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Damian wakes up with arms around his midsection and a soothing line of body heat against his back.
This is a particularly disturbing way to wake up, because a minute ago he distinctly remembers being a) awake and b) at the birthday celebration Richard had organised, with a rather muddy rock being touted as his birthday present and pressed in his hand by-
...Suren.
Damn it.
The arm moves, ever so slightly, and Damian finds himself intimately aware of the shift of breath on the back of his neck, a predication of consciousness that, nevertheless, still leaves him closing his eyes as though he could fake sleep.
"Mmrgh, Dames? What's up?"
But against this particular opponent, faking would be more suspicious; after all, Jon could hear his heartbeat and every hitch of breath.
(Of course it would be Jon; and yet, the confirmation inevitably means he must force his breath to come slowly, to force every year of meditation to the forefront of his body so his heart doesn't skip a beat.)
"Your imitation of an octopus," Damian starts, trying to recall exactly what Suren had said while casually passing him the stone, "has caused significant impediment when attempting a subtle escape."
Jon laughs, the air rushing past Damian's nape, but he withdraws his arm, nudging Damian's ribs as he goes. "Yeah, yeah, jerk. You can just ask."
and disturb you? Damian thinks, remembering the moments he's stolen during years of sleepovers, the hesitant creep of his fingers over the air mattress, until their hands brush. Thinking of Jon's hand hanging over the edge of his bed as though he were waiting for such a touch, waiting for Damian to reach out like he can never do in their waking hours. Remembering Jon's slack mouth and his twitching nose in the very early morning, when the sun crept in and began to wake him. Remembering, further, the way Jon rubs at one eye and yawns as he tries to wake himself, the consequence of Damian keeping him up late.
Unbidden, stupidly, he rolls over and confirms what he had suspected; it truly is Jon, but...different. His gaze, for one, is open and soft, a fond smile on his face, and so close that Damian would presume his own heart had skipped a beat, if only he didn't know himself so well. Jon's smile gets even fonder, eyes crinkling, and he nudges against Damian's nose with his stupid face, some imitation of a bunny kiss.
"Good morning," Jon says, and Damian's heart squeezes.
“Good morning,” he murmurs, the words forced to creep from his throat like mangled things, no waver to belie his hesitation. Jon's foot is pressed against his shin, Damian notes, angled in such a way that their legs are not specifically intertwined, but close enough that the sensation feels the same. “I'm getting up now.”
This is not his Jon, not someone he's allowed to be weak with, and until he figures out what's happened and why their sheets pool around Jon's bare hips, why he woke up with Jon's arms around him and in an obviously shared bed, there's no time for weak.
“You don't even have class today!” Jon whinges, burying his face in Damian's chest and tugging him in closer. “Contract stipulates I have at least fifteen more minutes of cuddle time.”
Contract. Contract?
Damian's whole body feels hot, a pulse of it sent through him like a wave. Undoubtedly, with the tone Jon has said it, this is a joke.
But he knows himself, too. He has entertained, very briefly, the thought of writing himself a contract, a trade-off, to illustrate far more clearly the liberties he was allowed. If Jon was to joke about it-
Jon pulls him in closer, a soft laugh pressed against Damian's skin, and he shivers unwittingly as it races along his shoulder. “Hug me back and I'll let you get up, Dames,” Jon says, and Damian-
This is not your world, he thinks, and in quick succession:
- He does not know the morals of this world's Jon
- Nor the morals of any other hero currently patrolling outside the sanctuary of their closed curtains
- If there are any
- They are entangled in each other so thoroughly that there is no doubt as to what this world's Damian has managed to attain
- Not with how Jon woke up and…looked at him
- Not with how easily he'd leaned in, eyes closed, to bump his nose into Damian's, cute and cliché, entirely an action Jon would enjoy
- There is no time for further investigation without raising suspicion
- (He knows what he would do, if this was his world. How he would respond if this dream were his own reality.)
