Chapter Text
Jon shouldn’t have tuned Damian out as much as he had, but then again, maybe that’s the right thing to do. He'd stopped actively avoiding that specific rhythm of heartbeats months ago, not long after... the breakup. He let Damian's heartbeats float in and out of his consciousness; some days they sounded sharper and faster than others, but mainly muffled by the city ambience or heavy rain.
Jon wasn’t particularly sad, but he felt lonely.
It’s past midnight, and summer torrent veiled Metropolis’ sky in a white haze. Jon's bedroom window was open, and raindrops were sprinkled onto the floor beneath. Jon considered the soon-to-be soaked wooden floorboards and promised himself just a few more seconds to relish the light petrichor before closing the window.
Lying in bed with nothing else to do, Jon counted the beats. Damian's heart was thumping so hard and fast that he could be in the middle of patrolling. Even through the impetuous rain, the constant rhythm of heartbeats grew louder and louder, quick, strong, and desperate. The change in volume perplexed Jon, then suddenly, he bolted up from his bed. What kind of business does Robin have in Metropolis’ Southside?
Within seconds, Jon was in his suit and out the window, cursing his earlier hesitancy. During those extended months of avoidance, Jon never once heard Damian set foot in Metropolis (or perhaps Jon hadn’t actively wanted to know). This is my city, he reasoned, I have every right to meddle in.
When Jon came face to face with what had to be the dumbest thing he'd ever had the honor of witnessing Damian do, all justifications vanished from his mind. Damian, not Robin, was kneeling on the ground, with cuts on his cheeks and a nasty bruise forming on his left eye. The boy seemed to not expect extra company at all, staring at Jon like a deer caught in the headlights, green eyes flashing with irritation. Damian was surrounded by a group of thugs, and as Jon spotted the gleam of a blade, red obscured his vision. Such a standard criminal group could never bring Damian to his knees unless he let them.
Horrifying realization dawned on him, and Superman sneered at the group: “Leave. Now. ”
"Okay, fuck!” A man raised his hands in surrender. The gang disbanded, and Jon heard someone muttering “Damn dickwad was asking for it.” Metropolitan troubled folks never took a liking to the capes, but they weren’t psychopathically evil and got some decent self-preservation.
The dark alley fell silent, and Superman turned his attention to the rescued civilian. Damian was looking somewhere into the pouring rain, bloodied fists rested by his side. For a moment, guilt settled vaguely on Damian’s face. The audacity.
Jon wanted to ask Damian every kind of thing, and nothing at all. His feet hovered a few inches above the ground, while Damian’s leather boots were soaked in mud, dirt and rainwater. What a waste, Jon thought, arms itching to lift Damian off the wet puddles before his boots were permanently damaged. But he stayed right where he was.
“...I need to go,” Damian gestured down the street where he must have parked his bike. Jon immediately blocked the alley’s only exit.
“No,” He gritted out. “I’ll take you to my apartment, Mr. Wayne, and then we’ll have a chat.”
He could spell out the familiar protest settled on Damian’s tongue right before it was said out loud, but the younger boy seemed to decide against it. Raindrops rolled down Damian's cheeks like tears, and thick strands of hair clung to his furrowed forehead. Taking Damian's silence as acceptance, Jon picked Damian up and flew back to his flat. The flight was brief, but Jon felt like the rain might as well have rattled his shoulders for hours. Jon sheltered Damian from the downpour with a bridal style carry, Damian's expression hidden on his chest.
Jon rummaged through his wardrobe after landing them both on his bedroom floor, then dragged Damian and the dry pair of pajamas in his arms into the bathroom. Damian didn’t resist.
"You'd better patch yourself up before coming out here." Jon called before changing out of his own suit. He didn't even bother to towel his hair properly, instead letting it dampen his bed covers and seething in silence. Jon knew what Damian was doing back there, and the fact that he sympathized must say something about them both.
Damian appeared like a ghost, dressed in bandages and clean clothes. As they sat side by side in Jon's bed, Damian's fingers played with the long sleeves, his damp hair running down the shirt collar. Jon ached to hold Damian again, chin resting on top of his head. He wanted to poke Damian in various places to see whether he had any additional bruises on his body, because Damian always knew when Jon used X-ray vision, and hated it. At the same time, Jon wanted to punch Damian in the face.
