Archive of Our Own ^beta

If someone told Jon a few months ago that he’d be sitting in his room watching cartoons with Damian Wayne, well, he’d have called them a liar. There’s no way he’d be friends with someone so rude and argumentative and frustrating, not to mention self-absorbed and mean and—

“Jon, you have the remote. Turn the next episode on before I do it myself.”

—And yet, in a way that felt natural, that rude and argumentative and frustrating person became his best friend. Rude turned into bad with his words, argumentative became competitive, and frustrating is now actually secretly nice. Damian has a side that Jon is pretty sure no one else ever sees, and that includes the hesitance to show that he’s totally got a weak spot for childish things that he never experienced.

“Yeah, yeah, hold your horses. I didn’t expect you to get invested in this.”

“I’m not invested. Watching this is marginally more entertaining than sitting here in silence. Don’t confuse the two.”

Jon’s not a living lie detector like his mom or dad are, but he knows that one’s a lie; Damian wouldn’t be here if he hated it. He smiles, settles back in his chair, and presses play.

Jon knows more about Damian than he ever expected to, considering that Damian hides so much of himself away. Of all the things he knows, Damian's unfamiliarity with popular culture is the funniest. That he can convince someone so angry and brooding to sit in his room and watch TV with him is hilarious on its own. As much as Damian complains about the mindlessness of television, he still wanders over when Jon invites him to watch without much protest, and that's a relief. There are so many cartoons and kids' shows that he’s completely missed out on that there aren't enough minutes in the day for Jon to share them all.

But sometimes, Jon thinks that it’s amazing that Damian doesn’t just throw a pillow at his TV. Jon almost wishes he would. It’d be more entertaining than just listening to him whine about whatever writing he thinks is bad. Jon loves watching TV with him, and it’s kind of cute that Damian gets riled up over something so childish, but he always feels like he has to duck in preparation. It's the relationships in the shows that get him the most mad, for whatever reason. Every time a shoehorned romance subplot appears, Damian’s feathers ruffle up, almost as if he's trying to make the Robin name more apt.

“This is ridiculous,” Damian whines, the impatient kid in him coming out to the forefront. “The writers of this show don’t understand how to properly convey a relationship. It’s so shallowly written that it’s almost pathetic.”

“Come on, Damian. It’s not that bad,” Jon says, his fingers curling around the remote. He has to remind himself it’s just the way that Damian is. Jon’s more than a little bit grateful that he’s good at math. If he weren’t, he’d have to learn it really quickly with how high he has to count to keep himself from reacting when Damian complains. “What do you know about relationships, anyway? Let alone about writing them.”

“I know enough.”

“Yeah, right.” Jon shifts his voice into his best approximation of Damian’s. “I know everything, I’m the blood son of Batman, whatever. You made friends with me by kidnapping me.”

“That’s unrelated!” Damian sputters, bolting upright. His face is turning so red that it looks like he might explode. It’s so easy to get a rise out of him these days.

“It’s totally related,” Jon shoots back, jumping up in turn. “It’s called being nice, which is important in romantic stuff, too.”

Damian grumbles for a moment, his words no more than half-intelligible. “You’re younger than me. You can’t possibly know more about it,” he finally says. Jon senses the slightest hint of uncertainty there, and it’s weird that he can catch that so easily. “Courting is something you learn over time. Through experience,” he continues, almost spitting the word. “Of which you have none.”

“You don’t, either!”

“So what?” Damian’s voice is clipped, realizing he’s been caught in a web of his own making.  “You’re barely competent enough to tie your own shoelaces. This is far beyond your pay grade.”

“I know a lot more about relationships than you ever will, Damian.” That might be a lie. Jon has no experience with romance, and definitely no experience with dates. But he’s certain Damian has no idea how to even be friends with people, not to mention anything resembling courting, and he’d like nothing more than to put a crack in Damian’s bravado.

Damian turns his chin up in an attempt at a threat display. His inscrutable expression doesn’t fade; if anything, it looks sharper, his eyebrows pinching together and a smirk forming in that annoying way. “Fine. Prove it to me, then,” he says, and Jon definitely doesn’t like where this is going. “Attempt to court me and I’ll grade you. If you fail, then we’ll all know how much better I am at courtship than you. Like everything else, incidentally.”

“What do I get if I win?”

Jon didn’t even think it possible, but Damian’s smirk grows. He rolls his eyes, scoffs, and says, “You won’t.”

That’s his first mistake. Jon might not know much about relationships and romance, but he knows a lot about Damian, and what he knows best is how much he wants to wipe that self-satisfied look off of Damian’s face. “We’ll see about that. You’re going to be writing your next one hundred page paper about how I courted your socks off.”

Damian walks closer to him, and all of a sudden, Jon’s face feels warm. Why does Damian have that effect on him these days? It's so annoying that he almost jerks back, but that'd be admitting defeat before their competition even begins.

He can't lose a competition that hasn't even started, but he does lose his chance to duck away when Damian keeps up the attack. “In your dreams, Kent,” he says, needling him with a sharp prod and sharper words.

Well, fine. He doesn’t like Damian like that or anything, but now it’s a challenge, and Jon doesn’t plan on letting Damian take the win without a fight, or a date, or a whatever.

Besides. Damian’s his best friend, so he knows him better than anyone. It can’t really be that hard to court his best friend.

Jon figures there’s no better place to get advice on courting someone than Dad. Dad and Mom have been together forever, so he’s bound to have something to say. Jon’s not seeking real advice, but it’d be nice to have Dad in his corner to help beat Damian at a game where they’re both wildly out of their depth.

He catches Dad after dinner one evening as they do the dishes. Mom’s working late on an article, and Jon is thankful for the privacy. He’s pretty sure Mom would get way too nosy about the whole thing. Her uncanny ability to read his and Dad’s minds makes him think that they aren’t really the ones with superpowers in the house.

The plate Jon is working on squeaks as he rubs a sponge across the back. The silence is already broken, so he decides to go for it. “Dad, can I ask you something?”

Dad finishes drying off his current glass and sets it on the towel they’ve laid out. “Of course you can, Jonno. You don’t even have to ask.”

Jon looks back down to his plate, wrinkling his nose. He knew that, of course. Dad’s always been open to listening to anything Jon has to tell him, especially since he started developing his powers. But this feels much more difficult, like asking what he wants to out loud will make it more real when it’s supposed to be a joke.

He shouldn’t need to ask about something like this for a stupid bet. It should be simple: go online, search “how to impress a date”, and follow the instructions to the letter. But he knows Damian wouldn’t fall for that—no, that word has too many connotations; dial it back a little bit and it becomes Damian wouldn’t be fooled by that, which is better—so he needs something more specific.

