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Chapter Text

Jon Kent felt like his very soul was about to detach from his body when Bruce — with that eternally serious expression — and Clark — with that infuriatingly radiant optimism — announced their “brilliant” idea: Damian Wayne, Otho-Ra, and Osul-Ra would be the new official lineup of the Super Sons.

The moment those words were spoken, Jon could have sworn he heard an imaginary crack inside his head — something between an aneurysm about to burst and the sound of all his future plans going up in flames.

Took a deep breath. Not because he was calm, but because if he didn’t, he would probably explode right there in front of everyone. A forced smile stretched across his lips — the kind so rehearsed it could almost pass as genuine… if you didn’t know about the murderous glint hiding in his eyes.

“Wow… that’s… great,” he said, his voice dripping with a kind of enthusiasm so artificial it could’ve been sold as recycled plastic. “You’re going to be amazing.”

Clark, of course, smiled proudly, as if his son were genuinely happy about it. Bruce didn’t move a facial muscle, but Jon knew he was pleased with the boy’s “mature” reaction. Otho-Ra and Osul-Ra, on the other hand, were already exchanging excited looks, probably making plans to turn the name “Super Sons” into something that would, within a week, sound more like “The Kryptonian Twins League.”

And in the middle of it all — Damian.
The infuriating, enigmatic, sarcastic, insufferable Damian Wayne… whom Jon couldn’t help but want at his side, always. There he was, arms crossed, bored expression in place, as if the news was irrelevant — but Jon knew that tiny raise of his eyebrow that meant “I’m enjoying your suffering.”

Inside, Jon was already crafting a perfectly rational and absolutely non-criminal plan (according to him): send the twins to the farthest corner of space — somewhere between the edge of the universe and a black hole — and, in the process, simply… kidnap Damian. Fly away with him to some place where there were no extra Kryptonians, no team meetings, and no announcements that felt like a bad joke.

On the surface, though, he kept smiling. Kept nodding. Kept faking enthusiasm, even letting out a hollow laugh when Otho said something about “training together.”

And deep in Jon’s mind, there was only one absolute certainty: if this new lineup lasted more than a week, he was going to lose whatever shred of sanity that damn volcano had left behind.

Chapter Text

Jon had known Damian since kindergarten. To the world, Damian was just an ordinary boy — the son of an artist and a real estate agent, someone with a normal routine, an apparently peaceful childhood. But Jon had always known there was something different about that boy with the intense gaze and reserved manner.

Their friendship began in a somewhat unconventional way — and especially traumatic for Jon: a crayon stuck up his nose. Yes, exactly that. A strange and painful moment, but somehow, in a twisted way, it sealed the bond between them. (Mental note: zero out of ten, not recommended for anyone to try.)

Between constant fights and disputes over playground territory, kicks and teasing, stolen hugs and suppressed laughter, they built a relationship that defied conventions — a strange friendship, yet solid and incredibly beautiful in its imperfection.

When they turned thirteen, everything changed. Not suddenly, but with an unsettling subtlety, something Jon had never felt before. And it was on an ordinary afternoon that he noticed something no boy that age should be able to perceive: Damian’s heart racing erratically, like a frantic and offbeat drum beating silently in his mind.

How did he know that sound was coming from Damian? How could he hear it so clearly? The answer seemed to escape logic, but there was no doubt — that was his friend in danger. Without hesitation, Jon got up and ran. And on impulse, he passed through the wall of his house as if it were made of paper, guided by the growing and erratic beat of that heart.

Arriving at Damian’s house, a gruesome scene awaited him. The place where his friend should have been safe was surrounded by a chaotic crowd. Police blocked access, and an ambulance flashed its red and blue lights cutting through the air. Two body bags — motionless, silent — were being carried out of the house, while Damian remained there, pale and in shock, supported by officers trying to contain his grief.

For a fleeting moment, Jon thought he saw something that stabbed his heart: a woman with green eyes. A green he would recognize anywhere — a deep and familiar shade, one with which he had lived his whole life, and at some point, had become his world.

Determined to reach his friend, Jon did not hesitate. He pushed forward, breaking through the crowd and shoving police and paramedics with an almost superhuman force — he could swear he heard their bones creak and even break as they were pressed against his desperate momentum. Nothing mattered except getting to Damian.

When he finally did, the two met in a desperate embrace, an anchor amid the chaos. Tears mingled with muffled sobs as Damian murmured with a trembling, almost unrecognizable voice:

— They’re gone...

That was all Jon needed to hear to understand the depth of the void opening before them. He held Damian tightly with all the strength he had, as if with that simple gesture he could stop the world from continuing to collapse around them.

In that embrace, there was more than comfort — there was a silent promise that, despite everything, he would not let his friend face the pain alone.

Chapter Text

Jon could only blame himself.

Ever since he returned from space — that nightmare that had not only taken him away from his home but also from the people who once were part of his life — he had been trying with all his might to distance himself from his past. It was a past too painful, full of memories that burned in his chest, a past he swore to leave behind like a book already read, forgotten.

“A fresh start,” he repeated to himself, almost like a mantra. “A new life, clean, without scars. Nothing to pull me down.” And for him, that meant cutting ties, erasing faces, ignoring names.

Damian was one of them.

Damian, who had silently carried the cruel loss of Alfred, who had been ripped from his life in a brutal and merciless way right before his eyes — and who now was drowning alone in his pain, fighting internal shadows that no one saw.