Damian curves his head down and presses a kiss to Jon's forehead.
To Jon, perhaps it would be an eternity. To Damian, he only lets his lips linger for a second.
“I'm getting up,” he says again, and Jon’s arms unwrap with a dramatic sigh.
“I guess it's a good enough trade,” he sulks, overdramatic to the point of humour. “Want me to make breakfast while you shower?”
“Yes,” Damian says, and swings his legs over the side of the bed. Turning away makes the back of his neck prickle, aware of Jon's gaze on his shoulders, but it gives him a moment to flick his eyes over the room, noting details cast stark by the golden mid-morning sun. It's tastefully decorated, but cluttered. Damian rarely lets his personal space get beyond ‘minimalist’ – bar his collection of art books and weapons – but in here, Jon's touch is everywhere. A hand-knitted desk runner sits on top of their dresser, a sword atop that, and yet, also, a collection of ceramic knicknacks and glass jars that gleam in rainbow colours. The furniture is all dark wood and ornate, curving designs, but a coat hangs over one corner of the wardrobe and a scarf is haphazardly over the door.
What did you say, Suren, he thinks, trying to pull a memory from the clouded ether of his sleep-tumbled mind.
Last year had been a jade tiger, curled in a snarl; and then, when Damian held it, a real tiger, leaping for his face with bared teeth.
To defeat what Damian hated.
The year before, Suren's spell had sent him, Suren, and Maya trekking through a forest on an island full of dinosaurs, trying to solve an inane prophecy about gold.
An old-time adventure.
This year…
Just for you to have love, in a way you haven't had before. In a way that you'll accept.
His hands fist in the blankets, and then he quickly pushes himself up to his feet. Keeping his steps measured is no easy task, but he knows, he knows-
Careful, always. Step lightly, step carefully, lest he trigger his own trap. His own allowance, run dry.
He opens the wardrobe with a gentle flick of the door, refusing to allow any aspect of agitation to reveal itself. Jon had mentioned something about a class Damian had – whether he ran it or was a participant, who could say, but at least it would give him an excuse. “Will you come with me to the library today?” he asks, tone as bland as he can make it. “I need to confirm some information this morning.”
Not a lie – and yet, a trick that Damian has perfected.
“Uh-” Jon says, “I mean, yeah, sure? We can do that. We've got lunch with Dick later on, though, and I wanted to make him some of those mini quiches he liked, before he rocks up. So I wanna get back in time to bake, yeah?”
“That's fine,” Damian says, waving a hand dismissively as he pulls out a shirt and pressed pants. For once, he's almost glad to have been transparent regarding his preferred colour palette and clothing materials – it makes it easy to identify the green shirt as his, and Jon would never bother to neatly fold his jeans over a coat hanger. “You can stay here.”
He turns for the door, and then Jon is in front of him.
"Seriously," Jon says, a faint frown between his eyebrows, and he reaches out to grab Damian's wrist. "Is something wrong?"
His fingers are pressed right to Damian's pulse. Regardless of superhearing, he'd be able to tell if Damian were to lie; could feel any miniscule twitch of Damian's arm. Even now, the chance is still there. Damian is fighting back the shiver of heat from Jon's hand, the way he's been branded by the casual, concerned touch.
"Beloved," he says, and he's a good enough liar that he doesn't hesitate when the endearment slips from his lips, but he cannot stop the way his stomach twists. It makes logical sense that his alternative self would use the name, having grown up with his mother using it for his father, and he's thought about using it for Jon before, in moments when they haven't been together and Jon would not sense his heart rate rising, it's just...harder to say it to his face. For all his control, he knows a weakness well enough, and leans forward to press his lips against Jon's, hoping to startle and soothe so this alternate Jon does not have time to recognise any differences in him. "I just want breakfast,” he adds when he pulls back, and fights every urge to press his fingertips against his tingling mouth.
Is this their first kiss?
Can it even count as such, when this Jon has already- with whatever constitutes as his Damian-?
