20 Days Before The Wedding

His eyes snapped open. The way they would after a nightmare, the kind of awake that came so suddenly with a frantic skip in his chest. He didn't remember the rest of the night, didn't remember anything but the smell of apple and allspice, the gentle upturn of Cain's lips as he slipped into the madness of oblivion. The darkness of the room had given way to a new day. The dark red sheets he found himself tangled in helplessly appeared an exotic shade of red.

To his surprise, nothing hurt. Of course, by that he meant his head didn't feel like it'd been split in two, his stomach was reaching up into his throat and burning every inch of his throat with sickening bile and acid- but his body didn't utter a complaint, either, not even as faint as a whisper. He found that his cotton turtleneck was at the floor by the headboard, and his belt was torn from his pants, but they were still buttoned and zipped. He turned his head, found the boy he'd been calling his fiance standing there with his back turned. He was slipping on a new shirt, readjusting the cuffs. Like everything was normal. How dare he carry no weight in his shoulders, damn him for getting the better of him, damn it all. Damian glared at him as the shirt stretched against his shoulders, ridges of fabric pulling as Cain fastened his buttons.

He wanted to throw up, wanted to kill this boy, throttle him by the neck, make it bloody, castrate him and fold his skin in horrible, awful tortuous ways, do things he hadn't done to anybody since he'd become Robin- things he'd sworn to never do again. But he wanted to cut that sickeningly sweet smile off of his lecherous face, make him beg for forgiveness the way he'd been begging for this to not be happening the night before, and he never begged. It was his fault, he knew it was. He'd known there was something in his drink, knew there was no way to tell what would happen to him if it got into his system, but he'd been a fool and let his guard down anyway. He could hear his mother's scolding voice and see her snarl, see his grandfather shaking his head, denouncing him as a competent heir, see his father hanging and shaking his head, apologizing for not being there when he knew what he'd want to say was that he'd trained him to be better than that.

Despite himself, he wanted to cry.

"What did you do to me?" He grunted as the words came out, forced himself to sit up. He was expecting his muscles to scream, to feel sudden bruises at his back, feel a sharp, unforgiving pain in a place that was typically so much firmer, but nothing felt different. There was no difficulty sitting, or bending, just a deep tiredness that stuck to his bones and made him sore, the kind that came when he slept on a limb wrong.

Cain hardly spared a glance at him over his shoulder, but did not look back at him. "Do not worry, My Love. Nothing happened." The movement was cold, his tone was indifferent. Lacking the tenderness and the lust that his damned pet name typically carried, but there was also no sarcasm.

Damian felt his stomach churn. "You expect me to believe that?"

Cain paused, and for the first time since he'd known him, he turned his head over his shoulder, completely, and fixed him with a scowl. Like a wild dog, snarling, with his teeth on display, with his eyes glowing despite the darkness that resided within, with a nose that looked the opposite of his dainty, small, sweet nose. Damian didn't fall back, wouldn't let himself, but it was so off putting from him, so odd. Out of character. He was holding something back. Trying not to make a scathing remark? "I do not think myself an opportunist, My Darling Fiance." He scoffed, then turned on his heel and marched to the door, stopping only after he'd passed through and slammed it so hard that the room shook in his departure.

Damian shivered.

He pulled the covers out from over him, taking in the sheets, perfectly pristine, perfectly red, not a single odd stain to take as evidence. He even unbuttoned his pants, checked himself, and found nothing particularly incriminating. There was… moisture, but it was minimal, the kind that told him he'd been at the verge of a ledge he'd never quite leaped from. It'd happened once or twice with Jon, or with thoughts of Jon, back when kissing was new and just the feeling of Jon's hand grabbing his waist made him lose control over that part of himself. If Cain had taken advantage of him (with that wine in his system that made the smallest touch feel like a poisoned vein of desire, seeping into his bones, touching him, lighting him up in ways he never had been before), then there would have been, well, more. More of a mess, more bruising, more pain, less spruce and more wrinkles.