“Do you want to tell me about it?” Jon asked, and hated the way he couldn’t keep his voice steady enough not to break mid-sentence.
“No.”
“Yeah, figured.” Jon responded, his gaze fixed on the small puddle that had formed beneath the still-open window. As Damian turned to face him, he felt the mattress shift.
“Aren’t you mad?” Damian inquired. His face was pensive, as if he'd faced the same outcome a thousand times before. There's a distinct lack of Damian's assertive Indian sandalwood scent, merely the smell of rain and Jon's fabric softener. Jon never wore Damian's gift cologne. Instead, he stole a half-empty bottle from Clark.
“I am raging, Damian. I want to know why you did what you did, but I can’t do that over a screaming match.”
“You sound like Richard.” Damian’s lips curled in distaste. “I’d prefer you scream at my face.”
Despite his own words, Jon desperately wanted to scream out his hows and whys. Damian was infuriatingly strategic, both on the field and in the most mundane matters. The same thing had happened in the weeks following their reunion, with Damian pushing and pushing while Jon refused to burst as the younger boy pleased, until Damian stopped reaching out entirely. It's as if Jon had failed some sort of test. It's annoying how Damian would do anything but be straightforward.
"Because now I sound like the more mature of the two of us, right?" Jon clenched his jaw. "Why is it so difficult for you to accept that I've changed but still care about you?"
Incredulity colored Damian’s half-puffy face. The cuts on his cheeks hadn’t been patched up, leaving the skin red and angry. Jon wanted to reach out and touch them, just to see if Damian would flinch back from the pain, or if he would crease his brows in defiance. Jon wished he’d been sure of what Damian would do.
“I lost you! If I left and came back as a different person, wouldn’t it be hard for you too?” Damian’s voice was shrill with rage. The oversized pajama made Damian look young, younger than he had been at the Mayfield’s gala, arm-in-arm with Nika, playing the role of the Wayne heir as effortlessly as drawing a blade.
“But you didn’t have to run away from me like that. We could- we could’ve talked!”
“I couldn’t look,” Damian held Jon’s gaze. “I couldn’t look at you.”
It was piercingly painful, even more than the array of slashes on his body from that one particular fight. It had taken Jon days to extract the last Kryptonite fragments, and weeks to heal. It’s his fault, really, because Jon should have anticipated Damian’s brutality. Damian’s eyes were wide as if his own words had caught him off guard, the corners of his lips curving down in something akin to regret.
“Is there something so wrong with me?” Jon whispered. Eyes closed, Jon’s arms shielded his stomach from the imaginary attack. He found no relief in closure. Since the come-back, his life had been playing a constant loop of what-ifs.
The mattress shifted again, and suddenly, Jon felt something hot and trembling on his lips. When he realized it was Damian's lips, his throat tightened and a tear trickled down his cheek. Panicking, Jon inhaled once, twice, then shoved the horrible warmth away, his accidental strength nearly knocking Damian down.
“Don’t you dare,” Jon gritted out, fists nearly ripping his duvet to shreds. “Don’t you dare do that to me!”
Damian looked angry and defeated, there’s a wet stain on his cheek from Jon’s tears. Despite his own confusion, Jon laughed, the sound came out screeching like a wounded animal.
“You left me, Damian. You brought my biggest fear to life, and now you’re what? Kissing me? If this is another test, then screw it, and screw you.”
“Shut up,” Damian stood up from the bed. “Shut the fuck up.”
Jon caught Damian’s wrist before the boy walked away. His grip might leave another bruise, but Jon couldn’t give a damn.
“It isn’t fair,” he tried again, more gently. Damian turned back. Under the night lamp’s glow, he looked like a porcelain doll. Jon could even hear the fine crack.
“The world is hardly ever fair, Jon. You were well aware of it. I taught you this, and the people around you taught you this. But still, you- you never learn. Your misplaced trust will only have negative repercussions.”
“Are you- are you implying that this is all my own damn fault? My fault for trusting the people I love and care about? And if my trust shouldn’t ever be misplaced, does that mean I shouldn’t trust even you?”
“Yes.”
Rain was rattling on the window glass. Jon didn’t want to let Damian go, but he felt like fighting a losing battle. Damian stood still, cheeks wet and lips pursed. His wrist felt paper-thin in Jon’s grasp. Jon had always known Damian was not as invincible as Jon liked to picture him, but he’d never seen him this weak and defeated.