(And oh, what a thought. That even in this, he still does not have Jon. As always, a thief. He knows nothing about this reality, and thus, knows his duty to investigate before revealing himself, he just-
How long will he have to take from Jon what Jon has never freely given?
No matter Suren's wish, Damian cannot accept this.)
Jon's grip on his wrist tightens infinitesimally. There is something almost sad in his eyes, a flicker of anger, the same as it always is when Jon cannot fix whatever problem he has discovered, but then he lets go. His entire countenance softens, his eyes, his mouth, the slope of his shoulders, but it is a terrible thing to count as a success. Was a kiss truly so disarming, or has Jon become a better actor?
“Breakfast,” Jon says, and indicates the door with his hand. “I’ll see you in the kitchen, then.”
Damian takes his shower perfunctorially and tries to organise the information he’s gotten so far. On inevitable loop, however, he cannot stop wondering: is this another world? A universe of fantasy like those created by the Black Mercy? Has he been transported into an alternate self’s body, or is he here as himself? His spine still aches with tempered familiarity, but he has not memorised every scar – he cannot tell if the nick on his thumb is a stranger’s or simply unnoticed.
He doesn’t let himself linger, though tempted for further peace to think, because it holds no purpose for the Damian he is replacing. If he is replacing one, after all, and if this is not a dream constructed for his desperate mind-
When he sits at the kitchen bench, Jon slides a mug in front of him. It smells like assam, and sugar granules collect at the bottom when Damian picks up the cup. He drinks and counts the poisons that look like sugar in his mind, one with every measured breath.
It is the most awkward meal he's ever had with Jon; even trying to hold the cold knowledge that (regardless of what type of world he’s in) this is a different Jon, it is not enough to stop discomfort squirming in the pit of Damian's belly. No matter what this version of himself has achieved, Damian is a maladroit creature, inept with the balance of silence. Jon’s eyes watch him, whisper-thin lines pulled at the corner, and Damian’s murmur of thanks for the food is met only with a hum of acknowledgement.
“What’re you looking up?” Jon asks, sudden, and Damian falters with his spoon against porcelain. “Just that we have your set-up here, already. So it must be specific, huh?”
“Newspaper print editions,” Damian says, and lets the last of breakfast rest, casual, on his plate. Still true. Always, still true, because even when he was a child he didn't lie to Jon. Now, he just…leaves space for Jon to take his own conclusions. “As you know, electronic versions can be manipulated, even on our system.”
Jon’s eyebrows go up and down quickly, like his face is saying uh-huh. “Hard to think’ve who would’ve gone through the trouble of editing a dated snapshot,” he says, and then his eyes roll up to the ceiling, pondering. “But I guess it depends on what for. You wanna prove your professor wrong again on something?”
To say yes opens his heart for cross-reference. To say no opens another pitfall. Lying is not like fear – there are only ways to control the words.
“Can I not have personal projects?” Damian says instead, and Jon tilts his head back and forth on his palm.
“I like knowing what you’re invested in,” Jon’s mouth quirks into a smirk. “You know I’ve been ruined on surprises.”
It’s-
Damian has seen Jon smirk before. He’s always smarmy with it, self-satisfied and puffed up. This…? There’s something sharp in the angle of Jon’s face when he shifts so he can lazily keep Damian in his sights. It’s the way his eyes are narrowed, the way his fingers have fallen so they partially obscure his mouth.
Suren’s wish had said love, in any way that Damian would accept. Did it involve danger? Would he only accept it if given with caveats? Should he have gone along, easier, and allowed himself to undo the ties he’d covenanted and woven into every way he allows himself to reach out to Jon?