Cain… was likely telling the truth. Nothing had happened. He found himself folding forward, a sigh draining out of his lips with such a tremble that his back shivered with the effort. He was untouched, unsullied, spared the same fate that had befallen his father, the same fate that had created him. He used to think he was a gift to his father, that even if the circumstances through which he'd been conceived had been a special kind of torture, his life made up for that one bad night. Now, for a long time, he was sure it was the opposite. Batman didn't stay with his mother because he saw Ras Al Ghul every time he looked at her. What did he see in Damian? Ras? His mother? The drink he'd had that night? Had Cain been a woman, the very same thing might have happened, and he wasn't sure how he'd have felt about a child conceived from his foolish mistake.

Cain. He'd assumed the worst. Of course he had , a part of his brain screamed! That wine was tainted, everyone at the table knew it, and then he'd carted him off to bed with a smile. Put that together with the countless innuendos hidden in puns and unwanted touching and the absolute lack of regard for public spaces, it was the logical leap to make. But, then again, his mother had been drinking from the same pale, seemed just as out of it, with unfocused eyes and jerking movements, which meant whatever was in that cup of his was a regular nectar in the mouths of the Barnetts. Was probably illegal too, but incapacitating him had probably not been the goal.

Of course Cain had carted him off just to, he grimaced, cuddle with him. Of course he got upset when Damian accused him of taking advantage. He'd proclaimed time and time again that he'd loved him, that he'd give him the world if he could, but he'd batted every word away in a desperate, childish fit. He hadn't believed a word, not one word, couldn't if he'd tried. Jon had said he'd wanted him once, then took it back the moment he found Iris's legs around his neck, like a damn collar that had been tugging him away, pulling him away, leading him off the bridge Damian had been so sure they'd cross together. Jon was good, honest, a saint born of true love compared to the bastard born of deception and tainted passion. If he could go back on his words, what was stopping somebody like Cain? Somebody who hardly knew him, who took the opportunity to hit on him and touch as much of his skin as possible at any chance he got? Boys like that made promises they never intended to keep in the first place. But what if he had?

What if Cain had meant every word? What if Cain's persistence came, not from political alliance, but from a determined, undaunted heart? Did Cain… love him? Could he trust that? Was he a fool for wanting to?

"I'll just make you fall in love with me."

"This is where we're going to have our first dance as newlyweds. You and I, surrounded by your new pride. Isn't that exciting?"

"I need you to know, whatever you want, it's yours. My soul, my body , you can do with me, use me as you please. I will never complain."

He winced. His arms tightened around his bent legs, blankets of what now looked like a cheery red flashing back at him in the morning sun's light. He shut his eyes.

He wasn't sure what was wrong with him. A good comedy was on, he had Steph under his arm, it was a Saturday, and he'd closed his latest case just twenty hours earlier. He should have been riding a wave of serotonin right into Monday afternoon, but he couldn't turn his brain off. It kept running back to the Demon Spawn, to his snotty little fiance, to the weirdness surrounding them. There was a case there, and he knew it, and he was trying so hard not to stick his nose in Damian's business because he just knew he'd catch hell for it when word got around, but he couldn't. Stop. Thinking about it.

Steph glanced up at him from where she was laid at his side, big blue eyes blinking up at him under pretty eyelashes as she noticed him, well, not relax. He tried to smile at her. Her eyes said you serious ? "Okay, that's it. I haven't seen you like this since Conner got you stuck on the riddle he made up with no answer. You've gotta spill, babe. What's on that obnoxiously huge mind of yours?" She graced his temple with her finger and he laughed and smacked them away.

"Nothing, really! Just…" He paused, pursing his lips in thought. "Something isn't sitting right with me about the Barnetts."

Steph sat up and propped her chin up by resting her elbow over the back of the couch. "Oh, you mean the fact that they're filthy rich and yet no media here or in the US has coverage of them?"

He raised an eyebrow. "Find anything yet?"

She shrugged. "Not yet. Guessing you haven't either?"

"Ugh, no. Nothing beyond, like, attending fashion shows or, apparently, funding cancer research. Demon Spawn was right, they're as clean as they come." Unless, of course, they were just really good at hiding it. Clearly, that was the case. He knew it, Steph knew, Bruce probably knew it, he wouldn't have been surprised if Alfred knew it. There was a chance that they'd let those media-happy walls down once Damian got inside, let him see the ugly corrupt part of being a family of eccentric billionaires. He was sure, if that was the case, Damian would pick up on it. As annoying as the brat could be, even in his later years, he was capable, and smart, and could see a facade for what it was a hundred miles away, better than any of them could. Each brother, each Robin, had their own thing, the thing that set them apart from the other robins, and his was his uncanny ability to see right through bullshit. He wasn't good at handling people, like Dick was, but he knew people . He understood them, and if there was something as up uncanny valley as he was expecting, then he knew Damian would see it.

