours loosens itself from your grip to grab hold of your fingers, tentatively interlacing them together. "Don't ever say those words again."

Your lips part and close, confusion etched in your features. The Damian in front of you—doesn't coincide with the one in the last memories you have with him at all.

He struggled when you weren't there. Dick's voice rings in your ears, having said that right when you were signing the papers for Damian’s discharge, listing your name to be put as his emergency contact to provide updates on his condition.

"Right, fine." You dismiss, even when you can see how your short response stings him. "If you don't want me to be pissed, please go back to the couch. I will call the hospital on you if you don't listen."

His expression stiffens at the thought of being trapped in that stuffy room flooded with fluorescent lights, of the pushy nurse who demanded he’d get bed rest for at least forty-eight hours as he exited the doors. In restrained obedience, his expression flickers in contemplation. "Then you’ll come with me."

Your lips part to argue, but he's already pulling you along, his hand still intertwined with yours, dragging you along to the couch. He sits, forcing you right into his lap.

"You are to remain here till I am well." He states, his free arm coming to rest on your thighs, trapping you in his hold.

"That is—" You splutter. "I didn't agree to this."

"Call it compromise." He remarks, his scarred fingers squeezing yours. "I will not feel better till you are no longer mad."

You stare at him in disbelief. Had he ever been this clingy before? Your brain has trained so hard on forgetting the details that it's hard to make sense of what's real and what isn't.

"You're unbelievable." You mutter.

"And you're mine still." He responds easily.

It stills your heart, so sudden in tearing open the wreckage that lays hidden that you have to settle on staring at the windows instead, at the row of your wilted plants that he's struggled in keeping alive.

He sets the ice pack on the end table, his freezing hand coming up to caress your chin, sending a shiver down your spine at the cool temperature. "Will you truly not tell me what has displeased you?"

You had. Quite abruptly too with all your honesty. It still shocks you that he rejected the possibility of a break-up so quickly.

"Patients shouldn't speak so much." You mutter, knowing his stubbornness will get you nowhere closer to convincing him.

His lips quirk up into the faintest smile. "You worry."

"Of course, I am worried." When Dick had called you, Damian and emergency room was enough to toss your senses to the wind. Nothing of the past even made its way into consideration when you had rushed over, barring Gotham's traffic laws and all.

"For someone who prides himself on the least concussions among his siblings, you're not doing a very good job in living up to your word."

“But I have lived up to my word.” He answers.

You shift your gaze to him, confused.

“My promises to you mean more than some tally.” He declares. “I gave you my word that I will always make it back home to you, alive.”

His promises mean nothing. They shouldn’t—but the way he looks at you, filled with utter devotion, makes you wonder when he decided this version of him didn’t belong to you anymore.

It’s like you’re tossed into a time loop, forced to experience what you’ve lost over and over with every reminder.

“I should make dinner.” You announce abruptly, desperate to be out of his arms.

He stares at you in surprise, blinking slowly. “Alright, I shall accompany you.”

“What happened to staying on the couch?”

He shrugs. “That was the doctor’s orders, and I don’t recall making any promises to that loon.”

—

Dinner settles as a silent staring competition, tension running thick through the air with only him as the singular active participant, his eyes staring unblinkingly, digging a hole into your very bones as you poke at your plate, long after the meal has finished.

Just when sleep finally arrives, and you think you’re free from your nightmarish duties, caught between torn memories and thin lies, do you realise your mistake. Sleeping arrangements.

Damian pulls at the sheets, clearly expecting you to sleep by his side. Your mind scrambles for an excuse to sleep elsewhere but there is only one bedroom, and sleeping on the couch will only reinforce his suspicions of you being upset.

Just act like normal. Dick had suggested, like it’s that easy to resume being the girlfriend to your ex who doesn’t remember that he is one.

"Beloved?” He calls, snapping you out of your stupor.

You’re truly in for it. Your foolish decision to play pretend has reached its limits, and you’re to bear the consequences.

“Coming.” You respond weakly, making your way over to the bed.