But yet, the vows he’d bound himself with felt as intrinsic as prayer, as instinctive as breath. If Suren’s spell had been to have love in a way he would accept, perhaps it knew he could not. That any love he would accept had to be tainted, tricked into him-
Jon reacts first. Perhaps a sound in a register only a Kryptonian could hear had alerted him – but Damian’s trained himself on Jon’s body since they were children. He grabs the coaster from under his drink and keeps his spoon firmly grasped in his fist, body angled to keep both Jon and the threat in his sights.
Assam spills across the benchtop.
Light spills across the kitchen.
Another Damian tumbles out of the portal.
If he were not on the floor, Damian would presume the duplicate to be his mirror. His stomach flips. At the very least this is not a Black Mercy dream; but the appearance of another him indicates that Damian has replaced himself.
And, knowing himself, he wouldn’t be pleased about whatever liberties had been taken with Jon.
“Oh thank God,” Jon says and in a blur of colour he's pulled the other Damian to his feet and pressed his face into the other Damian's neck. “I’m so glad you're back.”
Shock sends lightning down his spine. “What?” he says. The handle of the spoon bites into his palm, two lines of sharp solidity, his only weapon now that deception will no longer stay Jon’s hand. “What do you mean-”
Jon lifts his head from the curve of the other Damian’s shoulder. “I’m happy my boyfriend is back! What else would I mean?”
The alternate Damian pats Jon’s forearm, and Damian feels, broadly, off-kilter.
“But you did not know,” he says, the protest a burn on his tongue. “You're acting like- as though I-”
“That I didn't know you were him?” Jon says, and then frowns. “No, I knew.”
“Tell me!” Damian demands. “What reaction gave me away? I am not your Damian, but we look identical – and my heartbeat did not waver, I did not stutter once, I was not-”
“Nothing you did,” Jon says, scowling. “But you said it yourself. You're not my Damian.”
“That is not an answer,” Damian hisses, and the other Damian tilts his face to whisper something in Jon's ear.
“Fine,” Jon says, rolling his eyes. He pulls back from the other Damian, hand slipping down to his waist so they are still pressed side-to-side. “You don't call me 'Beloved'. Not for casual stuff, at least.” A smarmy grin pulls at his mouth, the one that makes Damian want to punch him, the one he so missed when Jon eyed him like a threat, and Jon sing-songs, “It embarrasses you.”
Other Damian, earlier so content, startles out of Jon's arms. “Really?” he says, “That was your clue? I could have been feeling affectionate, Jonathan!”
“And do you ever allow beloved to be part of that?” Jon says, eyebrow arched.
Damian is treated to a new sight: that of his ears going red, a blush barely visible on the rest of his skin and yet still so damning. “There are other options for his failure – perhaps even just your situational awareness of a stranger?” the other Damian says, cross, but Jon rolls his eyes.
“A stranger with your heartbeat, like that’s never fooled me before. Leave off, Dames.”
The portal flares again, a blue so bright it almost goes white. The other Damian doesn’t react, but Jon’s eyes narrow and he angles himself between the portal and their kitchen.
And then his Jon comes careening in, drawing up short when he catches the sight in front of him.
(Not his, but how else could he keep them separate in his mind? They are both Jon, and yet, his mind almost rebels at thinking of Jon so casually right now – to ask: does he have the rights to such familiarity, after stealing more than familiarity from someone with Jon’s face, voice, skin-
And yet, this has none of the sterile control of a mission, the separation of selves he has learnt to employ under his father’s tutelage. Who could he even consider as ‘Superman’ when he isn’t Robin, when this situation has left him with no masks?
Jonathan and Dames for the alternates, then. Relegate them to their own casual reference. And, until otherwise, Jon for the sake of normalcy, because he would expect nothing different from Damian, knew nothing of the way their other selves behaved.
The best secrets were barely secrets at all. What could be said, if they never even breathed?
“Damn,” Jon says, shaking his head roughly, then sees Damian and the miserable spoon situation. Jon’s mouth cracks into a grin. “You okay?”
