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“i’d run away, i’d run away
with you, would you run with me
our life could be a little bumpy, but i’d hold on
just wanna tell you that i see you, baby, do you see me?
‘cause this is special, baby
fuck ‘em only we know”
– banks, ‘fuck ‘em only we know’
“Dude, I don’t know about this,” Kon eyes the tube of eyeliner in his hand suspiciously, pursing his lips as he turns it upside down and watches the black liquid run from the bottom to the top. He’s suddenly really glad that it’s the middle of the week, and it’s just him and Tim in the Tower.
“Hey, you were the one who wanted to give this a go– be a part of my world, and all that?” Tim puts his hands on his hips and raises one, perfectly plucked eyebrow at Kon. It’s terrifyingly close to the way Batman used to glare at him in the early days of Young Justice, when Kon was still dumb enough to defy his orders out of pure spite– well, if Batman had been wearing make-up, that is.
Kon’s still not gotten used to seeing Tim like this– with glittery, blue-grey eyeshadow that matches the colour of his eyes to a T, a constant but artificial blush high up on his cheeks, and a thin layer of lip gloss that makes his best friend’s lips look even pinker than usual.
Even more kissable.
“Um, I definitely didn’t quote ‘The Little Mermaid’ at you. Because that would’a been kinda–” Kon snorts, then bites his tongue because the word on the tip of it isn’t one that he should still be throwing around the way he used to. Maybe he never should have, but especially not since Tim told him that he liked boys as well as girls.
Or since he himself realised that there’s at least one boy that he likes a little bit more than all the other boys in his life, too. And all the girls, for that matter.
“Gay?” Tim says anyway, with a wry smile, “Yeah, I think that’s kinda the point.”
“Oh shut up,” Kon feels his cheeks heat up and turns his head to the side to hide the colour that he’s sure matches the one on Tim’s cheeks by now, “Let’s just get this over with.”
“You know we don’t have to do this, if– if you really don’t want to,” Tim takes a step back, eyes cast down. He sounds so insecure all of a sudden, so unlike the calm and confident boy that Kon had harboured a grudging admiration for since before he got to see him without his mask on for the first time, since before he would have dared to call him a friend.
It breaks his heart a little that even now, weeks after he gathered up the courage to come out, Tim is still waiting for the other shoe to drop– waiting for Kon to reject him, to tell him that there’s something wrong with him, that boys don’t wear skirts and dresses, that boys don’t put on make-up.
That boys don’t kiss other boys.
“Tim, hey,” Kon reaches out to grab Tim’s hand on instinct, gently prying open his best friend’s clenched fist so that he can interlace their fingers, “C’mon, look at me.”
Tim does, and the fear Kon sees in his eyes makes him feel like someone’s forcing liquid Kryptonite down his throat. Fear looks wrong on Tim’s face, wrong in a way that lip gloss, and mascara, and eyeshadow never did and never will. Wrong, because Kon has seen Tim stare down supervillains and superheroes alike – not least his own mentor, who’s without a doubt the scariest of them all, even if Kon will burn his favourite leather jacket before he admits to that out loud – and Tim’s always done so with an air of calm composure that creeps Kon the fuck out, if he’s being honest.
And yet here he is, looking at Kon like Kon holds the power to destroy him with a single word.
And maybe Kon could. Maybe Tim could, too, if their positions were reversed. Maybe that’s the price you have to pay for having a best friend, someone who knows you inside and out; the good, the bad, the vulnerable.
He knows now that neither of them knew what they were doing, all those years ago, when they began to place their trust in one another, exchanging metaphorical knives that are sharp enough to cut out each other’s hearts nice and clean and in the most painful way imaginable; but that doesn’t mean that Kon would ever use the knife he’s been given, nor ask for the one he handed Tim back.
And it’s about time he makes sure that Tim knows that.
“You know I didn’t mean it like that, right?” he starts awkwardly, pulling Tim closer by the hand he’s still holding onto, until the other boy is standing right in front of him, between his spread legs, “You know I don’t have a problem with you wearin’ this stuff, right?”
Kon doesn’t. He really doesn’t.
He might’ve, once upon a time, back when he still carried a Superman-sized chip on his shoulder. Back when he had so much to prove that he challenged Tim every chance he got, when he was so determined to make the world and himself believe that he was Peter Pan, except with better fashion sense, never growing up and pretending, with everything he had, not to care that he never would.
But that was then, and this is now. Now all Kon cares about is seeing Tim’s little half-smiles, the twinkle in his eyes when he tries on a new pair of heels, or when he runs his hands over where the smooth, red velvet of his favourite dress hugs his narrow hips; all he wants is for Tim to feel like he can be himself around Kon in the same way that Kon can be when he’s with Tim.
