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Hiraeth. Welsh. A deep longing for a place you cannot return to.
They say there are over 470,000 words in the English language, including ones that are currently used and ones that are not. Tim was around nine years old when he found this information—later it spurred on his desire to buy vintage dictionaries—and yet, he still could not name the emotion that he was feeling.
French had even less words, only slightly, and he can’t place this feeling in either language.
He was lying in bed, equipped with soft navy topsheets, and hugging his owl plush. His childhood room had books overflowing from every shelf, posters of France neatly framed on the wall, and a few photos of his family. He remembers that distinctly.
“Sometimes, people take a while for their soulmate to be born. Sometimes, soulmates can just be friends. And some people don’t get soulmates at all.” She was stroking his wrist as he said this, staring intently into Tim’s eyes. The same crystal blue as Tim’s.
“Do you think mine isn’t born yet?” Tim asked, looking back.
Janet smiled, not sharp diamonds like every paper seemed to describe, but soft pearls. “I don’t know, baby. I guess we’ll find out.” She poked him on the nose, and his eyes caught on her arm. For once, she wasn’t wearing a bracelet. He doesn’t know whether it’s purposeful or she forgot, but all the same it reveals black letters in cursive.
Timothee Lavigne.
Janet looks at him, he looks at her, and Tim grasps an understanding—not necessarily what his mother went through, but what she did about it. Something complex, hard to hold and inspect in his mind.
He decides not to ask about it. Soulmarks were powerful and people were intricate: it was difficult to fully epitomize the range of his mother’s state of mind. He’d rather not try.
Tim, though, will always wonder about Timothee Lavigne and what he meant to his mother. If anything at all.
Gezelligheid. Dutch. The cozy feeling of being around people you enjoy.
“Seriously, Tim, I don’t see you without that thing around your arm.” Bart taps his wristband.
They were in his living room, likely the largest and most comfortable compared to all his friends, and about to start their Binge Watch Weekend. The early phases of this, obviously, started off slow. Which meant Bart would get chatty.
He knew full well why Tim didn't take it off. Tim rolls his eyes, “You may not peek.” Already guessing Bart's next question, the speedster quiets with a short pout. Bart shifts on the dark fluffy couch, kicking off a large blanket and staring off into one of Tim's random framed posters.
Tim has been thinking a lot about soulmarks recently. His lack thereof, he should say. This “random” question meant he wasn't hiding it as well as he thought.
Bart leans back, intruding on Tim's space. “Soulmarks…” Bart sighs wistfully. “A lotta people don’t really have those in the future.” His face is contemplative, quickly turning into his happy expression as something catches his eye. A pile of chip and cookie bags are dumped on to the two.
Was Bart trying to make him feel better about the soulmark thing by saying that? He briefly wonders this before looking at the assortment of goodies.
“Snacks acquired,you're welcome!” Cassie announces and jumps over the back of the couch, landing softly onto her spot. “Thank you Cassie, you’re the best Cassie,” Bart has already opened some potato chips and snuggled into his blanket.
Tim raises a brow after removing several snack bags off his lap, “And the drinks?” He sent a list to her, a specific list that had all the snacks for their movie night, that he personally ate at every movie night. It was for the mood, he was not uptight about relaxing no matter what his team stated; that was simply slander.
“Kon’s s’posed to get them.”
He lied. He's uptight and Kon is going to get the orange Zesti instead of his grape because Kon is a little—
A pack of grape Zesti appears on the table, along with some liters of other sodas. “Chips, popcorn, cookies, soda…” Bart lists off as Tim looks at Kon. He’s sitting down, hair slightly windswept before running a hand through those curly locks. “I’m pretty sure we have it all.” Cassie says to Bart—although their conversation is in the background.
Tim is hooked onto those rich blue, maybe slightly purple, eyes. Kon stares at him back, probably lightly confused. “What? Do I have a bug on my face?”
Tim shakes his head, “You got the grape.”
Kon nods slowly, “That’s your favorite?” He pauses. “Did you try weed again? Tim, we’ve—”
“No, no, you moron, I didn’t think you’d get it is all.” Tim interrupts, rolling his eyes with some sort of fondness. Maybe that was stupid of him to assume, and maybe he was blowing this a little out of proportion, but it felt nice to be acknowledged.
