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It was a mistake, being here, Damian thought to himself, watching the socialites chatter, all placing their masks on to secure a business deal, marry their children, climb the social ladder.
He was on his third glass of champagne, barely feeling a buzz. If he had his way, there'd be a new scandal on the front page of the Gotham Gazette featuring his dumbass at this gala he’d been dragged to.
Damian needed to forget, forget he was here, forget Jon, forget what had happened just hours before. And what better way than to drown it all in stupidly expensive bubbles?
He sipped, watching his father laugh, his own boisterous mask on for the people. Drake, bargaining and writing off people, being the spectacular business person Damian knew he’d never be. He wouldn’t take over Wayne Enterprises, and despite the things drilled into his head that both the Bat and Wayne legacies should be his, he was glad, deep down, that he would never have to be this.
Still, fake. All of this was just so… fake . What was even real here anymore? Not one of these people were genuine, everyone cold, unfeeling, every word a move on the giant chess board that was Gotham’s rich and famous.
Jon had been real. The thought popped in his head, bringing unwelcome feelings with it, images, memories of things he was currently trying to repress. He picked up another glass and brought it to his lips. This was stronger than the last one had been, and was sure if he kept going down this road there would be no returning.
His league tolerance to this kind of poison hadn’t been properly exercised in awhile. All the better for him, to leave everything in the past.
Damian held the stem of the flute tighter as sounds of memories sharpened, hair being pushed away from his face in a sweet loving gesture, tearful voices that developed into anger, a blur shooting into the sky and leaving him.
”You need to find out where your head's at, Damian, because when it comes to us, I’m only listening to here.” There was a tap over his heart, and he caught the hand, holding it there, a rush of some emotion flooding through him, something so familiar now to the both that they barely made note of it anymore.
He knew where his heart was, what it wanted. But his head was the thing keeping them both afloat. What would happen when the inevitable did happen? When he realized Damian was too broken, too dark, too much of a burden to carry? Not there enough, too many secrets.
A tiny, logical part of his brain reminded him that he’d stuck around all these years, seen him at his worst, stayed when things had surely crossed the line of just plain platonic.
He held onto that like it was a rope lifting him out of the anxious spiral of a dark hole he’d dug himself into.
This could be managed, this could be forgotten, but closing him off sounded better to his addled mind, locking his heart away could keep it safe. A voice that sounded suspiciously like Grayson piped up, asking the question, ”Are you really? Or are you hiding? Running from your problems?”
Better to have loved and lost, to have never loved at all.
Before Damian could realize what was going on, he’d reached his limit, Tim catching notice and excusing himself with a laugh and wave from the business elite circle.
”Damian, are you serious?” His older brother hissed, a note of worry evident in his voice. He had stood him up, holding onto his arm to keep him from swaying. ”How much did you drink?”
Not enough . His brain supplied helpfully, still functioning too well for Damian’s own liking. Unbeknownst to him, he’d said it out loud, just low enough for Tim to hear.
”The hell do you mean, not enough? ” He dragged him to a quieter place, stealth training and well timed smiles from the both of them allowing to escape undetected, Tim grabbing a water glass on the way out. They wound up in a corridor, and Damian dutifully took the water, holding it but not drinking it.
“Look, Baby Bat, whatever happened today, I need you to get over it because right now I do not want B on my case about this. Stay out of there until you’re somewhat sober.” Tim tapped the glass in his hands a bit. “Drink that, don’t talk to anyone.”
Damian nodded, and the emotions he’d been running to bury surfaced. God, this was pathetic. It must’ve shown, because the concern grew from his voice to his features.
“We’re going to talk about it later.” He ruffled his hair and swept out of the hallway, leaving Damian to go stumbling into the gardens. He sat on an old white bench, uncomfortable and made of marble.
The dim lights seemed so bright, the way the moon shined off the dew on the flowers and grass nearly blinding.
It seemed wrong that something so beautiful should have him there, but for the life of him couldn’t consider why.
The music from the party inside leaked out and he turned, folding his arms on the back of the bench and setting his chin on top to watch through the windows.
There was shrubbery in the way, but the windows were so large that although the bushes hid him from the inside, it didn’t hide the inside from him. The people laughed and talked and danced, trading off from one partner to another, each showing carefully chosen cards.