It’s hard to get the words out. The more he hesitates, the more concerned he sees Dad getting. “I have… a friend,” he mutters, peeking at Dad’s face, “who was wondering how to court someone.”

Dad blinks. “Court someone?”

The plate in Jon’s hand squeaks again. He’s being too rough with the sponge. “Yeah. You know, like asking them out. On a date?” With every word, his wince gets deeper. He might as well be shrinking into himself.

“Ah.” It’s barely a note of surprise. Dad’s expression softens, and Jon relaxes on instinct. There’s less than a second between Dad putting down his drying towel and the screech of the dining room chair he pulls out to invite Jon to sit down with him. “Well, tell me about this friend. What kind of person are they having trouble with?”

Jon’s positive he doesn’t buy the cover story. But he’s not going to tell Dad that he’s asking about Damian, so he plunks the plate back in the soapy water and joins him at the table. “The person is kind of… I think most people would say they’re mean, but they’re not, really. It just takes time to see that.”

Dad hums, like he’s listening to a tune he’s heard many times before.

Jon takes that as a cue to keep going. His words are slow and deliberate, his mouth turning every word over as he speaks. “In fact, they’re one of the kindest people I’ve met—err, heard of. They have a big ego, but they do a lot of little things to help my friend that they don’t have to do, just to show they care.”

He thinks of the moments after patrol, the times when Damian asks him if he’s injured even though he knows Jon is nearly invulnerable. He thinks of Damian fitting an entire sewing kit in his utility belt to fix a rip in his cape. He thinks of the ways that Damian hides his affections, in the way his words will soften and how his eyes light up when they’re around each other, the way that he listens better than he speaks. Whenever Jon mentions something he likes without even thinking about it, Damian remembers and repackages it in little ways with tender thoughtfulness. Jon’s gotten pretty good at filtering out the difference between what Damian says and what he means, like a language between them that only Jon can translate.

His face is starting to go red now. He’s only asking for a stupid bet. It shouldn’t be this hard. He swallows and tries to collect his thoughts. “They’re kind and everything, but my friend said they’re not good at the whole emotions thing, and they don’t know what to do about it. Is it even possible to… you know, impress them? If they don’t have an easy time with feelings.”

Dad leans forward in his chair and puts a hand to his chin, clearly for show. Some small part of Jon gets confused at the flippant attitude, but the other part of him can’t think of anything other than the relentless sound of his heart racing a mile a second. He’s positive Dad can hear that, too. Why did he even bother trying to make up a friend?

After a long silence that stretches for far longer than Jon thinks is fair, Dad finally smiles. “What kinds of things does this person like?”

Jon can answer that. He looks down at his hands, trying to stop the trembling that’s consumed them. Patrolling together would be too obvious an answer, so he ends up saying, “Animals?” Ugh, no, he has a lie detector for a father, so edging that close to the truth isn’t going to make him look innocent, either. He tries again. “I think they might like movies, if they gave them a chance? I don’t think they’ve seen that many.”

“Movies are a pretty typical date,” Dad says, nodding. “You know, the county fair is going on back in Hamilton right now. Remember that giant projector that they played a movie on when everything else closed? Your friend’s date might like that. But, to be honest”—Dad pauses, rubbing his chin as though he’s deep in thought, even though Jon is pretty sure he already has his answer—“I have a feeling that they’d enjoy doing anything as long as they’re with your friend.”

Jon ducks his head into his shoulders like a turtle shrinking into its shell. He feels a lot like one of the people Mom interrogates for work, but reacting like this is making it worse, so he forces the tension away. “Y-Yeah, I think so.”

“It’s pretty cliche advice,” Dad says, putting a hand on Jon’s shoulder and winking, “but it works. The most important thing is to be yourself. Don’t change who you are for him. If there’s one thing Bats are known for, it’s being fickle, but he likes you for you. Don’t forget that.”

That shouldn’t be too difficult. Jon’s heart starts to relax, and he reaches his hand up to touch Dad’s. He’s good at being Superboy, but around Damian, he’s best at being himself. “Thanks, Dad.”

It’s not until he’s lying in bed that night that he realizes: he didn’t tell Dad who the advice was for.

Mom finds out, of course. Blame it on having reporters for parents. The fact that he thought he could pull the wool over their eyes on this one was stupid, but they don’t get the full picture, anyway. It’s not a real date. All he needs to do is prove to Damian that he’s better than him at dating.

In the morning, Mom tells him that she wishes his friend good luck, that she knows it’ll work out well, since they’re obviously a good match. She claims she’s never met them before, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t hoping for good news. Jon is frustrated that neither of his parents believe that it isn’t real. Why would he be going to Damian’s place for a date? Dating is dumb, and the thought of holding Damian’s hand for anything more than their joke is making his stomach twist in the weirdest way.

Anyway. Be yourself, Dad said, so Jon follows his advice. His dad has never steered him wrong before, and he did manage to marry Mom, so he’s definitely doing something right. Jon throws on his Superboy uniform, since he seems to always need it when he’s with Damian, and tosses a plain blue hoodie over it. He barely stops himself from wearing the one with the bat symbol on it. He can do without that teasing today .

It doesn’t take him long to get to Damian’s house. He doesn’t take off the hoodie for the Superboy outfit, but he knows enough routes that he doesn’t have to worry about flying and scaring people.

After taking extra time to adjust his hair—because Damian always fusses over his “unwieldy curls”, and whenever Damian runs his fingers through his hair he starts to feel weird and fluttery—he rings the doorbell of Wayne Manor. It still amazes him sometimes that his best friend lives in a literal mansion. He’s not even sure if Damian knows all the rooms in the house.

He can hear shuffling from the other side of the door moments after. “Master Jonathan,” comes a familiar, ever-gentle voice, muffled by the ornate wood that probably cost more money than Jon’s ever seen in his life. “Please, come in. The door is unlocked.”

Jon does as he’s told. Alfred is dusting the paintings on the walls, and simply nods in his direction when he steps inside. Jon brushes his feet against the doormat, and then says, “How’d you know it was me?”

“You are the only one who bothers to ring the doorbell,” Alfred says with a smile. “And you are quite overdue for a visit. Master Damian has been looking forward to seeing you again.”

“He has?” Jon swiftly hides his hands behind his back. He pretends like it’s mostly a way to prevent from touching anything Alfred’s recently cleaned, but he just wants to keep his palms from sweating. “He’s never said anything like that.”

