Chapter Text
The blood trickled from the corner of his lips, warm and metallic, mixing with the saliva he could barely swallow. He knew several of his ribs were fractured, his arm hung uselessly at his side like dead weight—but those were trivial details, unworthy of his attention.
The physical pain was a distant reminder, almost a muted buzz compared to what was truly consuming him from within.
Those coarse, damp roots crawled up his throat as if trying to cling to every corner of his body. He could feel them coiling inside his trachea, scraping brutally against the inner walls, expanding with the relentless strength of something that wasn’t human.
It was like drowning without water.
Like being devoured from the inside while still conscious enough to fight it.
His lungs filled with a sweet, suffocating scent—an intoxicating fragrance that burned from his stomach to his bronchi, mingled with the bile he wanted to spit out. Every breath he took made him feel wet petals unfurling inside him.
Tears pressed behind his eyes, threatening to betray him, but he refused to let them fall.
Damian Wayne never showed weakness.
If the world wanted to see him break, it would have to tear his life away first.
“Damian! Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Grayson’s hoarse roar ripped through the chaos of the fight, soaked in fury and fear.
But Damian didn’t answer. That voice was a distant noise, irrelevant—a distraction he couldn’t afford.
His mind was locked on one thing only: attack. Tear through whatever strength he had left. His body, broken as it was, remained a weapon. His feet moved with instinctive precision—short, sharp kicks aimed straight at the enemy’s joints. His fists, though one barely closed anymore, struck with the raw rage of someone who wasn’t trying to survive but to drag down anyone foolish enough to stand in his way.
Every impact was another heartbeat, pounding harder than the last, a rhythm that clashed against the unbearable pressure in his chest.
The air grew heavier, each breath burning like live embers, and still he pushed forward—his small frame dwarfed by his opponents but as lethal as a cornered beast.
Dick watched his younger brother, his face tightening with unease. He knew the ferocity with which Damian fought—he’d memorized it. He knew that the boy who had once stormed into their lives, a whirlwind of rage and discipline, was capable of lethal precision, that his stubbornness made him incapable of leaving anything unfinished.
But this was different.
Something was wrong, something in the air between them felt off, tilting the ground beneath his feet.
It wasn’t his usual defiance, nor that sharp-edged arrogance that always burned in him.
This felt… wrong.
For a split second, Dick was taken back in time—to when the boy had first entered his life, trying to hide his scars behind a wall of pride. The same boy Dick had silently sworn to protect, even if he never asked for it.
It was a painful image.
Damian with clenched fists and that defiant stare, pretending he didn’t need anyone, when deep down he was begging for someone to stay.
And now that image was happening all over again.
Damian wasn’t that lost child anymore; he’d grown, become something more than a weapon trained to obey.
And yet, Dick couldn’t shake the feeling that he was losing him again—like some shadow was dragging him out of reach.
Why did it feel so clear, so gut-deep, that the real fight Damian was waging wasn’t the one outside—but something devouring him from within?
He wanted to run to him, to shatter the distance, to pull him into his arms and not let go until he spoke—until he tore out the truth hidden behind those gestures of rage. He wanted to lock him in an embrace so tight that nothing could break it.
But he knew he couldn’t.
Not now.
The battlefield offered no pause, no mercy for tenderness. If he wanted to protect him, he had to finish the threat in front of them first.
And the cruelest part of all…
None of this had been planned.
He had only wanted to take a walk through Gotham after returning from Blüdhaven, to spend time with his brother, catch up, feel like they were still family despite the distance, and then go home.
A simple plan. Almost domestic.
One of those rare moments they could barely afford.
But Gotham never played fair. The city didn’t know what an easy day looked like.
Dick had no choice but to sink into the brutal rhythm of the fight.
The crack of bones, the muffled groans of enemies hitting the pavement, and the relentless patter of rain merged into one deafening roar.
Elbow, knee, claw, rage—between the two of them, they took down the last men standing, moving like a pair of specters born of shadow.
Dick finished the final opponent with a sharp twist of his baton, knocking him unconscious against a wall. The sudden silence of the alley was louder than the fight itself.
Only the sound of their uneven breathing and the steady drip of rain mixed with blood on asphalt remained.
“It’s over, Damian. It’s done,” Dick rasped, his voice rough as he searched for his brother through the shadows and fallen bodies.
But Damian didn’t answer. He took a shaky step forward and suddenly collapsed to one knee. His clenched hand shot to his mouth as a violent cough wracked his body.