You settle at the very edge, laying down stiffly as you pull the sheets over you. Seconds pass in silence and you think you’ve done it, completed your task without complications, when you hear a sudden displeased grunt.

Large hands wrap around your waist, and tugs you into a broad chest. Your eyes snap open wide, completely frozen as Damian tucks his nose into the crook of your shoulder.

“It is cruel even of you to be so far when I am injured, habibti.” He whispers against your ear.

You can barely breathe, scared he’ll feel the palpitations of your heart hammering against your ribs, right above his hold. He only calls you that when he is desperate, when a single language can’t capture what he wishes to convey.

“You told me yourself.” He grumbles. “Even if it carries to the next morning, we must never go to sleep angry at one another.”

Your lip quivers, and you force your eyes shut. “I am not angry.”

He’s silent, but his grip tightens ever so slightly, as if afraid you’ll drift further away if he doesn’t. “...I choose to believe you.”

—

Desperation is a rare look on Damian, but you think even this is cutting close to your given patience.

“I am unable to feed myself.” He shrugs, hands crossed over in obvious pretence.

“Damian—”

His gaze sharpens.

You resist a sigh. “Dami. I have to head to work, and you’re not starving yourself.”

“Five minutes.” He rebuts. “That is my usual speed for breakfast. You can spare that.”

He is right. You usually get to the office early anyway, but that doesn’t make his weaponised incompetence any easier to swallow—even for five minutes.

“Last I recall, concussions don’t erase your ability to use a spoon.” You retort, grabbing the utensil with more force than necessary. “And you were eating perfectly fine last night.”

“I suppose the doctor is right.” He remarks. “I require bed rest—and last night, I did not sleep well. A certain someone was desperate to escape my hold.”

“Petty.” You mutter, scooping the porridge and blowing on it. He watches you intently, seemingly very pleased with himself.

You lift the spoon to his lips, your lips pursed in impatience. With a deliberate slowness, he leans in, his fingers sneakingly wrapping around your wrist. He brings the spoon to his lips, but his eyes are trained on you.

He takes a bite, and hums. He lets his fingers drum softly against your wrist for a few more seconds before he comments. “My appetite is satiated.”

You scoff, but you can’t help the smile that quirks up involuntarily. “Liar.”

He shakes his head, feigning ignorance. “I suppose for my survival, you will have to feed me every morning."

"Since you clearly need to be babied, why don't I call Dick over to spoon-feed you then?"

His expression sours comically. "That is a horrible suggestion."

"Then, figure out how to use your hands." You mock, forcing the spoon into his fingers. "I'm heading off to work, don't do anything stupid."

"That's reserved for my siblings." He mutters, and his gaze traces over you, searching. Whatever he wants to find, it's not there, hidden by the mask you've put on, and his shoulders droop.

Crossing his arms, he looks at you with a thick expression. "I'll wait for you."

Grabbing your bag, you give him the barest nod as a response and you’re halfway to the door when his throat clears. You resist a sigh, and force yourself to look back at him. "Yes?"

“Aren’t you forgetting something important?” He mutters briskly.

Your brows furrow, thinking. He’s on his prescribed meds, has attempted at breakfast, and is on house arrest till he recovers, barred from all patrols till he’s able to function without an ice pack to his scalp.

His expression contorts briefly in disappointment, before he mutters something incoherently. Walking over to you, he stares at you with a narrowed expression before he leans in—and presses a kiss to your forehead.

You blink rapidly, growing flustered.

“For good luck.” He murmurs. “Since you’re the one leaving earlier this time, I’ll forgive you for forgetting.”

Right, you used to always give him a kiss before you left, till it became a ceremonious habit. He always seemed so undeterred to them, that you assumed he was merely tolerating your teasing by standing as still as a statue.

You never thought he actually waited for them.

Staring at him speechlessly, you find your tongue stuck to the roof of your mouth. For someone who’s lost his memories, he was strangely hyper-aware of all your previous habits.

“Have a good day, beloved.” He wishes, eyes softening in a cruel, dangerous form of lowering your defences.