He needed someone, he needed Jon.

But Jon wasn’t there for him. He ran away when Damian needed him most. He chose the path of cowardice and distance.

To forget, he met other people. He met Jay, his boyfriend, someone who offered him a new light, a warmth that seemed to promise a better future, far from the darkness of the past. With Jay, everything seemed to fit — or at least, he wanted to believe that. He buried Damian deep in the recesses of his mind, like a pain that had to be buried so it wouldn’t suffocate his present.

But the past is an relentless ghost.

And then, HE arrived.

---

Chris Kent. Or Lor-Zod, if anyone wanted to use his real name — a heavy name, marked by the shadow of General Zod, who had shown no mercy.

Now, he was the new Superboy, the renegade son who had found his place beside Superman, the new hero in town. And, above all, a new friend for Damian.

Jon didn’t know when, nor how, it happened. He only discovered — with a cold shock — at a party at the Watchtower. It was supposed to be a celebration, a break after the hard-fought victory against an alien invasion. But for Jon, the scene he found there was a blow straight to the heart.

There they were.

Damian and Chris.

Together.

Talking.

Laughing.

Touching, smiling with a warmth that Jon could only envy.

(It should have been him there.)

---

Jon could only blame himself.

He had chosen to abandon everything.

It was his fault Damian was there, in Chris’s arms, and not his.

It was his fault the exchanged glances were of desire and affection, not of a love he himself could have given.

It was his fault Damian’s lips were connected to Chris’s, not his own.

It was his fault that at that moment, Jay, his own boyfriend, was the one now forgotten, pushed to the depths of his mind — replaced by a new pain, rawer and burning.

He saw the love there.

The love he had let slip away.

And he could only blame himself.

It was his fault.

---

Finally, unable to bear the silent torture consuming his chest any longer, Jon confronted Chris.

His voice came out trembling, suffocated by pain and anger: “Why you? Why not me? I was his friend, his partner. I was always there, even from afar...”

Chris interrupted him, cutting his words with a sharp intensity.

“Where were you?” he asked, his voice rising, loaded with a fury Jon had never seen.

“Where were you while he suffered? When he cried alone? When he desperately needed someone — and you didn’t show up?”

Jon was left speechless. Because there was no good answer. Because he couldn’t justify the abandonment.

“I was there,” Chris said, his voice cold, almost cruel. “I may not have known him as long as you, but I reached out when he was at his lowest. You... you chose to run away.”

The words hit him like a punch in the gut.

Jon was mute, unable to argue, unable to deny.

“I was there, and you weren’t. That’s the truth, Jon. In the end, there’s only one thing you can do: blame yourself.”

Chris turned and walked away, leaving behind a heavy silence, an emptiness that seemed to consume everything.

---

Jon felt the guilt grow inside him, spreading like a poison through every fiber of his body.

It was the truth.

It was his fault.

And maybe, deep down, that guilt was the only thing he deserved.

Because he couldn’t run anymore.

He couldn’t hide.

After all, he could only blame himself.

Chapter Text

Jon Kent never quite understood why he had to hide his powers — why, for his parents to “play house,” he had to pretend to be an ordinary kid. They wanted him to be a normal child, living a simple life, raising no suspicions, causing no fear. But to Jon, it felt like an invisible prison. He felt the strength pulsing inside him, an energy boiling ready to explode, and he couldn’t grasp the point of holding it all back, of silencing his true self. Once, after yet another frustrating training session, he asked Clark, his father, while they walked in silence:

— Why can’t I be myself? Why do I have to hold back?

Clark sighed, looking at the horizon before answering, somewhat reluctantly:

— Because the world isn’t ready for what you are, Jon. Because sometimes, being normal is the only way to protect those you love.

But Jon never felt that was enough. He didn’t want to be a “normal” boy — he wanted to be strong, powerful, free.

On the other side of this equation was Damian Wayne. Raised to be the world’s best assassin, he had the harsh task of repressing any trace of humanity to survive. Since he was little, he heard what he was: a threat, a monster, a demon. Even his own family viewed him with suspicion, a danger to be controlled, a blade too sharp to be left unsheathed. In a rare moment of vulnerability, he confessed to Jon, during a cold night on a Gotham rooftop:

— They say I’m a monster. That I’ll never be anything else. That my life is nothing but blood and darkness. And maybe they’re right.

Jon looked at him, his eyes shining with that intense, pure light that always defined him:

— What if the monster is just what they fear, Damian? What if, deep down, you’re more than they can understand?

It was this tension between who they were and what the world wanted them to be that bound them. Jon was like a bomb about to explode, with a nearly divine strength repressed, while Damian was a cold blade, sharp and lethal. But when they were together, there was a strange harmony — two opposing forces that completed each other.

They didn’t have to pretend or hide from each other. There was no need for masks. When Jon let slip a grim smile as he crushed an enemy’s bones with almost superhuman strength, Damian made no judgments. He simply nodded, like someone who understands that survival sometimes demands brutality. And when Damian called Jon to burn a body with his heat vision, he did it with calculated coldness, knowing that in the silence of that moment, there was no room for weakness — but Jon accepted it, without questions, because he knew Damian acted with a just cause.

No one understood them — and maybe they didn’t understand themselves. They didn’t seek labels like “friends,” “best friends,” or “boyfriends.” To them, those words felt small in the face of the immensity of what they shared. They were a combination forged in hell to the eyes of the world, but to them, a gift from the heavens.

