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There’s always smoke, in Jason’s lungs. He can feel it searing, burning him away from the inside out, as he opens his mouth to scream, and yet all that comes out is silence- all that is inhaled is the burn of flame . He’s drowning in it, can feel it crackling over his broken body, seeping into cuts and lighting up his veins. If he could move, he might run- if he could think, he might close his mouth.
But the problem is, in his nightmares, Jason can never think. He can only be .
He sat up with a start, gasping in a breath and looking around the dark room. The shadows in the corners of his vision seemed to move, seep out like ink along walls and floors that Jason used to adore.
Now, staying in his childhood room at the Manor felt like he was mocking his borrowed time.
He reached his hands up, pushed the heels of his palms into his eyes, until he saw sparks, before he raked his hands back, through his hair. It never failed, when he was the most exhausted, that he always fell into those nightmares. Those last moments that he shouldn’t have remembered.
Jason tore his blanket off, climbing out of the bed. He stalked towards his old desk, fished around in his jacket for his cigarettes and a lighter, before grabbing his button down and heading for the door. He headed through the somber halls, down the large staircase and through the Manor, heading for the back porch. It was late enough- or early enough - that everyone was asleep, tucked away for at least a few hours of rest.
Jason headed towards the ledge, draped his shirt over it and plucked out a cigarette. He held it between his lips, worked his lighter to life, and realized his hands were shaking- so badly that he couldn’t get the flame to catch. “Motherfucker,” he mumbled around the cigarette, pausing to inhale through his nose, trying to steady them just enough. He flicked the lighter again, and after another few cursed attempts the flame took. Jason inhaled deeply, setting the lighter on the railing as he plucked the cigarette away, exhaled, before pushing it back between his lips.
It was dangling there, as he tossed his button down on, when the back door opened. He heard it but didn’t turn around, simply listened to the sound of still bare feet on the smooth-wood patio.
A moment later, and Damian was suddenly standing next to him, folding his arms and staring out at the manor grounds, just like Jason was.
“What’re you doin’ up?” Jason mumbled around his cigarette, before pulling it away to exhale. Damian said nothing, and Jason rolled his eyes, choosing to keep staring at the tree line, in the distance. Trying to see if he could make out the spaces between them, or if they were simply a blur.
His cigarette was half gone, when Damian finally said, “I heard you.”
“Heard me what?” Jason asked, holding his cigarette out after he ashed it, watching the smoke waft up. The same shit that seared his lungs and made him want to wake up screaming, and here he was welcoming it inside him.
What a world.
“Leave your room.”
“Yeah? Bet I didn’t wake ya up, kid. I’m not that loud.” Jason glanced at Damian, before arching a brow, offering up the cigarette. Damian looked at it, before he frowned, unfolded his arms and took it, holding it to his lips and inhaling-
Far too deeply.
Damian nearly dropped it, coughing, and Jason shook his head, taking it from him and placing a hand against Damian’s bare back, rubbing along his spine. The heavy scar there felt strange, beneath his palm. But a good sort of strange.
“Nice try,” Jason offered, “trying to act cool . Next time just say no.” Damian glanced up at him, sucked in a breath and managed to steady himself- but Jason kept his hand on his back. “You’re gonna catch a cold without a shirt , babybat.”
“I run hot,” Damian said, folding his arms again. Jason took another drag on the cigarette, before he tossed it away.
And Jason might not ever fathom what made him push, but, “Even after the whole, you know, dying thing?” Damian’s eyes jerked up, and Jason wasn’t exactly sure what he saw there, but-
“-tt- Yes.”
Jason pulled his hand away. “Lucky,” he mumbled, folding his arms, leaning against the railing. “Sometimes I feel like I’ll never be warm again.”
Damian leaned against the railing himself, and for a moment, there was nothing at all. And then, in a tone that could only be tentative , even though Jason couldn’t believe that was a word ever used to describe Damian- “You had a nightmare.”
Not a question. A statement.
“Right-o,” Jason offered, sighing. “They happen. Usually when I’m bone-tired. Either nightmares or I sleep like I’m dead- sometimes I dunno what’s worse.” Jason lifted one hand, flexed it- had the strange desire to touch every patch of skin he had. Trace all his scars, hunt down every ghost of a freckle. Make sure everything was still in place.
Nightmares always made him think something had been forgotten , when he came back. And he always wished it could be as simply as one missing scar, one lone freckle gone- and not a part of him.
“How’d you know?” Jason asked, and Damian shrugged a shoulder.
“They come to me, when I’m exhausted,” he admitted, “I saw how tired you were tonight. I thought you might have the same problem.” He didn’t look at Jason, continued to look out at the land. “I made sure to only allow myself light sleep.”
Jason tense, glanced over at the youngest. Damian still wasn’t looking at him- had his mouth settled in a firm line. But those eyes, those jade eyes that screamed of Talia and brought back a maelstrom of memories for Jason- they weren’t there, weren’t seeing . Whatever Damian was truly studying, it was inside that head of his.
