Dick was the last to be adopted, Jason became the black sheep post-resurrection, Tim made himself Robin, Damian was dropped in Gotham after ten years of being kept secret, Cass possesses killer instincts that run counter to Batman's philosophy, Duke is a meta whose parents are still alive (albeit jokerized), and Steph has zero legal connections to the Waynes. All of the batkids have reason to believe they're the only one Bruce doesn't want around and Bruce is unaware of the problem because they don't vocalize it not just out of the usual emotional constipation, but also a deep-seated fear of being proven right. In this essay, I will—
𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐫𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐛𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐔, whose chest quakes, suppressing his sobs so as not to disturb the other passengers, is slumped in defeat with a limp bouquet of your favorite flowers slowly slipping out of his slackened grip. nose cherry red; snotty. hair tousled; knotty — half because of the final kisses he begged out of you, half because he tends to fist up his hair and pull at it when he's in emotional ruin like this.
he's sinking deeper into the seat, as if it's swallowing him very, very slowly.
the overhead handles rattling sounds like ridiculing laughter to him as he replays over and over and fucking over again every syllable of your rejection tonight.
eyes unfixed, he lets his weakened body shudder with the train — cold seeping through his much too thin moon-white shirt. his tie, which was so hopefully tied by suguru (who gave him a big pat on the back for goodluck), is now loosened.
the salty taste greeting the corners of his trembling lips reminds him that his tears haven't yet stopped.
the train goes on, station after station, and he never gets off because he just doesn't know where to go anymore — or rather, he doesn't really know where else to find home except in your arms; he's frequented them for many lonely, crazed nights, but now they've been clawed-shut.
missed call, missed call, missed call. his phone is on silent and suguru is worrying on the other side of the city because he didn't hear the story of how satoru's confession went, like promised.
"relax, suguru. they're probably just busy making out all gross-like how they always do." says shoko. suguru scrunches his face at his phone before lowering it. "yeah. maybe they've run away for the night, you know, how they usually do." he suggests, sharing a cigarette with her. "i've never been able to predict those two; a midnight marriage is possible. oh? well, look who's calling me." shoko raises her phone, your name showing on the caller ID. she answers. suguru's eyes widen, as he watches shoko shoot up from the bean bag she was draped over, her face dropping. "slow down, slow down, i can't make out what you're saying—"
—he lets out a violent sob, no longer able to compose himself. his fault for swiping through his phone's gallery of your photos. faces turn, in judgement and bewilderment, at the pale-faced boy who holds a trembling hand over his mouth to contain his noise.
"sorry, sorry." his voice cracks, apologizing to one particular elderly woman who's given him a horrified look.
in his head, he's scolding himself. what did you expect? tricked her one too many times, lied through your pretty teeth when she tried her best to trust you again.
what was it that you said? "satoru, you're too full of yourself to love."
it hurt because it was true.
still, why did it have to be like this, when it's the first time he's ever groveled? begged? cried? he's never been so violently affectionate, never ripped himself open so wide, spilling guts and organs, just to be left rotting away with his feelings on the sidewalk you abandoned him on.
love, love, love — it circles inside him with no place to go and drives him to fist up another bunch of his silky hair.
there, in the glossy window, he catches the reflection of that sickening, intolerable, uselessly handsome face — downturned and wrinkled, showing a glimpse of his rawest emotions, the ones that are usually as unseen as the dark side of the moon.
an ──── how i feel posting angst immediately after fluff: 💃 my deepest, queefiest apologies; this was all because of ONE joji song
missing in action. not killed, not gone, but missing. kyle once figured that dead was the worst thing someone could be—that nothing could compare to the finality of it. that was before you went missing. before he was forced to fly home without you there to hold his hand when he got to fretting about the turbulence, before he had to sleep in the bed you shared alone, wondering whether you were still breathing, or if he would ever see you again. he knows now that there are, in fact, things worse than death.
he would rather you be dead than missing. at least, then, there would be some closure. he wouldn’t have to wonder, to doubt, to hope. that, the hope, is the worst part. it renders kyle restless, half-mad, furious. how can he stop, take a break, enjoy a meal, breathe, when there’s an honest to god chance that you’re still out there, waiting for them, still alive, counting down the seconds until they come to save you? where there is hope, there is only agony.
