Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He’s lying next to me again. Elbow crooked behind his head, eyes closed like he doesn’t know what he’s doing to me. The room’s quiet, but not in that peaceful kind of way—it’s the kind of quiet that makes your skin itch, like it’s daring me to break it.

Kon’s hand brushes mine. Just barely. Not enough to mean anything, but enough that it still does.

He always touches me like this. Like he’s asking a question, but never out loud.

And I let him. God, I let him.

His thigh is pressed against mine, warm and solid, and stupidly comforting. I let my shoulder fall into his, let our arms tangle. My fingers settle against the hem of his shirt, not pulling, not gripping, just.. there.

“I like this,” he says.

I don’t answer. I can’t.

Because I like it too much.

Because it feels like having something I don’t deserve.

Because I want to turn my head and kiss him stupid.

But I won’t.

I can’t.

He shifts, and turns on his side to face me. His hand moves to my cheek, tentative. Gentle. He’s always so gentle with me, like he knows I’m on the edge of breaking even when I won’t say it out loud.

“I don’t get you, Drake,” he murmurs, soft smile playing on his lips— like he’s trying not to make it a big deal. “You’ll let me do this,” his thumb brushes my jaw, “but not that.”

That.

That is a kiss.

That is honesty.

That is admitting this isn’t just comfort, or friendship, or a body to lean into after a long mission.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “You don’t want what I am.”

“Then tell me what you are.”

I swallow. “Confused.”

He doesn’t move. He just… stays. Still. Breathing steady.

“That’s not a crime.”

“It feels like one.”

His hand slips into mine, threading our fingers like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“You touch me like you mean it,” he says. “But you won’t kiss me like you’re allowed to.”

I laugh. It’s bitter and sharp, and way too loud in this room. “Because I’m not allowed.”

Saying it out loud tastes like shame. Feels like bleeding.

He sits up then, legs crossed, looking down at me like he’s trying to read every secret I won’t give him.

“You’re allowed, Tim. You just don’t believe it.”

I sit up too. Shoulders hunched. Hands in my lap. I look at him and I want to kiss him so bad it hurts. Not even in the romantic, poetic way. Just in the real way. Like, full on desperate, fingers in his hair, heart-hammering kind of want.

But I don’t. I won’t.

Instead, I let my head fall on his shoulder. My hand finds his again. We sit like that for a long time.

He doesn’t ask again.

And I still don’t kiss him.

He’s patient. Christ, he’s so patient. I don’t deserve it.

We stopped sharing beds a few weeks ago.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t push. He just stopped showing up at my window.

I still feel him though. Like a ghost. Like my room remembers where he used to sit, where his laugh used to echo, where his hand used to fit against mine like it was made for it.

I go on patrol. I work. I do the things that make me feel useful, even when I don’t feel whole.

And then one night.. I don’t know if it’s loneliness, or guilt, or both. I show up at his place in metropolis.

Not as Red Robin. Just… me.

Tim.

He opens the door like he was expecting me. Eyes tired. Hair messier than usual.

“You look like hell,” he says, but it’s not cruel. It’s soft. Familiar.

I stare at him. At everything I’ve been trying not to want. He’s still wearing the hoodie I used to borrow.

“I miss you,” I say before I can stop myself.

His jaw tightens, like he’s trying not to let that sentence shatter him. “I’m still here.”

“Not the same.”

“You made it that way.”

I nod. Because he’s right.

“I don’t know what to do, honestly.” I say, voice low and raw.

He steps closer. Slow. Careful. Like I’m a wounded thing.

“You don’t have to kiss me,” he says, almost a whisper. “I just need to know you want to.”

I look at him. Really look. And everything in me screams yes.

But my mouth doesn’t move.

He’s so close I can feel the warmth radiating off him, the way it always used to comfort me. He smells like the sun, like wind, like safety. And I want to lean into it. God, I do.

But I stay still.

“Tim?” he asks, barely audible.

I blink. Swallow. Back away half a step.

“I can’t.”

His breath catches. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t beg. Just waits.

“I thought maybe if I came here, if I saw you again, it would be different. That I’d be braver. That it would feel okay,” I say, eyes locked on some meaningless crack in the floor.

“But it doesn’t?”

I shake my head. “It feels real . And that’s the problem.”

He looks down, jaw tight, nodding like he’s preparing to take a hit. “You don’t want this.”

“That’s not true,” I say too quickly, and he flinches.

“Then what the hell is it?”

My hands clench into fists at my sides. “You’re my friend, Kon.”

The word feels too small the second it leaves my mouth. Too clean. Like I’m trying to fit an entire storm into a single, safe box.

He’s quiet for a long time.

When he finally speaks, his voice is calm. Measured. Careful.

“Right,” he says, like he’s testing the shape of the word. “Your friend.”

And then, softer, “You don’t have to fix everything, Tim. You don’t even have to be sure. I just want the truth.”