The first burst was red—thick blood splattering against the pavement with a wet smack. But among the metallic liquid, something else fell.
An impossible glimmer.
Strange. Alien.
A crimson petal landed on the blackened ground.
It glowed for a heartbeat under the yellow streetlight—like a drop of fire that refused to be ignored.
Dick froze.
His heart lurched painfully in his chest, as if struck from within.
That couldn’t be real.
Not here.
Not now.
Not ever.
Legends. That’s all they were. Old tales Bruce had told him back when he was a curious teenager, stories of warriors who died suffocating on impossible loves, consumed by their own hA romantic curse. Absurd. The kind of thing relegated to fables.
And yet, he was staring at his brother spitting out a petal drenched in blood.
“…No,” Dick whispered, voice broken, the word ripped from him like a secret that was never meant to be spoken.
The air turned heavy, as if the myth itself had taken form before his eyes—like he was suddenly staring at the fragility Damian had always sworn he didn’t have.
Damian lifted his head, dark eyes locking onto his, defiant and stubborn, as if refusing to acknowledge what had just happened.
The petal was still there, motionless on the ground—a crimson witness to a secret impossible to ignore.
“Not a word.”
“Damian…” Dick’s voice faltered.
“Nothing happened. Got it?” he snapped, using that hardness he always wielded like armor.
Dick didn’t move. He knew that look better than anyone—the same expression of pride and defiance that hid fear. The same one he’d seen so many times before in the boy who refused to ask for help, even when he was on the verge of collapse.
“You coughed up blood. And something else,” Dick said firmly.
“Your imagination.” Damian turned at once, heading toward the mouth of the alley with a stagger that he tried—and failed—to disguise. Every fiber of his body screamed pain, but he refused to admit it.
Dick clenched his jaw, ran after him, and grabbed his good arm. Damian tried to shake him off, but didn’t have the strength.
Dick looked at him, brow furrowed, chest burning with frustration.
“This isn’t pity, damn it. You spat out a pet—”
“I’m fine.” The cut of his voice was so sharp it cracked like a whip.
“I’m not leaving you here,” Dick said, steady but cold, the kind of tone that left no room for argument.
Damian wanted to argue, but his lips parted only to close again, biting down any words that might betray him. Silence became his only form of surrender.
The ride back to the Batcave was thick with everything left unsaid. Dick rode in silence, feeling the weight of his brother behind him—holding on more out of duty than need. The image of that crimson petal wouldn’t leave him; every time he blinked, he saw it again, still on the asphalt, a quiet, living threat.
When they finally arrived, the cold gloom of the cave swallowed them whole. The metallic echo of their steps over stone made the silence between them sound louder.
Dick guided him to the medical table, and though Damian growled under his breath, he didn’t resist completely as Dick pulled off his cape and examined the bruised ribs.
“At least let me patch you up,” Dick murmured, applying disinfectant with a gentleness that contrasted with the tremor in his hands.
Damian kept his gaze on the floor.
“I can do it myself.”
“I know. But I’m not letting you.”
For several minutes, only the sound of gauze and bandages filled the air. Then Dick spoke.
“We need to get help.”
Damian’s expression hardened instantly, as if those words were the greatest insult imaginable.
“No.” The refusal came out dry, certain.
“Damian, this isn’t a normal wound. If this is what I think it is… if those stories are real—”
“They’re not!” Damian’s shout bounced off the cave walls.
Dick froze, still holding the roll of bandage in his hands. He looked at him quietly, pain etched so clearly on his face that Damian had to look away.
But if Damian refused to talk, then Dick would just have to stay by his side until he did.
As soon as Damian managed to stand, he left the area with his head held high, as if nothing had happened. His footsteps echoed—too quick, too tense—and Dick wasn’t fooled. He watched him vanish into the damp shadows of the corridor, and when the sound of his boots finally faded, the silence that followed hit him square in the chest. A cold, cavernous kind of silence—the kind that amplifies loneliness.
He stayed still, hands still stained with blood and disinfectant, not knowing what to do with the emptiness clawing inside him. He forced himself to breathe, but the air smelled of iron and stone, and it did nothing to calm him. He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself—until a voice broke through the darkness.
“Tough day with the demon?”
Dick’s head snapped up. Tim was there, leaning casually against a column, his silhouette outlined by the blue glow of the monitors. He had that worn-out look—half mockery, half clarity—as if he were always standing one step behind the action but never missing a detail. His pale eyes glinted under the dim light, studying him.
