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It had been a long time since Damian had slept next to someone; in fact, he couldn't remember ever having done so. He was only certain of the contrary thanks to one of the very few photos his mother kept of him as a baby, where he appeared asleep by her side. But since that image wasn't registered in his memory, he didn't usually count it. So, tonight was a totally new experience: feeling the warmth of a living being on his right flank and listening to a constant breath like white noise. He had to admit it: it was pleasant.
Jon had collapsed the moment Damian finished changing, perhaps from exhaustion and the intense emotions surrounding the spell that had attacked that day. Unlike other occasions, where Jon slept in his sleeping bag during sleepovers—one which even had a reserved spot in the closet—this time, perhaps through a silent agreement, both settled into Damian's bed. The embarrassment had subsided after the major, weighty experience that had just occurred. Still, Jon clung to him like a cold cat, and for the first time in his life, Damian found it agreeable.
The day had been anything but ordinary, and what had happened in the last couple of hours, he knew, changed his life. In one day, he had managed not only to discover someone else's feelings but had even gotten a boyfriend. He had always been a boy who achieved his goals quickly, though even for him, this was abnormal.
However, there was something that unsettled him, something he was trying to ignore. Of course, he was happy—happy that the feelings he had suppressed for so long had now been reciprocated. But remembering the reason why he had suppressed them caused doubt to settle in his heart. In the end, there was no point in thinking about it anymore; everything had turned out well, hadn't it?
Nightmares were not a foreign factor in his life. Although they weren't as frequent since he made peace with his past, a month without them was still a difficult mark to reach. And Damian always knew what to expect from them.
He suffered nightmares that repeated memories: the rawest and darkest ones he tried to forget. He had nightmares that reminded him of his mother's abandonment, and others where he saw fictional scenarios: his grandfather murdering his family, his siblings rejecting him, or the world ending and him being left alone. But he already knew all those horrors, and little by little, he had stopped reacting upon waking, simply rubbing his eyes and going back to sleep. He had also noticed how those nightmares never appeared when Jon stayed over; it was strange, as if the boy's innocence was enough to ward off evil from both of them.
That’s why this time, he felt truly bewildered. And for the first time in years, he forgot he was dreaming.
The night unfolded in the same mansion where they were now resting, but in the dream, everything was too still, as if the air was trapped. Damian recognized the hallway, the carved railing, the warm lights that had seemed comforting earlier that day, but now they flickered as if they were about to go out.
At the end of the corridor, he saw Jon. He was standing with his back to him, just as he always stood when looking out of the large window in his room. Only now, the words coming out of Jon's mouth didn't sound cheerful, or sweet, or desperate as they had hours earlier; his declaration of love sounded distorted, repeated, multiplied by echoes bouncing off the walls.
“Every time you say my name, something in my chest lights up.”
“That when you're near, I can't think of anything else.”
“I want to touch you.”
The voice broke over itself, becoming heavy. Jon turned, smiling... but his smile was frozen, like a portrait where someone had stretched the corners of his mouth a little beyond natural. Damian tried to speak, but nothing came out.
When he finally managed to open his mouth, the only thing that escaped was a broken murmur:
“I... me too.”
The word "too" expanded, repeated, but it didn't fit. The echo returned it weaker, more shattered, bouncing off the walls, like cold blades.
Instantly, Jon changed, and his expression dimmed. His eyes no longer shone; they were opaque, undefined, as if searching for something he couldn't find.
“Is that all?” Jon asked, but his voice was no longer his. It was deeper, more judgmental. “Is that the love you feel?”
Damian took a step back. And another. The mansion was now too big, too empty, too cold; every object seemed to move away from him.
“You didn’t feel anything,” said Jon, or the shadow mimicking him. “No butterflies. No warmth. Nothing.”
“I do feel something,” Damian tried to say, but his voice didn’t come out right.
“You only accepted me because I confessed first,” the shadow continued. “Because it was easy. Because it was what was expected. But you… you don’t love the same. You love less.”
“No,” he tried to deny, but his throat was constricted. The shadow took a step toward him.
“You said yes to me because it's easier to receive than to give, because you expect to be loved without giving the same love.”
The lights went out, the corridor split like glass shattering beneath his feet, and Jon's shadow multiplied around him, whispering accusations that were, in reality, thoughts Damian had already buried:
“You’re not enough.”
“You don’t know how to love.”
“He gives you everything, you don’t feel the same.”
“You lied to him.”
Damian tried to run, but his feet were nailed to the floor. When the shadow was centimeters away from him, it raised a hand and touched his chest right where he should feel something warm.
“Empty. Defective” it whispered.
The word resonated like a blow. And just as the shadow enveloped him, just when he thought Jon was going to disappear forever, he woke up startled, his nails dug into the sheet, his heart pounding… and a terrible feeling he couldn’t shake: the fear that perhaps that shadow was right.
Since when had he understood it?
Since when did he realize that he loved Jon in an abnormal way?
While it was true what he had said—that he noticed something was different when they almost died saving the world—there was something he had omitted: at that moment, he truly didn’t understand what that feeling was that appeared every time he was with Jon. He was thirteen, after all, and he thought that not knowing what he felt was normal for his age, although he hated the fact that something existed which he didn’t master.