That Tim, all dolled up and beautiful in a way that Kon has yet to find the words to describe, steals his breath away every single time is really beside the point.
“Yeah, I– I know,” Tim whispers, but it doesn’t sound like he does and he’s still doing his damnedest to avoid Kon’s gaze.
“And you know I don’t care who you like or, um, who you– who you want to, like, sleep with, or whatever,” Kon mumbles, and now it’s his turn to avert his eyes because he’s worried that if he doesn’t, Tim will figure out that what he just said isn’t the truth.
Not all of it, anyway. Because Kon does, in fact, care very much about whom Tim likes and whom he wants to sleep with– just not for any of the reasons Tim’s worried about.
“Right?” Kon asks again when Tim doesn’t answer, a little more forcefully this time, squeezing his best friend’s hand again as he pulls him impossibly closer.
“Yeah, Kon, I know,” Tim sighs and smiles down at him weakly, and Kon decides that defeat doesn’t look any better on him than fear, “I’m just still getting used to all of this myself, I guess?”
“Well, then how about you get used to it while you paint these nails, Wonder Boy,” Kon lets go of Tim’s hand and wiggles his fingers in front of the other boy’s face before he reaches around him to draw up another chair, “But you better paint ‘em black because I’m really not sure red is my colour as much as it is yours.”
That makes Tim smile one of his trademark smiles that is really just a twitch of the lips, except Kon knows that that doesn’t make it any less meaningful. Tim sits down on the chair opposite him and starts fumbling around in one of the many bags on the table next to them until he finds what he’s looking for. With a small, triumphant noise, he pulls out a bottle of pitch black nail polish and winks at Kon when he says, “Don’t worry, I know you too well to go for anything other than black.”
Kon huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t deny that what Tim said is true.
Tim does know him better than anyone; knows how much he likes living with Ma and Pa Kent on their farm in Smallville, even if it means getting up at the crack of dawn every day; knows that he doesn’t want to be Superman any more than Tim wants to be Batman, not anymore; knows how scared he is that all that he is – Superboy, Kon-El, Conner Kent – is just the sum of the worst that both Clark and Lex have to offer.
It’s downright terrifying sometimes, and at other times it’s comforting in ways that few other things in Kon’s life are. It also makes his brain hurt when he thinks about it too hard.
So he doesn’t, and watches instead as Tim applies the shiny black layer of nail polish to each of his nails with the same precision that he uses when he aims one of his Birdarangs at their enemies; a look of utter concentration and determination on his face that is both adorable and hot, and that makes Kon’s squirm a little in his seat.
“You’re really good at this,” he blurts out when Tim is done with his right hand and tilts it up towards the light to inspect his handiwork– because, well, it’s the truth. It’s not like Kon’s given much thought to painting his or anyone else’s nails before, but he’s pretty sure that Tim’s doing a much better job than he ever could.
“What can I say, I’m a perfectionist,” Tim shrugs before he dips the little brush back into the bottle and takes hold of Kon’s left hand, his touch warm and gentle and as steady as his heartbeat, “And I’ve had a lot of time to practise.”
That makes Kon’s ears perk up because the first time he saw Tim wearing nail polish was… a month ago, maybe two?
He isn’t sure, but he knows that it can’t have been too long after Tim had dragged him into his room in Titans Tower one day and, with his back pressed against the closed door and frantic eyes, stumbled over his words in his rush to share with Kon what he’d only just realised himself, “Kon, I don’t want things to be weird between us but I really need to tell you something and I can’t wait any longer because you’re my best friend and it’s killing me to keep this from you, so just– what I’m trying to say is– I think– I think I’m bi.”
Kon swallows around the lump in his throat, trying and failing to shake the memory of Tim’s quiet sobs when he hugged him that day and told him it wouldn’t change a thing between them, trying and failing even harder not to feel guilty over the fact that it turned out to be a lie, even if he hadn’t known it back then.
“How long?” Kon asks softly, only he’s not so sure he’ll like the answer to his question.
He gets why Tim was nervous about coming out– to him, to their teammates, to his family. Hell, he’d be a real fucking hypocrite if he didn’t because it’s starting to look a lot like Tim’s done something Kon himself has yet to work up the courage to do; but, at the same time, Kon had no idea that this thing, the dresses and the make-up and all that comes with it, predates Tim’s revelation about his sexuality.
