Chapter Text
Bruce watched dewdrops from last night's rain race down the side of the car window, which he leaned his head against. In the grey light of the morning, his face looked pale, and his hair a darker shade of brown.
Car rides turned quiet at the death of Bruce’s parents. At first, Alfred attempted small talk, but he soon learned the boy would react best when he was unbothered. Bruce felt guilty for forcing Alfred into silence, but he was grateful for the time to think — even if his thoughts were not so pleasant.
He thought of the choir boy who would stare him down every Sunday at church, with a glare so penetrating that Bruce felt naked, reduced down to muscle and bone. He would be seeing the kid soon, and he dreaded it more than anything. Bruce clenched his eyes shut and tried to shake his nagging feeling of anxiety.
Bruce’s stomach whirred as the car pulled up to the cathedral. He glanced back into the seat as it the car might be his savior, before opening his door and taking Alfred’s hand in his own smaller one. The rain had stopped.
“Can we sit at the back today?” Bruce asked timidly. He was met with a pitying look from Alfred, so he took it as a no. He let Alfred lead him up to the first pew.
Bruce tuned out whatever the priest had to say, kneeling when necessary and going through the motions as usual. This all came very easily to him. The smell of incense and window cleaner lingered in the air.
Oppositely, something that did not come easily to Bruce were the parts where the choir would sing, for the choir boy would stare hardest when he was singing, as if he were singing to Bruce specifically. A song of hatred, disdain, rage, would ring through the air, and Bruce could feel a part of himself die. He wished he could be deaf only on Sundays — how pleasant life would be then! — but he rationalized that this was his internal sacrifice. Perhaps Jesus would accept him if he were able to endure this. He felt himself smiling at these thoughts.
“What are you smiling over?” Alfred whispered, smiling a bit himself.
Bruce shook his smile off. “Nothing.”
The choir began their rendition of Ave Maria, a song that they played so often that regular churchgoers would mutter under their breath when they had to hear it again.
Bruce glanced up at the choir, and saw the spectacled boy, with his flowy white robes and mousy hair, staring up at him with the same rage as before. Bruce shuffled awkwardly. What did the boy want from him? He decided, impulsively, that he would confront him after service.
There were only a few other people left inside the building, most —including Alfred— opted to converse outside where there were snacks and drinks. Bruce seized this opportunity to talk to a kid his age without Alfred breathing down his neck.
Bruce felt like he might faint. Looking at the choir boy, who sat out of robes on a pew inside the cathedral, His palms were sweaty, and he wiped them on his dress pants.
The choir boys' clothes were not as lavish as Bruce's. He wore what could be considered play-clothes, and an oversized greyish-green army jacket that made him look bulkier than he was.
Bruce took a breath and strode up to the pew the boy was sitting at the end of. The boy startled, and recognition gleamed in his eye. Now that he was face to face with Bruce, his glare was absent. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion at Bruce’s approach.
Neither of them said anything. Bruce loomed over the boy, who fidgeted uncomfortably.
“I like your singing.” Bruce lied. He hadn’t heard his singing; it was drowned out by the rest of the choir.
The boy didn’t say anything, just scrutinized Bruce with his tiny, beady eyes.
“I’m Bru—“
“I know. Bruce Wayne,” He said the other boy's name as if it gagged him to say it. Bruce felt a pang of hurt.
“What’s your name?”
“Not like you’d care,” a pause. “I’m Edward.”
Bruce did, in fact, care to learn his name and he felt quite offended that Edward would assume otherwise. Frankly, he was sick of thinking of Edward as “the choir boy”. It sounded too soft on the ears; as if he actually liked him.
“Edward,” Bruce repeated. It was more fitting.
Edward looked at Bruce like he was stupid. Standing there, repeating someone’s name back at them and not progressing the conversation whatsoever.
“What did you want from me?” Asked Edward, impatiently.
Bruce fell flat. He didn’t know how to phrase his question. Confrontation, Bruce realized, was harder than it seemed. What if Edward thought he was trying to start a fight? He considered walking away.
