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Damian wasn’t going to lie to himself. It wasn’t anything worth deluding himself over, so he wouldn’t. He had a problem. It wasn’t one that he’d openly admit to anyone around him, but he could be honest with himself and Titus, of course. He was struggling, but it wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been.
Damian held his arm up to the light, watching the sticky crimson liquid trickle down his inner bicep. It stung, but not as much as it used to. It used to give him a level of pain that would make the world around him stop spinning. For a moment, until he bandaged the cuts so they wouldn’t clot, his thoughts dissipated enough for him to feel like he could breathe. Now it was a slight tingle that barely did anything for him.
His arm fell to the side, and he collapsed back onto the carpet. He took slow breaths, trying not to give his thoughts more power than they already had. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he took the sharp edge of the Batarang and cut through a cluster of veins. Putting aside basic human anatomy, he wanted to know how it would feel. Would it be enough to kill him? He didn’t want to go and die per se, just stop living for a while.
Slowly, exhaustion crept into his muscles, and his eyes slowly drifted shut. He was so tired. He could fall asleep within seconds if he allowed himself, but he was in too compromising of a position. If someone were to come in and see him so vulnerable, he’d probably break apart at the seams. He had to get up. He had to clean himself and dress his wounds.
He mentally scolded himself, urging himself to get off the floor. He had to haul ass and peel himself from the floor, but he couldn’t.
Get up…
Get up…
You stupid idiot, get your ass off the floor…
If you get caught, it’s your own fault…
Get up…
His limbs seemed to protest, keeping him firmly planted on the floor. This level of laziness was foreign to him. He’d gotten lazy and content with his problem, but the floor seemed more comfortable by the second.
No, I can’t…
I’m so tired…
I can’t get up…
It’s so hard…
Five minutes…
No. He shouldn’t—
Just five…
I just need to breathe, and then I’ll get up…
There was a knock at the door that forced Damian to pry his exhausted eyes open. His vision swirled as he stared at the ceiling, which only seemed to pulse and expand above him. His stomach churned with dizziness that made him feel like he was spinning.
“Five minutes,” He murmured to himself, his tongue feeling too swollen and heavy for his mouth. “I just need…”
“Damian.” A voice was slow and heavy, like dragging your leg through the mud. The syllables muddled together to form vaguely familiar sounds.
Any other day, Damian might jump to his feet, clutching whatever remaining shreds of dignity he had left, but the floor was so comfortable, and his limbs felt like lead.
He was floating in a state similar to dreaming. He was vaguely aware of the plush carpet beneath his fingertips and the dull ache in his muscles. He felt his heavy eyelids close whenever he blinked, the same as the constant beating of his heart. In all aspects, Damian could tell he was away. Everything around him felt grounded, yet he simultaneously floated in a strange in-between state.
In the same breath, he wasn’t in his room and was instead floating. The ceiling peeled back into nebulous nothingness. But then, a figure blocked his vision, reminding him that he wasn’t floating. He was lying in his room, rooted firmly by the reigns of reality.
It was a familiar silhouette that his eyes struggled to focus on. His vision blurred as it seemed to close on the face before expanding like a camera lens. It took him a moment to recognize the person. For a few seconds, the pale skin and dark hair brought no familiar images to mind. It was just a person standing over him, blue eyes wide and lips moving soundlessly.
Damian opened his mouth to respond, but similarly, no sound was made. Still, his lips formed words, and his vocal cords vibrated from speech. His body recognized the person, but for once, his mind lagged a few steps behind.
“Drake.” His mind finally caught up with the rest of him as he was finally able to recognize his brother. His head slowly lulled to the side where he’d pointed, eyes wasting no time in landing on the scabbed cuts and dried blood on his arm. “...fuck…” He let out a long groan with the syllable.
He propped himself up, slowly allowing himself to adjust. His head still felt fuzzy, but he had enough sense to tug the sleeve of his sweatshirt down to his hand. He turned his head to Timothy, who he expected to be teeming with rage. After all, it was the reaction he’d prepared himself for. But instead, Timothy leaned against Damian’s bed, eyes exhausted. He didn’t seem angry. His posture was heavy and tired, not tense and static.
He looked straight ahead, not daring to turn to Damian for even a second. Damian mirrored his position, tugging one leg in to lean his arm against it. He prepared himself for a scolding or some display of displeasure, but it never came. Instead, Timothy let out a heavy sigh.
“You aren’t going to scold me?” Damian asked, his voice still containing hints of exhaustion.