It’s unexpected, and irrational, and not the least bit fair towards Tim, but it tears open an old wound of Kon’s that’s never fully healed and maybe never fully will, one that was slowly, carefully carved into the bones beneath his invulnerable skin every time that Robin had refused to trust them, to trust him, with his secret identity.
This… isn’t the same thing. It isn’t the same thing at all, Kon knows that, but he can’t help but feel a little like he did back then. Hurt, and betrayed, and like he’s always trusted Tim more than Tim’s trusted him.
“A year, give or take,” Tim replies, casually, but Kon doesn’t miss the way his hands tremble a little for the first time since he’s started painting Kon’s nails, “Of course I always took it off before anyone could see.”
“I’m sorry,” Kon says eventually, because once he swallows down the unwarranted bitterness daring to creep up his throat, the bitterness that isn’t him anymore, that’s really all there is to say. His words make Tim look up at him in surprise, so he forces himself to hold the other boy’s gaze and adds, “Y’know, for not… being there. For not knowing.”
“Oh,” Tim’s eyes are wide, and for the first time tonight, Kon watches the wariness in them make way for something else; something softer, something that’s as new to him as the splashes of colour on Tim’s face and the way that he now sometimes wears his long hair down rather than in the practical ponytail that Kon’s gotten so used to over the years.
Something that, just like all of those other new things about Tim, Kon finds he likes a lot.
Tim doesn’t say another word before he goes back to painting Kon’s nails with neat, precise strokes, one after the other. It strikes Kon, then, that there’s a methodical element to all this– to painting nails, and to matching the right bag with the right shoes, and to achieving the almost perfect symmetry between the eyeshadow adorning Tim’s left eye and his right eye. And suddenly, none of it feels new to Kon anymore.
It just feels like Tim, like another part of him but one that’s always been there, now brought into the light and merging seamlessly with everything Kon knows about his best friend; like a singular puzzle piece that’s always been missing, needed to complete the picture that is Timothy Jackson Drake and yet incapable of changing what lies at its core.
When Tim is done, he nods once before he raises both of his eyebrows at Kon expectantly. Kon dutifully spreads his fingers wide and holds both of his hands up in front of his face, squinting a little as he inspects each of his now black nails without really knowing what he’s supposed to be looking for. He can tell that Tim’s done an immaculate job– of course he has, he’s Tim, but the black of his nails still looks strange against the white of his skin; unfamiliar, somehow.
He’s surprised to find that, in spite of that, he doesn’t… mind it. He doesn’t mind it at all.
“I kinda like it,” he turns towards his best friend with a bemused but genuine smile, and the way Tim’s face lights up at his admission is more than worth the rush of embarrassment that inevitably comes with it.
“Yeah?” Tim asks, biting his lip as he looks up at Kon from under his long, painted lashes, shy and hopeful.
“Yeah,” Kon confirms, “‘s pretty rad.”
When he notices Tim’s eyes dart nervously to the rest of the little bottles and brushes and things that he can never remember the names of on the table next to them, he rubs his hands, careful not to smudge the still wet nail polish, and adds, with a little more enthusiasm than he really feels, “Okay, what’s next?”
Tim tilts his head to the side and his expression softens into the one he wears whenever he wants Kon to know that he’s well aware that Kon’s indulging him, like every time he pretends to like Tim’s coffee without putting in the buttload of sugar that it so desperately needs. Still, the other boy’s eyes are twinkling with excitement.
He looks alive, Kon thinks. And he wants nothing more than to keep it that way.
“I was thinking, just some foundation and some eyeliner? A little bit of eyeshadow, maybe…” Tim’s half talking to Kon and half to himself, as he starts to gather the supplies he’ll need. Kon chooses not to question the fact that ‘just some foundation and some eyeliner’ somehow seems to translate into at least a dozen different products that Tim neatly lines up on the edge of the table.
He bitches and moans all the way through Tim plucking his eyebrows – because seriously, why would anyone willingly do that to themselves on a regular basis? – and Tim has to remind him to sit still every two minutes. He smacks the back of his head when Kon doesn’t, but Kon quickly decides that Tim’s exasperated little laughs are worth it.
It’s all so normal, and yet something about it just doesn’t feel right; because every time Tim leans in, Kon finds himself staring at those lip glossed lips, wondering what they would taste like if he captured them in a kiss; because Tim’s shared his secret with Kon while Kon is still holding onto his, like the eternal coward that he is.
“Okay, I think I’m done,” Tim announces after he grabs hold of Kon’s chin with his thumb and index finger and tilts it to the left, then to the right, “Do you, um, do you wanna go take a look?”