“Duh. You asked for it, plus I don’t even like Zesti as much as you.” Kon bumps Tim’s knee with his leg.
“Wait, hold on, so all those times you got orange, you just did it to piss me off?” Tim asks, defensive. Cass and Bart have taken their spots on the couch, keeping Tim in the center.
“Pretty much.” Kon shoots a smile, leaning in closer to Bart’s side and effectively squishing them all on his couch. The other three start laughing loudly, immaturely.
Tim sulks for a half-second before a snort escapes him, and he joins the group in laughing.
Saudade. Portuguese. A feeling of deep longing, melancholy, and nostalgia.
He was thirteen when he told Bruce about the soulmark situation. Tim, at that point in his Robin career, trusted Bruce enough to disclose this information. Bruce on that day had felt more like himself, perkier than usual.
Bruce sat him down, or well, they were already sitting—not the point. Tim was in the Batcave, sitting at the computer, and helping Bruce analyze a recent case. It was something meaningless. A mob case, maybe. Honestly, Tim can’t remember that bit even though he probably should.
But there was a lapse of silence after the wrapped up for the day, when Tim was packing away his things and recalling all of his items, and that’s when he spoke. He said, “Tim, do you have a soulmate?”
He distinctly remembers how the quiet, soft and light, turned into something darker. Something more familiar during his tenure as Robin. Bats chitter, and he replies, “No.” His expression is blank, but his voice is cold.
Water is dripping, an irritating plink on the cave floor that echoes up to them. Bruce’s expression would be unreadable, if Tim bothered to look. He didn’t.
“Let me know when you get home, kiddo.”
His thoughts were a blissful quiet on the walk home. This normally would be very worrying as it was highly unusual, but for that moment…it was welcome.
When Tim arrived at Drake manor, some sort of feeling festered in him. He’s positive he’s had it since forever, but now, it felt amplified by ten. Somehow the loneliness of it all was getting to him.
He wasn’t alone, though, he had his friends and his Dad, Bruce and Dick! So, why was he longing for something that would never come?
Tim rationalizes this feeling with the facts. Lots of people didn’t have soulmarks. They still lived a happy, average life.
But, he wasn’t average. Supposedly, he was the prodigal son of Jack and Janet Drake, and even more importantly, Batman’s sidekick. Tim has never once been normal in his entire life. He couldn’t have a break, could he?
That nasty, familiar feeling came back. For him, it wasn't a basic desire, it was a carnal necessity.
Yeah, he had issues when he was a teenager.
He likes to think he’s calmed down within the past seven years, but every so often, he returns to that state of mind. That desperate ache for someone to be his, no one else’s. It wasn’t possession, it was something else. Like… a person that would always be there for him and vice versa.
He sighs, back in the present. Tim shuffles in his bed, turning over and checking the clock. It was way too early to be thinking like this.
Geborgenheit. German. A feeling of deep safety and comfort at home.
Tim looks at the leather band, the bracelet that has kept his skeleton in the closet hidden for years.
It represented his lack of a soulmate, yes, but also a secret hope that one day… One day, maybe he wouldn’t be alone. Some dark writing upon his wrist would appear and he would be shocked at first—before relief and elation flooded in. He would research this person, their name, who they were, and try to find them…
He gives a private smile to himself, unclasping the leather band, and setting it on the glass patio table. Tim wouldn’t have a soulmate, but he already has something better.
Family, he looks at the pool and spots Dick trying to shove Jason into the pool, Damian floating on an inflatable, Steph and Cassandra playing chicken fight with Duke and Barbara, and finally, Bruce reading a book next to Alfred. The older man was simply sipping his tea and gazing under his sunglasses.
He could accept this, Tim thinks. With a running start, he throws his full body weight at Jason, sufficiently knocking him into the water. In the process, he manages to splash Damian and Dick.
This startles Duke enough to give Steph the upper hand, thus winning the fight.
Jason retaliates, “You little—” and shoves his head underwater. Tim is laughing the entire time, getting water up his nose, down his throat, and in his eyes. He surfaces and begins hacking, still laughing a bit, the water up. Jason is sulking, more like scowling and plotting revenge, when his eyes land on Tim's wrist.