Damian nods shortly, grip loosening on his spoon as the odds even – Dames would know the location of his home’s weapon stash, but Damian at least knew of the swords in the bedroom, and most of their differences seemed superficial. He could guess at his own mind’s forethought for other hiding spaces, and he was closer to the knife block. Jon could delay Jonathan, and Damian was fast enough to get armed now that human speed was their only limitation.
“Did the paranoia not concern you?” Dames says, sudden and sharp, and Damian’s fist tightens instinctively, metal biting his palm. “Normally when I think that much, you have a specific reaction-”
“Yeah but once I knew it wasn't you, I didn't want to kiss him,” Jonathan protests, squirming so he can wrap both arms around Dames’ shoulders. Damian hears a choked noise come from Jon, and even as Dames relaxes, Damian's own shoulders stiffen. “Come on! And I figured it out like five minutes after we woke up, I didn't even-” his cheeks flush pink, and he indicates with his head meaningfully. “You know our morning routine, and he doesn't.”
Dames’ face twists with exasperation, his eyebrow high on his forehead and the puff of his breath distinctly unamused. “What, and that didn't raise some questions?”
“Sometimes you have nightmares,” Jonathan says softly, all curled around Dames like a vine, draped over his shoulders. Or perhaps a more accurate comparison would be a lillipilli and a sassafras; Damian can see the way his alternate self leans into Jonathan’s arms, his fingers curled over Jonathan’s hip. A set of intertwined trees, grown so close as to hide their differences. “I don't press when you wake up like that.”
“This was a nightmare in itself,” Dames snorts, then heaves a sigh, tension falling from his shoulders as he very carefully presses their noses together before pulling back. “Remind me to ask Zatanna to add another ward to the house when they finally leave.”
Jon clears his throat, hand raised by his shoulder. “Speaking of which, we won’t have another cross-universe event? Much as I love playing fetch, Flash gets a bit worked up when we mess with the barriers of the universe.”
“No,” Damian says shortly, before Dames can even look Jon’s way. “I’ll be breaking Suren’s fingers when we get home, so future birthday gifts should have less magic involved.”
Jon snorts, but Jonathan looks vaguely horrified. “What was he doing, kidnapping people across universes?”
“Exercising his very well-practised ‘lack of forethought'.” Damian says, trying for a drawl but knowing the harsh curl of his lip has made him miss the mark. “It won’t happen again.”
“He really should just be getting you swords charmed with different cool attacks. Let’s be real here. Fire sword would be sick.”
“You can talk options with him when we get home,” Damian says firmly, and then finally steps toward Jon and the portal, closing the distance between them.
In this, perhaps it will be easier for Jon to see them as asymptotic to their alternates – that their distance is a distinct difference to how Jonathan had so eagerly rushed at Dames, how he now refuses to unwind his fingers from Dames’ belt loops. That Damian had not pressed himself against Jon as easily as Dames let himself rest against Jonathan.
That Damian did not want to, and this was the divergence between their worlds that separated them into unambiguous parallels.
Has Dames mentioned it? If he were in Damian's world during this debacle, would he have reached for Jon, first, unable to tell the differences between Jon and Jonathan, the same way Damian struggled?
Would he have asked for comfort, for reassurance, or did he recognise their differences as quickly as Damian did? He would not have had the easiest clue – that of Jon's affection – and lack of it would only be revealed post the asking.
(Did Jon push him away, the same way Damian has always imagined?)
Damian doesn’t shake his head – he’d never be so unsubtle – but this thought has haunted him often enough that Damian has practiced its exorcism. If Jon knew, he’d not have stumbled upon the first look at Dames and Jonathan, entwined. If Jon knew, he'd have glanced at Damian side-eyed with his superspeed once no threat had revealed itself, and Damian would've caught the flicker of his facial expression changing while Jon tried to look at Damian for longer than he should, to piece something together he knew he wasn't allowed to know.
But if Jon knew he'd not be able to look Damian in the eye – and he wasn't that good of a liar.