“I just thought you looked interesting,” Bruce lied again. Interesting. Sure, Edward looked interesting. His sad, round face was almost angelic if his eyes weren’t like the devils. He seemed like he had evil trapped inside his frail, lanky body, and it frightened Bruce to no end. His personality so far proved Bruce right.
Edward laughed, but showed no sense of joy. He shook his head and stared at his fingers. He held his thumbs in his palms, hiding them from view. “Interesting,” he said, “like you’d find me interesting,” He scoffed.
“Why can’t I find people interesting?”
“Oh, no, I’m sure you can find people interesting. You just don’t find me interesting. You know, you can just say weird. Or ugly. Or whatever it is you really mean because I can’t stand when people beat around the bush about that stuff, and I especially can’t stand when people like you do it.” Edward was winded by the time he finished his sentence. His full cheeks were tinted red. He grabbed his inhaler from his pocket and pumped it.
Bruce would’ve thought Edward was too self critical if he weren’t so spot on; interesting was the wrong word.
“I don’t think you’re ugly,” Bruce deflected. That was close enough to the truth. Edward had a boyish charm about him, even with all of his faults. Physically, he looked wiry and meek. That, paired with his round, unassuming face, made the choir boy more approachable. He was far from ugly.
“Yeah, whatever,” he blew his long hair out of his eyes. “Why don’t you go back to your palace with your butler and leave me alone, Bruce Wayne.”
Bruce wasn’t sure what to say. Edward’s sudden meanness stung.
Edward stared up at the crucified Jesus that hung large and glorious before them. He bit at his fingers, and kept his attention away. Bruce sighed when he realized he’d gotten no where— no real answer to the question that mattered most — and left the choir boy sitting on the pew.
“Eddie,” Sister Margaret said as she sat down on the arm of the couch Edward was sprawled on, “I saw that you were talking to Bruce Wayne earlier today. I hope you weren’t bothering him.”
Edward rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t bothering him. He came up to me. I hate him.”
“Don’t say such mean things, Edward. We’ve taught you better than that.”
“Clearly.” He deadpanned.
Sister Margaret just smiled and shook her head. She was one of the only nuns at the orphanage who interacted with Edward, as he was a bit of an outcast and dubbed a “problem child” by other Sisters. Edward liked her enough, but not much more than the others. He respected the nuns, hated the other kids, absolutely despised those who were better off (happier, stronger, taller, richer) than him.
Edward watched the Sister’s silhouette with unmoving eyes. Tufts of soft blondish hair, not unlike his own, stuck out of her veil and framed her forehead. Evening sun filtered through the windows and cast an orange halo around the nun. Her kind grey eyes were staring back at Edward. She wore a questioning look, but did not ask anything out loud, preferring that Edward spoke up for himself; yet knowing he never would. Edward broke eye contact and instead cast his eyes down her body. Isn’t she ravishing, he thought. He closed his eyes and furrowed his brow. No, she’s like a mother to you, Edward argued to his intrusive thoughts. He began to feel grimy with guilt as unwanted graphic images of Sister Margaret berated his mind. He swallowed, and tried to whisk away the thought. They weren’t his, he reminded himself. Still, guilt ate at him; guilt which reasoned that these thoughts were vile and near-incestous. He picked at his cuticles, which were littered with small cuts and bloody sores from his constant picking. His nostrils flared, his face was beet red.
“ I’d like to take a shower, please, Sister,” Edward said in his best monotone. She seemed surprised by his sudden words.
“You showered just yesterday, dear. We must save water.”
“I don’t feel clean,” Edward’s voice came out higher, more urgent. “I need to shower.”
“Edward —“
“Sister,” he raised his voice, and pulled forcefully on his own jacket, as if it were restraining him. “I have to or I think I might die”
Sister stared at him in disbelief. It was obvious that he wouldn’t actually die, but he’s never talked to her in such a rude tone. Her heart deflated.
Other kids in the common room were staring — he had been louder than he meant to. Embarrassed tears flooded his eyes. He tilted his head back to keep them from spilling, and sniffed forcefully.
“Edward,” the sister began. She reached her hand out to hold the boys but he withdrew it as if he’d been bitten. She sighed, “You must be reasonable. I don’t think I can get you another shower but I'll wet a cloth for you, if that is okay.”