Before he could say anything…“That was good, Tim!” Dick yells from the tile padding. He joins them by doing a perfect dive, because of course he would, and flawlessly rises to the top of the water. “Woah, why’d you take off your wristband?” He asks, swimming closer to Tim.
Tim tries not to be awkward and all movie-tropey about it, but he grins. “I think I’m finally ready to accept that I don’t—”
Damian shoves his head underwater before he gets any further. Probably for the best. Tim does a dramatic gurgle, coming up and shaking his hair to splash Damian even more. “Timoth—oh.” Damian’s eyes land on his wrist.
“Like I was trying to say, I figured it’s about time to even my tan.” He holds his left arm up to the Sun, another melodramatic gesture. A moment passes, nothing but the quiet movement of waves and wind.
Tim knew the joke was lame, but apparently it didn’t land with anyone. Everyone’s face was stunned, even Damian looked thoroughly surprised. “...I thought it was funny,” he frowns.
“Your—! Tim, your wrist!” Steph shouts. Her tone is hard to place.
He looks at his arm once again, expecting an injury, and a golden mark stares back at him. The words shimmer as he moves his arm around, cursive letters looping and swirling.
He blinks, once, then twice, and looks at everyone just to be sure. The people in the water are all gathered around him, worry, surprise, confusion written on their faces.“Mass hallucination?” He offers.
“Obviously not.” Damian says, but is still certainly curious.
He dips it in the water, looking at it once again. No effect. This…there was something wrong, this had to be magic or a prank, or something. He doesn’t have a soulmate. The letters fade away the longer he holds it up to his face.
Duke seems to get an idea, his eyes lighting up, and he takes Tim’s hand. “Hold still.” He manipulates the light from the Sun to shine directly on his arm. Thank goodness he put on sunscreen.
The words appear again, this time more opaque, and the letters stare at him.
Kon-El.
Jason whistles.
For a moment, Tim has no idea what to do. He's never heard about soulmarks that could be conditional, only showing up when certain requirements were met.
“Let's give him some space.” Cassandra, ever the hero, diffuses the situation. She didn’t need to be an expert in body language to see the shock written on his face.
Tim blinks at his wrist again, maybe this was all a dream. It was still there, swirling letters of Conner’s gaudy handwriting. “Get some!” He thinks Duke calls out to him, but he's too disoriented to really know.
Swimming to the edge of the pool, he takes one last glance at the name before finalizing his decision. The decision involves investigating what triggered his soulmark, and how to trigger Kon’s.
Conditional soulmarks. (Situational soulmarks sounded better.) His was activated by the Sun, in retrospect, this made sense. Kryptonian, Sun, it wasn't hard to find connection there.
Tim liked hiding. He hid his vulnerabilities, which is likely why he didn't figure this out sooner, so he understands why the soulmark would react to his … personality. Another connection there, Tim supposes. But really, was Kon shy with his emotions?
Wrapping himself in a towel, he makes his way back inside to the manor. Kon, in Tim’s view, was someone who wasn’t tentative with making his feelings known. Or, at least on the surface level.
He’s in his room when he rubs at the spot, where the name is already fading. They really were connected, weren’t they? Bound together by fate, something or other.
Tim didn’t actually care too much about fate. If his adventures with Young Justice, the Titans, Batman, taught him anything: it was that fate is malleable.
So, it looks like he and Conner had changed fate once again. Making nonexistent soulmarks appear under light and—
Tim sighs and clears his thoughts. Focus. He needed to figure out how to make Kon’s appear. Unless Kon didn’t have one, which would put a real damper on everything. For now, he would work under the assumption he did.
Step one. Produce a list of all variables that could trigger Kon’s soulmark. What was Tim’s “thing?”
Detective-ing was number one, probably. Fingerprinting dust, maybe. A camera flash? Maybe he had to dip Kon’s wrist in some sort of developing solution for film. There were an infinite number of suggestions.
He sits down at his desk and pulls out a pen and notepad. He begins writing down whatever comes to mind, that would make sense in a way.
This list only had a couple items on it, Tim having exhausted the most logical options. Right, all he had to do was non-suspiciously…dust Kon’s arm. This was going to be a nightmare, wasn’t it?
Avos’. Russian. Someone who ignores possible problems and has blind faith for a positive outcome.