(Not the way Damian is. Not the way Damian has learned to be, changing faces the same way others change smiles, exchange names. Living with Bruce taught him exactly how easily he could pull on another's skin.
He is a good enough liar – better than good enough – to craft a version of himself that would appeal to Jon, designed to every degree for Jon’s love. He could make Jon fall, and decades of Jon's self-imposed decision to care for him would take care of the rest, even when Damian became fully Damian once again.)
“Should I warn ours?” Jonathan says, interrupting Damian’s thoughts before they make him glance side-along at Jon, tempted to double-check his certainty, and Damian frowns.
“How so?”
“For whatever happened,” Jonathan says, “So he knows to avoid…well, whatever your Suren did.”
His first answer – that their Suren would have no cause to use such a spell – gave away too much. Or, perhaps, would invite too many questions, from either side. His second was only a blank mind, unsure on where to step that wouldn’t trigger a lie too pure to hide. Dames’ eyes go sharp.
Damian allows himself to draw up, knowing the thin haunt of pain as his spine shifts will hide his heartbeat from either Jon – though, perhaps not himself, if that sharp-eyed expression is enough to judge.
Do they do the same thing? he wonders. They must both wear titanium along their backs, for Jonanthan to have no question at Damian’s body, but has it the same cause? Do they both use the same trick, when they need to clear their mind? Differences exist between them, for Dames to be by Jonathan’s side, but which are superficial and which are inherent?
(Why did Dames feel the same way for Jonathan that Damian did for Jon, yet still have allowed himself the closeness that Damian denied?)
“It would depend,” he decides to say instead, “on how your Suren chooses to meddle.”
“Often,” Dames says dryly, and Jonathan snorts.
“Then is he also heavy-handed?” Damian asks, and although he knows it bares a weakness, he lets his eyes fasten to his counterpart. Jonathan had not let on to their morning's activities, and Jon had not flinched from Damian's presence at his side, but Dames is almost a mirror. He may not have kept to each tenant of Damian's rules, but surely he had held them once.
And Damian cannot believe any version of himself is an idiot; even if Dames had not gone to Jon for the comfort he received from Jonathan, Jon's own response – or lack thereof – was potentially his clue, the same way that Jonathan's affection had been Damian's own.
“I don't think either of them know subtlety,” Jonathan jokes, knocking his head into Dames’, and Dames rolls his eyes. “What was your last argument about-?”
“How easily to skin a Kryptonian,” Dames says, and Jonathan moans booo! under his breath. Still, even with their jokes, Dames has kept sharp eyes on Damian. “He picked something you wanted, didn't he? Or, rather, forced it picked for you.”
Damian flinches, the blunt delivery enough to startle. He's lucky that a flinch, to him, isn't large – the flex of his fingers, the set of his shoulders, the pull of his chin.
Unlucky, in that, to this room, all of those things were louder than a scream.
“Damian?” asks Jon, gentle and careful and still, always, that meddling curiosity that made him want – need – to get involved in a secret.
“Yes,” Damian says shortly, knowing he cannot dodge this admission and preferring, at least, to escape it with minimal bruising. “But now you've made it that I barely want to warn you. If your Suren has not inconvenienced you with his gifts before, why would I deny you the annoyance?”
“Petty,” Dames tuts, and Damian's eyes narrow.
“As you said,” Damian manages, “Suren’s spell sought to grant me something I wanted. Thus, I cannot warn you of how – or even if – this could reoccur. Regardless of the similarities between us, I'm sure you'd at least recognise we have very different wants.”
And let one of them be Jonathan, he thinks, almost a prayer, in that place that still remembers the dawn bell and the dusk songs. Let Jon presume Damian’s wants did not include one bedroom, one bed, one hand in his belt loops and one body pressed to his. Let Jon presume anything, if only he did not presume that Damian wanted him.
Dames’ eyes do not flick to Jon; that mercy, at least, he grants Damian. Still, he offers no other mercy when he says, “Not as different, I think.”