Once, during a break between missions, Jon said with a half smile, his voice almost a whisper:

— If someone asked what we are, I wouldn’t know what to say, I wouldn’t even be able to understand what we have and... impossible to define, impossible to stop.

Damian raised an eyebrow but with a rare touch of affection:

— Or maybe we’re just two kids trying to survive in a world that doesn’t want us to be anything.

And in that simplicity, in that silent exchange of glances, lay the whole depth of their relationship.

They didn’t need to prove anything. Not to the world, not to themselves. They knew what they had was unique, powerful, special — because it didn’t fit into any box, into any definition.

Jon Kent and Damian Wayne, two chaotic and raw forces, found in each other a home where they could be free. And maybe, that was the true normal.

Chapter Text

The creature approached slowly, its eyes glowing with a cold and enigmatic light, unlike anything Damian had ever seen. The voice that came from its throat sounded strange, a mix of absence and repressed emotion, as if that entity was struggling against its own inner torment.

— Why are you crying? — it asked, the question sounding almost like an accusation, but at the same time a desperate plea for understanding.

It was no longer Jon.

Jon did not exist there.

Jon was an eleven-year-old boy, with an easy smile and a pure soul, incapable of any wickedness other than the innocence of childhood. Jon had not become the dark shadow that now presented itself before Damian.

Jon would never have allowed the darkness to consume him, would never have become cruel or sadistic.

Jon would never have bathed in the blood of the innocent, nor broken family bonds in a frenzy of destruction.

The creature’s eyes, once human, now reflected only hunger and possessiveness, an abyss of darkness that seemed to suck away any hope.

Jon would never have set his house on fire.

Would never have reduced to ashes the home that was once his refuge, and much less desecrated the bodies of those Damian once loved, leaving them unrecognizable, disfigured by merciless violence.

(Damian felt the heat of the flames around him, heard the cracking of the breaking wood and the crackling of the collapsing walls. The sound of his family’s screams still echoed in his mind, a lament that seemed endless. And then, silence took over, heavy and suffocating.)

— Aren’t you happy to see me? — the creature’s voice trembled, as if carrying the weight of the world. There was a contained sob, a raw vulnerability hidden beneath the mask of fury and despair it felt.

(I’m here, Damian. I haven’t abandoned you. I missed you every day, every night, trapped in that hell. I will never leave you again. Please, don’t hate me.)

But those confused thoughts, that storm inside Jon, only made the beast within him wilder and more unpredictable.

— All these years, I only thought about you — he whispered, his voice choked with sincere pain. Five years of isolation, of fighting against his own essence, and yet Damian was the only name that remained in his mind. There was no space for memories of his parents, nor for the cruel abandonment of those who allowed an innocent boy to be thrown into the void of space, as if nothing could go wrong.

— ...Please... say something — he pleaded, his voice almost breaking, while the creature’s eyes searched in vain for some sign of recognition in Damian.

Damian was kneeling, lonely, among the smoking ruins of what had once been his home. The heavy air of destruction and death surrounded him like a suffocating cloak. Around him, the charred and mutilated bodies of his family, unrecognizable remains that once held love and life.

They were there, shattered — body, soul, and hope — a mirror of the devastation that now filled Damian’s heart.

And the creature’s despair grew, overflowed, consumed everything around. It grew like a fire that could not be extinguished, a blind rage that devoured any trace of sanity.

— And it grew.

— And it grew.

— And it grew.

— And it grew... until suddenly, everything seemed to stop.

A cold, cruel, and predatory smile slid across the creature’s face.

If the bond they had, that ancient and sacred link, had been broken, it no longer mattered.

It was just a forgotten memory, useless in the face of what he was now.

No, he was no longer Jon. He would never be again.

But there was something new, something powerful — a new bond to be forged.

He did not need Damian’s trust, nor the love they had once shared.

He needed Damian to love him as he was now.

Whether Damian wanted to or not.

Because, in the end, that was what he would choose.

And no one could stop him.

Chapter Text

— I’m coming with you.

Jon stood frozen, as if time itself had stopped. Damian was there, right in the middle of his room, dressed in civilian clothes and holding a black suitcase. There was no hesitation in his stance, as if this decision was as natural as breathing.

— What? — Jon blinked, incredulous.

— Are you deaf? — Damian raised an eyebrow. — I said I’m coming with you.

Jon understood the words, but he had no idea how Damian knew about the trip.

No one was supposed to know.

No one.

Only he, his mother, and his father knew that tonight they were leaving for space with his grandfather, Jor-El, for a training journey. Lois had invented the perfect excuse: she told everyone she was taking Jon to visit his human grandfather, getting time off work and permission to miss school. They had spent days preparing.

And now, just hours before departure, Damian was here.

— I hacked your phone — he said suddenly, as casually as if commenting on the weather.

Jon’s eyes went wide.

— How?!

— You’d been ignoring me the last few days. I got suspicious. So I checked. I read your messages with your mom. Going to space… without me?! — he shouted the last part, indignant.

Jon narrowed his eyes.

— Why do you care so much? This is my family’s business, not yours. It’s none of your concern.

Damian raised his chin, irritated.

— None of my concern? My partner, my best friend, is disappearing off the planet for who knows how long — and abandoning me? How is that not my concern?!

Jon froze for a moment.

Best friend.

It was the first time Damian had said it out loud.

— What about the Titans? Your family? Does your dad know? — Jon asked, still stunned.

A smirk tugged at Damian’s lips.