“You underestimate him. He might not be the best at showing it, but I’m afraid he’s quite attached to you. I do hope you’re prepared for what that might entail.” Alfred steps away from the paintings to admire his handiwork, and Jon has no idea how he manages to make it look so spotless. He’s pretty sure Alfred has some sort of supervision for any dust mites in the manor, like any offending invaders get instantly vaporized under the pull of his trusty dusting cloth. “Shall I call him for you?”

“O-Oh, I, uh. I mean,” he stutters, since he’s so well-spoken and not nervous at all. If he wants to be a good date, shouldn’t he go and get Damian instead? Escort him, or something? “I don’t mind going to get him. It’s fine. I was going to take him to the fair.” He winces. It sounds so much more real when he says it out loud like that. To save face, he squeaks, “We kind of have a bet?”

Alfred’s eyebrow quirks up, not entirely believing it. Jon isn’t surprised at this point. Why won’t anyone believe him? “Of course. Please forgive my tendency to jump to conclusions.”

With that, he goes back to dusting. How can he be so calm? Jon swallows back the nerves building in his throat. “Thanks, Alfred,” he mutters, and sprints as quickly as he can to Damian’s room, trying to ignore the smirk that Alfred is definitely, one hundred percent sending his way.

It doesn’t matter. What matters is that he’s going to win, prove Damian wrong, and then everyone can stop giving him that look.

He promised Alfred once that he wouldn’t use his superspeed in the manor, so getting to Damian’s room isn’t as quick as he’d like. By the time Jon gets to the right hallway, Damian is standing outside his room, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. When he sees Jon, he looks at something in his hands.

He’s got an actual, honest-to-goodness pocket watch to rub salt in the wound. “Five minutes late, Kent,” he says, without even looking up. “You said you’d be here at five-thirty.”

Jon wants to protest that he was only doing it to look nicer and impress Damian, but that’d be really stupid, since he’s not actually trying to impress him or anything. “Well, I’m here now,” he says instead, as if that’s so much better.

“You are,” Damian agrees.

“And I’m going to win.”

“You’re not.”

“C’mon, have a little faith in me, why don’t you?” Jon huffs. “We’re going somewhere special. I haven’t been there in a while, but I think you’ll like it.”

Instead of answering, Damian snaps the pocket watch closed, turns around, and throws it into his room. It lands on his bed with perfect aim (of course he has perfect aim). When he faces Jon again, Jon convinces himself, almost swears, that there’s a hint of excitement masked with nervousness on Damian’s face. Like he’s… looking forward to it, more than he expected.

No, there’s no way. He’s nervous because he knows Jon is going to win. That’s all.

“Try not to give up after thirty minutes, will you?”

“Well, try not to be too entranced by my amazing date skills.”

“That won’t be hard,” Damian drawls. For the briefest of moments, Jon is certain he sees Damian’s hand reach out, before he seems to think better of it and retracts it like he’s put his hand too close to a flame. “Don’t waste any more time. You’re five minutes late already.”

Whatever. Jon grabs Damian’s arm and pulls him through the manor. Damian doesn’t make too much of a fuss, which Jon chalks up to irritation. “By the end of the night, you’re going to be so sorry you underestimated me.”

It’s lucky that Alfred has made himself scarce. Jon definitely does not want to hear his reaction to Damian saying, “You’re going to be sorry you even thought you could court someone better than me.”

Jon flies them there. It’s faster and he wants to get his win over with, and it’s not for any other reason, because Damian is a terrible passenger and holding him close is like corralling a hissing cat. It’s good that Dad gave him the idea to keep their destination a secret, because the moment the glowing signboards come into view below them, Damian scoffs in his arms.

“A carnival? Really, Kent?”

“It’s fun, Damian. Try having some.” They land far enough away to keep from attracting attention, and Jon lets go with the tiniest bit of ache in his heart to slip on his glasses and hat. That emptiness disappears once he pulls Damian by the sleeve toward the entrance, where the cheery, beaming lights outlining the words Hamilton County Fair hang proudly above them.

Damian looks like he’s caught between acting too proud and like a deer in the headlights. Jon catches his gaze, smiling, but Damian meets him with a frown. “I should have expected no less from you,” he says, drier than a desert. “If you think you can impress someone here, you’ll have to pull out all the stops.”

Challenge accepted. Jon laughs and drags him to the ticket booth, where the teen working the counter looks half-tired and half-bored as he slaps forty dollars down. She hands him back a bundle of red tickets fresh off the roll, and in return, he gives her a grateful smile and a thank you before he turns back to Damian. “C’mon, that should cover us for now,” he says, flipping through each ticket in his hand like little treasures.

“Kent, if you think this will result in anything other than a colossal waste of time and a lost bet, you’re sorely mistaken.”

The Hamilton County Fair is pure small-town America with its wide open fields, the bug bites, the golden glow dusting the top of the grass like the wheat hasn’t decided where to grow yet. It’s scenic, idyllic. It’s not at all what the big city is like, and Jon’s heart slows in appreciation of the calm. It looks like home. Not even Damian’s grumbling is going to take that away from him.

He feels confident now. He’s definitely going to prove something to Damian, but more than that, he wants his friend to relax for once.

“We’re here to have a good time,” Jon says, cackling at Damian’s grumbling form. (If he keeps hunching over like that, he’s going to get back problems later, Jon thinks.) “Look, humor me for a bit, okay? Maybe you’ll really like it.”

“Your unending optimism never fails to surprise.”

“There’s lots of stuff you’ll like.” Jon glances around, the lights dancing in his eyes. It’s lit up like Christmas in July, bright colors swirling and advertising everything from the ring toss to the ferris wheel.

Damian scoffs like it’s his job to rain on every parade. “Doubtful.”

“You like animals,” Jon protests. There’s a particular sign off to the side that he doesn’t think Damian’s seen yet, the one for the petting zoo. Calling it a zoo is a bit of an exaggeration, as it’s mostly animals donated for the week by the local farmers. The glitz and glamor of Metropolis’ animal sanctuaries doesn’t translate here, so Jon’s not even sure if Damian’s going to go for it, but he has to try. “Check out the petting zoo. They’ve got lots of farm animals, and if you’re under four feet you get to pet ‘em for free, so it’s a win-win.”

The look Jon gets in response could freeze the very sun Jon’s powers come from. “You should be grateful if I don’t incapacitate you by the end of this”—and here he takes a moment to nearly spit out the word with something that sounds like anxiety—“date.”

“You know you can’t do that,” Jon says, smirking.

“I can stab you with Kryptonite,” Damian hisses.