“Do you always have to call him that?” Dick shot back, annoyance threading through his tone as he stuffed the bloody gauze into a bag. He tried to sound irritated, but his voice came out rougher than he intended.
“Like he doesn’t enjoy it?” Tim arched an eyebrow, stepping closer, hands buried in his jacket pockets. His tone was sharp, but his movements were slow, measured. “Though…” his eyes drifted to the dark stains on Dick’s suit, “…this doesn’t look like a regular tantrum.”
Dick sighed and sank into the chair in front of the console, running a hand through his damp hair, making it even messier. The memory of that crimson petal kept flashing behind his eyelids, setting his nerves on edge.
“You were spying,” he muttered, too drained to feign surprise.
“Someone has to.” Tim shrugged lightly.
The offhand remark weighed heavier than it should have. Dick dropped his gaze, fingers tightening on his knees. The image of the petal burned in his mind like a brand.
“This time’s different, Tim,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper.
Tim’s crooked smile faltered, the mask of irony cracking for just a second.
“How different?”
Dick hesitated. Instinct told him to tell the truth, to let it out—but saying it aloud would make it real. If he said it, it wouldn’t just be a trick of perception; it would be fact.
“Different enough to worry me,” he said finally.
Tim studied him in silence for a few seconds more, eyes fixed on him, as if trying to decipher the things Dick wasn’t saying. Then he sighed, pushed off the column, and walked slowly to the empty medical table where Damian had been sitting minutes ago. He perched on the edge, fingers brushing the rumpled sheet.
“You know he won’t let you help him. He never does.” His voice was lower now, stripped of the usual irony—a quiet murmur, half resignation, half understanding.
“I know,” Dick said, pressing his hands hard against his knees. “But I can’t just stand by and watch him destroy himself.”earts until they breathed their last.
Tim tilted his head slightly, his expression now serious. The usual chill in his words seemed to have softened, just a faint change in tone.
"Then we’ll have to do it our way. Stay one step ahead."
"Fine, fine…" Dick sighed, forcing himself to keep control even though his voice trembled slightly. "Keep an eye on Damian. You’re the one still living here…" He paused for a second, as if what he was about to add weighed too heavily on him. "And please, don’t say anything until I can reach Jason. We need a meeting with Bruce… maybe even ask Clark…"
"Of course, I’ll keep things discreet," Tim replied, his tone firm, almost automatic. Yet a shadow of intrigue crossed his gaze, as if his mind was already running through scenarios, calculating possibilities Dick wasn’t ready to face yet.
Dick rose from the cot, shoulders tense and hands curled into loose fists. Unease crawled beneath his skin, making it hard to stay still. He walked a few steps through the cave, the dimness swallowing the echo of his boots, as if he needed to move to clear his head and shake off the image of the red petal gleaming on the asphalt.
Tim watched him, still seated.
Damian lifted his gaze toward the ceiling, eyes fixed on the shadows stretching like blades, trying to convince his body that the dizziness was temporary, that the nausea meant nothing.
His stomach burned — an acid knot rising to his throat, leaving a metallic taste behind his tongue. He clenched his fists against the sheets, digging his nails into the fabric as if that alone could anchor his body to the bed and keep him from falling apart.
He wasn’t going to throw up again.
He wasn’t going to bend.
He wasn’t going to give them that pathetic spectacle.
Each breath hurt like a blunt blow to the chest, like an invisible hand twisting his lungs dry. The metallic taste clung to his tongue, and beneath that sharpness lingered that sickly sweetness — artificial, disgusting — as if he carried shame in his mouth.
He hated it.
He forced himself to sit up straight, even as the room spun faintly around him. The reflection in the window returned a stranger’s face; his green eyes looked almost gray, his brown skin ghostly pale. That couldn’t be him.
He didn’t need help.
He wouldn’t accept it.
He had survived an entire hell before learning to write his name — he could survive this too.
The buzz of a phone cut through his trance. The light on the screen flickered, stealing his breath.
Jon.
The name hit his mind before he even looked at the notification. For a heartbeat, he felt a fragile warmth in his chest, like the roots choking him had loosened just enough for him to breathe.
He reached for the phone quickly, thumb trembling just above the screen.
But it wasn’t Jon.
It was a notification.
An automated reminder from the Tower’s systems.
Nothing more.
The air that had filled his chest turned heavy again, pressing down until he exhaled sharply, almost a gasp, and the dizziness came back stronger.
The vibration stopped. The screen went dark.
"Stupid," he thought. "You don’t need anyone."