— The Titans can manage without a Robin. My family doesn’t know, and that’s exactly why I came today. They won’t have time to stop me.

— But why? — Jon pressed, frowning. — Why do all this?

Damian’s face turned serious. His eyes, normally sharp and cold, looked heavy with something deeper.

— Did you forget the promise I made?

— What promise?

— The promise I made to your dad: no matter what happened, I’d be there for you. Always. And besides… — a slight smile returned — we’re a team. Supersons till the end. Screw the Titans.

Jon didn’t know what to say. It was like Damian had stripped away all his sarcasm and arrogance, showing something rare: pure honesty.

— Are you sure? — he asked, uncertain.

— More than anything — Damian answered, unwavering.

Jon took a deep breath.

— We leave in an hour. I’ll talk to my mom to get permission for you to come.

Damian let out a short laugh.

— Like I need her permission.

Jon smiled.

This was the Damian he knew.

The Damian who would go with him to the ends of the earth.

And somehow, Jon believed everything would be alright.

---

Heat. Hot and suffocating.

The world seemed to burn. The cracked, red earth trembled under the weight of molten lava flowing like rivers of fire. The air was thick, too heavy to breathe.

Jon held Damian close to his chest, as if the pressure of his arms could pull all the pain away.

Their escape had been desperate, almost insane. But once again, Ultraman caught up with them. The result was brutal: Damian’s legs were twisted at impossible angles, so wrong Jon could barely look without feeling sick.

Jon himself was unharmed — not out of mercy, but because Ultraman knew exactly how to hurt him. Watching his best friend scream in pain, powerless to help, was a torment hotter than the lava all around.

Damian breathed with difficulty. He slept, but it was a restless sleep, broken by spasms and grimaces. The pain consumed him even in his dreams, draining every bit of his strength.

Jon felt tears fall, hot as the air he breathed. He cried from pain, guilt, and despair. He imagined all the ways he could have stopped this. He begged, silently and aloud, for someone to come.

But no one came.

And deep down, Jon knew… no one would.

Chapter Text

Since he had returned from space—a nightmare that had not only torn him from his home but also from the people who had once been part of his life—Jon had been trying to reintegrate into Earth. Trying to run not only from his own past but also from his soul, scratched, frayed, torn apart by memories that not even time could heal.

Erase traces. Bury memories.

The mission that should have been a rebirth, a fresh start, had turned into a silent escape.

— new beginning, — he repeated, like someone trying to convince themselves of an obvious lie—a cheap mantra that couldn’t withstand a closer look.

— A new life, clean. No scars. Nothing tying me to what’s already gone. 

But the scars were there—invisible, tattooed into the deepest part of his being. They pulsed in the hours when he was alone, in the shadows that gathered when the noise of the world went quiet.

And to him, that meant cutting ties. Erasing faces. Ignoring names.

Damian was one of those names.

In the silence of the night, when the stars watched cold and indifferent, Jon still saw Damian’s face in his memory—steady, yet marked by pain. He still remembered how Damian bore the suffocating grief of losing Alfred all on his own—ripped away in a cruel, swift, merciless way, as if the world had shattered into pieces. Damian, who drowned quietly, hiding his pain behind cold stares, short phrases, almost inhuman.

He needed someone.

He needed Jon.

But Jon wasn’t there.

When Damian needed him the most, he ran.

It was an escape that hurt just as much as the torment of being trapped. To forget, he met other people. He met Jay, his boyfriend—a new light, a promise of warmth, a future that seemed safer, simpler, cleaner.

With Jay, everything seemed to fit—or at least, he wanted to believe it did. He buried Damian in the deepest recesses of his mind, like a wound that needed to be covered to keep it from suffocating his present.

But some wounds, no matter how deeply we bury them, never stop throbbing.

And then, he arrived.

Chris Kent—or Lor-Zod, to those who knew his story—the renegade son of General Zod who had found redemption alongside Superman. The new Superboy, the hero of the moment, the bright light who now walked beside Damian. Damian’s new friend.

Jon didn’t know when it had started, that crack opening between them. He only found out—and the blow came cold as a knife—at a party in the Watchtower, after the victory over an alien invasion that had left scars on the planet and on the souls of those who fought.

The sound was loud: electronic music, easy conversations, laughter that seemed to come from a world where pain could still be forgotten.

Jon walked in, ready to pretend he was fine, to put on the mask of normalcy… until he saw them.

Damian.

Chris.

Side by side, leaning against the makeshift counter.

Chris’s hand on Damian’s shoulder—a brief touch, but far too intimate to be just friendship.

Damian tilting his head, smiling in a way Jon hadn’t seen in a long time.

Their laughter blending—light, genuine, as if the past hadn’t passed there.

The sound of the party dissolved.

All that remained was the muffled sound of Jon’s own heart, pounding frantic, off-beat, painful.

And then, a flash.

He remembered Damian, years ago, sweaty after training, still trying to disguise his heavy breathing. Jon, without a word, placing a water bottle beside him. Damian glancing sideways, giving a quick half-smile.

Now, the one holding the bottle was Chris.

Chris leaned in.

Damian didn’t pull away.

Their lips touched.

There was no hesitation. No doubt.

(It should have been me.)

---

Chris’s hand on Damian’s shoulder, firm and almost protective, was a silent reminder: he wasn’t alone.

It wasn’t about romance—it wasn’t about desire. It was about anchoring. A simple gesture that said: I’m here.