"Oh no," Steph ran a hand down her face, looking beyond her spread fingers with exasperated eyes, but he could see the humor in the quirk of her lips. "You have that look again, Tim-Tim. You don't really think the Baby Bat would tell you of all people if something was horribly, inconceivably wrong with his in-laws, do you?"

"Well," He gave her a sheepish grin. "He's my little brother, Steph. Even if he doesn't wanna tell me, I'll figure it out."

She smiled at him. God, he loved that smile. She had dimples, and the apples of her cheeks bloomed such a sweet shade of redpink that it made his stomach do flips. Not matter how long he was with her, no matter how many times she kissed him breathless or knocked him out (be that with her amazing flexibility or a brick to the face) she still gave him butterflies. Gross. She grabbed him by the collar of his greenblue sweater and pulled him into another breathtaking kiss.

Damn the TV, the couch just became a case he was planning on pulling an all-nighter to close.

The night was always gorgeous, even if the rest of Gotham was dirty, corrupt, full of crime, the city lights from way up high always made the smell of smoke and gasoline worth it. Jon glanced to his side. Well, it was one of the things that made the rest worth it.

Damian sat beside him, a small, content smile on his face. He thought he was one of the few people in Damian's life that could get him smiling like that, get him to let his guard down enough that his shoulders were relaxed and his hands were splayed out on either side, his left hand so, so close to his own. The tips of their fingers brushed. Damian knew, and Jon knew he knew, that nothing could get them up there, not with Jon by his side- and he always would be. Jon looked away and prayed the blush wasn't obvious.

"Hey, D?"

"Yeah?"

Jon used his other hand to pull at the collar of his uniform. He knew he shouldn't have been so nervous, that Damian was his best friend. These feelings, they could be nothing, but he wouldn't know unless he tried. He didn't think they were, didn't think the sweaty palms or the startled way his heart beat whenever Damian was touching him was nothing, but maybe he was just incredibly fond? He loved Damian as a friend, he knew that much, knew he'd tear the world apart if something ever happened to him, but did he want him? His fingers tapped cautiously, playfully, until they were over top of Damian's. Damian didn't flinch, didn't react at all, but Jon could hear his heart beat to the same tune his was. "I think I really like you."

"You think?" The biting edge of Damian's usual teasing voice was gone, replaced instead with a subtle, unusual fluster.

"Well," Jon scooched closer, suddenly feeling every bit the Boy of Steel. He eyed Damian from the side, tried to catch the eyes under that domino mask of his. Damian swallowed, and it was miniscule, but Jon could see it, hear it, and turned to him. He was glaring, like he was warning him, but there was no bite, not when he could feel and hear the excited pulse of his heart. "I know I want you."

He leaned forward and caught Damian's lips on his own, finding that he was not only allowing it, but meeting him halfway. Damian was leaning into him, finding leverage in his hand at his shoulder, and Jon opened his lips, pressed his tongue at Damian's and prayed he was doing this right. It was slow, innocent, and he was scared, so, so scared, but he didn't know why. This was Damian, his best friend, the other half of him. Nobody else would sooner die than hurt him, and it should have been a comforting thought, but it hurt instead. So he bit at Damian's lip with no question, just demand. Damian let him, and suddenly things were so much more intimate. His hand was at Damian's shoulder, but then it was at the back of his neck, wrapping around the back to cradle his head as he pressed closer. And Damian's hands were in his hair, and the sounds Damian was making, they spurred him on. Small, favoring gasps, moaning as Jon's hand found his hip. He knew, this wasn't how things went, somewhere, in the back of his mind, but he couldn't stop. He wanted so much more, and he couldn't say it, couldn't admit it even to himself, so he acted on it instead. His tongue brushed against Damian's as he clenched down at Damian's hip with his hand and pulled their priviest parts flush, and Damian's breathing stuttered. "Jo~on…"

"Damian…"