He spotted his family, each surrounded by people who wanted to pick his brain, make a deal, marry into the Waynes, offer some corrupt thing or the other.
Bracelets, watches, necklaces, earrings. Chains. It was as if they were nothing but robots, tied to this hard metal mask they put on for show, controlled by their families, who they worked for, or even just their true selves, some inescapable.
Even in the night, when they went out, dressed in kevlar and dark colors. It was all fake. Fake and cold and metallic, trapping them with only a few real things.
How clear it seemed now, something that he’d only briefly considered. What was real in his life? What did he know was truly real?
Not what his completely sober, rational brain had to say. What his being, his soul, his heart felt was real.
Damian swiped open his phone, finger tracing the photos of him and Jon he had for his background. He dialed a number, not really thinking, something more of a habit than anything.
“Jon. Jon.” He whispered into the phone, words slurring just a bit to be noticeable by someone with super hearing.
”Dames, wha?” Jon’s groggy voice came through the speakers, sounding a tad bit annoyed, but mostly heavy with sleep.
“Jon, I've figured it out.” Damian was sprawled back on the bench, one hand in the ground picking at blades of grass. He tugged on a lone flower, rolling the stem between his fingers.
”Figured what out? Wait, are you on something right now?” There was a rustling sound, as if he were getting up.
“You see, everything is fake.” he tapped the ceramic animals at the feet of the bench, before repeating, “Everything is fake. Everything in the world is fake. This gala, nothing here is even real. It’s night, but the lights are all on. The outside is so bright. But it’s nighttime. Why’s the outside so bright when it's nighttime, Jon?”
”Oh my god, you’re drunk, aren’t you? Did one of the fancy kids drug you or something?” it sounded like air was whooshing through the speaker on Jon’s end.
“Maybe a little. See, all these people are fake. They’re made of metal.” he paused, looking up at the sky, still holding the flower. The silence went on a few more seconds, before he whispered into the night again, a warm breath creating a puff of steam into the cool night air.
“But I like you. And that is not fake.”
He barely had time to react before he was met with the sight of Jon, still in pajamas consisting of sweatpants and a hastily thrown-on shirt, tennis shoes without socks shoved on his feet, untied.
His hair was a mess, but Damian thought he’d never been more beautiful. Jon’s face scrunched up, and he realized his lips were parted and he’d said it out loud.
“You came.” He stated. “You’re beautiful.”
Jon gaped at him for a few seconds longer, before going to pick him up off the bench. “You smell like alcohol. Damian, sit up.”
He pulled him into a sitting position, and Damian leaned forwards. “Are you mad at me?”
Jon only sighed, picking him up and putting him on his back. “Come on, Dames. Let’s get you home.”
The next morning, Damian woke up, light from the curtains stabbing through his eyelids and a foreign presence sitting at the foot of his bed. He squinted, just barely making out the outline of jon, half-asleep in an upright position. There was aspirin and a glass of water on his nightstand, but all he wanted to do was turn over and go back to sleep, ignoring the pounding headache last night had brought him.
He shifted, but in doing so woke Jon, who called his name in a whisper. Damian groaned, waving a hand at him. Jon got up and closed the curtains, before standing at the side of the bed.
“Do you remember anything about last night?” His voice was quiet, soft with a note of hopefulness.
A shot of embarrassment flooded Damian as fuzzy memories pieced together in his mind. He’d called his best friend in an inebriated state, said some frankly truthful things, one of which being what was probably a plain confession of his feelings.
“Vaguely.” he murmured, voice raspy with sleep. “I apologize. I remember enough to know I said…things.”
Jon slipped under the covers next to him, chest pressed to his back and chin on his shoulder. “Don’t apologize. We can talk about it later.”
His arms wrapped around Damian's waist, and he whispered, voice muffled by his shoulder.
“I’d much rather you let me hold you for a bit.”
Things weren’t fine, not by a long shot. There would come long conversations and arguments and compromises, tears and harsh words and yelling. But the storm would clear, sooner or later. The storm would clear and they’d mend it with each other. Their love was very real, tangible in a way. They’d waited for each other for forever, and now, it was within reach.
“I’d like that.” Damian responded, shutting his eyes and leaning back.
Things weren’t fine, but they would be.