He’s missing the point, like Jon expected, so Jon strikes back just as hard. “No, you know you can’t do that because you like me.”

Damian’s face turns as red as the tomatoes the farmers are selling. “Do you actually think that I—”

“You would have broken your hand trying to punch my lights out before we even got here if you didn’t.” His voice is one long teasing note by now, but this is his favorite part of messing with Damian: watching him stick out his chest as a threat, then relax, then furrow his eyebrows, and finally puff his cheeks out like he’s a fish out of water struggling to breathe. He stomps off toward the closest bench and crosses his arms, a death knell to their conversation.

(It’s… almost cute. If he could call anything about Damian cute, it would be how every emotion is so clearly drawn on his face when they’re around each other. Jon has seen the way he carefully molds his expression into professional indifference at every word Batman says. Jon has seen Robin hiding every feeling with a mask that only covers his eyes.

But Jon has also seen the way Damian’s mouth twists when he’s holding back a smile, the way his eyes narrow when he’s confused because he doesn’t know what other expression to make, and the way he clicks his tongue more when he’s excited than when he’s exasperated. At least around him, Damian has his heart on his sleeve.

It’s no wonder that Damian is catching his eye more than any of the bright lights on the fairgrounds tonight.)

Jon shakes his head.

This bet is stupid. What is he even thinking about?

He clears his thoughts and follows Damian, putting a spring in his step. Damian might be grouching, but he’s here, and Jon is going to make sure they have a good time whether Damian likes it or not. That’s what a good date would do.

Damian is back in his normal spirits—which is to say, none—within a few minutes. He doesn’t even try to resist when Jon drags him over to his favorite place of the whole fair: the booth selling treats and snacks.

Of course, it’s Damian, so he still has to complain to save face. “Are you serious?” he cries, incredulous. “We just got here, how can you be hungry already?”

Jon takes his place in line, standing on his tiptoes to see the menu. No matter what Damian might say, it’s obvious that he’s just putting on a show of irritation. He could have stomped away at any moment. Instead, he settles at Jon’s side and waits with him.

One standout menu item gets Jon’s attention faster than anything else: the funnel cakes. He can’t help the way his mouth starts watering at the thought. “Because I never get food like this anywhere else!” he says, pointing to the menu. “You gotta get all the good stuff before it’s gone.”

Damian sniffs, turning up his nose. He must realize he’s too short to even make an attempt at seeing the sign over the people in front of them. “I’m fairly certain you can buy sugar at any store in the entire world. The entire universe.”

Jon rolls his eyes. Not even the little raincloud beside him can ruin the thought of deep fried dough. “Come on, we’re getting a funnel cake to share.”

Damian opens his mouth to retort, but then they move to the front of the line. Jon slams down his tickets and orders his funnel cake, large, with two forks and extra sugar. The extra sugar part makes Damian tut under his breath, but he still doesn't leave. Jon would probably get lost without him, he says, as if Jon doesn’t know him: it’s a sign that Damian is secretly looking forward to it. He has that same twinkle of nervous anticipation he gets when he’s staring down something fun that he’s never experienced.

Every childish thing Jon has taken for granted is something new and unique for Damian. It’s kind of sad to see Damian bewildered by something normal, so Jon is making it his mission to show Damian everything from the dumb cartoons that started this bet to the sugar bombs he looks forward to every year. They’re from two different worlds but connected all the same, and whenever they go somewhere mundane together, the differences between them don’t seem to matter.

It’s not much longer until Jon’s name gets called, and the plate that he’s handed is almost bigger than his head. “We’re sharing this,” he cautions Damian—if he had a free hand, he’d wag his finger. “So don’t get greedy like you normally do and take more than your half.”

Damian stares at him, and then his eyes drift to the treat and narrow. “Rest assured, I will not be ingesting a single calorie of that.”

“Uh huh,” Jon says without really listening. He knows Damian better than that. Damian likes to claim he’s above junk food, but Jon’s heard Alfred complain of the way ice cream has mysteriously disappeared in the manor since Damian moved in. And as he expected, Damian’s hesitant hand reaches for the fork that Jon holds out after he’s weighed his dignity against the cake he’s eyeing.

He apparently considers the crack in his ego worth it, and rips off a small piece of the cake with his fork. The second the sugar hits his mouth, his expression brightens up. It’s small—if Jon didn’t know Damian as well as he does, he probably wouldn’t notice—but it’s there. It’s there in the way that most of Damian’s little signs of rare joy are: a spark in his eyes, a crinkle of his nose, a slight tinge of red on his cheeks.

And there it is again: Jon’s heart skips a beat, and he’s caught momentarily short of breath as if Damian stole it from him without him knowing. (Damian wouldn’t be a thief, Jon knows. He’s a good person these days. He’s always been a good person.)

“Jon?”

Damian’s voice, halfway between curious and irritated, breaks Jon out of his trance. “Oh, um,” he stutters, super eloquently. “Sorry, the lights are so bright here. I got distracted for a minute.”

“Hm,” Damian responds, one eyebrow lifting. That sound, the one that makes him sound a lot like Batman, only comes from his throat when he’s listening to a criminal’s excuse. “You were the one that dragged me to this. If you insist on me being here, then you have to be present yourself.”

Well. He’s right, and sometimes Jon hates when he’s right. What's more embarrassing is that Jon knows what he actually brought Damian here for. Forget the bet, forget their bickering and arguments; he wants his best friend to have a good time. A rural county fair is mundane, but that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?

That mundanity makes it a good place for Damian to actually relax for once in his life (and Jon’s seen his shoulders when he’s supposed to be at ease in their base; they’re more tense than his mom’s are when she’s facing a difficult deadline). And almost more importantly, he knows that it’s a place for them to be normal kids, even if only for an evening. Damian’s not even fourteen yet, but he speaks like he's lived five lifetimes over. Sometimes Jon wonders if that’s true. There’s a certain heaviness to his words and his actions, always shielded and always nervous.

Yet here, under all of the bright lights and the setting sun and maybe even the warmth of Jon’s hand, he might be able to help Damian forget all of that. Forget the pressure of Robin and the weight of his past, and be him.

But—well, it isn’t like Damian’s a super tactile person. Superboy has held Robin’s hands to whisk him away from danger, and in the cover of his gauntlets, Robin’s hands are rigid and tense. It’s only ever been professional.

They aren't Robin and Superboy now, though. Damian’s hand around the fork, the one he’s using to shove a smaller helping of funnel cake to his mouth in the most graceful way possible, is so much smaller than Jon thinks it should be. Jon might be younger, but he’s somehow had far more chances to slip the tension from his fingers than Damian has.