The first experiment went poorly. He wanted to catch Conner off guard but…
“What the hell are you doing, Tim?” Kon swipes his hand away from Tim, balancing a giant boulder with his TTK.
“What do you mean?” Tim asks, fistful of dust in his palm. Kon gives him a look, then floats away to reposition the boulder. This particular cleanup was a Metropolis project that they had been working on for around a week. (Another alien invasion. It’s really not that important.)
“Damn it.” Tim swears. He didn’t see a mark, not from the dust that managed to land somewhat near his arm.
The next was when the main four were going out for dinner. It was some low-lit noodle place that Tim forgot the name of. “Wait, let me take a picture!” He pulls out his fancy-pants camera and grins.
Tim sighs and looks at the group’s pose. “Hm. Hold on, Kon, put your arm up like…” he moves forward and grabs his hand, raising it above his head and closer to the camera. “Yeah, good!” Cassie shoots him an odd look.
He snaps the photo, temporarily blinding everyone with the flash. There are a few sounds of protest from them. “Whoops, silly me. Flash.”
Tim practically trips over himself sitting back down to sneak a glance at Kon’s wrist.
Nope. Nothing. Zilch. Nada. “Can we see?” Cassie asks, blinking a few times to get rid of the afterimage.
“Oh, I forgot. I have to develop the film.” He taps his head, giving a short grin, “I’m so forgetful today.”
Even Bart was looking at him strangely, noodles hung in his mouth. “Are you good, dude?” Kon asks, raising an eyebrow and taking a bite of his dumpling.
He nods, “I might need help with it, that's all.” Kon meets his eyes, suspicious. Tim, admittedly, feels his simmer with a blush. “You wouldn’t mind helping me tomorrow, right?” Tim asks, fluttering his eyelashes.
“Sssssure.” Kon goes back to eating and trading food with Bart, who was sneaking extra dumplings.
He hums, triumphant, and looks across the table. Cassie is giving him a Kubrick Stare, face flat. Tim plays innocent and bobs his shoulders. What she didn’t know couldn’t hurt him.
One of the last experiments, nearing the bottom of his list, was the photography theory. If this didn’t work, he would be back to square one.
Finally, in his darkroom, he splashes Kon with a tiny bit of developer. “Dude. Isn’t this toxic?”
“You’re invulnerable.” Tim replies, eyes glued to his arm. Kon snorts, wiping his hand off on a nearby rag, “It’s the thought that counts.”
Nothing. Tim was beginning to lose hope. “Right. Oh, can you hang up those ones?”
That evening, when he got to his flat, he pondered once again. He’s finished his list, at this point, and he’s almost finished having hope for this. There was something off, just one little piece he was missing.
He slips off his shoes and goes to sit down before noticing an item on his counter. “Jason…” he sighs. There’s a sticky note attached to it, what now appears to be some sort of LED light fixture.
Stole Bruce’s lights for his lab. Please hide them, it's been four months!
-J
Four months was a solid record, so Tim takes the fixture and walks over to the farthest wall, where his TV was mounted. He taps the dark oak bookcase next to it, and does a series of knocks. A panel unclicks itself from the wall, and he pries it open the rest of the way.
Tim inspects the fixture once more. It was probably the UV light for…
He jams the light and locks the panel, gasping. Blacklight. Of course!
Kilig. Tagalog. A thrilling feeling caused by an exciting or romantic experience.
Unfortunately, his last theory had to wait. There was a space mission that was more pressing than his personal relationships. Something about ‘total state of emergency,’ and ‘they provide helpful resources.’ Tim could’ve paid more attention but, really, it was pretty straightforward.
After a short mission debrief—space zombies were no joke—Tim pulled Kon aside from the group. As he was on a small planet called Cyneric Three (don’t ask what happened to the first two), zombie guts all over his face…he realized something.
His time was limited. Tim needed to hurry with his plan. Which is where the spare room came in.
It had the vibe of a conference room. Nice large walls with small holes from when they hung up papers with a pintack. Tables and chairs scattered around, with wheels for accessibility, and a beautiful white board that Tim treasured.
It also had a short wall on the far end where windows covered by blinds and the large board brought natural light in. For now, the window is blocked, saving the light for a grand reveal.