Edward nodded, not wanting to look at Sister Margaret after his outburst, or ever again. He often suffered from intrusive sexual thoughts about the people around him. The guilt was enough to make him want to die. He hated more than anything that his brain could think that way at all; hated that his moral compass would allow him to say something like that. They were not his desires, nor were they normal sexual urges. They were parasites, Edward decided, and they needed to be terminated. Unfortunately, he couldn’t terminate them without taking the host down with it.
“Here you are,” Sister Margaret handed Edward the cloth as promised.
“I’ll be going now.” Edward mumbled softly, embarrassment seeping into his tone.
He undressed in a bathroom stall to clean himself. There were no private bedrooms for any of the orphans and he felt uncomfortable undressing in front of them. He scrubbed his skin raw with the graying, soggy cloth. The rhythm of the cloth against his body was almost soothing. This was his version of repentance. A self punishment for his evil thoughts. The cloth would expel pieces of the Devil from his soul. Confession could not clean him from his sinful, rotted mind like a ritual could. Of course, a shower would be better — the scalding water representative of the circle of Hell that he would subject himself to if he kept on with his sinful ways — but the cloth got the job done.
The door to the bathroom creaked open. Edward tried to conceal his breathing. The wet cloth dripped incessantly on the tiles and his bare legs could be seen through the gaps in the stall. He shivered.
“Is someone in here?” The voice of a boy — around Edward's age —called out. Edward did not answer. There was banging on the stall door next to his. He shuffled on his boxers as quickly as he could. The boy peaked over the edge of the stall door at Edward, who curled in on himself to keep as little as possible exposed. It was a pathetic sight: Edward, wet, cold, and half naked, looking fearfully into the eyes of his new tormentor. He might have been mad, if he were not so scared. The kid smirked, giggled, and walked out without saying a word. Edward finished getting dressed.
“Who was that little boy you were talking to?” Alfred asked Bruce while setting out dinnerware for the two of them. “Little boy” was an overstatement. Edward was at least thirteen, taller and more filled out than Bruce.
“Nobody.”
“He isn’t bothering you, is he, Master Bruce?”
He hated when Alfred called him “Master” Bruce.
“No.”
“Bothering” would also be an overstatement. Edward did not pull at pigtails. All Edward had done was made Bruce think about him a bit too often. All he had done was stare, and that was enough to make Bruce want to crawl out of his skin and never go to church again.
Alfred stopped asking questions. Bruce closed his eyes, exhausted from not only waking up early but socializing, too. He rarely talked to people under the age of thirty — most kids didn’t talk to him because they were intimidated; looks of pity or awe were most common, however. Of all kids Bruce has interacted with, Edward stared the longest. He felt even more alienated under Edward’s eyes than anyone else’s. Bruce wondered idly whether Edward read the tabloids, whether he knew his story. He decided that he did. Maybe he found Bruce strange for his parents. Maybe he despised Bruce’s wealth. Maybe he was just an asshole. Any of the options seemed plausible to Bruce. Edward had no excuse to be so cold to him.
“I can see that you are all up in your mind, Bruce,” Alfred sighed. “Why won’t you talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to talk about.”
“I’m all ears if you need me, then.” Alfred sat.
Bruce picked slowly at his food. He had no appetite for it. He wished he could go to his room, but Alfred insisted they at least spend dinner together so he stayed put, reluctantly.
“Are you feeling better, Eddie?” Sister Margaret asked the next time she saw the boy. His hair was damp and stringy, and his glasses were clenched in his fist.
“Yes, Sister,” He lied. He flinched when she patted his shoulder, and shuffled into his room.
“Hey Ed-weird!” One of the boys he had to room with called out. He despised that nickname — it was so childish and had lost its charm after the first few months of hearing it — which was probably why the boys loved to call him that.
He turned to the kid, expressionless, far too tired to be angry. It was almost more frightening than if he were mad.
“Heard you got caught jacking it in the bathroom,” He grinned. Edward wanted to smack the smile right off him. Now, he was mad. He clenched his jaw. The three other boys in the room laughed.