Damian remembered when Jon used to say that through actions, not words.

He remembered how Jon had left.

He remembered the silence that came after—a silence heavier than any word.

Chris wasn’t trying to replace anyone.

He had just stayed.

And that was enough to keep Damian from sinking for good.

The kiss was simple, unhurried.

It wasn’t about passion—it was about gratitude. About being present in the here and now, when everything else seemed to be falling apart.

But deep down, an old shadow whispered a name he didn’t let escape his lips.

Jon.

Chris pulled away to grab a drink. Damian was left alone, watching the party.

For a moment, his gaze got lost in the crowd.

His fingers tightened around the cup without him noticing.

He thought of Jon.

And, as always, pushed the thought away, like someone trying to ignore a pain that insists on showing itself.

---

Damian was tense. Always tense.

It was a constant state, a tight knot in his chest that wouldn’t loosen.

The way Chris’s hands gripped the cup he held was a silent reminder: it’s okay, breathe.

Chris didn’t want to be a hero for Damian.

He wanted to be a safe harbor.

And sometimes, that meant getting closer, saying something stupid just to get a half-smile out of his friend.

He saw the smile.

Heard the short laugh right after.

Thought it was worth any alien invasion just to hear it again.

But deep down, he knew.

There was a ghost in that relationship.

A ghost with a red cape and a name Damian never said aloud, but which, in silence, still lingered between them.

The kiss hadn’t been planned.

It happened as if it were the right thing at that moment.

And when Jon came to talk, his anger cut through the air like a sharp blade, ready to shred any remaining peace.

— Why you? Why not me? I was his friend, his partner. I was always there… even if from a distance… — Jon’s voice broke the silence, filled with pain and resentment.

Chris didn’t believe it.

— Were you? — he asked, his voice sharp, almost venom. — Where were you when he cried alone? When he needed someone and found nothing but silence? 

He stepped forward, as if facing not only Jon but also the truth Jon tried to hide.

— I was there. Not for years, not from the start. But I was there when it mattered. And you… you chose to run. 

The blow hit Jon hard, opening wounds he thought had healed.

— I was there, and you weren’t. That’s the difference. In the end, there’s only one thing you can do: blame yourself. 

Chris turned and walked away, leaving behind the echo of raw truth.

---

The silence that followed was heavier than any shout.

Guilt spread like poison, seeping into every thought, corroding any possibility of peace.

And Jon knew, with painful clarity: it was true.

It was his fault.

And maybe, deep down, that guilt was all he deserved.

Because there was nowhere left to run.

Nowhere left to hide.

After all… he could only blame himself.

Jon felt the weight of absence more than the presence of anything else.

It was an absence that spoke loudly, that screamed in silence. The silence of what wasn’t done, of words left unsaid, of embraces never given.

He tried to convince himself that rebuilding was possible, that starting over was possible—but inside, an abyss grew.

The fear that Damian, who had once been his anchor, might find in someone else what Jon hadn’t been able to give him, was a dagger piercing his soul in steady waves.

He imagined Damian’s nights—alone, crying, skin cold and heart too warm to bear.

And deep down, he knew he could have been the shoulder to lean on. But instead, he had been the absence, the void, the silence.

And now, what was left?

Jon was a man who could carry the universe on his shoulders but couldn’t carry himself.

He didn’t need redemption.

He needed forgiveness.

Forgiveness he knew he didn’t deserve.

---

— Hey, Damian… — Chris called, walking closer. As soon as his eyes met Damian’s, he saw it immediately: something was wrong.

His body was rigid, tense like a bow ready to snap.

His voice, when it came, was too controlled—each word carefully measured, as if to keep something else from slipping out.

— Did something happen? — he asked, the concern already in his tone before he could disguise it.

Chris answered with a small, almost imperceptible smile. But there was a quiet fragility there, as if even smiling took effort. Still, he seemed to calm down, if only a little, in Damian presence.

— I’m fine… really. — There was a short, heavy pause. — It’s just an annoyance. Nothing I can’t handle.

Damian didn’t fully believe him, but he respected his silence. Sometimes, being present meant more than pressing for answers.

Then, suddenly, Chris spoke:

— Want to get out of here? This place is getting too loud. A new Superman-themed diner just opened in Metropolis. I wanted to check it out. —

Damian didn’t hesitate.

— Yeah. 

Chris smiled. Damian couldn’t help but smile back. A discreet warmth spread in his chest.

In that moment, everything was okay.

He wasn’t alone anymore.

Chapter Text

The room was noisy.

Noisy like last night.

And the night before that.

Every sound echoed like a hammer against Jon’s already throbbing head. The baby’s crying seemed amplified by the suffocating darkness, cutting through the night, piercing the calm that never came. He rocked Sonny with a trembling arm, his body too heavy, his legs weak, as if carrying the entire world — or all he had left — on his shoulders.

— Sonny, please… calm down, — he almost begged, his voice hoarse, dragged, too tired to sound firm. His eyes burned, his throat dry from so much silent screaming, from trying to hold back an internal storm threatening to collapse.

The crying was persistent, desperate, like a scream stuck in the throat of a soul that found no refuge. It had been almost an hour, and he had tried everything: rocking, singing, whispering, shaking, holding tight, until exhaustion. But the baby wouldn’t stop. It was as if Sonny tried to expel something invisible, a shadow, a fear or a pain Jon couldn’t reach — and that tore him apart even more.

