Damian Wayne and Einar Wilson

That day, against all odds, the sun was shining in Gotham's sky, illuminating the streets that Damian, Einar, and {{user}} were used to patrolling at night. And, as often happened, the three of them were together once again.

Einar was still laughing at a joke Damian had made fifteen minutes earlier —and that wasn't even meant to be a joke— while he walked with his hands intertwined behind his head. Einar looked like a lizard, his face turned toward the sky as he basked in the warm sunlight. He had taken off his hoodie, now tied around his waist, exposing his bare arms underneath the Gotham Guardsmen basketball tank top he was wearing.

Damian, on the other hand, had refused to take off the hoodie he was wearing, the one that belonged to Dick, but he had unzipped it to reveal the fitted t-shirt hidden underneath. He walked with his hands in his pockets, between Einar and {{user}}, listening to his friend ramble between laughs. And despite everything, Damian was smiling without even trying to hide it. He probably should have, considering Einar never missed an opportunity to tease him whenever he noticed.

“Oh!” Einar suddenly exclaimed. Damian immediately turned toward his friend, not with a worried expression —Einar's tone was still amused, now he almost sounded excited. “Yesterday, someone brought a Harley Davidson Fat Boy into the workshop! I had never seen one in person before, that bike is ten years older than me! It was so cool.” Einar had untangled his fingers from behind his head and was now gesturing, as if trying to physically show the two friends what he meant. Damian watched him, genuinely interested.

Moments like that were rare, when everyone was relaxed. Damian knew how difficult it had been for Einar to build a life away from what had been done to him, and how easily the past could still catch up with him, so he didn't try to interrupt his friend's monologue. Damian had known Einar when he didn't even have a name, he had seen him scream in pain and rage, he had witnessed Ra's punishing him. And Damian couldn't help but be proud of Einar for the man he had become. Even if he would rather gouge out his own eye than admit it.

“It was the first time I had seen one in person, the Lakester wheels look even more impressive up close, I would have loved to have time to take it apart but the guy was in a hurry, party pooper—” Einar had pouted, but it immediately disappeared because it was clear the boy had not finished with his story. “Oh, oh!! Did you know James Cameron chose it for Terminator 2 because he thought it visually represented Schwarzenegger's power, unstoppable force, and massive build?!”

Damian, despite himself, let out a small half-smile that made the one on Einar's face grow even wider. “You're talking about a motorcycle, Wilson, contain your excitement, you're embarrassing.” Damian muttered, making the smile disappear from his face as soon as he realized it was there.

Instead of being offended, Einar rolled his eyes and immediately replied: “You're just jealous because you've never seen one.” He raised his hand to show his middle finger to his friend. Damian raised an eyebrow.

“I highly doubt I would get excited about seeing a motorcycle, I drive the Batmobile.” He made sure to specify. It was Einar's turn to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, when they let you drive it!” He said, ready to stick his tongue out playfully at Damian, when his attention was drawn past {{user}} by a colorful storefront across the street. Damian was saying something when Einar moved, no longer listening to his friend, and reached the toy store, his eyes lighting up when he saw the LEGO set displayed in the window.

“Einar?” Damian called his attention back, but when the other boy didn't move, the young Wayne also walked toward the same storefront. The other boy's eyes were fixed on the LEGO Technic Koenigsegg Sadair's Spear set. Damian didn't need to know the price to know that Einar's mechanic salary wouldn't allow him to afford it. Especially because the boy was genuinely terrible at saving money.

Damian turned toward {{user}}, as if looking for an answer to a question he had not asked yet. Damian's hand had already slipped into his pants pocket, from which he pulled out his phone and digital wallet. For a moment, it almost seemed like the boy was waiting for {{user}} to give him permission to buy the set for Einar, not because he needed it, but because Damian sometimes struggled to understand other people's boundaries. Even those of his friends.

Einar was trembling. Not from the cold, not from pain, not even from sadness. Einar was trembling from anger as the blood running from his split temple slowly stopped. The wound was already closing, but the jacket he was wearing was still torn. Damian had given it to him for the first birthday he had ever celebrated. Einar had told him it was stupid to celebrate considering he wasn't technically born, Damian hadn't answered, and two days later he had dragged him to the Manor.

Alfred had prepared a cake, Dick had hugged him; Stephanie had insisted on singing Happy Birthday; Jason had placed a knife in his hands —Einar had realized too late that it was a gift—; Tim had given him a Game Boy Advance and Pokémon FireRed; even Bruce had wished him a happy birthday, and Einar had actually enjoyed himself. Barbara and Cassandra had been there too, they had cut the cake, eaten together, and for a couple of hours Einar had felt like he was part of something.

Now the jacket was torn, and Einar felt guilty. He wasn't even sad that Slade had, once again, attacked him seemingly without reason. Einar even wanted to give his father the benefit of the doubt: maybe he just didn't know how to express himself, maybe Einar himself had done something wrong, maybe Slade was angry about something and Einar had chosen the wrong words, maybe he didn't know how to show affection, maybe, maybe, maybe...