“I was not.”
“Yeah you were, Lucas saw you!” Said another boy— freckled and ginger and small. Edward, in truth, had no idea who Lucas was. He had no desire to learn the names of the children here.
“I don’t —“
“Were you thinking about Bruce Wayne?” The first kid said. This earned a good laugh from all the kids in the room.
Edward was turning red in the face. He wanted to scream at them. Why would they mention Bruce — Bruce who he envied, hated!
“Why woul—“
“You think we haven’t seen your diaries?” A kid said — a ginger kid identical to the first. Since when were they twins? Edward wondered.
“What?” Edward shrieked once he processed what the boy said. He stood up. The red-headed brothers held up Edward's diary, taunting him.”
“You got a lot of secrets, Ed!” Cried one of the boys. Edward didn’t care which. It didn’t matter who said it.
“I’ll fucking kill you!” Edward screeched as blind white rage filled him. He crossed the room and yanked his diary out of the twin’s grubby hands. It tore in half through the struggle. Edward clutched it against his chest as if it were his dying child. Hot tears poured down his face. “I’m gonna,” he began, “I’m gonna kill every fucking one of you people. You’ll all burn in hell.” His voice was quiet and surprisingly even given his emotional state. He threw the diary on the floor and stormed out of the room.
“Where are your glasses?” A small girl asked Edward as he walked down the hall to the cafeteria. She was no older than ten, with piercing blue eyes and a cheery face. Edward wasn’t sure if he’d ever seen the girl before. Who was she to ask about his personal belongings? Even still, Edward responded as kindly as he could.
“I don’t know. Lost ‘em,” He said plainly.
“Oh.” She said and fell in step with him.
He didn’t say anything, just tried to ignore her as he walked the expanse of the long hallway.
“I’m Ally,” she said, and did a little skip.
“Cool.” Said Edward.
“You’re Edward, right?”
“Mhm.”
“People call you weird but I don’t think so! You’re just different,” She smiled wide.
Different. He’s heard that countless times. Just different.
“Okay.”
He left the hallway and let the double doors close on her.
The cafeteria was crowded. Edward waited in the lunch line with the other kids, heard a few whispers behind his back, refrained from smacking their trays down.
He knows he was just having a bad day yesterday. So maybe he overreacted. He meant what he said to those boys — wants them all dead, wants them to pay for their humiliating games.
Someone behind him tapped his shoulder. It was Lucas, the boy who’d seen him in the bathroom yesterday.
“I heard about your little outburst last night,” he said,
obnoxiously. “Wish I was there to see it. Bill told me Sister Josephine wanted to see you. Said she might get Mother Superior to give you your beating.”
Edward stared blankly at the ground as he listened to him.
“Okay, whatever.” Edward brushed off the boy's weak threat. Though he’d never been lashed by a nun, he doubted they would do much damage, and he doubted even more that Lucas was telling the truth.
“You don’t believe me?” Lucas antagonized.
“No. Should I?”
“You think after last night you won’t get in trouble? The whole building could hear you.”
“I’m glad they did,” said Edward, emboldened. “I hope you all know I meant every word I said.”
Lucas pushed Edward’s shoulder. “What, you think you’re gonna kill us?”
“Lucas! Hands to yourself!” The ugly lunch lady yelled.
The boys scooted up in line. Edward took his plate of mush — was it oatmeal? Corn porridge? He couldn’t tell.
“I’ll see to it that justice is served,” Edward whispered into the shorter boy's ear.
“What a freak.” Lucas said as Edward walked to sit down. The freak smiled ear to ear.
Bruce was up all night vomiting. He couldn’t shake the feeling that his conversation with Edward was part of the reason he wasn’t feeling well. He reasoned that Alfred might have fed him rotten food (by accident) and he’s gotten food poisoning, or maybe he got sick from one of the kids at church or some other social event he’s been to recently (though there were very few of those). He did not tell Alfred he was ill until Alfred caught him on his way to the toilet.
“I thought I heard some knocking around,” he stopped the boy, “what is the problem, Bruce?”