Sonny — his baby, his son, his family.

His only family.

It was all that remained.

In the darkness of memory, persistent scenes projected like cruel ghosts.

His father… dead, taking Luthor and the Joker with him in that final fight that devastated the city. One last battle that left no victorious heroes, only graves — burying dreams, promises, and futures. Jon saw his father’s body falling, the fury in his eyes before the silence, the sacrifice that asked for no applause, only peace.

His mother… in a coma. He remembered her pale face, closed eyes, the tubes connected, the constant sound of the machine monitoring her vital signs. The doctors no longer spoke of “hope,” only of “keeping stable.” Jon could still hear their voices whispering diagnoses, hard decisions, a veiled sentence that weighed heavier than the air in the hospital room.

Kon… lost, a distant echo, fighting alongside Darkseid in wars he didn’t want to imagine but felt as an invisible threat hovering over everyone. An absence that hurt more than an open wound because Kon couldn’t come back, not yet, maybe never.

The twins, Otho-ra and Osul-ra… missing. No news, no sign. Only emptiness. The sharp silence that filled the corners of his heart.

And Damian…

(Oh God… Damian.)

The memory was an endless nightmare. A grotesque blur that his brain tried to distort to protect his already fragile sanity. But the image wouldn’t let go. It was too vivid, too cruel, a mental scar time would never heal. The mutilated body, sliced, unrecognizable pieces mixed with something rotten and deformed, a monstrosity of flesh and pain.

He tried to gather as much as he could, trembling hands covered in blood and rot, as if there was a thin thread of hope in the mere act of collecting the fragments — a desperate gesture to bring his beloved back. But it was useless. It was horrible. It was disgusting. It was real.

Damian, his Omega… was gone.

And now, there was only Sonny. His little sun child, his last star in a dark, moonless sky.

For him, Jon gave up everything: the heroism that defined him, the free flight through the skies, the college he barely managed to keep up with, the friends who disappeared from his life, the nights of sleep that became mirages.

Everything.

He would never abandon him.

Not even if the price was his own sanity.

And, without realizing, Jon was crying too.

His eyes, burning, soaked his tired face, which seemed to age decades in a few weeks. Physical and mental exhaustion manifested in every fiber of his body: sore muscles from carrying an entire life on his back; irregular, shallow breathing, as if air were a luxury; his chest tight, suffocated by the weight of grief and responsibility.

But he couldn’t stop. He couldn’t falter.

---

“Bzzz. Bzzz.”

The phone vibrated on the nightstand, the sound cutting through the heavy darkness of the stuffy room. Jon blinked, waking from a heavy and uncomfortable sleep, his head pounding with a pain that seemed to spread down his spine. For a moment, he considered not answering. The mere act of picking up the phone promised an inevitable headache, as if the electricity of the connection was yet another shock to his already overloaded system.

He already knew who it was. The only person still calling, who hadn’t given up. Who insisted like a ghost from the past — the past he tried to bury, suffocate, erase.

Dick Grayson.

With an impatient sigh, he forced himself to answer, his voice hoarse and barely audible.

— Jon! ho—”

— You know how I am, Dick, — he interrupted, rough, loaded with bitterness, a wall built of cutting words to keep everything and everyone away.

On the other side of the line, he could almost imagine the other Alpha shrugging at the sharp tone, frustrated and powerless.

— Jon, please, liste—”

— I DON’T HAVE TO LISTEN TO YOU! — he exploded, a muffled scream that reverberated inside the room. He silently thanked the soundproof walls that kept Sonny from waking. He couldn’t handle more crying, more voices, more people. Not at that moment.

— I ALREADY MADE IT CLEAR TO YOU AND YOUR FAMILY! — Jon’s voice trembled, his chest burning with rage, a cold fire consuming every bit of his remaining strength. — I DON’T WANT YOU, I DON’T WANT ANYTHING FROM THAT DAMN CITY, I DON’T WANT ANY OF THAT NEAR MY SON!

It was the accumulated anger of months — months of pain, silence, isolation. His voice broke in a bitter mix of fury and despair, words he wanted to bury but that exploded like volcanoes.

He had said countless times what he thought of the bats, their world, what was left of that broken family, what Bruce meant to him. And still, they kept coming back. Haunting him, chasing him like tireless shadows.

— Jon, I already told you… Bruce—”

— FUCK BRUCE!” Jon spat the words, each heavier and more painful than the last, like sharp blades cutting through the night’s silence. — I DON’T CARE WHAT THAT OLD MAN WANTS!”

— JON! — this time, it was Dick who shouted, his voice loaded with frustration, a pain Jon didn’t want to see but could feel pulsing from the other side. — HE’S HIS GRANDSON! HE’S MY NEPHEW! WE JUST WANT TO HELP!

— HELP?! — Jon laughed, a dry sound, humorless, bitter as the taste of ashes in his mouth. — HELP?! JUST LIKE THEY HELPED DAMIAN?! LEAVING HIM TO DIE?!

Silence came like a blow.

On the other side of the line, Dick said nothing. Not a whisper, not a word, just the echo of emptiness.

The silence lasted long enough for Jon to feel there was nothing left to say. That nothing could bridge that abyss. That maybe there was no cure.

He hung up.

The phone vibrated again.

And again.

And again.

But Jon didn’t answer.

He stayed there, motionless, lost between the exhaustion crushing his bones and the pain consuming his soul.

Hours passed, time stretched by pain, absence, suffocating noisy.