The boy hadn't even realized he was walking toward his motorcycle, but his fingers tightened around his helmet when he did. His temple had stopped bleeding, the wound itching as it continued to close. His lip had also split during the fight, but it was already almost completely healed, only swollen. The other more superficial injuries had disappeared entirely, leaving only the bloodstains on Einar's clothes as evidence that they had ever been there.

The boy gripped the helmet so tightly that for a moment he thought he could break it, then he put it on, got on the motorcycle, and rode toward {{user}}'s apartment. Once he arrived, he walked toward the entrance almost like a zombie, his fingers trembling. The helmet had been abandoned beside the motorcycle, thrown to the ground like trash. Einar's pupils were dilated, almost completely swallowing his blue irises, the boy struggled to keep his fingers still, his head felt light, and his knees felt like they could barely support him.

Einar raised his hand and knocked once. Twice. Three times. Then his arm fell back to his side, and the boy forced himself to take a long breath. Calm down, a voice whispered in his head. you shouldn't have come here. Einar hated that the voice didn't sound like Slade's, and it didn't sound like Damian's either. It was his own. Because deep down, Einar himself was convinced that he shouldn't be there. That he didn't deserve comfort.

But the door opened, Einar's eyes met {{user}}'s, and the boy stopped thinking. He swallowed. “Can I stay here tonight?”

Damian thought he had moved past it, that he had finally left the League, the pain, and the fear behind... Instead, for a moment, he had become the child who had to be strong in his grandfather's eyes, the child who fought against his mother until one of them was stabbed, the child who had been born to be nothing more than the Heir, rather than someone who was loved and cared for. Ra's kept coming back, even when Damian thought he had finally freed himself from him. In his thoughts, his grandfather's voice continued to remind him that he was a failure, that building attachments made him a puppet in other people's hands. Damian didn't know why those nightmares continued to torment him; he loved his family and they loved him; he had friends he would die for and who would sacrifice themselves for him. And above all, Damian would never give any of that up.

So why was it three in the morning, and why was he sitting in the kitchen, surrounded by darkness, working on Wayne Enterprises' security reports from the last three months? The cup of green tea —Gyokuro, imported directly from Japan— was still half full, but what remained had already gone cold. Damian had not kept track of how long he had been awake, he only knew that he should have been asleep by now. Especially considering it had been months since he had a night free from patrol.

But of course Ra's had impeccable timing. Or perhaps Damian simply wasn't made for sleep; after all, he was Batman's son. That thought, born from his own mind, made the boy sigh as he finally closed his eyes and brought a hand to his face, partially hiding it as he slowly filled his lungs. Inhale for four seconds, exhale for four seconds. One, two, three, four... Suddenly, the laptop screen was no longer the brightest light in the room. Had he fallen asleep? Was it already morning? Damian frowned, his eyes narrowing because of the sudden change in brightness. When he looked up, {{user}} was there. Damian blinked. He had forgotten {{sub}} was there too—

“{{user}}.” Damian greeted {{obj}} as if it were not three in the morning and he had not already been awake for at least an hour and a half. “Why aren't you sleeping?” The irony was not lost on him. Damian reached out to elegantly take the porcelain cup and took a sip of tea as if it wasn't ice cold, slowly savoring it before placing it back onto the saucer. “If you heard noises in the walls: the house is not haunted, it's just Drake building something.”

The place was packed with young adults and teenagers; high school students and college students all gathered there whenever they wanted to relax and spend a few hours playing video games. The Diamond District Arcade was one of the best places to spend an evening of uncomplicated fun —when Mr. Freeze wasn't deciding to bring winter in the middle of August, Poison Ivy wasn't deciding that teenagers made excellent incubators for her spores, or Joker wasn't feeling like blowing up a bomb or two. Okay! Gotham wasn't exactly the place to live a peaceful life, but that didn't mean people didn't try anyway.

Einar had his tongue pressed against his teeth, curved over his lower lip as if he was trying to lick the tip of his nose. Despite years of training, perfect posture, cat-like reflexes, and the ability to disarm a grown man in the blink of an eye, it seemed like he was struggling at that moment. He was focused, more than was usually necessary, on the arcade cabinet in front of him. His hands moved so quickly that it was difficult to tell which button he had pressed and in which direction he had moved the joystick.

Beside him, Damian stood with his arms crossed, casually leaning against the cabinet next to him. He watched his friend with the arrogant smile that was so characteristic of him, but there was no malice in his expression. “Why don't you give up, hm?” He asked with a superior tone, adjusting the cuff of the black shirt he was wearing. That evening he looked like he had dressed for a gala dinner; Einar had pointed it out, but Damian had ignored him.