“No. But I know I probably should.” Even his voice sounded tired. How long had it been since he’d had proper rest? Probably too long. “But I know how that goes. I tell you, it’s not good for you. You know. I tell you not to do that. You say you won’t, even though we both know you will. It’s how these things always go.”
“So then why don’t you? Why burden me with the needless theatrics?”
“Because I just hate you that much.” Timothy turned to look at Damian, a strange mixture of genuine concern and jest in his eyes. The corners of his lips quirked into the faintest ghost of a smile. “And believe it or not, I have these stupid familial obligations, so I have to care about you.”
Damian gave a pathetic attempt at a smile, but he could barely muster the strength to lift the corners of his mouth. “So what are you going to do if you won’t lecture me?”
“I don’t know.” Timothy shrugged and looked ahead. “It’s the one thing I never thought of.”
Damian nodded, allowing his eyes to drift shut. Having Timothy in his room was undoubtedly awkward, but it was breathable. The silence between them was suspenseful, leaving Damian on edge. He wanted to know what that idiot was thinking, but even trying to hypothesize about the whirlwind of thoughts in his mind was meaningless. He possessed a mind that even his grandfather, the great Ra’s Al Ghul, respected. So Damian could only sit in silence.
His eyes drifted shut once more, and he breathed out a shuddering breath. His hand clenched around the hem of his shirt to try and keep himself from shaking. He hated Timothy. His actions were predictable, yet his mind was boundless. It was infuriating as it was admirable.
A strange blend of emotions brewed inside him, stirring and coming to a slow boil. Its power was obvious, almost choking Damian with its potence. Like trying to swallow a phantom lump, pushing it down only seemed to make it worse.
He hated being unprepared. He hated feeling so inferior to Timothy. He should be nothing to Damian, nothing more than an insignificant sidekick, but he was so much more than that. Like a pimple that wouldn’t go away or a sore throat, he commanded more of Damian’s attention than he should. He lingered in the back of his thoughts, uninvited and unwelcome. The more he tried not to think of the third Robin, the more prominent he became in his mind, taunting Damian’s incompetence.
Even the way he sat there, claiming he didn’t know what to do when he was clearly driving Damian crazy. He hated Timothy. He hated how he was smarter, better respected, more resourceful, more talented, and generally more skilled. He was nothing. He paled in comparison to Damian’s training and better genetics, yet he excelled in everything. Damian hated it.
Damian turned his head away. “If you aren’t going to reprimand me for my weakness, then you have no business being here.”
“I know, but I know better than to leave.”
“Leave, Drake.” Damian brought both hands up to clench his pants. “Now.”
No response.
“Just go away.” He tried again, welding his eyes shut. He wouldn’t allow himself to cry just because an obnoxious Robin reject was invading his space.
Timothy remained silent.
“Leave me alone.”
Still no response.
“Please.” His voice cracked into a whisper as a soft hiccough slipped out of him. “I want to be alone.” He mentally beat himself for allowing himself to be so pathetic.
A hand settled on his shoulder. “I don’t want you to be alone, Dames.”
Damian flinched away, refusing to be touched by the likes of him. “Stop it.”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you, and you don’t even have to tell me.” A beat. “But I know… I understand what it might feel like.”
“You and I are nothing alike.” He hugged his knees to his chest, curling around himself in a moment of painful weakness. “You know nothing about me.”
“Maybe. But that just makes me want to stay more. I mean, unpredictability means approaching with more caution. It requires more attention. More, dare I say, care .”
“You expect me to believe you care about me?” Damian scoffed, despite the tightness in his throat. Obviously, he knew Timothy cared. He might be calloused and apathetic, but he wasn’t heartless. Some claimed that he cared too much, but Damian wasn’t entirely convinced.
“Oh, of course not,” Timothy responded. His tone had shifted to something a little lighter, more familiar. None of that mushy emotional stuff, just the familiar bantering tone they usually existed in. “God, no. Care meaning finesse.”
“I see.”
“But, if I did care. I still wouldn’t want you to be alone. Not right now.”
Damian looked over his shoulder at Timothy and, for a split second, allowed himself to trust him. He really didn’t want to be alone, but with Timothy… he wasn’t sure if he wanted his company. He didn’t know what he wanted. He was still too tired. Fuck, why was he still so tired?
His hand drew up to the inside of his arm, rubbing the still-tender cuts. He couldn’t even remember why he made them in the first place, only that they didn’t feel as good as they usually did.