“Sure,” Kon nods and gets up to walk to the bathroom to take a look at himself in the mirror.
He feels more than hears Tim follow on his heels, a nervous kind of energy radiating off him, and when Kon opens the door and looks in the mirror, his eyes are drawn to the reflection of Tim’s face rather than his own. His best friend is worrying his lower lip, both of his arms wrapped tight around his own body as he asks, “What do you think?”
Only then does Kon shift his gaze to look at himself.
He’s surprised to find that Tim’s taken a much subtler approach to Kon’s make-up than he tends to do with his own– if it weren’t for the dark lines accentuating the steely blue of his eyes, he might’ve even missed it, at least at first glance.
He leans closer towards the mirror and raises an eyebrow at his reflection. His skin seems softer, smoother, but the lines of his jaw and his cheekbones look harder at the same time. Tim’s done something to Kon’s lips to make them look a little fuller and a little redder, too; and there’s a faint dusting of what Kon presumes is black eyeshadow around the thin, glittery line of the silver eyeliner on his top and bottom lid.
“It’s… not bad,” Kon mumbles, unthinking, because he’s still in the middle of processing that, unexpectedly, he looks and feels pretty much like... himself. Well, like himself, with a teeny tiny touch of Pete Wentz in Fall Out Boy’s early days– not that that’s a bad thing.
He realises his mistake when he sees Tim’s face fall behind him, “You hate it, don’t you?”
“No,” Kon whips around and flies towards where Tim is standing, hovering a few inches above the ground before he lowers himself back down and grabs hold of both of Tim’s wrists, “No, I don’t, Tim. I promise.”
“Then what is it?” Tim demands to know, quiet but firm, and the pout of his lips isn’t making it any easier for Kon to form coherent thoughts, “Because I can tell that you don’t like it either.”
“I do like it,” Kon insists, shaking his head and tightening his grip on Tim’s wrists, “I mean, I’m not gonna lie, I’m kinda surprised that I do, but… yeah, it looks good. I was just thinking that I don’t think I like it enough to go through all of this trouble every day?”
Kon lets go of Tim’s wrists and shrugs apologetically. He watches as his best friend crosses his arms and considers him for a moment before he concedes, “Yeah, I guess that’s fair.”
“And, uh,” Kon takes a deep breath because he knows that now is as good a time as any to do this, that if he lets this moment pass him by like he did all of the others, there’s no telling when he’d next get the chance to say what he’s been trying to put into words for weeks now, “I also don’t think it looks half as good on me as it does on you.”
“Oh, um,” Tim blushes a deep scarlet, and Kon can’t help but take that as a sign that maybe, just maybe, he hasn’t been imagining how everything between them seems to have shifted, “Thanks, I guess? But you don’t need to say that, Kon. Really- I know I wasn’t, at first, but I’m really okay with all of this now. With me. With who I am.”
“I know,” Kon nods solemnly, placing two firm hands on Tim’s narrow hips to pull him closer, “I know you don’t need to hear me say it. I know that what I think doesn’t really matter. But I wanna tell you anyway– so, um, can I? Tell you anyway? Please?”
“Tell me what, Kon?” Tim breathes, although the tremor in his voice tells Kon that he already knows the answer to his question.
“That I think you’re beautiful,” Kon says anyway, then raises one hand to brush a stray strand of hair out of Tim’s face before he tilts the other boy’s chin up and shoots him an awkward smile, “I mean, you always have been, but this… this is just somethin’ else.”
“K–Kon?” Tim draws in a sharp breath when he uses his TTK to pull the shorter boy flush against his chest and keeps him there, and Kon can’t tell anymore which one of their hearts is beating faster.
“Fuck, I just can’t stop thinking about you, Tim,” Kon admits as he runs one hand through Tim’s impossibly soft, black hair, “I don’t think I’ve ever stopped thinking about you in your stupidly tight Robin tights, and now I can’t stop thinking about you in that little red dress you wore last week either. And more than anything, I can’t stop thinking about how I really, really hope that when you said that you like boys, maybe you meant– maybe you meant that you like me.”
Tim blinks at him for a moment, wide-eyed and stunned into silence in a way that Kon’s pretty sure he’s never seen before, but he doesn’t give Kon much time to commit the image to memory before he leans in and presses those pink, pink lips of his against Kon’s in a soft kiss.
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, Kon,” Tim says with a shaky laugh as he wraps his arms around Kon’s neck and stands on his tiptoes so that their noses almost touch, “But what you’re saying sounds kinda–”
“Gay?” Kon echoes Tim’s earlier words, “Yeah, I think that’s kinda the point.”