An entire year passed before, following a conversation with one of his brothers, he realized two things that terrified him: first, that he was in love; and second, even more unsettling, that his love didn't work like everyone else's.
Damian never felt butterflies, or a sudden explosion, or a sweeping love-at-first-sight as others described. If he had to explain it, he would say it was something built little by little, layer by layer, over time; something that filled him with joy, yes, but also with uneasiness, with responsibility, and with an anguish he didn't know how to handle.
What truly terrified him wasn't loving, but what that love revealed about himself: that he couldn't pinpoint it, that he couldn't name it, that he needed another person to explain it to him almost with a "checklist" to recognize it. That discovery wounded his pride and something deeper still: the suspicion that he was… defective.
Could that love he felt—that silent, strange love, without bright or grand metaphors—even be worthy of expression?
That’s why he remained silent for so long, because, in his mind, no one should be burdened with the feelings of someone who still struggled to value the world, who learned too late what empathy meant, and who, due to his upbringing, had never conceived of emotions the way others did.
He stayed silent because he feared his love wasn't enough. Or worse: that it wasn't fair.
He stared at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe. Jon was still asleep beside him, breathing calmly and deeply, and that happiness he had felt hours earlier began to change. Now there was guilt, inadequacy, his mind giving him an immediate message: that because of how he was raised, because of what he did, because of what he is, he could never love as cleanly as Jon.
But when Jon turned and hugged him in his sleep, Damian managed to breathe. He decided that, just for tonight, he would let the new nightmares pass. He buried himself in the other boy's hair, calmer, though with a new thorn lodged in his heart—one that might soon begin to spread.
---------------------
The next morning wasn't very different from what usually happens when Jon stays over for sleepovers. Alfred, always perceptive, prepared breakfast for both of them. Cass greeted them at the counter but soon left them alone. The atmosphere between them was different when they were alone; there was more... warmth, both in their words and in their actions: small brushes of hands, Jon slumping a little deeper onto Damian’s shoulder as he yawned, glances that were now filled with affection, and smiles that revealed love. And this, for Damian, was a prize, something unattainable he thought he’d never have and which he adored.
But, deep inside, a slight doubt crept in: Did he deserve it? Was it fair?
By midday, he waved Jon off. He accepted the soft brush of his lips—chaste, pure, full of bright and overflowing love—and with a smile, Jon flew off toward his house. But Damian’s insides were a sea of feelings, and the memory of that dream foreshadowed a bitter internal battle.
The day for Damian passed normally, his emotions still hanging like a pendulum that swung sometimes and stopped at others. In the morning, he felt that gentle warmth that Jon left pinned beneath his skin, like a constant reminder of something luminous. At times, he caught himself thinking about the goodbye kiss, about everything that happened the night before, about the way Jon said his name, about how his chest seemed to beat at the same rhythm as his own. He felt a little embarrassed remembering that late-night session and was grateful that no one in this family read minds.
The doubt the nightmare provoked was barely a thin, almost imperceptible thread, and the isolated phrase: "Is it fair?" resonated for seconds.
But he hid it under activities, chores, training, readings, and messages between him and Jon. And with every hour, it seemed to fade a little more.
By sunset, as he prepared for patrol, the doubt seemed to have disappeared entirely: perhaps he only remembered it as a shadow so faint he almost confused it with tiredness. Damian allowed himself to think that maybe it was just a bad dream. That he would have time to process all these emotions, everything his new relationship implied. That tomorrow would be easier.
But the night had other intentions. After patrol, changing clothes, and organizing his things for school, he lay down convinced he would sleep better. Jon wasn't there, but he smiled at the last goodnight texts and the pink heart as the final notification. The house was quiet, and that should be enough.
It wasn't.
------------------
The nightmare begins deceptively: with the soft sound of porcelain colliding.
A simple clink that, by itself, shouldn't mean anything, but it sends a chill down Damian's spine.
He is back in the League gardens, the same ones where he used to run and play when he was just an infant. Everything is exactly as it is in his memories: the stone fountain, the immense shadow of the mountain, the icy wind that made him clench his fists even as a baby.
And there he is, the six-year-old boy, a smaller, quieter, more obedient Damian. Who yearns for the embrace of a mother who only dedicates time to training him, who yearns for a compliment from his grandfather who still sees him as insufficient.
He is holding a broken vase, and he recognizes it—that damn vase, a gift from an Empress of an empire that ended over 300 years ago, a vase whose mere display revealed a certain appreciation from his grandfather; otherwise, it would be with all the other riches in the fortress's storage. This only worsens the situation. The pieces are at his feet, and in front of him stands his nanny: the only person in that place who ever smiled at him with true kindness, who comforted him when he got hurt, who secretly gave him sweets. His nanny looks at him calmly, just like on that day.
“Damian,” he says with a warm tone that now, in the nightmare, becomes almost unbearable. “Don’t worry, we’ll sort it out.”
The air changes, feeling colder, heavier, like a lead sheet clinging to his skin. On the other side of the garden, two figures appear that he knows too well: Talia and Ra’s al Ghul, though they are not exactly themselves, but distorted versions: their figures seem longer, their shadows denser, their faces expressionless.
Little Damian clenches his jaw and lowers his head—the same scene as always, but now he watches it from outside, forced to relive it. Ra’s's figure speaks with a voice that makes the bushes tremble.
