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The tiny blue numbers on the clock gleefully inform Jon that it is way too late for him to still be awake.
Jon rubs a hand over his face. Just. Fantastic! He’s going to trip and fall on his face in the middle of a game because he couldn’t get a single rem cycle in and then he’ll need to throw himself off the nearest cliff instead of attending any post-game press.
Jon pats around for his phone, blinking against the bleary glare of his screen light, and he texts Damian mostly through the sheer power of muscle memory. His thumbs work faster than his brain; he’s sending will u still love me if i have to jump off a cliff before he can really consider any of the implications involved in that sentence.
Damian doesn’t (sadly) text him back in the next five seconds—probably, y’know, asleep —and Jon is seriously considering stealing melatonin from Connor, shotgunning it, and hoping for the best. It’s like, c’mon, he’s only competing for the chance to win an Olympic medal. No biggie. Typical Tuesday. Why not make it more exciting and do it sleep deprived? Maybe it’ll lessen the sting of whatever happens, anyway!
The click of the door is barely audible over Jon’s internal strife. He should probably be more concerned about whoever it was that just entered through his room’s locked door. Ehhh. Whatever. He’ll fight back with the alarm clock and free himself from the accusatory glare of the blue numbers. Maybe then he’ll know some freaking peace.
Except no attack comes. Instead, a hand settles over his heart as the maybe-intruder (?) climbs into his fancy cardboard bed with him (!?). The hand taps once, twice, a silent hello that makes Jon go all fuzzy warm with recognition.
“Dames?” he says, and at the hum of confirmation Jon’s snuggling back in the welcoming embrace.
There’s a small huff of breath against Jon’s neck. The arm around his chest tightens. “Were you expecting someone else, Hayseed?”
Jon covers the hand over his heart with his own. “Cliff thrower,” he whispers, sadly.
Damian makes a noise that sounds amused. “I will protect you.”
“With your sword?” Jon thinks Damian’s fencing weapons are so cool. Fencing is so fast. Damian looks like a dancer whenever he’s competing.
“Yes, Jon.” Damian is warm, warm, warm against Jon’s side. “Now. Sleep.”
And that alone is almost enough to send him right off, because Damian’s been pavloving Jon into taking naps for— years. But. “Are you comin’ to the game?”
A small scoff. “Of course. I’ll even cheer.”
“Aw,” Jon coos. “‘M gonna win it for you.”
And then he’s breathing slow, steady, just within the reach of dreams. In the morning, like actual morning, Jon will run a hand through Damian’s gravity-defying bedhead and coax him awake with the promise of tea and a chocolate muffin before joining his team at the stadium; giving himself over to the game, to his team, to everyone watching.
But for now, hands still clasped, this moment is theirs.