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The sight of Damian in a plain shirt and sweats warms something inside of Jon. It says something that Damian lets Jon see him like this, open and unguarded. Not quite Damian al Ghul-Wayne or Robin. Just Damian.
Like everything else in Damian’s life, the way he dresses is made with careful consideration in mind — Damian’s civilian armour, Jon had jokingly called it once.
Typically immaculately dressed, the image of himself that Damian projects to the world is one of poise and control — not a single hair out of place, with his clothes starched and pressed within an inch of its life. There wasn’t much room for softness, not at the start at least. Jon still remembers Damian at thirteen, dressed like someone twenty years older in his turtlenecks and slacks, ready to conquer the world, one boardroom takeover at a time.
Now, that feels worlds away from the Damian sitting across from him on the sofa, socked feet tucked under his legs and a worn blanket spread over his lap. Damian has on one of his brothers’ worn shirts — probably Jason’s given how oversized it seems — the collar and the edges fraying with age, and a pair of sweats he’s clearly outgrown, if the way the hemline barely reaches past his ankles are anything to go by.
It makes him seem more human — less like the untouchable Gotham prince, and more like a boy his age, mismatched socks and all.
Jon honestly doesn’t quite remember what he had said, only that he had been recounting a fight he had with Toyman, dealing with a robotic monkey the size of a small building and chasing it halfway across downtown Metropolis before its massive cymbals could create more devastating sonic blasts.
Unexpectedly, Damian laughs at some of his more colourful retelling. Not a cool smirk, or a quiet snort either. No, it’s a full-bellied laugh that melts away the usual lines of tension on his face. Jon stares as his words peter off, wide-eyed at the easy way Damian tries to muffle his laughter behind his hand.
Jon is so starstruck when he stares at Damian, one would think he personally hung the stars with the way Jon’s looking at him. And he might as well have, for all that Jon feels like he's drawn to Damian's orbit. He feels so larger than life, always had, even when they were kids. This cocksure boy who hid his tender heart from the world behind snarls and flashing eyes.
It’s then that Jon makes a startling realisation, watching with his heart so full of something, as Damian continues to laugh, looking so warm and relaxed in his pajamas with his hair curling around his face.
‘I wouldn’t mind spending the rest of my life making you laugh like that’, Jon thinks unbidden like a secret, soft and private.
As soon as the thought settles, crystallises and forms into something real, Jon startles, caught off guard by the sharp sense of longing behind it, a pulse of something warm and tender burrowing deep.
And…it doesn’t scare Jon as much as he thought it would.
Oh. Jon blinks, dumbfounded by his self-realisation. Oh wow.
Jon feels strangely giddy with it, like the terrifying but exhilarating feeling he recalls from when he first discovered he could fly — equal parts fear and anticipation.
Damian’s expression is still softened by lingering mirth, the flickering lights from the TV casting soft shadows on his face in ways that make it hard for Jon to look away.
“You’re staring, Hayseed,” Damian says, somewhat self-conscious with the way his eyes flick to the side, bringing Jon forcibly back to the present.
Jon swallows thickly, still feeling blindsided by this too-big thing unfurling inside of him the longer he looks at Damian.
“You’ve got cheese powder on your chin,” Jon blurts out without thinking, his mouth working faster than his brain can catch up.
‘Idiot’, Jon immediately chastises himself, fighting back the urge to cringe and slap a hand over his mouth in mortification. ‘Why would you say that?’
“Tt,” Damian’s expression flattens as he clicks his tongue sharply against his teeth, turning his head sharply in the opposite direction. Jon doesn’t miss the way Damian discreetly wipes at his chin though, the back of his neck looking suspiciously red.
Jon is hit with that same longing once again. God, he has it bad.
But looking at Damian, grumpy yet unguarded, Jon doesn’t think it seems so bad. Not when he can keep having these quiet moments with Damian, private and theirs.