I look down. “That’s all we’ve ever been. Maybe it got.. confusing, but it wasn’t what you thought.”

“Confusing,” he repeats, and something in his face changes. He’s not angry. Not yelling. Just hurt. Quietly, deeply hurt.

I push forward, because stopping now would be worse.

“When you’re a kid, you hold your best friend’s hand. You fall asleep next to them, you say you miss them when they’re gone. That doesn’t make it anything more. We just… we had a bond. That’s all.”

I don’t mean for it to come out so flat. So rehearsed. But maybe I do. Maybe I’ve been practicing this since the first time I caught myself looking too long, caring too much.

He doesn’t say anything, and I hate the way his eyes go glassy but don’t spill over. Like he knew this was coming.

“I don’t like guys,” I say. “I’m not like that.”

The silence turns sharp.

“What are you doing, Tim?” His voice breaks in the middle. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

I almost answer. I almost scream.

Because if I let this be real, if I let you be real, I don’t know who I am anymore.

But instead, I shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t matter.

“There was never anything more. Not from me.”

He flinches. Just barely. But it cuts through me worse than anything else ever could.

“I thought maybe we were already passe that line,” he says softly. “That we didn’t need to say it, because it was already there.”

“I know,” I whisper. And it’s the most honest thing I’ve said all night.

“But I guess I was just… someone you could be close to without having to face it,” he says. “Someone you could pretend with. Until pretending started to hurt.”

I can’t look at him.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Kon doesn’t speak, and for a second I think maybe he’s waiting for more. He’s waiting for an explanation, or maybe a confession I don’t have in me.

So I laugh. Soft, awkward. Like this is all just a misunderstanding, a joke that went too far.

“Come on,” I say, forcing a smile. “You know how it is. Friends get close, lines blur. It doesn’t have to mean anything.”

His brows knit together. “Didn’t it mean something to you?”

I shake my head, quick and practiced. “It was just… comfort. Familiarity. I needed someone. You were there.”

He swallows, looking down at the space between us like it might close on its own.

“We were just being stupid,” I add, waving it off. “It happens. We don’t need to turn this into some big dramatic thing.”

He nods slowly, but his silence says everything. It always does.

I sigh. “I care about you, Kon. I really do. But we’re not that. We never were. And pushing this? It just messes everything up.”

“I wasn’t trying to push,” he says softly.

“I know.” I rub the back of my neck. “But I had to say it. Because if we keep pretending there was something more… eventually one of us is gonna get hurt.”

He doesn’t say it out loud, but we both know both of us already have.

“You’re my best friend,” I say. “Let’s not ruin that. Please.”

And when he nods, slow, heavy, I feel the weight of it settle in my chest. Because I don’t know if I just saved us, or if I just ruined what we have forever.

He nods. Doesn’t speak.

I would’ve preferred if he had just yelled, or told me I was being a coward. At least then I’d know how to respond. But Kon just stands there, still and quiet, like something inside him has gone soft and hollow.

I glance down. The space between us feels so large now.

“Anyway,” I say, trying to steady my voice, “I should head back. Patrol.”

He still doesn’t say anything, and I almost laugh again—not because it’s funny, but because the silence feels unbearable.

I turn, expecting to feel some sort of relief. I don’t.

I get halfway to the door before he finally says, “You could’ve just said you didn’t feel the same.”

I stop, but I don’t turn around. “I did.”

It slips out before I can stop it. Stupid. Weak. Mean.

“Maybe I do,” I add quickly. It slips out, and I want to punch myself after. “But that doesn’t mean it’s right.”

He exhales, sharp and quiet. “Tim, why does it feel like you’re punishing us for it?”

“I’m not.” I finally turn, and my voice is firmer now. “I’m protecting us. There’s a difference.”

He nods again. But this one’s different. It’s not acceptance, not agreement. Just resignation.

“I’ll see you around, Kon.” I say, blinking back the sting in my eyes as I walk out the door.

“Yeah. Call me when you figure your shit out.”

-

I tell myself I did the right thing. That I stopped something before it could break us.

But my hands won’t stop shaking. And my chest feels hollow in a way I can’t explain, like I traded something real for something safe. Like I gave up the only thing that ever made me feel known just to keep a label I never asked for.

Still, I never call him.

Because if I let myself chase that feeling…

I don’t know who I’ll be when I catch it.

Chapter Text

Time passes strangely when someone’s still stuck in your chest.

I told myself I’d move on, that I’d stop waiting for Tim to knock on my window again like nothing happened, that I wouldn’t keep replaying that night like a scratched record. But silence stretches, and sometimes silence says more than words ever did.

He said he wasn’t ready.

Said it like a shield, like an apology, like I should be proud of him for drawing a line before it all went too far. I told myself to believe him. I did.

Until I saw them.

It’s not even dramatic— no kiss, no confession. Just a photo on my feed. Tim, smiling. Really smiling. The kind of smile I used to get when I pulled him away from his screens and made him lay in the grass with me. That kind of smile, but not for me. For him. For Bernard.