Damian looked away from his brother and let out a heavy exhale. His mind flickered to the cuts littering the rest of his body. His other bicep, inner and outer thighs, right wrist, the bruises on his knuckles, and the burn on his forearm. He wanted to be alone. He didn’t deserve to be around someone like Timothy. Not as long as he was as broken as he was.
Yeah, he definitely had a problem. He knew he was addicted to hurting himself. He knew he was anxious and depressed, but he wasn’t suicidal. He’d never let himself get that bad. That was the one thing he knew for a fact. He’d stick it out until the bitter end. So it was fine. Everything else was manageable.
He could hate himself as much as he wanted as long as he still had a future to look forward to, right?
Timothy’s arms slowly wrapped around him in a tense yet sweet hug. He wanted to scream that he was fine and didn’t need Timothy’s pity, but he couldn’t. Instead, he sat there, allowing Timothy to hold him.
“I don’t need you,” He bit out, trying to retain a shred of dignity. “You’re wasting your time.”
“No, I’m not.” Timothy sighed. “Look, all joking aside, I’m sorry you’ve suffered on your own for so long. I know we’ve never been close, and I doubt there’s much I could’ve done to make you feel like this but I still wish I tried. I just—and this isn’t an excuse—I just always assumed you were always fine. But you shouldn’t have to be. You’re just a kid. A kid who’s been made to feel like an adult. So, I’m sorry for never trying to do more.”
Damian growled, but all protests died on his tongue. Instead, he sat there, too stunned to move or speak. His words were sweet, and he did appreciate them, but he’d rather die than tell Timothy. So he sat there, silently enjoying the rare peace between him. If he had worse self-restraint, he’d break down and confide in him, but his secrets remained locked in his throat. So, they just sat there in a strange truce.
Slowly, Damian allowed himself to slump back against Timothy, giving Timothy the chance to shoulder his weight. There was something to say about leaning against the person who was both so inferior and so much better than Damian, but he was too tired to really care.
He allowed those precious moments to go unsoiled by childish rivalries. He’d ruined too many opportunities to foster a tender relationship with his older brother, and he wasn’t about to ruin another. Tim, yeah, Tim, was surprisingly sturdy, supporting him without a single complaint. It felt unwarranted and undeserved.
Damian’s hand floated up to his arm, ghosting over raw skin and dry, sticky blood. “I need a shower.”
“And a therapist.”
“Watch yourself.” Damian hissed instinctively. “This doesn’t make us friends.”
Tim chuckled, “I know. I’m just being honest.”
He sighed. He wanted to thank Timothy for being there, but they instead fell into calm silence. Damian closed his eyes and let out a heavy sigh.
“Just tell me when you’re sick of me.” Timothy sighed with a soft chuckle, “Using your words, of course. I don’t feel like getting assaulted right now”
“I’m always sick of you, Drake,” Damian cleared his throat. “But I’ll allow it just this once.”
He pressed a hand to the side of his head, gently scratching his scalp. “You little shit. You’re lucky I love you.”
“Whatever.” Damian felt himself falter a little.
“Do you need to clean up?” The abnormal gentleness in his tone was foreign, but try as he might to conjure a reason to get mad at him, Damian couldn’t.
“It’ll clot.” Damian sighed, curling against Tim while craving the care he was obviously offering. “I’ll be fine.”
He moved his hand to Damian’s upper arm, urging him closer. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”
“It wasn’t deep.” He admitted, feeling himself shrink into the comforting embrace. “I promise.”
Tim hummed, “Can I trust you to tell the truth?”
“I’m not you.” He pried his eyes open to look up at Timothy’s. “I don’t needlessly lie.”
They sat in silence for a beat, both simultaneously tense and relaxed, until Damian had to open his mouth and ruin it.
“Is it too much to ask you to keep your mouth shut?”
There was hesitation in Timothy’s eyes, “I don’t—”
“Please?”
He sighed, rubbing Damian’s shoulder reassuringly. “I’ll give you three options of who I’ll tell. I will only tell them that you’re struggling, but you can fill in the rest. Does that work?”
Hearing that made him tense. If it were up to him, he’d force Tim into secrecy, but he knew better. Part of him didn’t want the help, not because he thought he could get over it on his own, quite the opposite. He’d struggled with the urge to draw blood for so long that there was something almost comforting in the ritual. When there was no one else around for him to lean on, he could always rely on the familiarity of the pain.