He shoved the phone aside, as if it were a branding iron. He pressed his hand to his mouth, forcing his lips shut to stifle the urge to cough, but that repulsive sweetness climbed back up his throat, burning until his eyes stung.
He lay back down, staring at the ceiling.
He wouldn’t give in.
He wouldn’t call anyone.
He wouldn’t admit something was wrong.
The campus was bathed in gentle sunlight — one of those days too normal to belong to Superman’s son. Jonathan Kent walked with his backpack slung over one shoulder, greeting a few classmates who knew him more for his easy smile than for his last name. It was one of those smiles that always seemed genuine no matter what he carried inside — that was his thing, the way he tried to be the light others needed, even when he couldn’t feel it himself.
Jay caught up to him in the crowd, with that quiet confidence that contrasted with Jon’s clumsy ease in everyday life. Jay was steady — a rock — and Jon valued that. Or at least, that’s what he kept telling himself every time a strange knot tightened in his chest when he thought about someone else.
"You look distracted," Jay said, intertwining his fingers with Jon’s as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Nah, just tired. Classes, training… you know."
The perfect excuse. It always was.
The air was warm, and yet inside, Jon felt a chill he couldn’t explain. As if something invisible coiled around his lungs, squeezing just enough for him to notice something was off. It didn’t hurt, but it bothered him, a quiet reminder of something he didn’t want to see.
Jay kept talking about student politics and an article he was writing for the university paper. Jon listened, nodded at the right times, but his mind drifted. It always drifted in the same direction, toward the shadow of a name he refused to say aloud.
Damian.
What was Damian doing right now? Did he think about him — even a little?
The thought alone left a strange weight in his stomach, so sudden that Jon forced himself to blink several times, pretending interest in Jay’s words so he wouldn’t give himself away.
He remembered the last time they spoke, not as a narrated memory, but as a weight still pressing on his chest.
Since he’d started college, contact with Damian had faded. The calls came less often, the messages shorter, until finally.
They argued.
The nail in the coffin.
Since then, silence had settled between them like a wall neither dared to break. And Jon hated it. Hated knowing he’d helped build it.
He pressed his lips into a thin line, trying to erase the thought. Damian had always been his best friend, even when his temperament made coexistence nearly impossible. They’d known each other since childhood, and that connection ran so deep that, no matter how hard Jon tried to deny it, it never truly disappeared.
It was like having a compass in his chest — one that now pointed to somewhere unreachable.
He hated himself a little for drifting away. For letting the rhythm of classes, university activities, and the weight of new responsibilities pull him apart from someone so important. And he hated himself even more for not knowing how to mend that fracture.
"Are you listening to me?" Jay squeezed his hand tightly, snapping him out of his thoughts. Jon’s smile tightened.
"Of course," he replied, without conviction.
Jay glanced at him sideways, suspicious, but instead of letting it go, he pressed on.
"Sometimes I feel like you’re on another planet," he said with a short laugh laced with irony. "And I don’t mean outer space."
Jon looked away, uncomfortable. It wasn’t the first time Jay had said something like that. Not with those exact words, but with the same edge hidden beneath a joke — that tone that tried to sound light but was, in truth, a reminder: Jay noticed. That Jon wasn’t really all there.
"I’m here," he finally said, his voice barely a thread.
"Then you should act like it," Jay shot back, and the words hung between them — hard, rough.
Jon’s heart skipped strangely, not because of the reproach itself, but because of how badly he wanted to be somewhere else. He wanted to be in Gotham. He wanted to be on that damp rooftop where they used to train until Damian grew tired of correcting his stance. He wanted to hear that sharp voice that, despite everything, always grounded him. But instead, the echo of Gotham seemed to pulse inside his chest in a strange, painful way.
The air suddenly burned in his lungs. It made no sense, he hadn’t run, wasn’t exerting himself, and yet that sharp pang forced him to grit his teeth. He leaned forward slightly, disguising it with an awkward motion as he withdrew his hand from Jay’s.
It was a strange pain, impossible to locate.
The spasm caught him off guard.
He couldn’t explain what he was feeling because he didn’t understand it himself. It was as if an invisible thread were pulling him across the distance — as if someone, on the other end, were… hurting.
He didn’t know why.
He felt it again — a flicker of pain in his throat, as if something coarse had cracked in the air. Jon winced slightly, closing his eyes for an instant. And across Gotham, in a dark room, Damian leaned over the sink, coughing up another flower, his fingers stained with wet petals.