Bernard. Clean-cut. Blond. Soft around the edges. Everything Tim once told me he didn’t want to be. Everything I’ll never be.

At first, I think it’s nothing. Just a friend. Some old Gotham prep buddy or a work thing. Tim’s always been friendly in that distant, cautious way. But then there are more posts. Then Bart says something without thinking.

“You hear about Tim and Bernard? Wild, right?”

Wild.

No one told me. Not even Tim. Especially not Tim.

And that’s when it hits me. The whole weight of it, all over again.

He was ready. Just not with me.

I punch a hole through a wall that night. Clark hears about it. Pretends it’s a training accident. I let him. Can’t tell him that the real reason is smaller than a Kryptonian threat, but hurts way worse.

⸻

It’s stupid how I keep remembering the little things. Like the time Tim fell asleep on my shoulder, dead to the world, but his hand found mine in his sleep like it meant something. Or the way he’d look at me—that long, quiet stare like he was memorizing the shape of me but didn’t know why.

We had something. I know we did.

But he called it friendship. Said it didn’t mean anything. Laughed it off like we were kids playing pretend.

And now Bernard gets the real thing.

He gets the version of Tim who’s figured it out. The Tim who kisses. The Tim who stays.

What does Bernard have that I don’t?

I ask myself that in the dark, in the shower, in the middle of patrol when my mind slips for half a second and nearly gets me wrecked. I tell myself it’s not Bernard’s fault. That this isn’t his fight. But I can’t help it.

I’ve known Tim longer. I’ve seen him fall apart and hold himself together with sheer will and too much coffee. I’ve been there for the late nights, the bruised ribs, the missions that went sideways. I’ve heard his heartbeat stutter when he’s scared and watched it calm when I walk into the room.

But Bernard gets the boyfriend title.

Maybe that’s what hurts most. Not that he picked someone else—

But that he picked someone else easily.

Like what we had was never anything at all.

Sometimes I still think I hear him in my head. That clipped tone when he pushed me away, that dry humor that always landed sharper than he intended. I still reach for my phone, draft texts I’ll never send.

Hey. You ever think maybe we were something more?

Delete.

Are you happy?

Delete.

Was I just a place you hid until you were ready to be real?

I don’t delete that one. I just don’t send it.

Because I already know the answer.

⸻

I go to Gotham once. Just to see. Just to check.

I don’t mean to. It’s reckless, pathetic. But I do.

Tim had posted they were on a study date. And yeah, maybe it made me a creep. I felt like a crazy ex.

But I couldn’t help it.

The worst part?

I wasn’t even an ex. Just a shadow. A placeholder. Someone who almost mattered.

He’s laughing at something Bernard said, leaning in too close in that way that used to be ours. And for a second, Tim looks up. His eyes scan the sidewalk like he feels me there.

I duck away before he sees me.

Because what would I even say?

He made his choice. He drew the line. And I was the one left standing behind it.

⸻

It’s weird, mourning someone who’s still alive. Still breathing. Still texting mutual friends. Still showing up on feeds and mission logs. Just… not showing up for me.

Bernard looks like he belongs in Tim’s world. The neat sweaters, the school clubs, the calm. He’s the kind of guy who’d meet your parents and shake their hands. The kind of guy who could be kissed in public without Tim flinching.

I wonder if Bernard knows how lucky he is.

I bet Bernard doesn’t have to wonder where they stand. 

Maybe one day I’ll stop checking. Stop comparing. Stop wondering why I wasn’t enough.

But right now?

Right now it feels like Tim got to grow into the person he wanted to be. I was just the chrysalis he needed to break first.

Some people get to stay in your life.

Others are just the ache you carry.

And I think I’ll be carrying him for a long time.

I want to hate him. God, it would be so much easier if I could just hate him.

If I could take all those nights on rooftops, all the unspoken things between us, and set fire to them. If I could look at him and feel nothing but cold. If I could see him with Bernard and not feel like I’m being erased.

But I never could. Not with him.

Even now, even after all of it, I’d still come running if he called. No questions. No hesitation. Just blind, reckless hope. The kind that makes you forget how many times you’ve been left waiting.

And maybe that’s my problem.

That no matter how many ways he tells me he’s not mine—through silence, through distance, through soft smiles meant for someone else, I keep hoping he’ll come back anyway. Not just as a friend. Not as someone who laughs it off. But as the version of him that only existed when it was just the two of us, breathing the same quiet air.

Maybe that version was never real. Maybe I imagined it.

Or maybe I was just the safe place he used to survive until he found a life he could really live in.

But I’m still here, standing in the ruins of whatever we were, pretending it doesn’t hurt to be nothing now. Pretending I don’t still love him in a way that burns when I smile.

And the worst part?

If he walked through that door right now—messy hair, tired eyes, saying my name like it still meant something—

I’d still make room for him.

Even if it wrecked me all over again.