Right there, at the height of one of Gotham's skyscrapers, he pressed the hand at Damian's shoulder until he was leaning back, back until Damian was flat at the cement and Jon was perched on top of him, one hand at the highest bend of his leg, thumb rubbing circles at the v of Damian's bone, the other holding him haunched on his elbow. He could see Damian that way, and he looked so good below him, face red, mouth open and panting and wanting, and he found that he wanted so, so bad to take that mask off and see the glazed green he imagined he would find. He rolled his hips, and Damian was gasping and tilting his head back, eyes shut as he clutched blindly at Jon's arms. His nails gripped and twisted and pulled desperately at his uniform as he choked on his own pleasure. He wondered, right then, if there was any better sound in the world. His twisting face, his unspoken name at parted, thirsting lips, everything made him clench his fist with the effort of holding back. "Oh, Damian." He caught his lips again before he could say a word, rolled his hips again, and again, until Damian was crying into his mouth, bucking up, begging with his throat to cross the line, the line Jon knew was wrong, the line that had never been crossed, the line he'd never been sure enough to cross. He used the hand at Damian's hip to lift him off the ground, hit him from another angle, and Damian broke their kiss to throw his head back and cry .

"Jon!"

"Oh, Damian, you feel…" His breath stumbled on the way by his lips. He hung his head and breathed in time with every rock of their hips. "Damian, I want you. I want you so bad."

"Jon." His eyes shot open, and he didn't even realize they'd been closed. Below him, Damian was looking up at him with those flushed cheeks and those kiss-swollen lips, trying his best to muster up his bat glare when he looked to be little more than putty under the steady rocking of their hips, the aching throb that was building, and building. "I'm yours. If you want me, then take me ."

"I-I can't !" Why, why not? He glanced up and found something glittering at Damian's ring finger. But Damian didn't wear jewelry, and Robin sure didn't. That was cumbrous and a distraction, he knew he'd heard Damian say it a hundred times. And yet, there was a square diamond, blue, the same color as his eyes, he knew, sitting so snug on his finger that he felt nearly compelled to tear it off. Guilt, anger, pain, nothing Damian had ever made him feel before, nothing like this. What were they doing? What was he doing? He had a girlfriend and Damian was- was! -

Jon shot up in bed, gasping, eyes wide in the rising sun of Hamilton. Far from the streets of Gotham, far from that rooftop so long ago. Farther than he'd ever been away from Damian. He grimaced, reaching up to run a hand through his already bed-messed hair. No doubt he'd find a surprise if he dared pull the covers off right then, so he wouldn't. Because that dream shouldn't have happened, because he'd made his choice, and Damian had made his, and god if Iris ever heard he'd fantasized- had a dream - about knocking boots with somebody she didn't even know was (technically) his ex , he knew he'd have to go live under a rock somewhere and die the Boy of Mineral and Erosion. He went to move his other hand, the one that was so limp over the side of the bed (the one that'd stroked the faintest edge of the innermost corner of Damian's hip in his dream), and hear the faint sound of a paper crinkling. He pulled the hand back, and found it clutching helplessly to a familiar essay, My Best Friend . Even now, the words were so familiar, held so near to his heart and so true that he didn't need to look at the paper to see every Times New Roman letter, that he knew every word so well it would be less reciting essays and more monologuing. Contemplating.

Truth is, we got along right away. Mostly.

In the movies you always see these kids grow up together and share every experience together…

I call him my study buddy. He loves it.

No matter what, when the chips are down, he always has my back. And he always takes care of me. I know I can trust him no matter what trouble we find ourselves in.

He winced, rubbing at the bridge between his eyes. Yeah, he should have known digging up that old thing would send him down memory lane. A suddenly X-rated memory lane, apparently, despite the original memories being innocent and not at all… whatever that was. He was just feeling a little tense, hadn't seen Iris in a long time, had a new world opened to him now that he'd finally taken a bite of the cherry. Damian was on his mind, he wanted Iris, but he'd used to kiss Damian, who was getting married, who wasn't his friend anymore, who hated him now because he'd messed up. That was all. He pulled his legs up to his chest and laid his forehead at his knees, willing away the yearning in his chest. So stupid. He'd forget the dream by the time he was done with his chores.

He was tempted to throw the old A+ essay away, but instead, he took the packet in gentle hands, opening the drawer of his desk where he set them gingerly upon the empty wood.