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It rained when Jon kissed him for the first time. Damian was on his back, steadily getting soaked as the rain fell harder. The kiss was barely a touch of lips against lips and it was over right after Damian registered what Jon had done.
Damian licked his lips. Salty tang of blood lingered even after the rain washed it all away. He didn’t know whose blood it was. He didn't even know who bled more at this point. It was just that Jon's kiss, at that moment, tasted of blood.
And after, Damian closed his eyes. His body was heavy and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stay conscious for any longer.
“Dami, please,” Jon said. “Stay with me.”
Damian blinked. Jon's eyes were deep-sea blue and they were beautiful. He had realized that for a while now and thinking about that always made something in Damian's chest seized. Something like pain, but not quite.
“I am okay,” Damian said—or, he tried to. His voice came out weird.
Jon touched his cheek. The last thing Damian remembered was Jon shrugging off his ridiculous uniform, and then draping it over Damian.
***
Jon was giving him radio silence. It had been three weeks since the last time Damian heard from him.
He had woken up in the cave, to Alfred’s pragmatic bedside manner and Father's grim face. Fractured ribs, broken arm, bullet wounds that would scar. Damian had knew all that, of course, even without Father cataloging them for him. He had been the one who had to suffer from them.
He had been confined to two weeks of bed rest and it would take someone with more nerve than him to defy Alfred, something even Father had been reluctant to do.
And in those weeks, he had been visited by many people, Richard, the Teen Titans, and even Todd had dropped in unannounced one day, bearing a pile of classics as gifts. Damian had read all of them before, but they had provided a good distraction from his silent phone.
He had texted Jon and received no answer. He wouldn't worry usually. Jon misplaced his phone all the time. However, the silence was telling somehow. He knew in his guts that Jon was avoiding him.
Then after three weeks, Damian stood in front of his wardrobe, staring at a bloodstained jacket with an S symbol at the front. Alfred hadn't been able to get the bloodstain out. He would've burned it as standard procedure, but it didn't belong to one of the Bats. So he handed it to Damian, with instruction to gave it back to Jon.
Damian took the jacket out. He draped it over his arm, tracing the S shield with his fingers. He had been brought in with this thing over his body. Jon had not been there. When Damian had asked, Father simply said Jon had gone back with Superman.
Damian didn't know what possessed him. He couldn't shake the pain from his chest and all he could think of these days was the salty taste on his lips, the barely there kiss. He wore the jacket with him when he went to the Fortress of Attitude.
***
There was no one there.
Damian found traces of Jon. Dirty footsteps. The pile of various games they had collected over the years was disturbed. And the mess he and Jon had made, had been cleaned up.
Damian walked to the central console and checked the logs, looking for timestamps. He found out Jon had been here this morning and now he was gone.
Something that felt suspiciously like disappointment filled Damian. He bit his lip and drew Jon's jacket tighter about his body. It was too big on him and smelled nothing like Jon.
***
Jon visited their headquarters exactly once after Damian had been there.
For the coming week, Damian obsessively checked the logs, but there was nothing. It was as if Jon knew Damian was well enough to go to the Fortress of Attitude now and chosen not to be there. If there was the slightest doubt that Jon was avoiding him before, there would be none after this.
Damian was angry. It was a familiar emotion, but there was the hurt too. That last one less familiar. He wanted to confront Jon and talked some sense into him—maybe gave him a good punching. It would remind Jon of his place. It would soothe Damian's anger, but the hurt—he wasn't so sure about that.
***
It was exactly two months from the day Damian had returned to the cave with a bloody jacket draped over his body when he saw Jon again.
Jon was in Gotham.
Damian Wayne—son of Brucie Wayne—was photographed wearing a dirty jacket bearing the symbol of Superman when he went out with Richard Grayson for brunch. It was insignificant in the face of other, worthier scandals involving Gotham’s high society, but it was something that apparently drew Jon back to him.
Damian punched Jon. It was a little bit like punching a concrete wall. It was worth it. If only to see the shock on Jon's face.
“Dami.” Jon cupped his own cheek. “I-I’m sorry.”
Damian ignored the pain in his knuckles. The one in his chest though, was not so easy to dismiss. “That's for ignoring me.”
Jon visibly swallowed. It occurred to Damian that maybe doing this in the middle of a crowded dog park with an unleashed Titus wandering about wasn’t such good idea, but it was too late. He ignored the few curious stares.
“Why are you here?” Damian said with the iciest tone he could manage.
“I was …, I saw you wearing my jacket.”
Damian raised his eyebrows, hoping it could convey what he wanted to say to Jon. Yes, no shit, I wore your jacket, Jon.
“... And you still are.” Jon tilted his head a little, hair falling over his glasses.
“Yes, I am aware. Alfred wanted me to return it, but you weren't around, so.”
Jon flinched and seeing that reaction gave Damian a dark satisfaction. He wouldn't make this easy on Jon.
“Damian, I’m sorry. I couldn’t meet you. Not after—” Jon cut himself off and gestured with his hands.
And Damian felt suddenly tired. He'd waited to have this moment with Jon. Yes, he's angry but there had been something akin to hope in him, amidst the hurting. Damian turned and walked away.
He looked for Titus, spotted him behind a tree, sniffing at the roots. He felt Jon following him and just before he reached Titus, Jon snatched his elbow, forcefully turning Damian to face him.
“Damian, please,” Jon said.
“Please what? Please listen to you? Please don't punch you again?”
For a moment, Damian saw the crease between Jon's eyebrow. The strain in his eyes. He could read the conflict in Jon and then, unexpectedly, before Damian could stop him, he placed a hand on the back of Damian's neck and drew him in. His lips met Damian's in a hard kiss.
It lasted only a few seconds. Jon broke the kiss, but didn't let go of Damian.
For the first time in two months, Damian's mind was quiet. His lips were smarting.
“Please don't die on me. Please don't leave me,” Jon said. His head bent low so Damian couldn't see his eyes.
“Are you …,” Damian said, “Are you going to leave after this, ignore me again?”
“No. I’ve just …. I realized something when I saw the picture of you in my clothes. Why are you wearing my clothes?”
“It’s clothes, Jon. People wear clothes.”
“It’s mine.”
Damian took a step back, forcing Jon's hands to fall away from his body. He wanted Jon to kiss him again. He wanted to lean into Jon and pulled Jon in at the same time. He refrained.
“Stay,” Damian said. “And I might tell you why.”
Jon just stared at him, looking like a kicked puppy.
“Stay,” Damian said again. Then, he turned away to fetch Titus, taking out the leash from his back pocket and fastened it over Titus’ neck.
When he was done, he looked over to Jon. Jon was still there, hands in his pockets and teeth worrying his lower lip.
Damian’s chest finally stopped hurting.