“Will you take responsibility for your actions, child?”
Silence. The child looks at no one; he is trembling. He still remembers his grandfather’s last punishment; he knows he must say something, accept the blame, but he can't speak. The nanny, instead, steps forward, interposing himself without hesitation.
“It was my carelessness,” he says, the phrase that condemned him.
A dry crack is heard, a sound he knows particularly well—the sound of a sword cutting—and something falls. The nanny's body lies on the floor, folded in an impossible way.
“A worthy heir takes responsibility for their actions, or they let innocent blood run.”
The phrase echoes, his grandfather's voice filling his ears, and he only manages to catch his mother's gaze, sad, but indifferent. Both walk away from him, and he can only watch the pool of blood expanding at his feet, clenching the green robe he wears with his fists, and at some point, he sees it: blood on his hand, warm and heavy, dripping onto the floor.
And then something happens that never happened in reality: the older Damian sees the child Damian look directly at him.
Dark eyes, cold, accusing.
“If you had spoken,” the child says.
“No…” the current Damian whispers, stepping back. “I was just a child.”
“You’re still the same,” the child says in that same flat voice. “Silent. Incapable of speaking, of accepting your burden, your actions, your feelings. Incapable of loving without destroying something.”
Suddenly, the scene changes, the nanny’s body disappears and, in its place, another body appears: Jon.
Lying on the ground. Motionless. Without wounds, but lifeless. Damian runs towards him, but the garden stretches out like an infinite corridor, pulling him away. The child's voice keeps sounding behind him, getting closer:
“Your silence kills.
Your inability to feel costs lives.
Your love doesn't save, Damian.
Your love destroys.”
The nightmare ends with the little Damian whispering in his ear:
“You shouldn’t be with him. You shouldn't try to love anyone.”
He wakes up abruptly, his chest burning and his eyes glossy, feeling that something is missing that he cannot recover. He doesn't close his eyes again that night.
In the morning, Dick finds him in the library. Dick can tell—he is an expert at detecting the family’s emotions. Damian looks more tired, with the gaze of someone who hasn't stopped thinking. He wants to ask, but he doesn't dare. Damian forces himself to make his day as normal as possible, expertly hiding his discomforts until they disappear—he has always done it, always been like this. He doesn't plan on breaking down just because of some new nightmares.
Although perhaps a confirmation of reality would make him.
In the evening, Jon's visit cheers his soul; it's like a cure for his erratic mood. When Jon arrives and throws himself into a hug, Damian feels that everything is okay, that his thoughts are silly, that his love is real love.
They are not patrolling that night; Jon has an exam tomorrow and just came to see him for a while before going back. Damian wishes he would never leave his side, because only with Jon’s light can Damian seem to cope with his darkness.
Both went up to the mansion's rooftop, to the highest point of the gothic finishes—their favorite spot. The air is cold, but not enough to make them bundle up, and sitting shoulder to shoulder, Jon leans back into Damian's crossed legs, looking up at him with those loving eyes. They talk about the usual things: school, friends, family, the new episode of the Korean series they watch occasionally.
“You know, most people look bad from below, but you somehow aren’t one of them,” Jon says, playful.
“I suppose that’s a compliment?” Damian returns, observing those blue eyes that shine. “Do your parents know you’re here?”
“I promised them I’d be back before 9. I was surprised they let me come.”
“I see…” Silence again. It wasn't unusual; they didn't always have long or deep conversations; sometimes, they just wanted company. But this time, Jon feels something is different.
“This is so weird,” Jon blurts out. Damian tenses, as if a signal he’s trying to hide has been discovered. Damian’s heart calms down when he hears the continuation. “Is something supposed to be different now that we’re… boyfriends?” Saying it out loud makes it sound more real, as if something has materialized. For a moment, the warmth seems to arrive—now they are boyfriends, and that makes Damian feel almost normal.
And he tries. He tries to do what couples are supposed to do. He places a hand on Jon’s cheek, intending to give him a kiss, but his vision flickers, and for an instant, he sees blood on his hand, just like in his dream.
He pulls his hand away abruptly. He doesn't know why, but now he feels he shouldn't touch him. Jon looks at him, eyes wide, and jumps up.
“You okay, Dami?” he asks, not with anger or harshness, but with a softness that seems created just for him. But Damian remains silent. He doesn't know why, perhaps because to explain, he would have to tell him everything about his nightmares, how he doesn't love the same way, how he destroys everything with his silence. And when he realizes he's being silent again, fear overwhelms his heart, and he just wants to escape.
He looks back, almost pleadingly, but when he is about to apologize and escape the rooftop, he feels Jon's grip on his cheek, pulling him close to his lips. With that touch, his doubts seem to vanish for a moment. In the moonlight, their foreheads meet. They still don't know how to kiss, and without the wild impulse of magic, the kiss is brief, just enough to open his mouth.
Jon just looks at him with that gaze—the one that disarms him—and for just an instant, Damian finds his dreams silly.
“I know physical affection isn’t your strongest suit, but you shouldn't force yourself.” Jon’s words seemed intended to appease the other's heart; his intonation and look would suggest this to anyone. To Damian, they land like a rock: "You are unfair. He loves more, he gives more than you can offer, and if he loves you, it will end badly." The words from his dreams echo in his head, and once again he feels guilt, now mixed with something new: inadequacy.