Jonathan's mouth twists, sour-edged. “Stop,” he warns. “Whatever you blame yourself for, taking it out on him is unfair.” He shakes his head, almost grinning. “It's weird to know you both so well, when I barely know you at all,” he offers Damian, rueful, and it feels like an open hand, peace in his palm; but then he ruins it. “Half the fault would be mine, anyway.” Jonathan looks at Jon, and Damian wonders what difference he catalogues in his duplicate. “More, maybe.”
Stop, he wants to beg, because Jon is sharper than anyone has ever given him credit for, and they're barely even dancing around the words. This secret is living and breathing and standing in front of him in two bodies, and he cannot get them to shut up.
“Perhaps your Suren is simply better-minded, for thinking through consequences,” Damian cuts in, and his words are measured but his speed is not. “Whatever our- different desires, he could have already put some thought into the trouble they'd cause, were he to allow them.”
Dames snorts. “For how many things are consistent between our worlds, I doubt it.” A frown suddenly tugs at Dames’ brows, and his attention, blessedly, turns to Jonathan. “Speaking of, you and I need to discuss some points of contention in your history. Because I believe the exact phrase regarding your experience assimilating to this world was ‘not that bad’, and your alternate seems to be wildly traumatised. What did Clark and Lois allow in Hamilton?”
“Hey, different people hold trauma in different ways!”
“Mm, and yours is to deflect it – so the fact that he barely can indicates that there are certainly things you did not tell me about that story.” Dames’ scowl is firm, and Damian watches as Jonathan's countenance softens.
“Not today,” he murmurs, and Dames leans forward again to press their noses together, his eyes gently shut. No lines of stress draw at his forehead, at his cheeks, as he forces himself to disarm a sense so vital.
“Not until you wish it,” he promises, and Damian's stomach twists.
Is that how he was supposed to be? The man Jonathan had fallen in love with – patient and kind and adoring? What had broken him, so, that he was-
(What had healed him, that he could be like this?)
Longing hits him as fierce as a punch in the gut as he watches them murmur to each other, and with their distraction he's finally able to identify differences; this Jonathan is younger than his own, but taller. The discrepancy would have masked his age – but then again, Damian had merely passed off the softness as love. Foolish, when this Jonathan had identified him from the start.
Didn't love him the way he so obviously loved his own, proper Damian.
Damian rips his eyes away when their mouths meet, remembering his own stumbling attempt at affection, and yet, mind tripping on the image burnt into his mind. The sight of himself kissing Jonathan played in tandem with sense-memory of his own lips on Jonathan’s. How could an action that only took a second still linger like it had stolen hours?
"You wanted that?" Jon says, his mouth agape, and Damian flushes, something dangerous and bitter curling in his stomach.
“Do not presume an understanding of my psyche from such a momentary view,” he sneers, but the day has left him too frayed to deflect and he knows the lack of eye contact has solidified Jon's assumptions. Stupidly, he curls his arms around his midsection, fingers digging into his side, and squeezes viciously just once before he lets himself go. He lifts his gaze to meet Jon’s, challengingly, and bites out, “Suren's present, as per every of his presents every year, have more consequences than he presumes to contemplate. I won't be paying it any further mind, and you should not, either.”
“You-” Jon’s chest swells with his inbound breath, his eyebrows drawn together. “But you've thought about it. What do you mean by ‘further mind’ when you've already thought about it?”
“Because it will not happen!” Damian yells. “So what I have been doing before will be fine, and you will be fine, and-”
And if it's not then Damian will have to very sincerely fight the urge to break Suren's fingers next year, so that he doesn't get another stupid magical gift that wrecks his life. That wrecks the one solid relationship he's always managed to keep – the one boy who wasn't afraid of him, who never flinched when Damian pulled a knife from under a pillow and held it, unseeing, to his throat, a nightmare still behind his eyes. The one boy who knew his jokes, who disarmed himself for Damian's own safety, who-
The only one who'd know that Damian couldn't call someone beloved without his tongue tripping over the implications.