“it’s been five months, boys. we’ve exhausted every effort, and we’ve found nothing. this can’t continue much longer.”
“what the fuck are you on about, laswell?” it’s johnny who snaps first, to no one’s surprise. his patience has always been a fragile thing, and even worse without you here to reign him in. nothing’s been the same without you. they’re falling apart at the seams. “we won’t just give up on them, we can’t!”
“we need more time, kate.” this is the closest to desperate that kyle’s ever seen john price. it’s unnerving, he thinks.
laswell sighs, her lips thinning, the shoddy camera doing very little to hide her weariness. she’s doing everything she can, to find you and to make sure you have something tangible to come home to. “i can give you another month, but that’s it. after that, we have to call it, john. it’s out of my hands.”
another month, and then it’s done. they’ll assume you dead, bury an empty casket, and expect them to go on with their lives. but they will never know the truth. they will never know what became of you, what happened on that op, how long you waited for them before you finally realized that they weren’t coming. one more month. thirty more days.
their search is relentless. they scour every corner of the earth, call on every friend and would-be ally. farah, alex, and their freedom fighters, los voqueros, even graves and his shadows. they find nothing. it’s like you’d vanished into thin air.
“i hope they’re dead.” simon admits one night, as the four of them sit in the common room, your spot, between johnny and kyle, left empty, as if you might reappear just to claim it. “i hope they died the second we lost contact. that’d be better than whatever’s been done to them.”
he’s right. they all know he’s right. six months is a long time to spend captive. god knows what you’ve been through, what’s left of you. you would be better off dead, and simon understands that better than the rest of them. he loves you enough to hope that you have not suffered.
that does not stop kyle from leaping out of his seat, his fist smashing into his lover’s nose with enough force to break it. he would’ve swung again, too, if the captain did not drag him off by the scruff of his neck.
he’ll feel terrible for it later. he’ll regret it, he’ll apologize, he’ll sob into simon’s arms and tell him that he loves him, and he’ll be forgiven. it’s not his fault, simon will say. they all miss you. they all wish to see you home. they’re all angry.
they get the call three days before their month is up. john pulls them out of training, corrals them into his office, where alejandro is on the phone.
“we might have something,” the colonel tells them. might. they don’t know if it’s you, they can’t be sure, but that same ring they were sent to dismantle when they lost you was reported to be operating outside of las almas. if you’re alive, that’s where they’ll find you.
might. if. so much is still left uncertain, but it’s more than they’ve had in six months. it’s hope.
the flight to the city of souls is agony. johnny holds his hand when the turbulence gets bad, as you’re not there to do it. they all know how he feels about heights. simon does not speak, but he takes his rifle apart six times, plotting, hoping, dreading. john spends most of their trip in the cockpit with nikolai, burdening his old friend with the worries he’s unwilling to admit to them.
when they land, nikolai tells them to bring you home. he’ll be waiting. the words ‘i promise’ sit on the tip of kyle’s gun like a bullet waiting to be spit, but he doesn’t dare speak them aloud. he won’t risk jinking it. not now, when they’re so close that he can almost fucking taste you. what he wouldn’t give to taste your lips again, to hold you in his arms.
this is it, he knows. either they find you, or go home empty handed to bury an equally as empty coffin.
“you have permission to kill hostiles on sight. no stone left unturned.” alejandro might not love you like they do, but he’s determined to find you all the same. kyle remembers the first time you encountered him, while hunting hassan, you said there was no one you’d rather have at your six. you called him a good friend, and an even worse enemy. you always had a way of sniffing people out.
no stone left unturned. they search every damnable inch of the base, leave a trail of bodies in their wake, not caring what they find if it isn’t you. the first floor’s disappointing, as is the second, and he’s starting to lose hope by the time they clear the third.
maybe it’s for the best. maybe they’ve been chasing a ghost all these months. perhaps missing does mean gone. at least you aren’t in pain.
he sees johnny’s lip quiver as he reports back to the captain, his voice cracking. “they ain’t here. there’s nothin’ here.”