Bruce heaved. A splatter of vomit landed on the ground at the butler's feet.
“Oh,” Alfred led Bruce to the toilet. He rubbed his back as the boy wretched over the bowl.Alfred felt the boy’s forehead when the wave of nausea stopped. Sweat clung to the back of his hand.
“This is not good.”
Bruce shook his head.
“If you don’t feel better by tomorrow I will call a doctor for you.” Alfred reassured. Bruce tried to smile. Alfred laughed, “Don’t smile, you’ll expend too much energy.”
Bruce nodded against Alfred’s shoulder.
“Do you think you will vomit again?” Alfred asked.
“No,” Bruce said. His mouth was sticky with saliva, “but my stomach still hurts.”
“Maybe you should wait a while —“
“No, not like I’m gonna sick.”
Alfred waited.
“I feel scared,”
“Anxiety?” Alfred asked.
“I think so.”
“Hopefully some sleep will help.” Alfred said as he helped Bruce off the tile of the bathroom floor. Alfred helped Bruce clean up, brought him water and saltines, and gave him a change of clothes, for his pajamas were soaked with sweat.
“Do you want to shower?”
Bruce shook his head. “Thank you, Alfred.”
“You’re welcome, Master Bruce. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
The grandfather clock in the corner of Sister Josephine’s small office ticked incessantly. Edward picked at his thumbs. Sister Josephine watched him intently, waiting for him to talk first. Usually, he wouldn’t, but the nuns' stare is somehow more penetrating than his own.
“Is there a reason I am here, Sister?” He asked shyly. He squirmed in his seat.
“Now Edward, you know what you have done,” Sister Josephine said. Her skin sagged, and her general appearance was witch-like. A portrait of her younger self hung behind her desk. Shame. She used to be pretty, thought Edward. Sister Josephine was the oldest nun in the convent aside from Mother Superior. She was respected mostly because of her old age, not her leadership or ideals (which needed updating). Her neck sagged. Edward was thankful that the rest of her body was hidden by her habit.
“They stole my diary,” Edward confessed, “So I got upset.”
“Got upset…you yelled loud enough for all of Gotham City to hear it. And you swore!” her jowls flapped as she spoke. Edward held back a gag.
“I’m sorry, Sister.”
“Sorry won’t cut it this time, Mr. Nashton. You have been acting up too much lately,” Sister Josephine went to the corner of the stuffy office and pulled out a cane. “I’ll go easy on you for your first time.”
“Thank you, Sister.”
“Do not thank me. This is your punishment.”
Edward nodded.
“You will confess your threats to the priest for repentance at the next service. You are also barred from the choir until future notice. Do you understand, Nashton?”
“I understand, Sister.”
“Good. Drop your drawers and bend over the desk.”
Bruce woke, in a cold sweat, to Alfred’s gentle knocking. He wiped his forehead dry with the front of his nightshirt. Alfred brought in Bruce’s breakfast silently. The young boy’s face was so pallid, and his under eyes so dark, that any disturbance too loud or bright might have killed him.
“You don’t have to treat me so delicately,” Bruce bega, “I’m better now.” He sniffed.
“You don’t look much better,” Alfred set a lap tray over Bruce, followed by his light breakfast of plain yogurt and granola, “You don’t sound much better either.”
“I am.”
“Very well, then. Is there anything else you need, Master Bruce?”
Bruce hesitated, “Yes, actually.”
“I’m all ears.”
“Do,” Bruce swallowed down a cough, “do people hate me?”
“I’ve never met a soul who had a single unkind word to say about you,” Alfred said as he perched on the foot of Bruce’s bed. “What gave you the impression that you are hated?”
“It’s just how some kids treat me, I guess.”
Bruce hadn’t interacted with many people his age. All of the kids knew who he was, and when they talked to him they did so stiffly. Bruce was only ever met with pity; others were too intimidated to talk to him. Most children treated him kindly, however Edward was a rare exception
“Was that kid you were talking to — the one with the glasses— rude to you?”
“I don’t know. Kind of.”
“Well, what did he say?”
Bruce told him how the conversation went. Alfred shook his head.