And he stayed there.

Alone with his son, his last star.

Chapter Text

Jon had no idea—he couldn’t even begin to imagine—what he had truly left behind that day.

---

Damian felt it.

Deep down, in that instinct honed since childhood, something was wrong.

It was like entering a room where the air is too heavy… like the silent tension that precedes a battle.

He should have noticed the moment Jon, his Alpha, appeared without warning, leaping through the window of the Gotham apartment with a hesitant posture he rarely saw in him.

Especially when Jon asked… or rather, begged.

— Damian… please… — His voice was hoarse, almost breaking. — I need to mark you. Now.

Damian raised an eyebrow, motionless.

— Have you lost your mind? — he asked coldly, though the confusion was impossible to hide. — You know this isn’t something you just ask.

Jon took a step forward, closing the distance. His eyes—usually bright, almost electric—were deeper, carrying a strange melancholy.

— I know… — he admitted. — But it’s not just because I want to. It’s because I need to.

— Need to? Jon, we’re already… — He searched for the right word. — Walking on thin ice.

The weight of the age difference, Damian’s bloody past, the responsibilities they both carried… it was complicated enough.

— You know what marking me means.

Jon took a deep breath.

— It means no one else will be able to… — He closed his eyes for a moment. — It means that wherever I am, I’ll remember I have someone waiting for me.

Damian saw it. In his gaze, there was more than urgency. There was… farewell.

And that scared him.

Damian didn’t know how to deal with goodbyes. Never had.

He could have refused. Maybe he should have.

But something inside him—an instinct that not even Ra’s al Ghul’s discipline could erase—made him say simply:

— …Alright.

---

That night, the mark was made.

No music. No celebration. Just two bodies close, breaths uneven, tension heavy with something Damian couldn’t name.

When he fell asleep, sore and with his neck throbbing, he felt Jon’s familiar weight beside him.

By morning, the bed was empty.

The pillow still smelled like him.

And on the table, a hastily written note:

"I have to go. Take care. — J."

And nothing more.

---

Later, Damian discovered—in a far from gentle way—that Jon had left on a mission into space.

No expected return.

No real goodbye.

Three months later, he vomited for the third morning in a row and realized.

He was pregnant.

Alone.

---

The white flash of teleportation.

Jor-El’s firm hand on his shoulder.

— Out there, you will know your limits. And surpass them.

---

The cold of space cutting like glass.

Training.

Alien worlds.

Duels against opponents who didn’t even know what Earth was.

Jor-El watching, always distant, always judging.

---

A rift in reality.

Jor-El trying to change the course of the ship.

Too late.

The strange heat of another sun.

The air… wrong.

---

Earth-3.

Where every smile was a threat.

Where every hero… was a villain.

---

The shadow fell over him.

Large. Massive.

Blue eyes—without light.

— You are mine now. — The deep, cold voice. Ultraman.

---

The smell of sulfur.

The constant sound of bubbling lava.

Walls of rock closing in like bars.

The volcano. His prison.

---

Days without sun.

Without sky.

Heat burning the skin, cold eating from inside.

---

— You are weak away from your sun. — The mocking voice, repeated like a cruel mantra.

The snap of bones.

The taste of blood.

---

Years.

Time lost all meaning.

Sometimes he dreamed he was still on Earth.

With Damian.

That he wasn’t alone.

---

Until one day… silence.

The rock split.

Fresh air hit him like a punch.

He escaped.

Or was allowed to escape.

He never knew.

---

Five years after Jon’s departure.

The day was gray when he returned.

A light rain fell on Gotham, wetting his hair as he flew toward the Wayne estate, not knowing what to expect.

He had no idea his world would change again—and faster than when he had been ripped from Earth.

The first thing he saw, as he crossed the gate, was a child.

A boy of four, standing a few meters away, curious but wary.

Jon stopped.

Time stopped with him.

Lilac eyes—the exact mix of Damian’s intensity with a tone Jon knew was his own.

Brown skin like Damian’s, but the face… the chin, the arch of the eyebrows…

The hair—dark, curly, rebellious—like his own.

He was perfect.

As if the universe had shaped something new from them.

Jon tried to speak, but his voice failed.

— Who…?

Before he could finish, Damian appeared behind the boy.

No uniform, simple clothes, but the gaze… a sharp blade.

Bitterness. Contained anger. Something else, buried beneath it all.

Damian took the boy’s hand firmly.

— Sonny — he said, voice controlled but hard. — Come inside.

The boy obeyed, looking at Jon over his shoulder. There was curiosity… and the silent intuition of children who know when adults are at odds.

Jon stepped forward.

— Damian… I…

Damian raised his hand, cutting him off.

— No. — The word final. — Go away, Jon.

Jon froze, as if gravity itself had doubled on him.

— You… won’t let me explain? — he tried, a thread of hope in his voice.

Damian stepped closer, gaze sharp as a blade.

— I didn’t need you before — he said, each word heavy as lead. — I don’t need you now.

Then he turned.

And Jon saw, for the second time in his life, that same look of farewell.

But now, it wasn’t his.

It was Damian’s.

Chapter Text

The clock read 3:16 PM. That meant there were still four hours and forty-four minutes left.

Jon stared at his phone screen as if it were his death sentence.

— Four hours… — he whispered, a trace of life barely left in his eyes. — Damian, seriously… we’re not going to survive this.

Damian, sitting at the head of the dining table, calmly flipped through a book on Renaissance art, completely immune to the pandemonium raging around him.