“i found them!” rudy corrects, breathless. “get down to the basement now!”
kyle’s never run so fast in his life. he doesn’t even check to see if the coast is clear, if johnny’s behind him, he can’t hear anything over the ringing in his ears. he found you. you’re alive. they have not lost you.
simon beats him to you, somehow. by the time kyle stumbles into the decrepit cell you’ve been locked in for god knows how long, he’s right there, kneeling before you, your battered face in his hands as you sob dryly into his bare palms.
death’s not the worst of fates. and neither, it seems, is missing. this is worse.
you look like a corpse. not a single nail left on your hands or your feet, and he thinks he could count your ribs through your flesh. whatever’s been done to you, death would’ve been kinder. the difference is mere permanence. this is reversible. death isn’t.
perhaps you wish you were dead. maybe kyle is selfish for being glad that you’re not.
but once you recognize him, when you reach for him with fingers that have been broken and bent beyond repair, he smiles for the first time in six months.
you’re covered in dried blood and filth, and kyle doesn’t care, not one fucking bit, not when he takes you in his arms and you cling to him as if he’s your lifeline. rudy’s calling for medics, simon’s warning him not to hurt you anymore than you already are, though he’s holding just as tight. johnny and price are there too suddenly, grabbing at any part of you that they can reach.
the music coming from inside was faint now, muffled by the old stone walls. inside, your husband — the term felt strange and tender — was amidst the crowd being tugged into dancing with different children, whose hands were, no doubt, sticky with wedding cake. your eyes shift over to his friends, who were capturing everything before you with disposable cameras to their heart's content.
you had slipped outside quietly, for only a second.
it had been a long day and god, you could do with a cigarette, if only so you had something to do with your twitching hands. but you had quit a while back now, for the sake of your husband but mostly, your own as your husband likes to remind you.
you leaned against the railing and closed your eyes.
“you always run from parties.”
your body went still.
when you turned, gojo stood in front of you. now, you would rub your eyes comically if you could. this was not a sight you were used to seeing anywhere.
he stood against the stone railing, in a black suit, no tie, and the collar open at the throat. his white hair disordered and tangled in strong wind. the years had sharpened him strangely.
for one sickening second, you were twenty again.
“satoru.”
“wow,” he murmured, his gaze moved over you slowly, almost in reverence and wonder. “you're actually married.”
you folded your arms tightly, fingers disappearing into your silk sleeves. “i didn’t invite you.”
a smile flashed on his mouth then.
“no,” he said. “i noticed.”
“well, who invites an ex to their wedding?”
“didn't know we broke up," he said, a lilt of humour to his tone.
and he would be excruciatingly, exquisitely right. you weren't exes exactly. exes had anniversaries and friends who picked sides after a break up. you two didn't have a break up. you two had none of these things.
satoru walked up the stairs a little, to take a glance through the windows. inside, your husband was laughing as one of the children clung to his arm triumphantly.
“he seems normal,” he said.
you snorted softly despite yourself. “that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said about someone i dated. and he is.”
"sorry i'm late," he says. "i had to pick out a gift."
“a gift?”
“what?” he tilted his head innocently. “i can’t support your terrible life decisions?”
you narrowed your eyes. “so, where is my gift then?”
"right here," his finger pointed lazily toward himself.
you tilt your head, crossing your arm with a frown. of course.
for a brief second your mind flits through images of him, in different shades and different lightings. always young.
conjuring up an image of the boy who used to would buy and eat dessert from the same fork with you after bloodstained missions. at the boy who you shared rows on planes neither of you remembered boarding. at the man who kissed you in hotel elevators at three in the morning.
inside, the music changed, shifting into something slower.
i’ll be your dream, i’ll be your wish, i’ll be your fantasy…
the melody spilled through the open terrace as someone turned the volume up.
