Chapter Text
He was drowning.
Damian was drowning and no one could save him.
Only a few weeks after the black ink started to appear, did Damian attempt to purge it from his bloodstream. Out from under his skin and in his mind. Plaguing his every waking thought.
It offered only temporary relief, but the distraction was welcome, and the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of crimson liquid became almost comforting.
How ironic.
. . .
Damian toyed with the edge of the bandage as it poked out from under his sleeve.
Usually Damian wouldn’t allow such recklessness, especially when it came to the evidence of his weakness. Of him allowing his fraying mind to affect his choices. This. . . this crack in his facade. In his mind.
But it didn’t matter right now, did it? Or, it wouldn't very soon—
If Damian were being honest with himself, though, it stopped mattering a long time ago—From the moment he held a blade to his wrist, in between his thighs, In places no one else would see.
He turned the weapon—his weapon—his very own weapon, meant to ward away foes—in on himself.
He had become his own enemy.
It had gotten so out of hand that his organised mind—the one he prided himself on—was falling apart. The careful control he had on himself was slipping, and it allowed for thick, dark, suffocating liquid to seep in and fill in the cracks. Turning his thoughts into a scattered mess.
Though, despite his mind being consumed with the black ink, he still had enough sense left to realise this wasn’t really the end.
If it were, he wouldn’t be stalling so calculatedly.
He wouldn't be standing here, allowing his heart rate to speed up as he waited.
Heck, he would’ve even chosen a different way to do things. Damian was smart—he knew that—it was required of him. And he was—he could plan everything and anything out with no problem—but he was so tired. He was tired of being ‘smart’ and stoic not for his sake—but for everyone else’s.
He was tired of feeling tired.
He teetered on the edge of rooftop, despite already having made up his mind long before this moment.
The chill in the air was welcome, and he leaned into the wind whipping past his face.
But he was still waiting.
Far below him, the city was loud with the sound of traffic. the blinding lights that might as well have been coming from everywhere all at once suffocated the stars and left the sky inky black. It made Damian’s stomach churn.
But he didn’t take the last step, yet.
He bathed in the feeling of freezing air entering his lungs, trying to avoid focusing on the pitch black that swallowed everything above him and everything in his mind.
He stopped fidgeting with the bandage once he spotted a smudge in the horizon. The silhouette seemed to be flying towards him at an alarming speed.
Damian sucked in a final breath as he stepped over the edge, plummeting down the building’s side as the world around him blurred.
The sound of wind whipping past him roared in his ears as he fell.
He felt numb to the sensations surrounding him. Numb to the world.
It felt as if the floor had been swept up from under him, and in a way, it had been—Only, it was his own doing.
He chose to leave the safety of solid ground by plunging down an eternal ridge—because of him doing so, solid ground became as dangerous as his thoughts. Quickly closing in on him amidst the blur of the outer world.
Closing his eyes, holding his breath, letting dark liquid suffocate him, Damian waited.
His chest convulsed as his momentum was suddenly broken, the non existent air was forced from his lungs, leaving him winded. The burn forced its way up his windpipe as he desperately heaved for air that wasn’t coming.
Strong, firm, comforting arms enveloped him.
Damian choked on nothing as he frantically clawed for them. Curling in on himself and into a strong body while suspended in mid air.
Wet, hot, angry tears flooded his face soon after. He squeezed them shut but it was too late to stop the stream erupting from his eyes.
He sobbed and gasped and gagged dryly into the embrace.
“Jon,” he choked “Jon, please, dont let me go—“
He felt himself trembling in the arms of the other boy. It felt weird. Tears staining his cheeks—weak, pathetic noises coming out of his mouth.
And yet the strangest thing was, he didn't care.
“Damian,” Jon responded. Damian could tell that he was trying to keep a brave face for his sake, but the slight waver in his voice gave him away. “Why?” He asked. The answer was obvious, but he still asked. He still asked—like he was desperately hoping for a different one.
Damian didn't respond.
Jon didn’t ask again.
“Lets go home,” he said instead, holding Damian tighter.
Damian immediately tensed, black ink crawling up his throat in a sickening wave of nausea. Panic made his chest restrict.
“Please!” He choked, clawing at Jonathan’s chest in desperation. “No, no, we can’t—don't take me back there—don’t—don’t tell anyone—“
Jon looked frightened. Though not of Damian, it seemed, but for him.
“Please—“ Damian started, but a strangled sob escaped him instead.
It felt so strange. It felt as if he wasn't himself.
Who was he? He didn’t remember. He didn’t remember how he used to cope before the black ink swallowed him whole, his carefully crafted control shattered within seconds of the all consuming flood.
“Breathe,” Jon said, voice unsteady. “I meant back to the farm. Can i take you there?”
Damian nodded. Burying himself into the other boy as he trembled.
“Yes. Please. Let’s go.”
Jon exhaled a shaky breath and turned back around.
Damian could feel Jon carrying him. He felt it as they picked up speed and manoeuvred around the city to get back to metropolis.
Damian had purposefully chosen the place closest to it but still in Gotham itself.
Damian let the long flight and the fading city lights lull him into a state of sleep, if you could call it that.
He wasnt looking forward to waking up.