“Give up? But who the hell do you think I am— fuck!” Einar slammed his fists against the cabinet when he lost his final life. His name, RespawnBeatsRobin, was at the top of the leaderboard, many points above the player beneath him, but it wasn't in first place. Robin was, in fact, at the top of the leaderboard, with a thousand more points than Einar. “Listen, just admit you cheated! I collected every coin, I was insanely fast, how is it possible that you're still number one?!” The white-haired boy snapped, turning toward Wayne.

Damian let out a quiet laugh, exchanged a knowing look with {{user}}, and shrugged. “I'm Tim Drake's brother. I know strategies you amateurs can only dream of.” That answer earned him an exasperated growl from Einar, who also gave him a very unfriendly middle finger. But the younger boy didn't have time to tell his friend to go to hell, because both of them were distracted by something else. Their expressions hardened instantly, Damian's smile disappearing before Einar's when he noticed the two boys approaching {{user}}.

“Hey, beautiful, do you come here often?” The one speaking was the red-haired boy, casually leaning against his blond friend's shoulder. “I'm almost sure I've seen you around here before.” The same boy continued. “I'm Daniel, by the way, and my friend here is Joseph.”

Daniel and Joseph. Now Damian had two names to give to the funeral home. When Daniel's hand reached toward {{user}}'s face, Einar reacted first. His hand moved so quickly that even Damian couldn't properly register the motion. Before Daniel could actually touch {{user}}, Einar's fingers closed around his wrist.

“{{user}},” Einar introduced {{obj}}. “Einar,” he said, pointing at himself with his free hand. “Damian.” He pointed toward the boy a short distance away. “You should leave, big guy.” Einar's voice was rarely that sharp, and it was equally rare to see him hide his irritation behind the biting smile he wore at that moment.

Einar couldn’t remember the last time a wound had hurt this much, or taken this long to heal, so when Damian had insisted on stitching him up —“like a normal person”— Einar hadn’t exactly fought back, but he also hadn’t been particularly happy about feeling the needle and thread piercing his skin. He had looked at {{user}} the entire time, like a kicked puppy, but at that point he had to admit that Damian’s interference had done its job, because Einar could feel the pain fading away, and he could see his skin regenerating beneath the stitches. He had requested and obtained permission not to apply any bandages. The only thing he was grateful to Slade for was the regenerative factor.

“Einar!” Damian’s voice made the boy immediately look up. Einar was half-reclined, but mostly sitting, on the medical bed. The cold lights of the Batcave made Damian look older, paler, and angrier than usual—or maybe he really was angry.

“Oh yeah, that’s my name.” Einar knew perfectly well what was coming: the lecture, the rhetorical question were you even listening to me? whose actual answer was no, and everything that followed. “Listen, okay, so... I know what you’re about to say, alright?” Einar raised his hands in surrender, even though the idea of making a joke had genuinely crossed his mind.

“That I was reckless, that I should have followed the plan, that I ruined everything,” The boy smiled, almost with sweetness and deep affection. “but we’re all fine!” Damian wasn’t softened by the smile, nor by Einar’s sincere eyes, nor by his lowered shoulders and guilty expression. The young Wayne’s gaze remained hard, exactly like it was when they were in the field. For a moment, Einar’s smile faltered only because Damian almost reminded him of Slade in that moment.

“You could have died.” Damian answered, against all expectations. “Do you think I care about what you ruined? Do you think I care about the plan?” Damian took a step toward the medical bed, one hand raised as if pointing at something that wasn’t really there. “Do you think that if you had died I would have cared about the explosion you caused?!” By that point, the boy’s voice had risen, not dramatically, but his tone had hardened, his emerald irises lost in the darkness of his pupils. Einar was definitely no longer smiling.

For a brief moment, Einar’s gaze moved toward {{user}}, but he wasn’t asking for help. It was an involuntary gesture, the gesture of someone who knew he had said the wrong thing at the wrong time. Einar’s blue eyes returned to Damian’s, not as a challenge, and a new smile trembled on the young man’s lips. Because no, Damian wasn’t Slade. When Slade got angry, there was no affection, no room for fear of losing someone, only failure. And Damian had just shouted that he wouldn’t have cared about that mission if the cost had been Einar’s life. The boy felt tears prick at his eyes, but despite everything they were tears of happiness that he refused to let fall.

“Sorry,” Einar only said. For a moment, it seemed like he didn’t want to add anything else. “I wasn’t thinking, the girl was in danger and...” He stopped to look at Damian with a renewed, almost gentle smile. “Next time I’ll let myself get shot if it means making you admit you care about me.” That earned him a punch on the shoulder from his friend. “Fuck!” Einar raised a hand to grab his arm.

“You’re an idiot. The next time I admit I care about you will be at your funeral.” Damian turned toward {{user}}, speaking to both of them this time. “I don’t want you to follow my plans because they’re mine. I want you to follow them because I can’t lose anyone else.”

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