Who cared about how unhealthy and dangerous it was? At this point, Damian didn’t care about the risks. He just liked having the outlet. He didn’t want that taken from him.
“Who would you tell?” His voice trembled even though he knew the answer.
“Alfred, Bruce, or Dick. Whichever you think is best for you.”
Damian cleared his throat, “I don’t want Grayson to know. I fear he’ll reject me.”
“He wouldn’t,” Timothy assured. “You’re practically his son.”
It was a sentiment he’d heard time and time again, but he’s yet to believe it. Richard was his mentor and older brother, and as much as Damian wanted to have that sort of relationship with him, he couldn’t believe Richard shared the same beliefs. Richard cared about him, but he doubted it was to that extent.
“Absolutely not.”
“Are you sure?” Timothy asked.
No, he wasn’t.
If he revealed his struggles to Pennyworth, he feared he’d break the man’s heart. He wouldn’t want to trouble him more. Not when he had so many other things to worry about. Damian would only be a bother.
But then that left Father. Damian had already caused him enough grief as is. He didn’t want to burden him with another plight or give him another reason to harbor negativity toward him. He just wanted to prove himself, and admitting his struggles felt like undermining it.
Truthfully, if he were to tell anyone, he’d want to tell Richard, but could he bear the look in his eyes? Probably not.
“I… I don’t know,” Damian felt his voice crack, “I don’t want to tell anyone.”
“You have a choice, bud.” Timothy cradled his head against his chest, being far more intimate with Damian than anything before, but it felt good. “I don’t want to pick for you, but I will if I have to.”
Not wanting to resist, Damian allowed himself to slump into the embrace. He threw his arms around his neck, pulling him tighter against Tim’s body. He tucked his face into his chest, feeling the soft rhythm of his heart thumping in his chest. He hiccoughed softly while clinging to his brother.
“Please,” Damian choked out, feeling more pathetic than he ever had, “I don’t want to tell anyone else.”
Tim hummed, rocking Damian in his arms. “What if I told Bruce? He’s your dad, and he’d want to help—”
“No!” He blurted out, tightening his arms around his brother. “You can’t tell Father. Please, don’t tell Father.”
“Okay, okay,” Tim shushed him while stroking the back of his head, “Bruce is a no-go. What about Alfred? He’d do whatever he could to make sure you’re safe. Is that okay?”
“He’d tell Father,” Damian sniffled, “I don’t… I can’t tell him.”
“Then I don’t know what to tell you, Dames. Do you want me to pick?”
He shook his head, “No.”
“Well, if you can’t decide, I think I’m going to tell, Dick.” Tim’s hand continued rubbing the back of his head, though his touch quickly turned sour. “I know you don’t want him to know, but he loves you, Damian. He would do anything for you, and he’d want to make sure you’re safe. Is that okay?”
“He’ll hate me,” Damian whined.
“No, he won’t.” Tim held him close. “I promise.”
Damian slumped slightly, “Promise?”
“I know him. He adores you,” Tim assured Damian while rocking him. The gesture made Damian feel small and childish, but oddly enough, he didn’t mind. He felt safe and secure in his arms, more than he’d felt in a while. “Nothing you say will change that.”
Damian shuddered as he sighed, “I don’t know…”
“Do you trust me?” Tim asked.
Damian relaxed, “No.” He smiled into the fabric of his shirt. “But I know you’re not stupid, and you value your life.”
Tim chuckled and flicked the back of his head, “Whatever you say.”
“But you can tell Grayson. I guess.” Damian crawled out of his arms and curled against his side. “Just…don’t tell everything.”
“I won’t. That’s your job. Can’t have everyone thinking I give a damn about you.” There was a lightness in the way he spoke. It was gentle and caring while still mocking him. That was normal, safer than the foreign vulnerability they’d fallen into.
“Right, of course.” He sighed and clasped his hands together. “But if you did care, I might be inclined to thank you for being here with me, as a courtesy, of course. Not that you deserve one.”
“And if you did, I would tell you that I’d always be there for my brother. But, you know, we aren’t brothers, and I hate your guts, so I’d only say it out of obligation.”
A strained laugh punched out of Damian. “Right, formalities.”
“Of course.”
“Of course…”
“But, if we were brothers, I’d also tell you that I love you and that if you ever needed anything, I would be there for you.”
“I’d laugh at you.”
“I know you would. So, thank God we aren’t brothers.”
“Yeah.” Damian tucked into his shoulder, feeling himself relax more. “Yeah.”