— Don’t be dramatic, he said, without even looking up. — We’ve faced worse things.

— Worse things?! — Jon raised a finger, pointing at the chandelier where Mari Grayson swung like a bat. — That kid is about to recreate the fall of Krypton on that chandelier, Damian!

— Mari, get down now, Damian said calmly.

— But I want to fly! Mommy flies! So I can too!

Jon hit his forehead with his hand.

— YOU CAN’T—! Damian, can she fly?

— As far as I know, no. But it seems like she’s going to try anyway.

A loud crack echoed through the room. The chandelier swayed.

— AAAAHHHHHH! — Mari laughed, spinning upside-down.

---

On the couch, Lizzie Prince and Lian Harper were locked in a battle over the TV control.

— You don’t boss me around! I’m an Amazon! — Lizzie shouted.

— And I’m bigger than you! — Lian shot back.

— You’re nothing! Your dad didn’t even want you!

— TAKE THAT BACK!!!

Jon ran over to intervene.

— Girls! Girls! What have I told you about bloody fights?

— To call you if it starts! — both replied, before resuming their brawl.

---

Across the room, Jack Drake Kent looked at Jon with pleading eyes.

— Uncle Jon, can I use your glasses?

— No, Jack.

— But why not?

— Because last time you threw them in the toilet!

— It was an accident!

— You shouted “look, a missile!” and hurled them, Jack!

---

Suddenly, a thunderous cry erupted. Jai… or Irey? Nobody knew for sure — Damian insisted the name wasn’t important until the parents arrived.

— Someone’s pooped again, Jon announced, defeated.

— Third time in an hour, Damian said, closing his book. — That constitutes a worrying statistical pattern.

— YOU CAN’T CALL A BABY A STATISTICAL PATTERN, DAMIAN!

---

While Jon grabbed wipes, a shrill voice echoed from the kitchen:

— I WANT PIZZA!!!

— AND I WANT WORLD PEACE, BUT LOOK AT US!!! — Jon shouted back.

---

— Damian, why do we keep doing this? — Jon slumped into a chair, exhausted, hair messy, mashed food stuck on his cape.

Damian sipped his tea calmly.

— Because your heroic instincts won’t let you say no. And because I wanted to see how long your sanity would hold.

— Great. A psychological experiment. Happy eighth anniversary to us.

— You said you wanted something unforgettable.

---

How It All Started?

It all began with Mari and Jonh Grayson, children of Dick, Wally and Kory.

Dick had left a note:

“Back in two hours. They’re little angels. If they try to burn something, there’s a fire extinguisher. Thanks, partner!”

Two hours became five. Five became the beginning of the end.

Then came Lizzie Prince, the little Amazon. Diana handed her over with a solemn smile:

“She needs discipline. You two can help.”

Five minutes later, Lizzie was attempting to decapitate a pillow with a toy sword.

Soon, Lian Harper was thrown into Damian’s arms by Roy and Jason.

“It’s quick. She’s already big, won’t be any trouble.”

Lian spent the next hours screaming:

“I’M TOO BIG FOR BABYSITTERS!!!”

Then Jack Drake Kent appeared — nobody knew how Tim and Kon managed it.

Jon stared at the two at the door:

“You… how…? Never mind. Come in.”

Olivia Queen arrived last, carrying a glittery pink suitcase. Oliver just said:

“She likes to eat at seven. Good luck.”

And then… five more (or six? seven?) just showed up. Nobody remembered whose kids they were anymore.

---

Back to the Present

— How much time now? — Jon asked, trembling.

Damian checked the clock.

— Three hours and forty minutes.

Jon let out a sob.

— Damian… I love you, but if we survive this, next anniversary is just us. On an island. No vigilante kids. No diapers. No chandeliers…

A sound of breaking glass interrupted him.

— …and no coffee tables.

---

The Arrival of the Parents

The door opened.

— WE’RE HERE! — a dozen adult voices echoed.

Jon blinked, hair standing on end, cape torn, a baby in his arms, mashed food on his shirt.

— NOT NOW! NOT AFTER ALL THIS!

Damian crossed his arms.

— Perfect timing. They’ll witness the battlefield they left behind.

Dick entered first, smiling. — How was it?

— Wonderful. Unforgettable. — Jon smiled with hollow eyes.

Kory approached and took Mari from the chandelier as if it were the most natural thing in the world. — Was she a good girl?

Mari smiled, swinging in her mother’s arms. — I almost flew, Mommy!

Jon started laughing. Then crying. Then laughing again.

---

The parents collected their respective heirs as if nothing had happened.

Roy winked at Damian. — Still in one piece?

— On the outside, yes. — Damian replied. — On the inside, I’m not so sure.

Tim tried to thank him, but Jon just pointed his finger at him. — You and Kon… we’ll have a conversation about genetics one day.

Oliver waved casually. — Thanks, champs!

---

When the last child left, only silence remained.

Jon fell back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling.

— Damian… promise me something?

— What would that be?

— Never again. Never a hero daycare again, this was the last time.

Damian sat beside him, adjusted his cape, and gave a rare smile:

— Survive this, and I’ll take you out to dinner. Just the two of us.

Jon closed his eyes.

— Eight years of dating… and we survived the child apocalypse. I love you, you wonderful psychopath.

Damian leaned over and kissed his forehead.

— I love you too. Now, let’s clean the poop off the floor before the smell sets in.