“It's late. You should go back,” he stands up abruptly, leaving Jon still sitting and watching him.
“I still have some time. I can be a few minutes late,” Jon replies.
“No,” Damian interrupts curtly, then softens his tone. “You shouldn’t betray your parents’ trust. Go home. I’ll always be here waiting for you anyway,” he adds, perhaps because he genuinely feels it, perhaps to calm him down. Jon doesn’t argue further. He hugs Damian and says goodbye with all those corny goodnight phrases. Damian listens to it all with a smile that shows more compassion than joy. Jon doesn’t want to pry further into that reaction; he knows Damian is hard to read.
“Maybe I made him uncomfortable,” Jon sighs as he crosses the skies of Gotham. He sighs to himself, “This boyfriend thing is hard.”
---------------------
Damian doesn't sleep again. Every time he closes his eyes, he feels a nightmare appear, as if they are waiting for him behind his eyelids: Jon bleeding, pulling away, repeating in a voice that isn't his own that Damian loves "wrong," that everything he touches ends up broken. And the worst thing is that, deep down, a small part of him believes it.
The next morning, Alfred finds him in the kitchen before dawn, standing in front of a cup he hasn't touched. The boy looks paler, his eyes slightly red, his body rigid as if bracing for a blow.
"Master Damian, did you sleep at all?"
"...Enough." He didn't.
At school, his mind wanders between flashes of the nightmare. He confuses historical dates, mixes up terms in an equation, and almost runs into a locker turning a corner. It's clumsiness uncharacteristic of him, the kind that anyone would laugh at, but it only causes a knot in Damian's chest.
“You destroy everything. Even what you do well.”
At home, he trains with an uncomfortably docile discipline. He doesn't argue. He doesn't challenge. When Tim makes a comment about his height, he simply lowers his gaze and leaves the room. Cass follows him with her eyes, worried, but no one says anything. They fear that if they do, Damian will shut down further.
That night, he ignores Jon's messages. He wants to write to him. He wants to see him. But he fears that if he does, the nightmare will repeat.
“Sooner or later, you're going to break him too.” The voice doesn't leave him, not even in the early morning.
And another morning arrives. The lack of sleep begins to seep into his breathing, into the way he holds any object too tightly, as if he is afraid it will fall… or that he will break it himself. He tries to paint in the afternoon and ends up unintentionally destroying the paper, plunging the brush in deeper than necessary. His hand trembles, and his heart pounds as if someone is chasing him.
Jon writes to him again, this time with short, more cautious messages:
Jon: Are you okay?
Damian: I'm busy. Talk later.
Jon: I miss you.
Damian reads and doesn't reply. It hurts him, because he knows Jon didn't do anything; the problem, as always, is him.
In the mansion, the atmosphere grows strange. Damian doesn't explode, doesn't shout, doesn't argue. And that is what worries everyone the most; he only has this kind of calm when he is about to shatter. At night, he stays in his room, sitting on the rug, hands in his hair, trying not to close his eyes.
Because he no longer fears only the nightmare; he fears it's a warning, a truth.
“You destroy everything you love.
And now Jon is what you love most.”
When the sun peaks over the horizon, he is still awake, and more tired, more broken.
----------------
The night is cold and silent, one of those where the city seems to hold its breath. Dick, Tim, and Steph are gathered on a rooftop reviewing the patrol map. Bruce is away this week with the Justice League; they have to cover the whole city today. But Damian is nowhere to be seen, which is unusual for him—for the first time in months, he's ignoring these opportunities when he’s unsupervised to do as he pleases. And that, more than strange, is unsettling.
Dick stares into the void for a moment before speaking.
“Is it just me, or is Damian… weird? Weirder than normal,” Dick lets out, still looking at the map. Tim lets out a long sigh, as if he had been waiting for someone to say it out loud.
“He almost hit the Batcomputer alarm today when I tried to talk to him. And that was after he went down the wrong corridor three times. Damian. The kid who memorizes the architecture of a building at six years old.”
“He… is here, but he’s not here,” Steph adds. She barely saw him this week, but even she notices.
The two older brothers exchange a look. It's not the first time they've seen Damian dark, quiet, or even melancholic, but this is different; this feels like an edge. As if he is about to break, and no one knows where to touch to stop the fracture. Tim crosses his arms.
“He hasn't slept well for three days. His reflexes are slow; he's not responding like himself. And when I try to invite him to train or talk, he just… leaves. No sarcasm, no insults. Nothing,” Tim adds, with his great ability to spot changes in people's behavior.
“We need to find out what's wrong with him. It has to be something serious.” Dick turns toward the computer screen, uneasy.
A slight movement behind them announces they are not alone. It's Alfred, who has quietly come down to deliver supplies and check on the kids before they continue patrolling.
“The young master is… tired. More than he would admit.” Tim raises an eyebrow.
“You know what's wrong, don't you?” Tim asks.
Alfred merely rearranges the contents of the tray; he doesn't say yes, he doesn't say no.
“Could you tell us anything? We don't want to invade his privacy, just help him.” The one in blue straightens up. Alfred finally looks at them. His eyes have that mix of sternness and tenderness that only he can sustain.
