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Tim was Robin. That was why he forgot and skipped so many dates, Bernard told himself. It made sense—why masks and vigilante gear were lying around and why he told Robin about his date with Tim—seemed to cause him to show up at his front door even if Bernard never texted him again, fearing the worst after everything that happened. Yet, he appeared and asked for another meeting. It explained why his neighbor Pie, from Marina, was convinced Tim was seeing Robin and was trying to tell Bernard to leave. Among many missed dates, these sorts of things were seen and seemingly well-known by all.
But Bernard ignored them. He had no one else—unlike Tim, who lived a life of isolation but had a loving, doting family. All Bernard had were acquaintances at best, who were mildly concerned about his well-being. He really had only Tim. Without Tim, there was no one. And when he had no one, it led to the cult— to the beauty of pain. It hurt him when he pretended he wasn’t suffering, like his life didn’t matter. Like if he vanished, no one would notice. The hum of memories—the burning electricity of his nerves sending shocks to his brain—woke up parts of himself he thought were gone, drowned in silent suffering and anger. Those emotions became so suffocating, they numbed him—so numb it wasn’t like being a corpse but something worse. He longed to feel alive again, even if that meant crossing the line into death.
After all, his boyfriend did something important, something impactful.
That doesn't mean it isn't hard...
Lying in bed, rotting away, feeling the numbness return because he hadn’t even heard Tim's voice on a call for months. Then, as he scrolls, a video clip appears on his feed, attempting to evoke some feeling. It's of Robin.
Tim's Robin. For months, Bernard has been ignored, forgotten, neglected, and cast aside. He presses play without thinking. He's not sure who put it together or why. Probably some cheesy tagline from a vigilante stan account—likely Tim's Robin—since Bernard somehow keeps track of those to know what Tim is up to. The caption probably says, “Wholesome moments with Robin (Older Ver.)” and other similar nonsense.
Bernard knew it was all recent because the post bragged that they sourced the clips from news footage and other means from just the past month. A lot had been happening. That's why Bernard gave grace. That's why he always did. But now, he wasn’t sure how much more grace he could give. The video was full of silly moments, stunt fails, and snippets of other people online—web clips of vigilantes goofing off, with dates in the corner to prove they were recent, all about Robin. Links led to every video, photo, article—proof it was from this month, all about Robin. Bernard watched with a blank expression as Robin smiled, laughed, got caught eating pizza, and goofed around with Young Justice.
'He needs breaks too.'
'He's only human.'
But that bitter voice rises in Bernard's throat like acid. Tim always said he was his breath of fresh air—the reminder to be normal, which carried a weight beyond just being a CEO. But looking at this life—how full Tim is with others, how little he depends on Bernard versus how much Bernard depends on him, how many people love and care about Tim while Bernard is just waiting—Bernard feels like an afterthought.
"Am I that easy to forget?" The words stumble out, choked, tears stinging his eyes like bees' stingers. He blinks a few times, trying to erase the burn.
Bernard’s being ridiculous.
Why is he even asking that?
He’s alone in his room again, the second month in a row, watching a video compilation of his boyfriend’s vigilante persona, because he was so easily forgotten—Tim didn't even call. Why wouldn't he be easy to forget compared to all the other more amazing people who love and care about Tim? Compared to them, Bernard is just the lackluster, convenient string-along boyfriend.