Chapter Text
There were two months left. Exactly sixty days to stop being a high school student and become someone who was supposed to have a plan. Teachers made it seem so simple in their presentations, with eye-catching slides and reassuring smiles.
The move to university no longer felt distant, as was the pressure of the promising future Jon envisioned in journalism. He had the talent for observation and finding a good story, plus the determination—probably inherited from his mother—to not let them go.
The funny thing is that, for someone who supposedly knew how to tell a good story, he was having difficulties with her college entrance essay.
His gaze was fixed on the page of his notebook filled with scribbles and crossed-out words, his pen tapping the page as if that were bringing him inspiration. None of his ideas had anything that made his essay stand out; they all seemed either too simple or too common.
Such was his desperation that he dropped the pen with a deep sigh, but it rolled straight off the table and continued its journey between the chair legs and the feet of passersby, with Jon pathetically watching.
Until it finally landed right under another table.
“The worst possible table”, in Jonathan's words.
That group of six was easily recognizable from a distance, whether by their platform boots, leather bracelets, and other accessories with spikes and chains, or their baggy or overly tight dark-colored clothing. Their hair was also striking, with streaks dyed in extravagant colors.
It wasn't difficult to ignore them if one wanted to. But it was also impossible not to notice them. They were the kind of people Jon would instinctively avoid in hallways. Plus, he'd heard things about them, like that they robbed people in the back of the school, that they were thugs and it was best not to mess with them, or that most of them were part of the Gotham underworld businesses.
Could leave the pen there, Jonathan considered, but after an awkward minute, he forced himself to stand up.
As he approached the table, he perceive not only the sweat on his palms and the growing pressure in his chest, but also a faint smell of cigarettes—and despite being faint, his nose still wrinkled in distaste—It seemed to permeate them even though they weren't smoking.
He stood there while they talked, oblivious to his presence. He wasn't quite sure which one to approach, preferably the one that seemed least intimidating.
Then one of them, a girl with short black hair and purple tips, bent down to pick up the pen under her seat.
“Here you go.” The silver rings and black nail polish didn't escape Jon's notice, nor did her husky, soft voice. When he looked at her face, he saw the extravagant black eyeliner and black lipstick that contrasted sharply with her extremely pale, almost vampiric skin.
Jon's eyes scanned the table with almost no subtlety, especially those with multiple piercings in their ears, lips, and noses. Each one was a character in themselves, with something that made them stand out in an extravagant way.
“Hey, you there?” The girl interrupted, still offering him the pen, which Jon took hesitantly. His hand was trembling noticeably.
“Thanks.”
“Chill, Kansas, we don”t bite.” The other girl in the group, with brown skin, afro hair, and distinctive piercings in her left eyebrow and nose let out a laugh that was joined by a few others.
“Well, some of us do.” A boy with half his head shaved, leaning back in his chair with one of his gothic chained boots carelessly on the table, added. Jon didn't know what does he meant by saying that but prefered not to know.
“Kansas?” He muttered, confused, belatedly noticing his blue cap with the emblem of one of the Smallville baseball teams. His expression upon realizing this seemed to fuel the laughter even more.
“You’re not so smart, are you?” A boy with red streaks in his hair, wearing a faded Motörhead t-shirt, raised an eyebrow mockingly before taking a long swig of his coke, receiving a light shove from the girl with the afro.
“Leave him alone, Mick.” A serious voice cut off most of the laughter without needing to raise it.
Jon shifted his attention to a tanned boy he'd surprisingly missed sitting at one end of the table. In fact, he was more focused on drawing in a notebook than on talking to the others.
He didn't quite fit in with them, but also didn't seem...normal, was what Jonathan thought.
Yes, the guy had a couple of piercings in his earlobes and the helix, black nail polish, but his clothes weren't as extravagant as the others'. Not like he came out of a punk or metal band. At least not totally.
His style was a little more formal, with a black leather blazer and a black sweater underneath, despite the spring warmth. His spiky hair wasn't dyed any bright color.
In the end, he found himself looking at the greenest eyes he had ever seen, with a little black eyeliner on the lower eyelid.
”Are you done profiling me?” The boy frowned slightly. His comment provoked a few more giggles from his friends.
“What? N-no…I-I wasn’t-”
“If you're going to be scrutinizing around, at least learn to be more discreet.” He rolled his green eyes, turning his attention back to his sketchbook. “You got your pen back, now scram.”
Jon frowned too, feeling an irresistible urge to retort, but he didn't know what to say and, and frankly, he didn't want those guys to kick his ass, knowing their reputation.
He pressed his lips together uncomfortably before returning to his table as quickly as he could without appearing desperate. Slumped back into his seat with more force than necessary and stared at the half-written page of his notebook again. But his mind kept drifting back to the chains, piercings, the laughter behind him fading, but the embarrassment lingered stubbornly under his skin.