“When the young master is ready to talk, he will. Forcing him will only make him withdraw further. However, I believe that you are not what he needs.” He pauses briefly.
Steph tilts her head, Tim bites his lip, frustrated, Dick clenches his fists, restless.
“What if he doesn’t get better?” the one in red questions.
“Then it will be time to intervene. But knowing well who this depends on, he will not allow the young master to worsen.” Alfred smiles, discreetly observing the reserved spot where Bruce keeps things related to supers. They all take a deep breath. They don't understand who he means by "he" but they agree they won't get any more information out of Alfred.
“Alright. If he’s still like this on Friday, we confront him. But gently. Without cornering him,” Dick announces. And Alfred gives them a minimal nod, like someone approving something he already knew was inevitable. As they move away to begin their patrol, Alfred remains alone on the rooftop, looking out at the city for a moment.
He sighs.
--------------------------------
The Kent house smells like toast and peppermint tea—it’s a warm, honest peace that contrasts brutally with the knot Jon has felt in his throat for two days. He is sitting at the table, elbows propped, looking at his phone for the tenth time.
The last conversation with Damian is still open:
Jon: Are you sure you're okay?
Damian: Yes.
But the word "yes" feels hollow. Just like Damian these days. Jon notices it, he feels it, and every minute that passes makes him doubt more. It makes him wonder if… maybe… Damian only accepted his feelings to avoid hurting him. The thought pierces his chest, but he feels it's something Damian might do—though he pretends to be a hardass, Jon knows he's a softie.
As he runs a hand through his hair in frustration, his mother enters the kitchen with soft steps.
“Jon… sweetie. You haven’t blinked in three minutes.”
He drops the phone onto the table.
“Do you think someone… would tell you ‘yes’ just because they were nervous or to avoid making you feel bad?”
Lois watches him. She doesn't ask for names; she doesn't need to. She sits across from him, with those eyes that, despite not having x-ray vision, see right through Jon. He is sometimes afraid of his mother because of this fear—perhaps why he has omitted telling her about his relationship with Damian, though it seems to be a unilateral secret.
“Damian?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. At this, Jon confirms that his mother is definitely some kind of mind-reading alien too.
Jon presses his lips together and nods, very slowly.
“You’re scary. How do you know?”
“I’m your mother, Jon, besides being an incredible reporter and investigator,” she enumerates, holding up her fingers one by one. “Not to mention after spending the night at his house, your spell was gone and you looked like you’d won the lottery. But honestly, your dad told me,” Lois adds casually.
Jon feels the blush rise. He doesn't know if his father heard them, or worse, saw them that night, though he prefers not to find out; his mind would live more peacefully that way. He’s grateful his dad isn't on the planet right now, or he might hear his pulse accelerating with embarrassment.
“But anyway, tell me what’s going on.” Lois interrupts the youngest's racing thoughts, treating the subject with a normalcy that calms Jon down. After a few minutes of settling, he finally speaks.
“He… he's distant. Like he doesn't know if he did the right thing. And I know he's not like everyone else; I know he expresses himself differently. But now… I got scared.” He clutches his heart. “A bad fear, Mom. Like I crossed a line he didn't want to cross.”
Lois doesn't interrupt him; she lets him speak as only a truly listening mother knows how to do.
“Jon… when someone you love starts to pull away, it hurts. And of course, it's scary. But you can't live by interpreting silences. Talk to him.”
“What if I pressure him? What if I hurt him? What if… I lose him?” Lois takes his hand, with that mix of strength and tenderness that characterizes her.
“If you lose him by being honest and worrying about him, then he was never really with you. But if you stay silent… you’ll lose him anyway,” Lois adds, taking a sip of her tea. Jon looks down. He doesn't know which scares him more: knowing Damian accepted under pressure, or that he’s doing something wrong.
“Your father rescued me many times, Jon, and I’m not talking about saving me from villains.” She pauses gently. “There were days when I was trapped in my own fears, in my own nightmares. And he… he always ran toward me. Even when I didn't know how to ask for help. If you think Damian is struggling, if you think something is consuming him… run toward him. Don’t wait for him to crumble.”
Jon feels a jolt of clarity in his chest, a firm vibration, as if the world has stopped shaking for a second.
“Mom… what if he really only accepts my kisses out of… obligation?” Lois smiles with a mix of compassion and pride.
“Son, no one looks at you the way that boy does.” She leans in to touch his cheek.
“But even that look can be broken when someone is fighting themselves.”
Jon clenches his fists and gets up from the table with new, shaky but firm, determination. Maybe this is the moment to be a little more intrusive than usual.
“Then tomorrow… if he still looks the same… I’m not going to wait anymore. I’m going to go get him.”
“That’s what Kents do, and that’s what those who love do.” Lois nods, proud. The conversation ends with Jon looking at his phone again, his thumb hovering over Damian’s name, trembling between calling or waiting… while outside, in the window of a large mansion, the last light of day gives way to the third nightmare.
----------------
Damian falls asleep late, exhausted, as if his body gives out before his mind. The moment he closes his eyes, he’s no longer in his bed.
He is standing in a corridor… No, not a corridor: a mausoleum. The walls are made of black, polished stone, so cold they seem to breathe. On each side are niches, nameless, without flowers, without dates. Only darkness. Only silence.