Blinking harshly and regaining your senses, you mutter a quick goodbye and leave as quickly as you can. You wish you could tear out the beating organ in your chest that refuses to calm down at his affections.

He is not your Damian and hasn’t been for months. You refuse to fall for him again, not when it meant having your heart broken twice when he wakes from this feverish nightmare and remembers… that he doesn’t love you anymore.

—

Twilight has long settled among the darkened dusky clouds, and your back aches from hunching over your desk for the last couple of hours.

It was a reprieve to be away from Damian, to be sucked into a part of your life where it was constant with your past and present. So much so, you over-did yourself on your workload, starting on more tasks than you were supposed to.

Checking the clock, you wince. Eight p.m.

You were supposed to be home three hours ago. Checking your phone, you’re surprised to find no notifications, asking for updates on your location or the time you’ll reach home. Only to remember you blocked him eight months ago.

You curse, quickly unblocking him. You can only imagine his reaction—of you not coming back home at your usual hour and being unreachable?

Quickly packing your bag, you grab for your coat, stumbling as you tug it on and exit through the revolving doors. One hand haphazardly scrolls through your phone, pressing on his contact, and you’re busy thinking of some flimsy excuse that didn’t involve avoiding his entire existence. Too busy to notice someone approaching you at alarming speed.

The harsh yell of your name, echoed in a deep timbre that could only belong to him, snaps you out of your daze.

You wince, readying yourself before you turn. You expect him to be angry, disappointed. A mirror of the perfect statue you remember in your memories, cold and detached.

You didn’t expect to see him panting, hands on his thighs, hair sticking in all directions, and his eyes—filled with an uncharacteristic panic. Damian Wayne, the epitome of a man carved into a sharpened blade, stands before you as a complete mess.

"You didn't come home." He states, voice barely constrained to be levelled.

"Damian."

"Whatever I have done, forgive me." He exhales, sweat pooling at his forehead, cheeks reddened from running as he lifts himself back up, towering over you. Yet, he has never looked so vulnerable. "I just needed to make sure you were okay."

Damian Wayne never begs, not even when you walked out the door eight months ago.

Yet here he was, one hand coming up to clutch his head, gritting his teeth and trying to conceal his pain. Whatever pretence you held, the cold front you’ve desperately tried to upkeep to distance yourself—completely vanishes as you rush towards him.

“Damian, you’re not supposed to strain your head. Much less run all the way here.” Your stern expression falls short, replaced with worry as your eyes rapidly look him up and down. “It could lead to complications.”

“It felt wrong.”

The crease between your brows deepen. “What felt wrong?”

“Letting you walk away.” He grits. “Seeing you close the door on me. My body exhibited strange symptoms—palpitations, nerves—and somehow, I was convinced if I let you go, you’ll never come back. My head’s been hurting since and I waited. I truly tried.”

"I found notes." He says through the clenching of his jaw. "From the last few months in my phone."

You freeze.

"It contained your routine of how often you water your plants, your favourite recipes, and half-written texts I've never sent." He lists out. "As if I'm afraid I'll forget. Like you weren't there to remind me."

"Just stop. You're hurting yourself." It's hard to see him like this—so unguarded, filled with pain. It's hard to hear his efforts, when neither of you can understand what went through his mind, lost in his scattered memories. "I'll go home with you."

"I can't remember what I've done." Abruptly removing his hand from the back of his head, his fingers come up to caress your cheek. Even distressed, his touch is so soft, so gentle. His eyes search yours, trying to find the answer he seeks. "I don't know if I deserve to ask you to go home. Not when I haven't made it up to you."

"No matter how angry I am, I will never want to see you in pain." You plead. Grabbing onto his fingers, you interlock them with yours and tug him along back to the apartment. "We’re going home."

—

The kitchen counter is filled with your favourite flowers, even when you know he can’t stand the smell of them wilting two days later. An uneaten plate has grown cold on the dining table, evidence of a meal he’s cooked for you.

