When Superboy's performing, he knows those eyes are picking him apart. It's a feeling that cuts through the spotlight glare, and overrides the sensation of a few hundred voices. But now that Kon smells like sweat and leather, and he's standing right at the source, the stranger hardly lifts his eyes.
He sits patiently in a chair that's almost too small for him, content at writing across his form of papers. Even Superboy shaking water out of his hair in the vicinity of the boy doesn't phase him. He knows he's interfering, but there's only the slightest hesitation, and then nothing.
As stage hands rush over to appeal Kon-El with their offerings--water and a towel, his phone and a promise of viewership for his performance--there is no reaction from the boy filling in lines.
What gives?
He has the nerve to march right up to the kid and demand an answer. After all, a person would have to be seriously mental to not be caught awestruck and beaming in the presence of the Superboy.
But at the last minute, Kon-El feels his legs fail him. Even backstage with his reputation, he doesn't want to march forward. Something...holds him back. And his new publicity agent--gift from Lughor--is pulling him away, chattering endlessly about the good performance.
Ugh, it's enough to make Kon want to scream. He already knows he's good.
He pulls his sleeve free and stops being lead. "Who the hell was that?"
"Pardon?" the man grins, a salesman look firmly stashed on his face.
"The dude over there? He was watching the whole show. Is this some talent scout? Did some kid win a contest and nobody filled me in?"
"Oh," the man shrugs, once more indicating that they should move forward. "He's Nightwing's agent. He didn't say anything to you, did he? He's from a rival agency and you know how things start. You shouldn't take things personally, but if you have been harassed I will fix it right away, Superboy."
"An agent?" Kon-El can't help but exclaim, spinning about to squint. They've moved far enough away, but the boy still seems to be quietly...doing nothing. "Nobody's that young..."
The publicity man shrugs helplessly. "Wayne's branch of promotions does a lot of things differently. Did you wish to speak with him? It will be no problem if you want to speak with Nightwing. He's due on stage in ten, but I'll make arrangements."
"I've spoken with Nightwing before," scowls Superboy. Benefit concerts, and briefly but still...
Those eyes...not that Kon-El had actually seen them watching him. But the feeling hadn't left. His whole gig had reverted to something uncomfortable. The scrutiny that Superboy hadn't felt since his first few shows. The overpowering pressure of having something to prove...
Kon-El wonders why the imagined attention of this strange kid would have provoked such memories. "I kind of missed it."
"Huh?" the clueless agent asks.
Superboy shakes his head, taking the towel. There's no way that the man next to him will understand it. Sometimes, Superboy just needs to feel like his actions matter. Sure he'll have screaming fans regardless but...
"I think I need to improve." And Kal hadn't said anything like that since before Superboy made it big...
The publicity agent is in arms, protesting--assuring Kon-El that he is the greatest. That Nightwing, though popular world-wide, is still dependent on Superboy warming the crowd.
Superboy knows how good Nightwing is. He's not deprived enough to be envious, rather honouring the other for setting a standard. But "The Boy of Steel" had never known there could be another force behind the superstar.
Let alone one that...won't shake loose. The emotion is still present.
I was being judged.
"The interview is this way," Kon-El is lead away. And though he can no longer see the stranger by the back of the stage apparatus, he catches himself looking that way anyhow.
"Superboy! Over here--"
"Can you answer a few questions for the Metropolis Teen Report?"
"Smile, Kon-El! Tell us about the show!"
"Superboy, what's new?!"
As his shoulders set with practice, Superboy stares out over the pop of bulbs and the shouts of fans.
And the answer is obvious.
What's changed? Everything,now.
-
Nightwing scares several stagehands senseless when he somersaults off of the back-end of the stage.
"So?" he chimes.
Hardly looking up from his papers, his agent rubs at his ear with a finger. "You all sing too loud."
The star drops his weight down onto his agent's head. "That's my Timmy. Now come play bodyguard while I go woo the masses."
"I want a Sudoku."
"You're the best manager ever," Dick cheers, marching off and pulling his partner along with him.
Tim doesn't go unwillingly. He just is Tim.
-
Later...
"Did you learn anything?"
"You're still glamourous, and everyone loves you." Tim is nursing his tea with tired eyes. "It's second nature to you."
"Ah," answers the star, rolling his donut around the table like a toy. If he does this long enough, it will make his manager twitch. "That's disappointing."
Tim kicks back and shakes his head. "I don't quite follow your motivations here. You've got everything down perfectly for your career."