He takes a step; the echo is dry, and then, behind him, a dripping sound begins.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Damian turns; the walls are bleeding, thin red lines running down from every niche like tears. The blood pools on the floor, warm, alive, rising to his boots as if trying to cling to him. Damian steps back, but the corridor narrows, and then figures emerge from the niches.
Human silhouettes made of shadow and flesh, with skin too white, too taut, too dead. They have no eyes, but they look at him. They have no mouth, but they breathe. Some carry old wounds; others have clean holes, as if they still bore the strike of the sword he gave them when he was a child.
They are the men he killed, every single one of them, forming a circle around him. Damian wants to speak, wants to justify himself, wants to say I was a child, I was forced, I didn’t know any better, but when he opens his mouth, no sound comes out.
The dripping stops; the silence becomes absolute. And from the end of the corridor, a small figure appears, walking slowly, barefoot.
Jon.
He is wearing the same clothes he wore the night they became boyfriends, the same smile… except he isn't smiling. Not now. Jon approaches without fear, without haste, and when he is standing in front of Damian, he looks around at the shadows surrounding him, and lowers his head.
“I shouldn’t have loved you.”
Damian feels something break inside his chest.
“You… you don't know how to love. Not like me. Not like normal people.”
The figures behind whisper without mouths, a dry murmur, like dead leaves rubbing together.
Impostor…
Murderer…
Unworthy…
Unworthy…
Unworthy…
Damian clenches his fists; his breathing quickens. He wants to scream that it's not true, that he does know how to love, just differently, just slowly, just clumsily, just… just that… but when he tries to get closer, Jon takes a step back, and all the corpses step forward. He manages to make out his nanny, sinking into the darkness at the end of the hallway. He catches his face, full of rage, of disgust.
The blood on the floor climbs up his legs, across his abdomen, as if trying to drown him. His chest compresses, his vision darkens; the shadows point, they accuse.
“My love is clean,” Jon takes another step back. “Yours is bathed in… blood. You can never give me the same.”
Damian falls to his knees, his hands shaking violently. Air won't enter; it won't enter. The corridor bends, twists, becoming narrower, as if trying to swallow him. His heart pounds so fast it feels like a hammer blow against his sternum.
thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump
The shadows lean over him, and Jon, melting into the darkness, delivers the line that shatters him:
“Everything you love… you destroy. And someone who destroys doesn't deserve to be loved, or forgiven. This is how you were born, and this is how you will die. No matter how hard you try, no matter how much you claim to change, in the end, you are the grandson of the demon.”
Damian screams, but the sound doesn't exist. His heart races, something inside him collapses. The blood rises to his face; he can’t breathe, he can’t move, he can’t wake up.
In real life, his pulse spirals out of control—so fast, so violent, so irregular—that his own system begins to collapse, and miles away, Jon sits bolt upright in his bed.
It wasn’t a sound. It wasn't a message. It was the heartbeat.
A frantic heartbeat that he felt in his chest as if it were his own, as if Damian's heart were crying for help. If his heart keeps going like this, he might not make it. His mother's words resonate in his mind: "If you think something is consuming him… run toward him. Don’t wait for him to crumble."
Jon flies out without a second thought, in record time—so fast that even the Flash senses the spatial disturbance. He enters through Damian's bedroom window; the curtain lifts with the gust of wind.
And he sees him.
On the floor, in a fetal position, he is shaking, sweating, whimpering between clenched teeth, with shallow breathing and a pulse so rapid it seems irregular. Damian’s fingers are cramped, as if trying to claw something invisible off his chest. He is trapped between dream and reality. Jon drops to his knees beside him, taking his face in both hands.
“Damian. Damian, look at me. Look at me, please.”
But Damian doesn't hear, or can't. Jon feels his own heart breaking. He squeezes tighter, gentle but firm.
“You’re not alone anymore. I'm here. Wake up, please.”
Damian’s breath catches—a sharp gasp. His eyes snap open, glassy, lost, filled with terror.
And for the first time in a long time… he doesn't look like a soldier, he doesn't look like a Wayne, he doesn't look like the heir to any shadow. Just a frightened child who believes he doesn't deserve to be loved. Jon says nothing more; he pulls him to his chest, hugs him, holds him as the trembling barely subsides, while Damian tries to remember how to breathe.
There, on the floor, under the faint moonlight… the breakdown Jon feared would come finally begins.
Damian was still gasping, his pulse frantic, his shirt clinging to him with cold sweat. He barely reacted to seeing Jon, and the first thing he did was push away, crawling back until he was leaning against the wall.
“Don’t… don’t come closer,” he growled, trying to piece together his broken mask, but his voice trembled too much to intimidate anyone. Jon took a step. Damian looked at him as if that simple movement might break him in half.
“Damian…” his voice was low but firm. “You're shaking.”
“I’m fine,” Damian spat. “Just… leave. I’m fine.”
Jon shook his head, moving a little closer. Damian clenched his teeth, digging his nails into his own palms.
“I’m not leaving,” Jon replied, gentle but with a conviction that left no room for discussion. “Not after finding you like this.”
Damian closed his eyes, holding back something that no longer fit inside him. His breathing sped up again.
“I said I’m fine…” the older boy whispered, but the voice broke.