This room was one of many used by Tim to investigate evidence. The reason they are in here is to… also investigate evidence, one that Tim theorizes would need the blacklight: provided by the overhead light, an upgrade that quickly became one of his favorites.
Kon's confusion was palpable, searching the blank walls for something. Maybe mission reports, papers, whatever the case, he would not find anything.
“So…?” Kon begins, uncomfortable with his partner’s strange behavior.
Tim is aware of his heart rate beginning to pick up. “Kon,” he starts, unsure of where he will finish. He shuts the door behind him, to start, and takes a step closer. “I haven’t been completely honest.”
“I’ve made my peace with it. What’s up with you?” The man wittily replies before genuine concern overtakes him. “You’ve been acting a little strange lately.”
Oftentimes, Tim will need to improvise while he’s patrolling. His plans won’t always go step by step, though he prides himself at how often they do, which means he needs to be quick on his feet. He can calculate an idea and execute it within seconds—and, not to be cocky, he’s pretty good at it.
So, at this current moment, he employs this strategy with Conner.
He moves forward, fast, and takes Conner by the arm. “I need you to trust me,” Tim’s fingers stroke Conner’s arms, up and down. It’s almost hypnotic, the way he does it, and Kon slowly nods.
“I do.” Kon’s wrist is being held firmly in place by Tim, and he flicks on the blacklight switch. The room floods into a deep violet, certain fluorescents popping out like a peacock in a desert—that is to say, quite easily. Kon’s eyes glowed an almost indigo in the light, they widened in shock.
The reason for this were the little letters in Tim’s handwriting. No code or shorthand, his authentic handwriting shining on his wrist with a greenish hue.
Tim Drake
Tim can't help but smile. His intuition was rarely off. “I thought,” Kon starts, sliding his arm out of Tim's hands. He takes a closer look and rubs at the name. “I didn't think I had one.”
Tim flips the light off, and moves the whiteboard over. Opening the blinds, it was a nice, sunny day. How convenient. Conner takes the hint and floats over. He tended to do that when he was feeling a lot.
“I didn't either until…” Unclasping his bracelet, the letters fade into existence. Same as before, and the twenty times he checked, the golden letters matched Conner’s handwriting. This was real. They were meant for each other, in one way or another.
Conner looks at his wrist, something Tim can't quite place in his eyes. Brilliantly sparkling—it reminded him of his mother, that complex feeling that he was never able to figure out. “Is this why you’ve been doing all that random stuff?”
Tim nods. “I know you said a lot about not letting fate dictate your life, let alone your love life, and I understand.” Tim gives him a grin, albeit it was feeble: glum.
Conner looks at him, a slight downward tilt. “You do?” He asks hesitantly. Like he knew something that Tim didn’t. Tim presses on anyway, “There are many cases of these being platonic or familial, and—”
Kon cuts him off right then and there. “Tim, I'm not a fucking teen anymore, so I'm gonna give it to you straight,” his voice is tight. He takes Tim's hands, looks straight into his eyes, and speaks. His grip is tender, soft hands touching his calloused ones. “I love you.”
Tim isn't a teenager anymore either, but he still blushes like one. Speechless, he grips Conner’s hands, grasping them like it was fresh water on a deserted island. Tim stares wide-eyed at him. Said Kryptonian was looking expectant.
Tim realizes he should say something, “I think I have since we were kids, I didn't want to…to ruin anything, to say anything,” he starts. “I was still hoping that one day, maybe it would appear.”
Conner looks like he wants to say—maybe do something, but holds back. “It was—I was delusional.” Tim stammers out, chuckling as he finishes that comment. His heart is racing and he watches Kon’s face for a reaction.
His face breaks into a smile as he leans a little closer, whispering, “I guess you got your wish.” Tim’s face blooms into a grin. The suave moment quickly deteriorates as Kon pulls back. “Say it back.”
Tim rolls his eyes, “I love you, Conner Kent.”
Kon returns a smile, something warm and soft, before closing the little space they have between them. The sensation, however, is halted quickly because the whiteboard he was leaning against rolls slightly to the left with the added weight.
Tim yelps as he falls. He hears laughter from the floor where he caught himself, Kon was snorting up a storm. Although, that also is stopped due to Tim sweeping his feet.