“Stop trying to be the terrible person you’re not, Damian.” Jon pleaded.
“I…” Damian’s shoulders sagged in resolution. “It’s who I’ve always been.”
Jon loosened his grip, and let Damian go.
In another life, they were both fifteen, and Jon would have returned the kiss with as much anger and desperation as the boy who’d kissed him. Damian would have tutored Jon before every test, and Jon would have heard Damian complaining about college choices. Jon would have asked Damian to senior prom, and Damian would have picked him up in the fanciest car from the Waynes’ garage.
Chances were lost, and the tides kept changing.
*
Jay had assembled an evidence board in the living room. They sit among case files and boxes of papers, pizza plates set next to their respective spots. It’s only mid-afternoon but the sky was already darkened with storm clouds. Jon’s head was buzzing like a beehive.
“He kissed me,” he blurted out.
“What?” Jay asked. Jon felt his friend’s questioning gaze settling on the side of his face.
“Damian kissed me the other night. He was… he was picking fights in Southside, and I took him home, and we argued, then he kissed me, and left.”
Jon elaborated, waving a piece of paper. After the Mayfield’s gala, he had revealed the complications between him and Damian to Jay as an extended apology. Jay hadn’t been pleased.
“You know what I think?” The pink-haired boy took a pizza bite, expression impassive. “I think this is a hot, sizzling mess that you and Damian need to figure out as soon as possible before someone else get caught in the crossfire.”
Jon cringed. “Sorry,” he scratched his neck, understanding Jay’s implication. “I don’t know how it’s gotten to this point, to be honest.”
“My guess is,” Jay looked out to the city skyline, “he was grieving, and you were, too. Grief is different for each person.”
“There’s nothing left to grieve,” Jon said, voice empty. “But I get what you mean. Has he… has he given up?”
“Damian Wayne?” Jay snorted. “Unlikely.”
*
Jon returned home to a package on his doorstep. The package was thin, meticulously wrapped in brown kraft paper. A calligraphy note is written on the central front.
To Jon, from Damian.
With his attempt to open the door, Jon nearly wrenched it off its hinges. Closing the door behind him, Jon rushed towards the couch, package in hand. Carefully, he tore up the wrapping, trying to preserve Damian's handwriting in the process.
It’s a CD titled “Bestfriend”. Jon’s fingers traced the bold printed letters, his whole chest warmed up with hope. Pulling out the phone from his jeans’ pocket, Jon dialed Damian’s number.
The call was immediately connected, and Jon found himself at a sudden loss for words.
“Have you received the package?” Damian’s voice filled up the silence.
“Yeah,” Jon replied, inspecting the CD. Damian stayed quiet without further elaboration, and Jon counted Damian’s soft breaths through the line before speaking up again.
“You said you didn’t know me. The night at the Mayfield’s gala. You told Nika you didn’t know me.”
“...I did.”
“Is that true?” Jon probed.
“It is. I didn’t know you,” Damian admitted. “But I… I’d like to know you now.”
Jon’s heart leapt out of his mouth, followed by his words. “Really?”
“There can only be one person with trust issues between the two of us, J,” Damian’s tone was a tell-tale sign of an eye-roll.
“What a hypocrite,” Jon quipped back, and by the way Damian tutted, Jon knew he understood the reference. “So… What changed?”
“I…” Damian hesitated. “It’s a shame to lose what’s between us.”
“No,” Jon refused to back down. “Tell me what you really mean, Damian.” After a beat, he added, “please.”
On the other line, Damian exhaled, seemingly weighing his options. The younger boy relented at last, his voice came through in a soft rush.
“I missed you.”
Jon flopped down the couch in relief.
“I missed you too.”
The flannel shirt was sticking to his back, and he needed to change out of the scratchy jeans, but Jon decided he could stay on the phone for a bit longer. I dreamt about you in hell, Jon wanted to say, but maybe he should wait. They talked about trivialities, with a brief summary of Damian’s high school experience and a lengthy update on Jon’s college courses. They never brought up the kiss.
“Any free patrol slots this Friday?” At the end of the call, Jon offered.
“Yes. Bat-burger is on the menu.”