Chapter Text
Jon can't breathe.
He’s trying so hard to scream, to cry out for help, but it’s no use. His body is begging for oxygen, doing anything it can to say hey, hi, hello, we need air- but there’s nothing he can do about it. His lungs are burning him alive from the inside, searing through his chest like a brutal stab of kryptonite. He can’t hear. He can't scream. He can't breathe.
He's dying.
It must be death. It has to be. He's never felt anything like this before. How could it have happened so fast? He was just walking behind Damian, but now- now-
Jon’s chest is on fire, and his nails are scratching and digging through whatever is underneath him but it’s no use. The cave he must have fallen into is too deep, too dark. There isn't an ounce of light anywhere. There's no one else nearby, not a single living being for miles. No noises of lungs expanding in and out, hearts beating their usual thump-thump-thumps, or even animals scurrying around through grass.
So where was he? Wherever it was, it felt impossible to breathe here. Fuck, was he still alive? Could he still feel?
Panicking, Jon hugs himself tightly, using all his strength to dig his fingernails into the flesh of his arms and dragging them down his skin. The only thing he should be able to feel, really, is a sense of pressure, somewhat like scratching an itch. It's all he's been capable of doing to himself, with the perks of invulnerability and all.
So why the fuck did it feel as though his skin was tearing open, and why did it sting like he was burning alive? What was happening!? Wherever he is, he’s going to die here. Die without-
Damian.
Oh no. His ma, his pa, his family, his friends- and Damian.
Will Damian be okay? The blast didn’t hurt him, did it? Oh god, Jon remembers now, it was that sickening shade of neon green- it had to be kryptonite. But where the heck did it send him? It couldn't be earth, could it? No- it's way too quiet. Deadly quiet. The quiet was driving him crazy. Oh, no no no- will anyone manage to find Jon when he dies?
Someone needs to realize that he's trying, he's trying, he's trying to fight and scream and run and breathe but he can't. He wishes he had something to give, wishes he could burst into a ball of flame and explode because they can't think he died not trying his best. He swore he'd be strong, he swore he'd work hard, he- he swore he'd be a good Superboy, and one day, be Superman, he-
-Rao, please, somebody help him.
Jon's shoulders feel heavy, too heavy to hold. He's never felt anything like it- and it forces his limbs to turn into noodles and tumble downwards without a fight. He sinks into some sort of ground as he shakes, body twitching as his face lands into the soil beneath him.
He clings onto it for dear life.
It hurts, but Jon pulls a hand up and manages to punch at his own chest, because it's fucking burning and he wants it to go away. He tries to breathe, tries so hard to breathe. There's a muddy taste on his lips now, and it should be the least of his concerns, but he's afraid he might be choking on it. And then suddenly-
Someone's touching him.
He’d be certain he screamed if he had a voice, screaming at the monster to get away. There's a cold grip at Jon's shoulder, almost a little hesitant, before it tugs at him like it wants to pull him apart. Jon's body moves like a puppet hung from strings, flipping over like a fish. He’s never felt so weak. He's never been so helpless.
His head is spinning, and he can't tell what way is right side up- but the dirt and pebbles on the back of his head are almost comfortable, and as Jon lays there, he continues slamming his fist into his own chest in some hope of relief from the simmering pain within him.
He's dying. He's dying.
The night sky is pitch black, without a single star to guide him home. Jon vaguely wonders if he got sent to space or something, teleported somewhere where even a Kryptonian couldn't survive. He hopes Damian wasn’t caught in any sort of blast. Dami needs to be okay. He needs to be.
Jon has never realized he's been so afraid of dying.
He's lived the better half of his life as a superhero, so of course, he's always been afraid of death. Death was the one thing that always managed to slip through the cracks and seep into victims stories, catching innocent people off their guard right before he got to them. It was scary. Death was scary.
But now, Jon was the one dying. And he can't just die when there’s so much more he wanted to do. He can't. He hasn't even gotten to finish a semester of college, or managed to perfect any of the Kent family recipes, or gone on that road trip that Kon swore would change his life. He hasn't even gotten to tell Damian that he loved him- fuck, why didn't Jon ever tell him he loved him!?
Now, he feels something sliding around his body- and it takes Jon a second to stop his thrashing and realize someone is holding him.
The touch isn't the same cold grip it was at first. This someone is different. It's someone who has skin, and feels warm and alive, but with no trail of a heartbeat he can hear. There aren’t even any sounds of any rustling or movement. So... maybe it's another type of alien that can help him go home, or someone that can free him from this pain.
Or maybe he's already dead, and this is some sort of ghost ripping him away from the world.