“will you dance with me?” he asked.
you looked at him for a long moment.
“isn’t that horribly inappropriate?" you asked, almost genuinely.
“it’s only a dance.” he was watching you carefully now. not hint of humour. just waiting.
you should say no, you think. instead, you say. “one song.”
his hand unfolded, now open toward you.
in return, you enclosed your palms in his.
he led you farther down the garden, a little closer to the music, but somehow away from the eyes inside.
gravel crunched beneath his shoes. somewhere nearby, you briefly noticed a bright jasmine blooming so richly against the green.
satoru danced beautifully, effortlessly, and infuriatingly so. as he did most things.
you let him guide you to the music. his body did all the work while you followed his movements with each spin, as your arms now encircled around his neck.
“you were always terrible at this,” he murmured.
you conjure another faint memory of your old cramped apartment after a mission that left all of you downtrodden in spirit. shoko was half asleep on the couch. suguru laughing into his drink. nanami had left right after the mission was over.
dancing that night was his idea of evading the sadness that had started to fill up the room. he had started with shoko, flailing her around the room before she grew tired, and then geto, followed by you.
you, who had scarcely danced before. satoru grabbed onto your wrist and spun you around recklessly through the quaint living room while jazz crackled from the old speaker you've now sold on ebay. you stepped on his feet over and over while he merely grinned back in response.
"must you be mean to me on my wedding night," you chided.
“no.” his mouth brushed near your temple when he spoke. “i’m just wondering how the first dance went.”
"you should've showed up on time then."
“showing up unannounced to your wedding,” he mused, “would be too much even for me.”
"you're here now."
“yes.” his hands settled at your waist, warm even through the silk. “if i’d come earlier, you might’ve left him for me.”
"ha." your laugh came too quickly. “never.”
drawing you closer to him, you rested your cheek against his chest. gojo's hands slid down over slowly to rest against the slope of your waist now.
"you cut your hair." his voice reverberating through his chest as he spoke.
“about a year ago,” you hummed.
"it suits you." he said. "it's nice."
his hand stays warm against your waist as the two of you sway slowly beneath the terrace lights. somewhere inside, someone whistles loudly enough to be heard through the open doors. laughter ensues.
“you know,” he said eventually, “when suguru told me you were getting married, i thought he was joking.”
“everyone seems deeply shocked i’m capable of commitment.”
“no.” he paused. “i just never pictured you with someone else.”
you swallowed slowly. “you told me once you’d never get married.”
you remembered the scene too vividly.
rain against enormous hotel windows.
“i remember,” he replied.
white sheets tangled around your bare limbs, he lay beside you in some expensive hotel bed.
i’m never getting married.
at twenty-three, you had felt this had little to do with you, and everything to do with the future woman that fell for him. and so, you had laughed on his warm chest and fell asleep moments later.
by twenty-seven, you realised he meant it.
“you really meant it," you said.
“i did.”
“and now?”
you were not certain what you wanted to hear. you were not certain what answer would wound you least. whether you wanted him to say yes, he would marry you now, or no, never you, never anyone.
if anything had changed. if nothing had.
but satoru only looked at you with that a sense of clarity and honesty he reserved for when things were ending and real. “i was never going to get married.”
your fingers curled slightly against the back of his neck.
the song neared its end. you could feel its death approaching in the languid sway of his body.
"hey," you said, stepping back, finally detaching from him for what you could only hope was the last time.
he hummed in response, expectantly.
“i’ll send you an invitation to the baby shower.”
"how kind of you," he said with a smile. "i'll see you then."
“and for god’s sake,” you added weakly, feeling your throat closing in now. “you’re rich. you better show up with a better gift.”
his smile widened then, bright, but something only vaguely akin to the boy you used to know.