Would it be bad to try and hold his hand, just this once? It’s not like he’s doing it for real, right? They have a bet, so—

“Jon,” Damian says, tutting under his breath. “I’m aware that you don’t have room in your head for much more than what’s right in front of you”—and man, he’s right on that one, all Jon can do is watch Damian’s frown twist up at the corners in a way that's almost cute—“but are you seriously going to be in a daze this entire evening? That’s going to lose you at least fifty points.”

What, they’ve started a rating scale already? Jon wasn’t aware of that one, so that’s unfair. He sticks his tongue out once he’s back to being himself. “Fifty points that I’m going to get back easily,” he boasts. “‘Cause you’re not as sneaky as you think you are with that funnel cake.”

Damian stiffens almost imperceptibly. “I’m trying to prove a point to you. If you don’t take advantage of all your opportunities,” he says, stabbing another piece of the sugary goodness he was so opposed to, like, thirty seconds ago, “then they’ll be gone before you can do anything about it.”

“We’ll see,” Jon replies. He meant for it to come out as a growl, but it ends up as more of a laugh when he looks closer at Damian’s face. “You'd be more convincing if you didn't have powdered sugar on your cheek.”

Damian whirls away, embarrassed and glowing red. “Shut up,” he says, voice hoarse. That’s all it took to knock his dignity out. Jon holds a napkin out for him with a smile, and Damian snatches it like Jon will take it away from him and hold it out of his reach.

He ate the funnel cake and enjoyed it. Jon takes that as a win. He’ll make those fifty points back before Damian even knows it.

For all of Damian’s protests and complaints and justifications, he's the one that ends up dragging Jon somewhere next. Jon figures it out almost instantly. Damian probably thinks he's being subtle by not making a beeline for it, but he’s marching them both to the petting zoo. There’s not much else over in that direction other than the farmers peddling produce, and since Damian is scowling with every person in overalls that tries to accost him, there’s no way he’s focused on that.

Damian pushes right past the attendant at the petting zoo's gate, ignoring him in favor of walking right in. Jon waves a silent apology at the poor minimum wage worker and hands him a couple of their tickets. The worker flashes him a shaking smile and lets Damian through. Most people aren't paid enough to deal with Damian Wayne. Jon was the same way at first, so he sort of gets that, but now he happily does it for free.

Besides, no amount of money in the world could make him happier than he feels when he’s watching Damian’s face soften at every animal. The first one they head to is the sheep, munching on grass in its pen and looking at nothing in particular. When Damian approaches it, the sheep snaps to attention and bleats gently, more curious than alarmed. Damian has such a unique way with animals. His harsh personality might scare people off until they get to know the real Damian, but every animal is able to cut right to the core of who he is on the inside.

“Her name’s Ruby,” Jon whispers, pointing at the sign in front of her gate. “It says she's really friendly with people, but she's skittish.”

Damian doesn’t make any indication that he's heard Jon, doesn't even incline his head or stop his movements, but he wouldn't be Damian if he gave his thoughts away that easily. It’s easy to tell that he listened once he starts walking like Robin does. At first, Jon thinks that this is going to go really badly, really fast. If the sheep doesn’t hear him approach, they'll have a disaster on their hands.

He should realize by now that his worries are misplaced. Damian is nothing if not thorough. Instead of lulling the sheep into a false sense of security, he's made his presence obvious in other ways: a shift of his weight from one foot to the other, a crouch closer to the ground. Jon probably wouldn’t notice without his supersenses.

“Shh.” Damian puts his finger to his lips to placate the sheep. “I’m not going to hurt you.” He stretches a hand out, all kindness and empathy, the things he never shows that come out so easily around animals.

And around him, too, Jon realizes. Damian wouldn’t show this side of himself to anyone who would use his honest heart as a way to hurt him.

The sheep looks to him, eyes shining, and she ends up butting her head into Damian’s outstretched hand. Jon hears Damian’s breath hitching and his heart beating faster with unbridled, well-hidden happiness. His own heart seems to beat in unison, moving in double-time as a smile crests its way onto Damian’s face.

Damian strokes the sheep’s soft fur, winds his hands through her curls in rigid lines. It’s such a sweet scene that Jon finds himself falling into a feeling he can’t quite name. It feels like something that’s been building all night, or maybe for a long time now, but at a moment like this, it’s at the forefront, coloring all of his thoughts and expressions. Whatever it is… it makes him happy. Warm, comforting, like being enveloped in a security blanket.

If Damian’s enjoying himself, well. It doesn’t matter if Jon doesn’t know how he feels. His plan was a success, whether the whole thing started as a joke or not.

“Two tickets gets you three tries,” one of the employees calls out as they make their way from the petting zoo.

How can Jon not head over after he hears that? He doesn’t even have to pull Damian with him this time. Damian follows him of his own accord, which is astounding considering how thoroughly he tends to dig his feet into the ground when he’s irritated.

“Step on up, kid,” says the man working the stand, giving Jon a wink. “Everyone’s a winner! Just throw the beanbags and you can pick a prize!” He gestures to what might as well be an impenetrable fortress of stuffed animals. There are more plush toys than Jon’s ever seen in his life hanging on the wall with different colored alligator clips, from cats and dogs to dragons and unicorns. Jon’s eyes snap to the white dog in the middle. It looks a lot like Krypto: white as a cloud with floppy ears and a little red bandana tied on its neck.

There’s a sign at the very front, with a cheery smiling face in the corner, that says PLAY & WIN and describes the game. The object of the game is to throw beanbags at the targets. Everyone wins, it says, but hitting more bullseyes opens up a bigger prize pool. If you hit three, you can pick any stuffed animal on the wall.

Well, Jon can do that for sure. He has super good aim, even better than Damian’s, and he’s going to win Damian one of those prizes and get ten thousand points for it. He has to make up for lost time.

Behind him, the future recipient of the plush that Jon’s totally going to win crosses his arms so deliberately that Jon can literally hear it. “What’s the point of playing in the first place if everyone wins?”

“To have fun,” Jon says, like a broken record. He rips two tickets off of his slowly dwindling paper bouquet and hands them to the employee, trading them for three beanbags and a smile.

“You keep saying that as if it’s an answer.”

“It is an answer. You just think it isn’t because, again, you don’t know what fun is,” Jon replies, though he’s pretty sure Damian has felt it at more than one point tonight.

From the way Damian’s frown twitches when Jon whirls around to face him, it looks like he’s sure he has, too. “It doesn’t involve throwing dirty pouches at rigged targets. I could destroy this entire tent in my sleep.”