And especially those sharp green eyes looking at him.
He wasn't a prejudiced person.
He wasn't judging, right?
He was just…curious?
Right?
........
The internal battle to admit to himself that he might be a prejudiced and judgmental person had already been going on for two days and an entire night Jon couldn't sleep well. Some people wouldn’t dwell on it so much, but he just couldn't let it go. He considered himself a responsible, kind, respectful, honest, and gentle person; he didn't like the idea of the word "prejudiced" tainting his many good qualities.
Speaking of qualities, other ones that described him were forgetful and distracted.That's precisely why, after class, he was running back to one of the classrooms on the second floor. To retrieve the hoodie he had left on the back of his chair.
Again.
He cautiously peeked his head in to check that the classroom was empty, because he'd absolutely die of embarrassment if he had interrupted some teacher's lesson. Walked to the center of the room and quickly glimpsed his blue hoodie, which was still hanging on the back of the chair at the fourth table, right where he had put it in the middle of the class.
That hoodie had been a gift from his grandmother Martha last Christmas. He'd have burst into tears if he hadn't found it. Kent picked it up and put it in his backpack with a sigh of relief, ready to leave, when he noticed something else on one of the tables near the door.
A black notebook with worn corners.
He tried to recall seeing one of his classmates with this notebook, but no one came to mind. He hesitated for a second before picking it up, hoping no Shinigami would appear the moment he opened it to see its contents.
The first page was blank, but on the following one he found something very different from a Death Note.
He found drawings. A great many highly detailed pencil sketches of hands. In the next one, there were buildings. Jonathan immediately recognized the large globe from the Daily Planet in one of them.
He also found animals of all kinds, —but mostly felines—, flowers, scenes of crowded streets and subway stations, portraits of people —like that of Mr. Hertz, writing on the blackboard—, landscapes, vehicles —judging by the detail of each drawing, Jon could tell that whoever owned this notebook knew about motorcycles—, even anime characters.
Every single one of these drawings was perfect, even the scribbled sketches that looked like they'd been done in seconds. Some were done in pencil, others with colored pencils or pen; all with shadows and highlights that gave each one a spark of wonder.
He continued turning the pages slowly, careful not to damage or smudge any of the drawings, until he found the large tree in the center of the school. For a moment, he almost forgot it was a drawing; it looked so real.
He didn't know how long he spent admiring those drawings but the deeper he went into the sketchbook, the more it began to feel less like flipping through random drawings and more like accidentally stepping into someone else’s head, so he closed it and looked again for something that would tell him who it belonged to, until noticed a small label on the back of the notebook.
“Property of Damian Wayne.”
Jon froze.
'Wayne.' He knew that name. Everybody in this world knew it. This name screamed money and privileges.
He was so engrossed in amazement that he literally jumped when he heard a voice behind him.
“Are you going through my things now too?”
Jon turned sharply and came face to face with a boy wearing a shirt with rolled-up sleeves and jeans, both in black, immediately recognizing that spiky hair and those fierce green eyes from a few days ago.
“Uh, what?”
The boy huffed in annoyance and approached. The chains on his belt jingling with every step. “That’s my sketchbook, farm boy.”
Jon looked down at the mentioned sketchbook, then returned to face the tanned boy, incredulous. “You are Damian Wayne?!” The blue eyes widened as much as they could, staring at the shorter man from head to toe. “That means-”
Damian snorted in annoyance and snatched his notebook. “Yes, I’m Bruce fucking Wayne’s son. So what?” The shorter one crossed his arms, putting the notebook under his arm. “Were you expecting the perfect-daddy's nepo baby in suit and tie?”
Damian's voice carried that same dry sharpness from the cafeteria, though this time there was something heavier underneath it. Tiredness, maybe.
In fact, Jonathan's brain was doing its best to process this new information, especially the fact that he was standing in front of Damian Wayne, and frankly, the guy didn't look like he had imagined based on how his father presented in medias .
“I didn’t mean to snoop.” Jonathan finally said. “I just found the notebook and—”
“And you opened it.” Damian frowned.
“I'm sorry.” The taller one nodded, blinking.
“Tt. I'll only tell you two things, Kansas.” The shorter boy glared. “One: Don't you dare take my things again.”
Then Damian moved even closer, close enough for Jon to clearly distinguish every detail of the boy's lower eyelashes, outlined with black eyeliner. At that moment, Jonathan also noticed that, to his surprise, Damian didn't smell of cigarettes or anything like that, as had happened in the cafeteria with his friends. In fact, he had a very subtle scent of cologne.
“And two: Stop pretending you know people just by looking...” Damian's eyes narrowed. “Or hearing their last name.”
Having said that, Damian didn't even wait for a response or reaction from Jonathan, he just walked away with a firm step and his head held high.
As for Jon...
Perhaps he was accepting that, after all, he did have a problem with prejudice.