Chapter Text
"You gave her your sweater, it’s just polyester, but you like her better…."
"Don't ever try to be Heather."
The background guitar of the instrumental audio wallowed away in its heartfelt cold agony. Jon turned around from where he was passionately dancing with his mop, dramatically pouting at Damian, who hadn't bothered looking up from his copy of Mein Kampf. No wonder he was so lifeless.
"C'mon, I was just about to hit that last high note," he whined, flopping down onto the edge of his bed. Technically Damian had come to visit to help his grandparents file in their taxes, unofficially he seemed to have turned up simply to bother Jon.
"Wrong, you were about to attempt that last high note. I simply saved your grandmother and every barn animal in a 12-mile radius from having to listen to your unholy screeching." He flicked a finger against the edge of his tongue, flipping onto the next page.
Jon turned onto his belly, tugging the tips of Damian's toes, smiling as Dami lightly kicked him away.
"I know, I know. You don't have to rub in my bad singing, not all of us were born gifted you know," he complained.
That got Damian's attention, as he looked up with a single arched eyebrow eerily similar to that of Mr. Pennyworth's. Right. Damian the human was the gifted one.
"If I’m gifted, then what does that make you hayseed? The messiah?"
Jon shuddered, "Oh no, I'd have to wear a toga everywhere. And survive off of bread and wine. I can't even drink wine yet Dames, and bread is boring."
Damian stared at him, unblinking.
"Right. Rhetorical question, sorry" Jon muttered sheepishly.
He looked up at Damian, leaning against the headboard of Jon's bed, eyes drawn back to his book, in the original German. He looked down at Damian's toes again, watching the early afternoon light flicker against glossy black nails, pondering himself.
"D?" "Hmm?"
"Why did you say that?"
"...Say what?"
"'Never be a Heather.' Why'd you say that?"
"Because Heather is a self-supposed idealist version of an unreasonable standard of purity and perfection. She's unattainable, and not worth pursuing."
At Jon's confused look Damian sighed, putting his book down for the first time as he elaborated. "In the context of the song, Heather isn't actually real. She's the idealized standard of perfection the story's narrator, or the lover who actually does the singing, sees as the person they need to be in order to catch the attention of their love. Heather is everything the singer wants to be, but puts themself down too much to be. Or in a different, less metaphorical context, something that the singer simply can't be in any circumstance. Don't ever try to be a Heather, because Heather isn't real, or if she is, she's someone and something you simply can't ever be. As long as she exists, you'll never see yourself as worthy of what you want, in this case, the one you love. Get rid of her, and move on. Heather will keep you waiting for something to change you when nothing will in the way your want.
When it's simply not possible to be her, stop trying. And if you believe you won't find love from the other because you aren't her, then go find someone else."
Fiddling with the loose end of his jean shorts, Damian closed his mouth, looking down at his closed book, feeling as though he'd said more than was warranted. He still didn't get why someone like Jon could enjoy a song like that. Or perhaps he simply didn't know Jon as well as he would have liked, if he still remained so unaware of his interests.
But who cared? It was one overly angst-ridden song about love among a billion others floating around the radio. Everyone seemed to have one or the other they couldn't get out of their heads.
Jon eyed him, a quiet, fond smile crossing his lips for a moment. "I thought you didn't care about that song," he teased.
Damian leaned back against the headboard and sighed. "I don't, but the ever-present idea of one-sided love exists in far too songs of the same nature. The only intriguing part of this one that makes it bearable is the idea that Heather may not actually be real."
"Whatever, I'm reading too much into this anyway. Take whatever I said with a grain of salt, and if you have any brains Kent, find yourself a better sense of music."
"Sing me one," Jon asked, only half-joking. "If you think love songs are overrated so much, tell me what you could sing about."
Damian rolled his eyes, "My singing capabilities begin and end with voice mimicry Jonathan. Unless you'd like me to walk you through Bohemian Rhapsody word-perfect, you'd be sorely disappointed."
"Nope," Jon stood up, stretching for a moment as he pulled Hitler's Diary out of Damian's lap, superspeed kicking in fast enough that Damian wasn’t able to snatch the book away in time. "I swear to you, even if you don't know it yet, there's a songbird stuck in your throat, D. You just don't know it yet."
"Right," Damian drawled, raising a disbelieving eyebrow, "I'm guessing this is the moment where I'd begin my plans to stand out among the crowd and traverse through a Miley Cyrus-esque path to smalltown country music stardom? Or do you prefer a Taylor Swift without the Reputation Era?"
"Oh good, my music taste is rubbing off on you. Perfect," Jon nodded seriously to himself, springing into motion Jack-in-the-Box cut loose as he ran off,
"This'll work out great!" Jon called on the way out.
"Wait, what?" Damian called back, mildly annoyed, "Kent you idiot, at least give me my book back!"