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Jason’s mouth is dry, rough pants escaping into his stale bedroom air. The ceiling is dark. He doesn’t have glow-in-the-dark stars like some of the other losers at his high school, but he doesn’t care. He’s Robin, second only to Batman. Okay, maybe also second to Dick, but nothing changes the fact that he’s special. He’s unique. He’s in a much better place now than before, back when it was screams, yells, shouts, bruises and needles.
He turns over, shivering under the sheets even though it’s the middle of summer. There are laughs echoing through the halls, seeping through the cracks as if the Wayne manor isn’t filled with ghosts anyway. The sounds are muted, though, and Jason reaches for his phone. It’s only one in the morning. He has an essay to hand to his English teacher tomorrow. He closes his eyes and tries to forget the strain of blue light.
It’s dark again, damp puffs screeching into Jason’s pillow. His heart is on fire, running faster than the speedster Dick always folds himself over. The laughing is gone, but Jason can still hear voices. It’s deep, a growl that’s nothing like Batman. This is colder, somehow, crueller with the edge of a snicker. He hears a scream next, and then he sees his mother in the bathroom, her form painted with red blood behind his retinas. The image follows him everywhere, but Jason is Robin. Things are better now. He’s only bruised from Gotham villains, not from someone who lives in the same house. Not from someone who shares the same surname. Not from someone the books promise is meant to love Jason forever.
He scrambles for his phone again, the numbers blurry—fuck, is he crying?—as he tries to tell the time. He blinks, presses his eyes shut hard, as if the pressure can push the thoughts away. As if he can forget Willis and his nasty grin, yellow teeth poking through in jagged edges. As if he can forget the stale stench of beer and coffee. As if Jason doesn’t think about smoking and then remembers the brand Willis preferred.
He jerks out of bed, feet shaky as he stumbles to the right, and then the left. He’s not wearing socks and his slippers are somewhere he can’t remember, but it doesn’t matter. Jason’s heart is in his ears and the hallways are dark, and it’s so, so quiet. It’s like he’s waiting for Willis to come home. It’s like his mother is passed out on the couch and there’s nothing in the fridge. It’s like there’s been no food in the fridge for a week already and Jason has eaten the last of the hidden cans.
He’s in trouble, he knows. He’s a bad boy, he fucking knows. He runs, feet fast and no longer quiet. His breath comes in pants, the voice in his throat bubbling as if screams make anything better. As if there’s anyone around who cares enough to listen.
He rushes past Dick’s room, and then the surrounding guest rooms filled with snoring older teens. Bruce told Jason to join them, and Jason almost did. He almost said hi to everyone and waved at the redhead from across the hall. Dick just glared, blue eyes sharp. They’re blue like Jason’s but so, so different. Maybe it’s the three years difference between them, or maybe it’s the fact that Jason wears short shorts instead of Dick’s old fucking underwear.
His hands slam on the kitchen counter. They slide, hard wood under his skin until cold metal shivers through. He grabs a glass—where? from fucking where?—and slips over the tap. Water gushes, splashing droplets all over Jason’s sleeve until there’s a steady stream dripping from the bones of his elbow. He blinks, trying desperately to see. He gasps, trying desperately to breathe. The water goes down until he’s choking over the floor.
And then it’s quiet. Bruce is somewhere, probably out in Gotham’s streets, and Alfred deserves time to sleep. He deserves peace. Jason deserves nothing but he has everything. He lives in a huge mansion and he’s fucking Robin.
He pushes himself up because he has to. The cup is gone—where? fucking where?—and Jason’s lungs burn, but he’s up. He’s standing. He’s fifteen and strong. He might be short, but he’ll be tall. He’ll be broad. He’ll be everything Batman wants him to be and he’ll love it.
Air.
He needs air.
His feet move of their own accord: an ungraceful newborn with wobbly legs. Jason’s young, but he’s not that young. His teeth gnash together into something ugly and he shoves the balcony doors open.
Blue eyes find his.
Jason freezes. He smells smoke. His face turns pink, then red, and suddenly all he feels is hot.
Speedy—no, wait, out of costume he’s Roy; yeah, Roy—clears his throat, awkwardly turning away to snuff his cigarette out before flicking it to the side, probably somewhere in the bushes underneath but Jason won’t ever tell. “Uh, hey,” Roy says. A hand rocks through his red hair, shorter than it used to be but not quite a buzz. Jason’s heart stops thundering, and then it restarts at an even faster pace than before. “It’s Jason, right? Dick’s kid brother?”
Jason swallows. Nothing goes down. He swallows again and chokes. “Um, yeah.” He coughs. His sleeve is still soaked. “Hi.”
It’s quiet.
Jason’s eyes dart to the ground. He notices the front of his pyjama top is wet as well, and wow, this is an amazing first impression. Jason looks so cool.
His face heats up even more, and he briefly thinks about jumping off the balcony edge. Speedy would probably catch him before he falls, strong arms around his waist and abs rock-hard against his back.
Jason has to turn his face to the side to his new shade of red he didn’t even know existed until now.