“It is my birthday,” Damian says stiffly. “So grant me one more gift and put it out of your mind. Or-”
He's so selfish for asking this. Stupid for even trying. A bastard, in more then just name, now, for even considering this, but to think of Jon leaving-
“Or if you cannot,” he whispers, “then I at least ask that you have it removed. Please.”
Jon makes a noise like a cut. Sharp and stinging, and Damian braces himself for losing Jon properly. At least, like this, it would be fast. No tender-hearted lies as Jon said he was fine but sat on the far side of the couch. No extra friends put between them, a manufactured distance.
Or even worse, a faltering attempt at casual conversation that turned into a casualty instead, the death, finally, of their friendship. The last line to cross, finally unforgivable.
Jon's fingers slip between his own. Damian only registers the warmth, the grip, the press of their palms. The movement, he presumes, must have been superspeed, but Jon still being willing to touch-
“I'm not freaking doing that,” Jon says, vehement. “Are you kidding me? Are you stupid?”
Damian scowls. “Excuse me?”
“Are you stupid?” Jon says again, and shakes their joined hands back and forth in emphasis. Their fingers are interlaced, and Damian's stomach can barely take it – but any thought of pulling away dies before the movement can commence. “If you want it, it's gonna happen.”
“But it should not!” Damian says, drawing up to full height as he tries to stumble through every implication of that sentence. The very idea that he would put his wants to forefront in this instance, that he would even allow himself such a thing when he's spent years learning otherwise- learning every tenant of self-sacrifice and engraving every idiom of selflessness into the core of his being, praying to override the default of his childhood- “Jon, I would never-"
“I want it to happen,” Jon mumbles, a flush of red high on his cheeks. "So- so if you want it, too. It's gonna happen.”
Struck silent, Damian can only stare. This time, it's Jon who won't meet his eyes. Jon with his gaze fastened on the ceiling, and-
“Oh,” he says, realisation dripping honey-slow into his thoughts. Jon's grip tightens on Damian's hand, and, unwittingly, Damian’s own response is the same. “Then- you-” he clears his throat. “You could still save me the embarrassment of this being how you found out,” he mumbles, and Jon's lips twitch.
“You think you would've done better if I'd waited?” Jon jokes. “Cause by sounds of it you were gonna try and die with this still a secret.”
“And if it weren't for you meddling kids, I would've gotten away with it,” Damian says, just to make Jon tip his head back and laugh.
That's- his. The sound. The cause.
His Jon laughs differently – perhaps less easily than his alternate – but the sound is still right. The right curve of his mouth, the right bell, the sharp way he cuts it off, and now the way he tightens his grip on Damian’s hand when his laugh dies, like he wants Damian to still be there after he opens his eyes.
Damian does not want to pull his gaze away from Jon; and yet, Dames and Jonathan no longer whisper to each other, and Damian can feel eyes on him. When he looks away, Dames has Jonathan tucked against his neck. Their eyes meet.
Dames’ head tilts, subtly, to the portal, an offer of escape without identification, without more secrets shared in company he cannot know.
Damian could not begrudge him, either, the comfort of Jonathan’s arms, nor the oddness of his own displacement. Were they to stay, they both would feel the inevitable pull of attempting to dissect the other, and the equally inevitable unwillingness to be dissected.
He tugs at Jon’s hand and Jon lifts himself off the floor so Damian can pull him without Jon having to open his eyes. It's easy to take him into the portal, easy to look back and see Jon watching through his eyelashes, mouth curled at the edges.
Warmth flares, bright and soft in his chest, and Damian almost startles at the untainted sweetness, unused to love without compunction.
In any way you’ll accept, he thinks, uncomplicated, unforeseen, unabashed-
Jon loves in all those ways, and, perhaps, that is love in the only way Damian will accept.
No holds barred, bar the way they hold on to each other.