It's unbearable, because the guilt that drowns your chest, deepens into a painful tug at every controlled breath, pulling at the thought of him waiting for you alone. You drop your bag on the sofa, but the pretense is holding on by a thin thread and when you turn—he's standing there and watching, his gaze locked onto you as if he could look at nothing else.

You haven’t even noticed the tears streaming down your face, but you’re just so tired. Of fighting this obvious battle you were never meant to win.

You still love him. Even if he’s forgotten the fight, and the words he said that tore you apart.

Maybe it's the sight of your tears. He hated it whenever you cried, no matter how bad a fight’s ever gotten—but the distance he maintained out of respect for you vanishes as he moves in an instant, arms wrapping around you. He mutters into your hair, begging. “I’m sorry, hayati. Do not cry because of me.”

“I missed you.” Your voice cracks. “So much. It killed me to be away—but it was what you wanted.”

"Never." His voice lowers, desperate to make you believe, pulling away with his hands still wrapped around you, lowering his head to force you to meet his eyes. "I will never wish for your absence.”

He leans in, forehead pressed against yours. "You are all I could ever want. You're the reason I fought tooth and nail to make it back from that mission. You're what makes sense when everything else crashes. The idiot I was, I rebuke all his decisions because I want you. Now. Forever."

"I don't know if you'll mean it." Your voice comes out hoarse, broken. "When you remember the reason that you pulled away."

"I may have lost my memories." He says sternly. "But I know who I am. That has never changed. Not before, and certainly not now. You’re the only one who’s ever been the keeper to my heart, and it’ll be you till my last breath.”

You want to believe him. So desperately, you want to love him again and not fear that he'll drift away, with the fear of disappointing his father, or letting his never-ending mission break the two of you apart again.

"If losing my memories is what it takes to get you back, I will do it again and more." He says with absolute conviction. "I have never been more sure. This is what I want. You are all I need. So, stay. We'll figure this out together. Even when my memories return."

"Just—don’t leave me." His voice softens, his gaze pooled with a deep-set fear that his body seems to remember, even when his mind is frayed. "I can’t bear it.”

—

His plea follows you into your dreams. This version of him is still hard for your mind to wrap around, that when you wake from a shuffle of movement, it takes you a moment to readjust and recognise your surroundings. Or rather, the arms pulling away from your waist. You force your eyes open, blinking blearily before turning around to face him.

"Dami?" You murmur.

He doesn't answer. Instead, he's looking at you with a sober, dreaded realisation, like—he's woken up from a dream.

It strikes you immediately, the fog in his gaze that has lifted, and you're quick to pull away fully to your side of the bed, the sheets dragging along your legs. "You remember."

"Beloved." His hand reaches out, disbelieving—but it freezes mid-air and pulls back, a quiet guilt filling his gaze. "You're here."

You swallow, pulling your knees under your elbows. "Are you going to kick me out?"

His expression cracks—revealing a cold rage taking over his expression, but it wasn't directed at you. It was for himself.

"No." He answers shortly, disgust creased into the tension between his brows. "I should be the one to leave. I have hurt you, deeply. I took advantage of your kindness while I was unable to recover my memories, and trapped you into being here with me."

His jaw clenches, and he averts his gaze. "I understand if you want to be done with me. Permanently. I will have it all sorted by the morning."

No. That is not what you want. You want him—honest and bearing his heart to you, the way he did earlier. You didn't want kindness, or polite pity, because you still see the man you love under the mask that he's desperately trying to upkeep.

"No." Your voice echoes against the walls, and his gaze snaps to you. "I do not want you to go. I want you to tell me everything. What you were thinking, what you did while I was gone, and what you want from me. I'm not letting you let me go this time, Damian. So, talk."

He inhales, and even as his fists dig into the sheets, there is a quiet, trembling hope you find when his eyes soften, tracing over your features like he's finally able to breathe with you in his vision.

"I lost sight." He speaks, his voice weaker than you've ever heard it. "Of what truly mattered. The mission, the fights with Father—it consumed me as a never-ending battle to prove myself. With every failure, it escaped as a lash, a punishment that slowly began to trick my mind into thinking that I did not deserve life's blessings. That I did not deserve you."