He doesn't realize how horribly he's shaking until a hand, warm and steady, holds his clenched fist. Jon grips it back tightly, with all the strength he can muster up, horrified at the thought of it disappearing if he lets go. Maybe this person understands that it burns- maybe they can help him.
The hand Jon's holding feels strong and slim. It keeps him from hitting himself, and Jon can feel his throat straining from pain as he tries to sob. Whoever’s holding him lays their palm flat, guiding Jon’s hand to his own chest again. This time, far more gently than Jon was originally doing, forcing him to feel his heart instead of punching at it.
So Jon feels his chest. He can feel it moving up and down at a crazy, uneven pace, and.. oh. His face screws up tight, realization hitting him over the head once more.
He was breathing. He was just breathing very, very badly.
Right. Of course.
"Please," he tries to choke out, but he still can't make any noise. All he can do is taste the dirt on his lips as he tries to sound out vowels because he’s frantic and scared and can’t think straight because this has never happened before. He's never been lost in a world so dark. The world has never been so quiet.
"Please, help, please, I-I'm scared," he tries, but his voice is lost to the void.
The arms around him pull him in closer, and the slim hand at his chest pats him almost a little impatiently. Almost as if to remind him to control his breathing.
In, hold, out. In, hold, out.
Now that he’s being held closer and more securely in this person’s grasp, Jon can feel a sleek sort of fabric on his cheek. It’s some type of smooth cape or cloak, and something about its scent tickles at his nose. He leans into the texture, arms moving to wrap around the lean body.
He can't die like this. He needs to survive. He needs to find-
Damian.
Suddenly, Jon breaths in the fabric. It smells fresh and clean and far too expensive, like the manor he always found himself sneaking into as a kid. There’s a hint of sweat, making Jon realize for certain that this person with no heartbeat has to be some sort of alive. And yet, most importantly of all, the smell has an achingly familiar trace of a warm, spiced campfire. Something ripped straight out of his childhood.
It was dull and faded in comparison to what he was used to, but it was enough. It was the scent of his best friend, the boy he grew up with, the one he was in love with.
"Damian," he cried in realization. His hands scrambled everywhere they could, searching the other’s body to make sure it matched with what should be Damian's uniform. His fingers desperately dangled in the cape that hung over the other’s shoulders, palms running across the buckles of his suit and moving farther up until they reached the spikey strands of his hair. Jon practically mapped him out with his hands, uncaring of what he might look like or who might be watching, doing everything to make sure it was him.
"Damian," he tried so hard to beg, wishing everything would go back to normal. His hand was pressed onto the side of Damian's face, feeling for his mask. "Damian, are you okay? Where are we? I can't- I can't see you," he tried to explain, "Say something. Are you okay? I can't-"
Jon flinched when he didn’t mean to. That gentle, warm hand was now cupping his cheek. A thumb lingered over his lips- the most sweet, respectful way Damian’s ever shushed him. And with his own hands still on Damian's face, he can feel a warm pair of lips moving underneath the side of his thumb.
It slowly starts to sink in, the chill gnawing deep into his bones.
Damian seems unfazed. He was holding him close without any sort of tremble, assuring him with a steady grip, even soothing him with the way he ran a hand up and down Jon's side. Damian had found Jon through the darkness, had followed the sounds of his screams. And yet, had also touched and held him like he could see, his hands easily sliding right where they belonged, unlike Jon’s frantic, blind grips on him that constantly missed the mark intended. Which meant that Damian…
…Damian was here, and Damian was okay. He was probably completely fine. Because they weren't tossed into some dark cave with no way out, or teleported into space without anywhere to go. Damian was comforting him because he, himself, was fine.
It was Jon who couldn't hear or see anything anymore.
He gasped. He gasped and gasped and gasped because it was the kryptonite, it was him, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t hear, he couldn't breathe, oh god, he couldn't breathe, please, Dami, oh Rao, he couldn't do this- he couldn’t-
There was a sharp prick to his neck.
“...Ow.” He blurted, feeling his mouth round out into an o.
Huh. He couldn’t remember the last time something managed to prick him. It was an unusual sensation. What was Damian doing? It almost… it almost felt like everything was… slowing down…
Jon’s head suddenly weighed like lead, body slumping weakly and tilting onto his side, leaning into more of Damian’s warmth. That was fine. He liked that.
“Don’t let go,” Jon whispered.
He can tell that he's fading, flickering out of consciousness. But everything is already pitch black, and there's nothing else to lose himself to. Nothing but the feeling of Damian holding him in his arms.
So maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.