Jon knelt a short distance away, without touching him.
“Damian, look at me,” he pleaded. Damian did. And as soon as he looked, his entire defense crumbled. The nightmare was still breathing behind his eyes.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Damian said, almost like a child. “I shouldn’t… love you.”
“What?” Jon blinked, confused. Damian clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white.
“You… you feel things in such a… a pure way. So big. I don't. I can't. Not like you. And yet I said yes. I told you that… that I felt something. I did say it because it was true, but it’s not fair… I don't feel the way you do, I can't give you what you give me, and yet I want it…” He swallowed hard. “That’s… that’s using someone, Jon.”
Jon looked at him with pain, but didn't move. Damian continued, now unrestrained.
“And I don't deserve you looking at me like that. Not after everything. I have blood on my hands. It doesn't matter how many times they deny it. It doesn't matter how many times they say I was a child. I remember every face. Every single one.” His voice completely broke. “I’m not enough for you. I’m not fair to you. I’m going to destroy you just like everything I love. I always do.”
A brutal silence filled the room, and then Jon hit him—a dry slap, more to stop him than to hurt. Damian stared at him, stunned. Jon took a deep breath, his hand still trembling.
“Don’t ever talk about yourself like you’re a curse,” he said with a steady voice, but his eyes were full of tears. “Don’t ever say you don’t deserve love. That was taught to you, it was forced down your throat, but it’s not the truth.” Damian opened his mouth to protest, but Jon stopped him by raising a hand.
“No. You’re going to listen to me.” He moved closer slowly, very slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal. “Damian… you didn’t choose where you were born, you didn’t ask for the violence, you didn’t ask to become a weapon, you didn’t ask to carry death on your hands as a child who barely understood the world.” Jon swallowed, moving a little closer.
“What you did… what you went through… you survived it. And you are still paying for it every day, even though you don’t have to anymore. That doesn’t make you dangerous. It doesn't make you dirty. It makes you someone who fights their own past not to be what they tried to make you.” Damian trembled. Jon reached out his hand, still not touching him.
“And you know what else? I don't love you despite your scars. I’ve thought about this lately, and I realized: I love you because you are someone who fights every day not to repeat what was done to you. I love you because you are aware, because it hurts you, because you care. People who destroy… they don’t feel guilty. People who destroy… they don’t break down like this from fear of causing harm.”
A tear fell down Damian's cheek before he could stop it. Jon, then, did touch him, taking his face in both hands, with overwhelming tenderness.
“Damian… you are not the blood others put on your hands. You are not a weapon. You are not a monster. And I’m not with you because I pity you. I am here because I choose you. Over and over. Even when you can’t choose yourself.”
Damian let out a choked sob, the first in years, and Jon wrapped him in a firm, almost desperate hug.
“I don’t want to stop feeling,” Damian whispered into his neck, “but I’m so afraid…”
“You’re not going to feel alone, not while I’m here.” Jon closed his eyes and held him tighter.
When the initial crying subsided, Jon was still holding him, sitting on the floor next to him. The room was barely lit by the faint light coming through the window. Damian was breathing raggedly, exhausted, as if his body wasn't used to such an outpouring. Jon gently stroked the back of his neck.
“Let’s go to bed,” he finally whispered. “I don’t want you spending the night here on the floor.”
Damian didn't protest. He allowed himself to be guided, without his usual stiffness, without his mask; he just walked, as if every step weighed years. He sat on the edge of the bed, and Jon stayed beside him.
“You can go,” Damian murmured, looking at his hands. “I’m… I’m better now.”
Jon shook his head.
“No. I’m not going anywhere. Not after how I found you, Damian… you don't have to sleep alone tonight.”
“But your parents…”
“Mom will understand.”
Damian swallowed, his eyes glassy again, but he said nothing. He lay on his side, his back to Jon, as if protecting himself. Jon hesitated for a second, then lay down behind him, leaving space. Silence. One minute, two, until Damian spoke, in a voice so low it was barely a sound.
"It's been a long time since i cried, years..."
Jon didn't say anything. He just listened.
“My nanny…” Damian began, trembling. “He was… the only constant. While my mother was… teaching, planning, obeying my grandfather, he was… the closest I had to someone who cared for me because he wanted to, not because he had to.” Damian brought a fist to his lips, holding back a sob.
“And they killed him because of me, to protect me. I was six years old. And I thought… I thought if I had been stronger, he wouldn’t have died.”
Jon moved his hand a little closer, still not touching him. Damian continued.
“My mother didn't bring me here because of a threat, she handed me over to my father for another reason, it was never that. She made it clear that by having me… she was unsure—of the world, of my grandfather. Of me.” His breath broke. “I grew up believing I was a risk to everything I touched, even my mother preferred to leave me than try to find a life with me.” A small, choked sob escaped him. Jon closed his eyes, pained just by hearing it.
“That’s why I trained so hard when I got here, because if I was perfect… maybe I wouldn't be a danger, and maybe they wouldn’t abandon me.” Damian pressed his fist against the mattress so hard his knuckles turned white.
“And now… now I just want to forge my own destiny. To get away from everything they were. Not to be like my grandfather. Not to repeat his name. Not to repeat his… legacy.” The voice became a broken whisper. “But I’m scared, Jon, I’m so afraid of becoming him…”
Jon finally touched him. He took his hand, softly, intertwining his fingers with Damian's from behind.
