#konbern

Kon’s smile was bright. His eyes were the blue of a cloudless day, his skin golden and glowing in the sun, a tiny white flower held in his hand as he grinned at the camera. He’d always been like that, right from the day they met. With biting humor, a contagious laugh, and a smile that made Bernard’s heart flutter in his chest, he’d become a firm friend quickly. Bernard had still been completely in love with Tim of course, but he hadn’t been able to deny how fun it was to hang out with Kon. He was nice. They’d flirted back and forth a few times but never in earnest. He’d had his sights set elsewhere and Kon wasn’t the sort to be impressed by a scrawny civilian. It would never have worked.

The medication was working, to a point. The flowers were smaller and fewer in number, rustling stalks emerging from his throat only rarely. He could breathe. He could work. He didn’t really feel happiness, or anything but tired, but he could do his job, so, good enough.

He bought the magazine. It was probably the worst thing he could do, but he didn’t regret it. The hibiscus arriving three days later was a great sign, proof that the progression had been slowed significantly. A few more months and he’d probably even be able to go back to the gym again. Running on a treadmill was difficult when your lungs were full of leaves.

He made it through the work day with only a few instances of coughing, soft pikake flowers joining the hibiscus in his bin. It was probably weird that he enjoyed their scent when they sprouted from his pain, but the alternative was smelling dust and the stale, cold air of the office. They perfumed his apartment too, no matter how often he emptied his bins. It was a constant reminder of something he’d rather forget. 

He fell asleep that night with a yellow flower clasped in his hand and tears on his face. 

***

The sky was wrong. Flashes of colour burst from clouds that shouldn’t be there, and thunder boomed in time with the endless chanting that echoed around him.  There were voices in his mind that never touched his ears, promises of freedom and renewal and power. They left streaks of fire in his brain, excruciating wild joy flooding through his veins. 

Pain ripped through his limbs, each pulled so tight across the altar that his joints screamed and the metal manacles bit into his skin. Copper tingled on his tongue, the taste of his own blood mingling with ceremonial wine. The bronze knife plunged down, scraping the stone below as it impaled him. 

He screams, sitting bolt upright and instantly falling into a coughing fit. The flowers were tightly coiled rather than blooming, closed in the dark of night, and formed long bundles that made him gag as they forced their way out. He panted, fighting for air, and tried to slow the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat. Fuck. He hopes he didn’t wake his neighbours; the very last thing he needs right now is a noise complaint. 

A tapping noise sounded at his window and he almost yelped with surprise. His hand dropped to the baseball bat beside his bed. He was 28 stories up in the air with no balcony, there shouldn’t be anything that could get to his window except maybe a very determined bird.  

“Hello?” called a voice, and Bernard felt his stomach drop through the floor. No. No way. Why was he here?

Kon could see through walls. There was no way he could pretend he hadn’t heard. Bernard grasped the curtain and pulled it aside.

Supernova hungs in the open air, gold and white suit glinting in the moonlight. His eyes were hidden by a domino that Bernard approved of in theory –it’s easier to hide your secret identity if you make any effort whatsoever, Superman– but hated in practice. 

“Supernova,” he says, forcing a smile. Please go away, please go away. “What can I help you with?”

He can’t quite read Kon’s expression, but he knows how he must look. Fresh-from-a-nightmare isn’t a great fashion statement at the best of times and this really isn’t the best of times. His medication makes him tired, he hasn’t been able to work out, and the whole not being able to breathe thing hasn’t been great for his overall health. He’s sweaty, he’s pale, he’s dishevelled, and he really wishes Kon hadn’t picked right now to turn up. 

“Are you alright?” Kon asks, and Bernard forces his grin wider. It doesn’t seem to work.

“Yeah. Fine. Why are you here?” he asks, wincing inwardly at his own bluntness. Way to treat the superhero, he thinks despairingly, and coughs into his fist. Kon wavers in the air, a frown crossing his face.

“I thought I heard someone in distress,” he explains, and Bernard almost combusts from embarrassment. Kon heard him cry out in his sleep and came to help like a mother tending their child. Maybe he should stop taking the pills and let the flowers smother him in his sleep; it’d save a lot of trouble. 

“It was just a dream, don’t worry about it,” he says and Kon drifts closer, resting a hand against the glass.

“Are you sure? I could–”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not supposed to be in Gotham,” he says, interrupting before Kon can be any more sweet and send him into a coughing fit. “You’d better go before one of the Bats spot you.”

Kon nods, looking away as if disappointed. “I just wanted to check that you were alright.”

“Why do you care?” Bernard asks. Why does he ask questions he doesn’t want the answer to? Why is it that hope always outweighs logic in his heart?

“It’s my job.”