"I thought you were better off without a partner who always came back needing stitches, bleeding across the floorboards." His gaze darkens, and somewhere in him, he sounds as if he still believes it. "That you deserved someone who was stable, warm, kind. Who knew how to use his words instead of wielding them like a dagger. Who could hold your heart without being so afraid of breaking it."

"I was so sure of it." He mocks, a cold dagger dragging over the open wound of his regret. "I made the decision for us without asking."

"I regretted it." He says quickly, gaze flickering with a sudden intensity. "Immediately. On the first sleepless night, when I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the side you always occupied. When the plants started to wilt as if they couldn't bear anyone's hands but yours. When I made two coffees in the morning and had to drain it in the sink."

"I had reserved a space in each part of my life unknowingly, for you." He admits. "When I lost you, I felt it—this unbearable loss—and I knew I’ve made it impossible to live without you.”

"But you did." You mutter. "For eight months."

"Living?" He smiles wryly, and not a hint of it reaches his soulless gaze. "I knew that I had hurt you, and I would’ve been an even more selfish bastard if I asked you to forgive me. But I was not living.”

“I carried on in the only way I knew how before meeting you. By surviving—barely. I grew reckless. Impulsive. Threw myself into mission after mission. By the time I realised how far gone I was, I was bleeding out in an alleyway and Dick was dragging me to the hospital."

You could only let silence answer for you. His honesty, which was all you ever wished for, was simultaneously so much to bear.

"Did you mean what you said earlier?” You ask quietly.

"Every single word." His fingers twitch, a slight tremor he tries to hide by digging deeper into the sheets. "You are all I want. There wasn't a day since you left that I haven't regretted letting you go. I may have survived, but the clock on my life stopped till you came back into it."

A lock that's been trapped in that hollow cavity in your chest, weighing you down since the first time you saw him in the hospital, and maybe even before then—finally breaks. Your hands come up to shield the pain you’ve desperately tried to hide, tears running down to no avail.

Whatever semblance of dignity he was trying to uphold, it completely shatters as he reaches for you, pulling you into his arms. He lets out a deep exhale, hands rubbing against your back, comforting and warm.

"I am sorry I hurt you." He mutters into the crown of your head. "I am sorry I've been a fool. No apologies can make up for what I've done to us—only that I regret every moment I wasted, and that it took me this long to tell you what you deserved to hear."

"I don't want you to go away, Damian." It’s the most genuine plea you’ve ever asked of him, bearing your heart so deeply that it terrifies you of its vulnerability. "Don't disappear on me again. Don’t shut me out. I hated not being able to read you, and feeling like I was isolated in what was meant to be a partnership between the two of us."

He shakes his head wordlessly, pulling away slightly to lower his gaze, meeting yours and there’s a raw desperation in the green of his eyes. “I will never leave. Not as long as you’ll have me—I will spend the rest of my life forging myself to be the man you deserve. I will communicate. I will apologise. I will do anything you want, hayati.”

“You have a lot to make up for.” You remind him.

“As long as you’ll give me the time.” He answers. “I will not waste a moment more.”

“I want grovelling.” You go on. “Like—on your knees grovelling.”

“I can do it now.” His response is quicker than sound, and he’s already ready to obey your every command.

“I want you to tell me when you feel something is wrong. When you feel you’re not enough, you have to say it.” You demand.

“Yes, my love.” He answers, a soft nod brushing against your forehead.

“I want you to call the hospital now, because we need to get a scan to make sure everything’s okay.”

His expression falters—a brief hesitation at the thought of the pushy doctor and his accompanying nurse.

“Damian.”

He flinches at the sound of his birth name, stressed in that particular tone that signals you're not joking about your conditions if he wanted to be with you again. Not even his hatred for hospitals will risk him even the slightest chance of losing you.

With or without his memories, he had always known that you're the peace in his life that he thought he didn't deserve, but cherished so deeply that he finds no meaning in the word if it weren't for you.

“I will call the hospital immediately, Beloved.”

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