Dick's eyes are quite blue when they catch Tim's. "But you still don't feel the magic."
"I can identify the magic," Tim counters. "Doesn't mean I have to feel it."
"You did your paperwork."
Tim shrugs.
Nightwing, sighing, gives his rolling pastry a push. It falls with little drama. "Come on, Tim. Shows are about magic. The shine of the light and the way the performance moves you."
One brow raises. "And five million people were awed by your performance. You should be happy."
"Let me rephrase," sighs Dick. "It should move you. But you just did homework."
"Your homework," Tim points out, looking back at the swirlies and floaters in his tea. "It needed to be done and now you're all cleared for your appearance at the Music Awards next month."
"When was the last time you were ever interested in a show? And don't say when you were six..."
Though Dick knows Tim catches the meaning, the other younger man is also adept at keeping any reactions to himself. "I don't need to be interested because I know you'll nail it. It's hard to be lead on when I trust the result already. It's hard to break first impressions, Dick."
Dick lets his head fall back into his seat, as the coffee-shop circulates around them. Nobody has looked twice at the superstar. Tim's chosen this place specifically for it's promise of obscurity. "I guess trust is a good thing, though it wouldn't hurt my ego any to know that my agent worried about me."
Tim's fingers carefully pull his mug around in circles. "You are the very definition of grace and glamour, Dick. Though..." he trails off.
It's Nightwing's turn to raise a brow.
Tim doesn't say more, playing with his thinking thoughts. Dick finally has to kick him from under the table.
Tim hums disapprovingly, but says, "I noticed something from your opening act today."
"Do tell," Nightwing chirps.
"Superboy's the next big thing, and everyone knows it. I've seen him on television and filling spots on shows. He's your basic teenage-heartthrob who can't get enough of himself."
"Here today, gone in two years," Nightwing nods, inwardly flinching. He had met the rising star a few times, and the kid had been likable. The trend is obvious, though.
"But live," continues Tim. "He was different. How to put it...if you have glamour defined in your performance; Superboy is trying to find that definition."
Dick's agent's face is scrunched up, testing the metaphor mentally. It looks like hard work.
"So...trying but not quite there?"
"Nnnnnno," frowns the other, finally ducking his head and returning to his beverage. "Rather, he's trying to garner a reaction from his audience. You don't do that."
"Pardon?"
Tim shrugs a shoulder. "You keep pressing me for my reaction, but you don't go out to make a reaction. You perform because that's what you do. It's your perfected skill. You have your time on the stage and anyone who wants to have an experience gets taken with or without you."
Dick is watching the other carefully, wondering why he can't seem to take Tim with him.
"Kon-El looks like he waits before he starts, and then tries to bring everyone on board with him. He's dependent on the feelings of those around him. You...are self-supplying."
"Uh-huh," Nightwing drawls, incapable of anything further.
Tim shrugs once, and then almost falls back into his meditation.
Dick frowns inwardly, giving his donut a mindless push. This is really the most he and Tim have spoken in the last month, during a single sitting. Usually it's yes or no answers from Tim.
Perhaps something had changed?
"So my self-sufficiency," the star hums, after a moment. "What are the deficiencies with that?"
Dick can think of the issues with Tim's description of Superboy. Dependency on the crowd would mean hell if the audience just isn't in the mood. Privately or pre-recorded shows could also suffer.
"None," Tim states. "You're perfect."
Dick almost wants to ask why he needs an agent, if this is the case.
And Tim would tell him that it's a good question.
"I don't want my donut anymore," he sighs.
"You picked it out, you should eat it," Tim states without glancing up. It reminds Dick of another figure in his life.
It also reminds Dick that he couldn't replace Tim, ever.
Dutifully reaching for the pastry, the celebrity tells himself that his concern is unwarranted. For months now, he had been distracted by the seriousness of his manager--this friend. But Tim wouldn't leave him.
Though if it's not the magic that keeps a good thing present, Dick isn't sure why Tim stays anymore.
Once...
"Your itinerary is planned for the next two quarters," Tim starts to explain, professionally concluding the silence. "Though I can change things on notice, so please let me know if you need extra time. I'd like to know before you run off with Roy or Wally again."
Nightwing nods absently, listening and still...thinking. Because he can't remember the last time he had seen Tim smile.
Yes, that has to be it.
Dick bites his donut, distantly dwelling on it. His own private problem, that Tim won't worry over for him.