Roy laughs, something dry and a little stilted. With one glance up, Jason spots the red of his eyes. He sees the glaze swimming over Roy’s vision, the slow way he looks to the left and right.
“You won’t tell anyone, right?”
Jason is a Crime Alley kid, born and bred. He doesn’t have to ask Roy for clarification, and he doesn’t have to ask who anyone is. He just nods, lips shut, and wonders if his eyes are just as red, even if it’s for a different reason. If it is, they would be matching. Jason tries not to think about it too hard.
Roy lets out a breath, arm rising up until his biceps flex as he strokes a hand through his hair. “Phew, fuck, thanks. I owe you one, man.”
And it’s quiet once more. Jason can’t tell if it’s awkward or nice, peaceful or sizzled with an electrical fizz that’s almost tangible on his tongue. He’s only fifteen. Roy’s nineteen, almost twenty. He didn’t even know Jason’s name before tonight.
“Wanna talk about it?” Roy’s voice is soothing. Jason jumps all the same.
“No,” he says automatically. And then: “Nightmare ‘s all.” He looks at the floor again, at the cracks and imperfections rooted deep in the manor’s core. Not even Alfred can take the shadows away.
But it doesn’t change the fact that nightmares are stupid. They’re childish, and Jason is not a child but Roy is way older than him anyway. He’s just Dick’s kid brother.
Roy hums. “I get it. I used to get nightmares all the time, too. It’s less now, but sometimes they still pop up.” He twists a fresh cigarette between his fingers, twitchy, before letting his arm flop back down. They almost went to his lips, and Jason, briefly, wishes they did. He wishes he looked before he stepped, he thought before he spoke, that he noticed someone was already occupying the balcony. He could’ve watched Roy from the outskirts, seen what Roy was like with something in his mouth. With his lip spread and making a perfect ‘O’.
“Talking about it helps,” Roy supplies like every good hero. Jason catches blue eyes in his direction, and notices how they’re warmer than Dick’s. There’s a line of brown surrounding the edge of Roy’s irises and it makes his freckles stand out more. It makes the line of his lips smile with just a bit more heat, a bit more something else Jason can’t be thinking about his older brother’s best friend.
“I’m here to listen,” Roy continues.
Jason opens his mouth to snap back, harsh cruel words that Willis used to scream at his mother when she was off her head and crying on the bathroom toilet.
He lets himself step closer instead. He’s selfish. He has always been selfish; Willis always knows. He knows everything. He’s right about everything. Jason looks at Roy’s arms.
They’re so much bigger than Jason’s own. Everything about Roy is bigger than Jason, although he guesses it isn’t hard. He’s lean but Roy is muscle. He’s strong in a way Jason has never been able to look away from.
He makes his eyes as wide as possible, as young and cute and safe as he has ever dared. There are perks to being a short, skinny fifteen-year-old.
Jason opens his mouth. “Can I get a hug?”
Roy’s eyes jolt. He blinks too hard, lips moving but no sound coming out. His eyebrows flicker, but then he pushes his unlit cigarette back into its pack—different brand from Willis; in fact this is the brand Willis hates—and shrugs. “Sure, kid, why not.” His arms open and Jason is a mess. He’s selfish, someone who always takes and takes and takes.
But he can’t help himself. He always wants more. He always wants to be hugged.
He rushes forward, face buried in Roy’s chest. It feels nicer than he imagined. Not even Batman hugs him.
He can let himself indulge, just this once. He tightens his arms around Roy’s back and tries not to trace the lines of his muscles.
Calloused fingers skirt through Jason’s hair. “Ssh,” Roy coaxes. His voice is back to something deep and relaxing, a gentle wave Jason could float away on. “It’s, um”—Jason feels the ripple of Roy’s throat, the swallow as he hesitates—“it’s all okay. Everything’s fine.”
The quiet returns. There’s no screams, no Catherine or Willis or Todd. It’s just Jason and Roy, Robin and Speedy, and Jason knows this isn’t real. Roy doesn’t like him, not like that at least. He’s just Dick’s kid brother.
He breathes in Roy’s smell all the same. The tinge of cologne is overlaid with smoke, and if Jason looks too hard, he can see familiar track marks along Roy’s left arm. He doesn’t think of his childhood home and he doesn’t think about what Roy was doing alone in the dark.
He just breathes.
The quiet is nice, it turns out.
Roy steps back, cold air rushing to lap at Jason’s face. His smile is golden but faint. His eyes are still red, still glazed. “You should get back to bed. It’s late.”
Jason nods. He hovers, and then steps back too. His arms fall by his side, cold. He doesn’t want to look up.
“Thanks,” he croaks. His vision blurs again, and he forces his breathing under control. Good boys don’t cry, but there’s nothing good about Jason and he knows.
Roy ruffles his hair. “G’night, kid.”
“Night,” he mumbles back and fights the urge to run to his room.
The balcony doors close. It’s quiet but it doesn’t feel quiet anymore. The peace is broken. Jason stares at the shadows in the halls.
And then he looks to the light, at the tiny speck of red as Roy argues with a lighter before pressing a cigarette between his lips. The night isn’t over and Jason promised he wouldn’t tell anyone.
That doesn’t mean he can’t watch.