“What do you dream of?” Damian asked, and Jason- he didn’t talk about this, after all these years, but…
“Smoke.” He dropped his head, closed his eyes for a moment. “Feeling it sear my lungs, burn me from the inside, out. Fire, but it’s creeping inside me more than burning me. And I can’t move, I can never move. I can’t even think to move. Like my brain’s already gone, and my body is just feeding me terror.”
Jason fought down a shudder, wanted to light up another cigarette. Some nights, when the nightmares shook him enough, he’d chain smoke until he couldn’t breathe, until he was living them- until the taste in his mouth made him want to vomit. In a way the actual torture of it helped to make him forget the memories, replace them with something current -
Something he could do a thing or two about.
Damian nodded, began playing his fingers along the wood railing. “I’m always pierced,” he offered, without prompt. “From the inside out. I can feel them working inside me, churning and clanking and cranking into place, until they slot through my ribs. Swear I feel them spear open every pore. And the big one, it slowly drags down- splits me in two.”
Jason turned, watched Damian as those eyes refused to look up.
“I’m always smiling.”
Jason licked his lips, before he dared to reach over, carefully let his fingers cover Damian’s, stilling where they wanted to pick at the wood. Damian paused, glanced up.
“How do you handle them?”
“Distraction,” Damian admitted. “Would it not wake everyone, I would pick up my violin. Sometimes I try to sketch- but I find that hard after the nightmares. The violin would be easier. Sometimes I simply wonder. I cannot move either, in the nightmares, so it is nice to remind myself that I can .” Jason nodded, idly stroked his fingers up along Damian’s knuckles. His skin was so warm, and Jason was just in awe that he really did still run hot.
There were times that Jason couldn’t shake the chill from his bones.
“What do you do?”
“Chain smoke,” Jason admitted with a bitter laugh. “Nothing like putting the smoke I wanted to scream about into my body myself . Sometimes I just stare off into space. Like I want to exist in nothing . Burnt my fingers enough because I lost track of time and my cigarettes damn near burned out.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Weird, but I sort of want to touch myself.” Damian quirked a brow, and Jason rolled his eyes. “Not like that . I mean… just making sure everything is still there. Sometimes it feels like something was left behind- and it’d almost be nice to think one of my freckles disappeared, and that’s all it is.”
Damian nodded, glancing down at their hands. Jason turned, looked back out at the yard- was contemplating a second cigarette, when Damian pulled his hand away and pushed off the railing. He turned, reached out- and suddenly there were fingertips on Jason’s collarbone, pushing under his open shirt.
“What are you doing?” Jason asked, turning and studying Damian, who… he couldn’t read. Those eyes seemed so focused , but closed off. Walled up.
“Face me,” Damian said, and it wasn’t an answer , but Jason could almost forget the question. Damian’s fingertips were warm- and it felt easy, to turn around, stand there and let him trace the curve of the bone, beneath his shirt, out towards his shoulder. He dipped down, skimming down Jason’s side beneath the fabric, pausing each time he found a scar. His other hand reached out, pressed fingertips to the center of Jason’s chest, sliding down slowly.
Jason stared down, watched the hand slid over muscle, move out towards his waist- and then both of Damian’s hands were squeezing gently, warm and solid and… and-
“Should I count the freckles?” Damian asked, pushing up on his toes to study the few that ghosts Jason’s nose, his cheeks. “Would you know if one was missing?”
Jason didn’t have an answer. He wouldn’t know, was the thing, but-
He caught Damian’s mouth moving, and he was counting to himself. “Damian,” he whispered, and suddenly those hands were lifting, cupping his face, thumbs rubbing his cheeks.
“If one is missing,” Damian offered, “I would never know. None of us can see you as missing anything, Todd. You are as we have known you, all these years. You are whole.”
Jason stared, reached up and got his hands around Damian’s wrists- but didn’t pull away.
“If it will help,” Damian continued, lashes lowering, as if he was trying to hide those pretty eyes. “I will stay up the rest of the night with you. Show me your scars. Reminds yourself they are all here- and you are here, despite them.”
Jason squeezed, wanted to pull Damian in, wanted the warmth he thought he could promise him. If he had to die by fire, he’d like it to be one of his own making. Choosing.
For a moment, Jason thought he could choose this. “Careful babybat,” he mumbled, “you’re getting awfully sweet on me.”
“You understand what no one else here can ,” Damian pointed out, “you are a gateway to things, Todd. To recovery. You’re the opposite of loneliness. To say I’m getting sweet on you… is to be a bit late.”
Damian leaned in, pushed himself up- and the kiss he gave Jason was soft, was quick. The barest of movements, and then he was pulling back, breaking the contact.
“Show me you’re whole,” Damian offered, “and when the time comes, remind me that I am.”
Jason swallowed, dragged his teeth over his lip. If there was anyone, anyone , who could understand his nightmares, the constant agony that could rear it’s head, the dread that writhed in his belly-
It had to be Damian.
And what did he have to lose?