The carnie puts his hands up like he’s been caught by the police. Jon waves his hand as an apology for the… everything that is Damian Wayne. “I have more tickets,” he says to Damian, brandishing them in the air. “You could play, too.”

“I have no need for distractions worthy of children,” Damian says. He’s trying so hard to hide it, but Jon can see him look at the plush toys out of the corner of his eye. There’s one in particular he keeps trying to steal glances at: a small black and white cat that reminds Jon of Alfred. Damian lingers on it for no more than two seconds each time.

He looks so much like the kid he tries to pretend he isn’t that Jon knows he has to win it for him, or at least help him try. Because that’s what a good date would do, right? And a good friend, obviously, but that’s not really what he should be—

Anyway, it doesn’t matter why he’s doing it. He just has to win at their bet. Jon smirks in the way he knows annoys Damian the most and says, “You’re worried, ‘cause you know you won’t beat me. And I’ll get the bigger prize for you, and then you’ll look like—”

Damian tries to make a show of stalking over to the table like he would as Robin trying to interrogate a criminal. The hulking, threatening vigilante routine doesn't work; Jon knows him better than that, and he’s already ripped the tickets for him. Damian snatches them up and hands them off to the carnie. “Don’t make a fool of yourself too early, Kent,” he mutters.

Jon tries and fails to stifle a giggle. No matter how easy it is, teasing Damian is always fun. There’s a twist of a grin on his face and a glint of anticipation in Damian’s eyes, the same expression he wears when a mystery is unraveling itself in his mind, and that’s when Jon knows that it doesn’t actually matter who wins the competition.

He brought Damian here to enjoy himself. Jon should have known that a competition in the middle of their bet would be fun for him, so maybe it doesn’t matter too much who ends up winning. Either way, Damian is getting his prize, and he knows that Damian’s going to keep trying until he wins.

And even though Jon gives it his best effort—the best he can do without accidentally tapping into his supersenses—Damian wins. Two of Jon’s beanbags hit their mark, but the last hits the corner of the bullseye. As he expected, all three of Damian’s landed dead center. Jon doesn’t mind. It’s fun to get Damian riled up, but Jon's real goal was to see the victorious look Damian has basically trademarked by now. It's so sweet that Jon is glad the funnel cake desensitized him to sugar.

“That was sad to watch.” Damian shakes his head, that unique look on his face. It's half a smirk and half a smile, yet somehow, it doesn’t seem to make Jon annoyed this time.

“Okay, you won, whatever,” Jon says, trying very hard to keep the triumphant smile from cracking into his voice. He can’t let Damian know he planned that. “Go pick your prize, dummy.”

Damian shoots him one last smug glance before he start to peruse the prizes. The amount of effort he’s putting into this is kind of cute when it was obvious what prize he wanted before Jon even goaded him into a fight. He surveys the prize options like a hawk circling its prey, like a robin settling down in its nest.

Jeez, what a dumb joke, Jon thinks. Something’s making him feel sappy tonight.

In the meantime, Jon busies himself with picking at the tassels on his sweatshirt. Damian isn't looking, so he figures it's safe to smile without holding back.

The carnival employee coughs to grab his attention, and Jon startles. He must have looked like an idiot with a dopey smile on his face, because the employee’s eyes brighten like he’s about to tell a good joke. “You two good friends?” the man asks, quieter. It sounds like he’s trying to keep Damian from hearing, but Jon doesn’t quite know why. “You seem to know how to get him to cooperate.”

“Yeah.” Jon nods, his eyes locked on Damian. “He’s… he’s always like that. But he’s my best friend”—and partner, he wants to say, but he bites his tongue, because that would be weird, wouldn’t it? It's not because of their fake date or anything, it’s just that they aren’t Superboy and Robin right now so it’d be suspicious and—“and he never gets to visit places like this, so I thought…” He goes back to fiddling with his sweatshirt. Why is this so embarrassing? It’s like back when he was talking to Dad; he can’t seem to find the right words. “I thought we could have fun together,” he settles on. “He doesn't let himself have fun. I was just trying to help, I guess.”

The employee laughs under his breath, soft and kind. “You’re better at that than you think.”

Jon opens his mouth to ask what he even means by that, and especially what that laugh meant, but he ends up flopping his gums uselessly like a fish. Before he can pull his thoughts back to where they should be, there's a sharp tug at his arm and he's yanked away from the counter with honed efficiency. In that typical Damian way, it’s half a rescue and half a show of irritation.

Damian should have picked his prize by now, but Jon doesn’t see it, at least not in any obvious place. He expected Damian to be holding it above his head like a trophy and proclaim how amazing he is at everything. Instead, Damian has gone positively scarlet. That can't be related, right? Why would he be blushing when he's just won a game? Jon stares for a moment, narrowing his eyes in confusion.

Damian looks away, coughing. “Here,” he says, and then three things happen at once:

First, Damian spins his feet on the grass so fast that he almost trips on himself. Damian, and Robin besides, is a graceful person, but the movement is clumsy and awkward, like he’s about to sputter out. If he had his cape on, it would be folded in on itself by now.

Second, he throws something over his shoulder. Jon doesn't have the time to process it immediately. He’s lucky that his hands work before his brain does; he catches it on instinct, and at first, the only thing that he can tell is that it’s soft under his palms when he catches it. He smashes his hands together as close as he can to keep it from meeting an untimely, muddy fate on the ground.

Third, Damian’s face gets worse and turns red up to the tips of his ears. It’s obvious even with his back turned. Maybe that was why he tried to flee the situation. Robin is sneaky and stealthy, and he doesn't let any hint of a feeling show on his face. Damian, meanwhile, is collapsing in on himself. It's easy to see why when Jon looks at what Damian tossed to him: it’s white with a tiny little bandana around its neck. It couldn’t be anything else. It’s—

It’s the same Krypto plush Jon was gazing longingly at earlier on.

Jon stands there, utterly gobsmacked, until he remembers that his mind has to work for his legs to get the message and he catches up with Damian. The dog plush is softer than anything he’s held in his life. It’s small enough to fit under the crook of his elbow, so it’s the same size as the cat plush Damian was eyeing all that time. He seemed so eager to choose his own prize, but he—

It's hard to process. Jon speeds up to match Damian's stride, holding Krypto tight against his chest. “Damian, why did you—”

“I-It isn’t important,” Damian stutters. He’s favoring staring ahead instead of looking at Jon. “You were so distracted by that plush, you left yourself open to attack. It was a pitiful display, and it was annoying me. Besides…”

Damian pauses the same way he always does when he’s trying to unscramble his words. Like always, Jon doesn’t mind. He’ll wait as patiently as Damian needs him to, for as long as he has to.