“He is probably just worse off than you — whether mentally or physically. Surely, there is a reason that he is hostile towards you. It is no fault of your own.”
“How do you know it’s not my fault? What if I did something to him?”
“You’ve never even talked to him. I know you wouldn’t hurt a fly. Don’t be so tough on yourself.”
“Don’t be so tough on myself. Don’t be so tough on myself. Don’t be so tough on myself”, Bruce scribbled in his planner. Any advice from Alfred, or any other adult who he trusts (which are far and few between) is written down in his journal. He tries to memorize it, tries to take it to heart, but he never pulls through with it. I’m not tough on myself, thought Bruce, I only have high expectations. High expectations are good, right? Bruce turned off the radio and tucked his journal away.
He pulled his Bible out of his nightstand drawer and opened it to a random page. Studying the Bible has always been a foreign concept to him. He understood that he had to read it, but the pure length of the book intimidated him, and the thought of retaining any of the information within the pages pushed him away from it. Oftentimes, the words blurred together. He could see the next page's words through the thinness of the one he was on. What’s the point of trying when he wouldn’t comprehend a word? He opts for praying instead.
He also does not know how to pray. It seems he’d forgotten. Pulling at memories of praying before bedtime, Bruce tries to come up with something. There’s nothing he wants — no problems for God to fix. He supposed God isn’t there just to fix problems. What a shame people only call to Him when they want something resolved.
Bruce got off his knees. God wouldn’t hear his calls even if he had any — they’d be too menial, too unimportant. If he had to think hard of problems he needed help with, he could probably solve them without God’s invisible hand. Bruce picked up his Bible and threw it on the floor with a hard smack.
The pages splayed open and crumpled.
Regrettably in his room, all alone for many hours of the day, Bruce was bored. His old hobbies have become dull, his books have been paged through dozens of times — and frankly, the eye strain he gets from reading all day is not worth the small amount of entertainment it provides. He laid back on his bed and stared up at the ceiling.
Police sirens passed outside. Bruce looked down from the window into the street, and watched the car chase apathetically.
High chance they’ll actually catch the crook, thought Bruce.
Edward could not sit properly on the metal cafeteria benches at lunch the following few days. By Thursday, the bruises on his buttock had begun to yellow. He felt shamefully defiled as he sat down and felt the familiar ache, worsened by the cold, roughly textured seat.
“How many lashes did you get?” Asked a girl who he vaguely recognized. Her friends giggled behind her. Edward couldn’t fathom why a stranger would ask that. He was close to crying at the remark. Lashes! I had to get lashes because of some kid's perverted act!
“Thirty,” Edward confessed. He did not know why he admitted it to a stranger, but he simply could not lie. “Ten for swearing, ten for threatening my ‘brothers’, and ten for assault.”
“Oh,” the girl said, “ouch, that sucks.”
“No shit.”
“Anyway,” she looked back at her friends, “my friend —“
“Just don’t. I know what you’re going to say,” Edward sighed heavily. “‘My friend was wondering if you wanted to go out with her’”, he mocked the girl in a nasally tone.
The girl began to open her mouth.
“Just save it. We all know I’m impossible to find attractive; and unless you want me to get caned by Mother Superior herself, you should leave me alone.” He wasn’t sure if they caught his undertone of fuck with me and see what happens in his words.
“That’s not what I was going to say, actually.”
“Oh,” Edward was dumbfounded, “what, then?” His voice was softer now.
“My friend found your glasses in the hallway. She asked me to give them to you. They look like they’ve been kicked around a bit.”
“Figures,” He took the cracked glasses from her hand and slid them on his nose. “Why couldn’t your friend give them to me?”
“She’s a little…afraid of you.”
“Afraid of me? Really?”
“Well, she said ‘afraid’.You can be intimidating sometimes,” the girl laughed nervously.
Edward smiled pridefully, all of his little teeth showing. Voice rising in pitch, he said, “Intimidating — that’s new! I like that! Thank you, for my glasses. Now I can see!”
“Yeah… heh. Okay. Uhm… I’m gonna go now.” She edged carefully away from him. Edward’s mouth turned back into its normal pout; sad and small as usual.