“You are not going to become your grandfather,” Jon murmured, steady, certain. “Do you know how I know?” Damian didn't answer, but his hand trembled in Jon's. “Because people who fear being a monster… are the living proof that they are not. Your grandfather never doubted. You do. Your grandfather never cried over the harm he caused. You…” Jon wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close to his chest with infinite care. “You’ve been carrying scars that weren’t yours to bear for years.”
Damian finally gave in. He turned, slowly, as if his body weighed too much, and rested his forehead against Jon's chest, and there he broke. He cried.
He cried silently at first, as if he didn't know how to do it. Then harder, as if a dam that had been holding back for too long had opened. Jon just held him. He didn't speak. He didn't rush him. He stroked his hair, his back, whatever he could reach, without pressure. Damian clung to him, literally, as if he feared that if he let go, he would fall apart again.
“I don’t want to destroy what I love…”
Jon kissed his head, slow, warm.
“You won't, because you are already choosing another path. You are already breaking the destiny that was imposed on you.”
Damian cried until he had no strength left, until his chest stopped heaving, until the exhaustion of years overcame him. Jon, without letting go, whispered:
“Sleep, Damian. I’m here. I’m not leaving.”
And Damian, for the first time since he was a child, slept in someone’s arms without fear of waking up alone.
-------------
The morning light entered, filtered by the curtains. Damian woke up slowly, as if the sleep had been deep… and for the first time in days, without that icy pressure in his chest. The first thing he felt was warmth—an arm around his waist, a calm breath behind him.
Jon.
He opened his eyes, confused for an instant, until the events of the night rushed back in a torrent: the nightmare, the attack, Jon entering the room, the confession, the crying. He sat up slowly. His eyes hurt, and when he touched his cheek, he noticed the slight tenderness.
The slap, he sighed. Jon stirred behind him, yawning.
“Dami? Are you awake…?”
Damian looked at him. His hair was all messy, and his voice was hoarse from just waking up. Something in his chest loosened.
“Jon…” he said, calmer than the night before. “I don’t regret anything. About us. I just… I’m sorry if I made you feel bad. It wasn't my intention. I do love you, more that i can understand ”
Jon blinked, then smiled gently.
“Wow,” he sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Damian Wayne… apologizing first thing in the morning?”
“Shut up.” Damian glared at him, but without force.
“Come here.” Jon chuckled and gently pulled his arm.
Damian hesitated for half a second… and leaned in, letting Jon rest his forehead against his.
“Don’t ever carry that alone again,” Jon said, without losing his smile. “And by the way, you earned that slap.”
“It was excessive,” Damian scoffed.
“It was soft. Next time I’ll give you a head-thump, see if you react faster.”
Despite himself, Damian let out a small, almost imperceptible, but genuine laugh. Jon looked at him with tenderness, too much tenderness.
“Good morning, Sweetheart,” he let slip.
Damian froze. Both of them blinked.
“Did you seriously just…?” Damian murmured, his eyes slightly wide. Jon turned red up to his ears.
“I-I-wasn’t-supposed-to! It just came out!”
“…It’s not bad.” Damian looked down, his face also flushed.
Jon stopped breathing for a second.
“Oh, really?”
“As long as you don't overdo it,” Damian mumbled, looking away. Jon smiled like an infatuated idiot.
“Whatever you say, Honey.”
Damian almost choked on air.
“Kent!”
“I’ll only stop if you stop calling me by my last name.” They both stared at each other for a few seconds, debating.
“Deal.”
Jon was already laughing, happy to see that the tension had disappeared. Damian didn't reply, but his face said everything. The two came downstairs together, Jon with an unshakeable smile, Damian with a neutral—but lighter—expression. They crossed over to wash their hands at the bathroom sink, leaving the dining table behind them. Bruce looked up from his coffee, having just returned from a mission. Jason stopped eating his pancake. Tim let out a "What the hell…?" and Dick zeroed in on the red mark on Damian's cheek.
“Training fight?” Dick asked.
“With an open hand?” Jason added.
Tim evaluated both faces.
“No. Jon hit him. My bet is they argued over some nonsense.”
“Sometimes friends need to resolve their differences physically in a controlled manner.” Bruce nodded with paternal approval.
“That’s one intense friendship,” Dick sighed to them.
Cass, without a word, looked at the two of them. Her eyebrow lifted; she sighed, resigned. Idiots, her body language expressed with absolute clarity, she thought to herself as she bit into a bagel.
Alfred watched the scene from the head of the table, closing his eyes for a second. He rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Young Masters,” he said with impeccable British calm. “If you start leaving visible marks in your… amicable interactions, I suggest you at least do so on a weekend, as you both have school.”
The two teenagers choked on air, perhaps realizing it was Friday, or because Alfred's tone implied his complete knowledge. The others just thought Alfred was exaggerating, as always. But he wasn't. He knew everything. And he was one step away from having a stroke from the collective level of emotional blindness at that table. Jon and Damian took their seats. Their hands didn't touch; they didn't look at each other much. But every so often, Jon smiled. And Damian, slightly, did too.
A faint, fragile, newly recovered peace… that could finally breathe.