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The sound of rain hitting puddles and the remorseful feeling fills the gated area. The vicinity’s stones have dates that vary, some a couple centuries past and others fairly recent, few are owned by people with names handed down through a few generations and majority are differing from one another. However, each marker tells their own story; stories of Wayne generations, close friends- of sons.
But there are a few unmarked gravestones in the back, away from outside eyes, for the unexplainable stories and for the people that need a place to grieve. Because with their family, there are always going to be unexplainable things- no matter how hard they try to not let that happen. No matter how young they are, how trained they are, how much they get along -or don’t- they all seem to leave their lives too short to be complete.
As the storm continues, in front of one of the unmarked stones is a boy with black hair and unhealthy pale skin, he is shivering yet makes no move to conserve heat, only in his t-shirt and jeans. Tim’s eyes dart around and he looks defeated yet determined, like he doesn’t know he should be here but needing to do something. Suddenly he falls to his knees, pants soaking in the mud and puddles, hands are clenching so hard his knuckles turn white and resting on his thighs, his shoulders where hunched and his head bowing, facing the grass. “I didn’t want you to leave, no matter what I said—I swear, I didn’t mean it, Damian…” his voice is hoarse like he’s been appealing for hours, yet receiving no reply.
Why did you leave? Why did I say I wanted you to leave? How come we never gave each other a second chance?
Why did you protect us, when most of us wanted nothing to do with you? I can understand with my head- you wanting to protect your family- but I can’t force my heart to believe that you actually cared about us- about me.
Why do I always get left behind? Here alone, attempting to pick up the pieces of the fractured family that I forced myself into, again.
For a while, Tim just kneels there, letting his emotions come to the surface of his mind and heart. His anger at the twerp for every interaction that ended with emotional, mental, or physical damage-cause even after his death, Damian was still a brat that tried to kill him-. His guilt for how he never saw what Damian actually went through under his mother’s care- how that affected him so much, yet Tim didn’t care. His dashed hope for what they both could have been in the future. They were brothers, dammit, and no matter what people thought both Damian and Tim grew to care about each other in some capacity.
His eyes grow hot at that thought for what seems to be the millionth time that morning.
But Tim’s former hope didn’t matter. His old dreams of having a caring family didn’t matter. His want of having a little brother didn’t matter.
Tears start to swell in his eyes once more.
Because Damian— he was— he wasn’t coming back. Because Jason was the exception, not the standard. And Bruce was never gone like that in the first place.
Tim hiccups start again.
Because he is dead.
The tears stream down his cheeks.
Say it.
He slams his hands on his knees.
You coward.
“You’re dead! No matter how much I did, how much Bruce did, how much Dick did, you still died! You were a child, a child, and yet you were killed for stupid ambitions. You were killed because your mother’s insanity and your family’s inability to protect you. If we can’t protect our own, how the hell can we protect the world? Is that what you want to hear?” Tim’s voice cracks as he yells. “And, dammit, its not fair! You little brat, you go off and die on us, just as you and I were getting along!”
“Why did it have to be you?”