He would be lying if he said that the silence wasn’t killing him inside, though. Damian’s never reacted this way before, with his cheeks red and his face hidden away. Damian hides so much of himself from the world, but he never seems to hide himself around Jon.

“…You’ve been doing all of this for me,” Damian says, barely more than a whisper. “I wanted to do this for you.”

If Jon thought he was taken off guard before, that sends him tipping over into pure shock. It’s not that he thinks Damian is lying. He might be bad at expressing himself and hide how nice he is behind meaner words than a kid should be capable of, but he would never lie and say something nice to spare someone’s feelings. He wouldn’t say it if he didn’t mean it.

This is different. This is something else entirely. This is honesty, emotional and true. He holds the Krypto plush with all of the affection in the world. “I love it. Thanks, D.”

Damian squeaks out something that passes for a cough. “Yeah,” he settles on, like that means anything. You’re welcome is always difficult for him, even though he says it in more words than he thinks. Jon’s learned how to read between the lines.

“I’ll give you fifty points for that, but I’m not gonna fall behind.” Jon laughs as bright as he feels and strides ahead so he can be beside Damian instead of behind him. It’s not that difficult; Damian’s emotions seem to be weighing him down physically. They’re side-by-side, much closer than they strictly have to be, but it’s not bad, and Jon wishes that he could just—

Oh, to heck with it. Jon decides to throw caution to the wind and go for it. Before he can stop himself, Jon has reached over to brush against Damian’s hand with his own. It’s a good thing that Damian doesn’t protest, a good thing that he reaches back for him instead, because this is what a real date would do. Jon finds himself slipping into the charade so easily that he knows he’s going to win those points back.

So if Jon ends up holding Damian’s hand, ends up lacing their fingers together and laughing at his poorly hidden smile and living as though Damian’s warmth is the only lifeline he needs, then it’s only because he’s so far behind in their dumb competition. It’s a desperate measure.

Jon can’t say he minds it.

And, of course, because they can’t go anywhere without something happening—because apparently, Damian is a magnet for trouble, dangerous and impulsive all at once—their nice time is abruptly cut short when a game stand collapses with a shattering sound and some would-be criminal starts to boast about how the fair is going down and give him all your money and blah blah blah. It’s stupid that even Hamilton isn’t free from criminal escapades. It’s not fair when he’s trying to have a normal day with Damian.

But then, it wouldn’t be a normal day with Damian unless they’re back in their disparate colors, blue and red and green and black all mixed up in a mishmash that blends together despite it all. Jon blinks, and Damian is gone as though he’s suddenly developed superspeed, and then…

He’s transformed from the egotistical and uppity and paradoxically sheltered Damian Wayne to the confident, unflappably controlled Robin in almost less than a second. Jon has no idea where he even got the time, or the costume itself.

“Seriously? You kept your Robin outfit on?”

“You’re wearing your Superboy uniform under your stupid civilian clothes, too!” Damian says, gesturing wildly, the precursor to a temper tantrum.

Jon shifts in place. It’s not fair that Damian knew that. He’s not the one with X-ray vision. “Dad does it all the time,” he mutters, shucking off his disguise and tucking the dog plush with it.  “It’s a good idea.”

“Yes, and your father changes tires in his Superman uniform,” Damian says, disapproval dripping in his voice. “Come on, we have real work to do.”

Jon wants to say that changing tires is real work that does real good, but fine. This is what they normally do, and Jon can handle that. So can Damian: he’s in his battle-ready stance immediately. It’s impressive how he can go from zero to sixty in a blink, but that’s part of what Jon admires about him, what he thinks makes Damian a hero, and even what he kind of likes about—

Okay, stop, he tells himself. That’s not really what he should be concentrating on. Jon flushes in embarrassment, and he’s thankful that Robin seems too focused to see. Once Jon has calmed down, Damian (and it’s definitely Damian, not Robin) shoots him a smirk. Jon knows his eyes are lit up behind the lenses of his mask. He’s seen that expression so many times, and isn’t it funny how he can read Damian’s smallest, most minute expressions by now, when no one else seems to be able to? Isn’t it funny how it still makes his heart skip a beat?

The thing about being partners, though, is that they click, so effortlessly that there’s no way to describe it other than perfectly. Jon knows all of Damian’s plans, can read through each expression of his so easily he might as well have no mask on at all, and Damian doesn’t even have to say a word to him for Jon to float by his side like he belongs there.

“Superboy, on your six,” Robin says, as if Jon didn’t know that already. “Ready?”

“You don’t even have to ask.”

And the most amazing thing about it all is that it takes them so little time to fight that it’s over in a flash. Sure, it was a small-time crook trying to rob a local county fair for the fifty bucks they keep on the grounds, but still, they don’t have to do more than glance at each other to communicate. Jon’s most super ability is his super-reading-Damian-Wayne sense. They know each other, and there’s something so comforting in that fact that Jon doesn’t even have to question how close he’s gotten to Damian by now.

The crook, of course, apologizes immediately once he’s become the target of Superboy’s freeze breath (not the direct bullseye, though—that’s too mean), and once Robin stands over him with a particularly impressive glare (which is also too mean, but Damian won’t listen to him on that point anyway). Someone calls the police to cart him off, and sheriff gives Superboy and Robin a smile and tells them that they saved the day, and that they’re the best team, and they seem pretty close, don’t they? Like they’re so in sync that they can intuit each others’ feelings. Like they’re partners.

Jon gets a little flustered at the praise, but when Damian smiles at him, all adrenaline and excitement but completely genuine, Jon feels himself smiling back. It’s easy to believe in the best with Damian by his side.

The people of Hamilton are nothing if not resilient. It really was the perfect place for the Kents to settle down while regaining their place in the universe. Once Robin and Superboy have saved the day (again), they’re back to normal as if nothing ever happened. The fair goes on as usual, and once they’ve put their normal clothes back on and gathered their things, Damian tuts under his breath at the show of mundanity. As Jon protests again, that’s the point.

“It’s stupid,” Damian mutters. “This isn’t Gotham. Hamilton is farm country. It’s made of people with delicate sensibilities. How can they still show a movie after they were almost robbed?” He’s trying, and failing, to hold back the tiny note of pride in his voice. The calm is, after all, as much Robin’s doing as it is Superboy’s.

“You’re one to talk, you know,” Jon says, tugging Damian by the hand toward the big projector that they’re finally setting up. They’re showing Babe, same as last year, and even though Damian’s never seen it or even heard of it, when Jon explains what it’s about, he almost looks excited. Maybe. If Damian can get excited.

This was the crux of Dad’s idea. Dad knows everything about stuff like this, so it’ll probably work. At the end of the movie, Jon’s going to have proved to Damian that he’s better at romance and everything, and that Damian’s not the master of the world in this one single area.

Hopefully. Probably.

They find a spot on the hill in front of the projector and against a stray tree, far back enough that they’re alone. Once Jon has led them there, he drops Damian’s hand and sits crosslegged on the ground, placing the Krypto plush next to him. Jon knows that Damian values his space, so he sits against one edge of the tree, giving Damian as much distance as he wants. It’s not like he was thinking about shuffling closer. Of course not. He’s not going to push it; that’s not what a considerate date would do.

But Damian has always had a way of surprising Jon, and this time it’s a good surprise instead of the secrets he hides deep inside of him, the ones that clench Jon’s heart more than anything. Damian doesn’t sit far away from him as he was expecting. Instead, he gets close enough so that their legs are nearly touching, his back ramrod straight and proper. Almost as if he’s planning on paying attention to the movie. That’s kind of shocking on both counts, but it’s not unwelcome, either.

Once the sun has dipped behind the horizon line, and the twilight glow of the fields has disappeared in a blanket of night, the crowd begins to grow. They’re still left relatively alone, and Jon can’t say he minds it. There’s something calming about being here alone with Damian, in their own little bubble, quiet enough for him to listen to the steady beat of Damian’s heart.

When had he started listening to that to ground himself in the moment, he wonders? Out of everything here, the sounds of the field whistling in the breeze, the sounds of the carnival fading bit by bit, the sounds of the cows mooing like they used to in ways that reminds him of their old farm—out of all of that, it’s Damian’s heartbeat that makes him feel at home.

He reaches for the little dog plush again. The one that Damian won for him, at the expense of his own prize. It was probably just for their bet, and yet… Jon finds himself brushing his thumb over the plush’s soft fur. There’s no point value he could put on that.

The movie starts up without much fanfare. Like the rest of Hamilton, it’s quiet and reserved, something that they’ve chosen instead of something thrust upon them. Jon still has no idea how he managed to drag Damian here, but in the dim of the night and the brightness of the screen in front of him (the brightness of the boy beside him, the brightness of his soul that Jon knows is there even if Damian doesn’t believe it), he’s glad that he did.

Damian doesn’t get to see more than half of the movie, though. At first, he watches in interest, the light of the projector shining in his eyes, and he doesn’t even interrupt the way he does if he truly thinks the thing he’s watching is a waste of time, the way he did when all of this started. And yet, by the time Babe is learning to herd the pigs, Jon hears Damian’s heartbeat start to slow, and he swears he hears his breathing deepen. When he looks over in alarm—

Damian has completely fallen asleep.

Jon almost laughs, or he would, if it wouldn’t wake Damian right back up. How weird is it for Damian, Robin of all people, to fall asleep in the middle of a carnival while a movie’s going, and a movie that he was enjoying at that? How weird is it for Damian to fall asleep at all? Didn’t Damian stupidly brag one time and say that he can put half of his brain to sleep like a dolphin? He doesn’t think he’s seen Damian sleep once. He doesn’t think he’s—

—He doesn’t think he could ever love someone as much as he loves Damian in that moment.

There’s something so special about this, Jon knows. Damian is so heavily guarded that even his secrets have secrets, and he buries any sign of vulnerability so far down that it might as well not exist in the first place. His huge ego is what he shows the world, but there’s a child just learning how to be one in there, too.

Jon knows how much it means that Damian let him see him like this. That Damian trusts him to keep him safe when he doesn’t even trust the world, let alone other people. They might have each others’ backs in battle, but that’s a trust born of necessity, not of their own free will. This is his own choice, and it matters so much more than Jon realized.

Especially because—because if Jon only moved the wrong way, he could easily shatter Damian’s bones as easily as he could shatter his heart. Damian trusting anyone is incredible, but willingly giving his whole being to someone who could break him into pieces is…

No matter what it is, it’s making his heart flutter. It’s funny how Damian has that effect on him, and even funnier to realize that he doesn’t mind.

Jon’s glad that they sat so close. Damian starts to naturally lean over in his sleep, and Jon catches him before he falls, right where he should be. Damian ends up resting his head against Jon’s shoulder, and Jon is struck with how different he looks like this. All of his sharp edges have faded away, melted into something sweet and gentle.

It’s the Damian that Jon sees every day, but he never really sees him like this. It’s different being able to look at Damian and watch the person he is deep down inside come to the surface.

Jon feels that same feeling from earlier, that warmth and happiness nearly bursting from his chest, and he wonders… He wonders if, maybe, he can name that feeling now.

The movie is still running, but Jon’s stopped paying attention to it. Damian will want to know the end later, he’s sure; Jon can tell him because he’s seen it so many times, or maybe they can watch it again, just the two of them. It’ll be nice to give another part of his home to Damian. There are so many things Jon wants to share. He wants to share every bit of his heart with Damian, for as long as he’ll let him.

So. Jon kind of won their bet, he thinks? He isn’t sure; they should have written rules out for this, and Damian was throwing out point deductions left and right. But it’s hard to think of it as anything but a win when Damian is sleeping against Jon’s shoulder, looking more relaxed than he ever has. With one hand still gripping the dog plush that Damian won him, Jon’s other hand winds its way up to trace his fingers through Damian’s hair. It might be nothing more than a shadow beneath the rising moon, a distant glow from one of the fireflies that dances by, but Jon is almost certain that he sees Damian smile in his sleep. That’s when he knows that their bet, the dumb points, the stupid competition—it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter if he won or not.

What matters is that he and Damian are existing in calm, as two kids amid the brush of the breeze winding through the stars and their hearts both. What matters is that he’s happy, and that Damian is happy, and that Jon meant everything he did with all of his heart. Seeing Damian curl up closer next to him, Jon knows Damian meant it, too. Someday, maybe…

Someday, when they’re older, Jon will take him here for real. The fair will be bigger then, with more rides and games and treats. They’ll have another funnel cake to share, rides to enjoy, animals to see, and then they’ll compete over who gets the better prize at a game booth. And at the end of the day, Jon will lace their fingers together, hold Damian close in the twilight, and tell him all the words he wants to say, soft and sweet words that will spill over so easily because he means them, wholly and truly. Someday, it won’t be just a bet.

Because—

Well, Jon can finally admit it. He kind of has a crush on his best friend.