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The air felt like waves running over his body; heat rose up from the dark concrete, and Damian pulled dazedly at his shirt, trying to unstick the sweat that had started to pool on his shirt. He didn't know where it all came from; looking around, his brothers looked fine. But it felt like he couldn't breathe, and he asked why the hell in any name under the sun, why did they have to have the conference outside and in the sun? He beat ragedly, trying to loosen his collar to let his airways have more air, but it wasn't helping.
If it weren't for the fact that Father had yet to speak, he would have just left. It didn't matter about trying to stay in character. They already knew that Damian was insane and that he was an odd character. No one liked him, and Damian would tell himself that he didn't care. Who cared about random people who knew nothing of his skills?
He wanted to go and sit down, but the world refused to stop spinning, and Damian felt his irritation growing larger. The world would always spin, but why did he have to register it? He wasn't Pathetci and wouldn't reach for something to balance on to try and get rid of the nausea in his mind as it whirled around him like waves.
Damian blinked hazily as he watched his father go up onto the stage. He turned to Drake, a slight worry creeping into him, and it didn't make sense. His mind felt fuzzy, and he was not meant to have a fuzy mind. Or there was something else that was telling him that there was something off. "Drake. Tim looked over at him, puzzlement covering his eyes. "Is-" Damian couldn't seem to get his words out. "Is the world spinning, or is it just me?" Damian felt like his tongue lay heavy on his lips and wondered what bits of his speech were actually there or what he imagined saying.
Drake's lips were moving, and Damian wondered if Drake, too, was imagining speaking without actually speaking. Generally, he would have thought Drake to be smarter than that. So it brought more questions into his mind. specifically why he didn't seem to want to get Drake's arm off of his. Or why there was a hand on his forehead. Increased movement in his lips
Then Damian wondered if the sky had always been that bright.
When had he started to look at the sky?
He let that question linger in his mind as he felt strong arms pick him up, almost running as the sky vanished into a shade that felt like blackness. A soft and firm hand covered his forehead, and then it was replaced by cold, and more cold.
It burned against his skin, and a whimper left Damian's lip. So untoward of him, but the heat was too much; it hurt, and there were so many people talking. Damian didn't know what they wanted, but he couldn't offer it. He couldn't even hear their words—a complete mess of murmurs that made no sense. His name was called, but his eyes slipped shut before he could realise if it was for him or if it was just someone talking about him.
It would be rather rude of them to be talking about him without telling him what they were actually talking about. Even he had the sense to know that you never talked about someone behind their back while in front of their face. But he seemed to think that if he couldn't breathe, it didn't matter.
He didn't understand why they would put the ice under his armpits. He wanted to pull away; the cold burned, a sensation almost too similar to how the heat had taken over his entire body. A hand continued its course around his ears, and Damian found it strange that he was dizzy, even while he was lying down. Even while he was wrapped up in the cold, his mind whirled in confusion.
There were more voices, and he could see Grayson above him, almost pleating with his lips. But Damian couldn't understand the words that he was saying. Grayson wouldn't have pretended to speak like Drake, so he started to wonder if their voices had joined the drabble.
And then he watched as his father wrestled his way through a crowd of people—were there people? Damian couldn't see it properly, but he felt it when his dad took him and started to apply more cold in places he didn't want to be cool in. But he wanted to get rid of it; he wanted to rip the cold off of him. But every time he tried to move, it felt sluggish. It felt wrong to try and move because his mind refused to listen to him.
He saw the word paramedics. What was happening? Was there a medical emergency? Wouldn't Pennyworth be able to handle it? He wondered it silently, even as an octopus mask was fitted over his lips. He watched as the sky turned into the roof of an ambulance, and Damian wanted to ask questions, but the heat was lulling him to sleep. He wouldn't actually think properly; his mind was in a desert.
The heat never bothered him; he had been raised in a nanda parbat, but he didn't understand; it was like the heat had just decided to spide in him at that moment, to fucking kick his ass and give him no reprieve. He was tired, and as a hand continued to card through his har, he found himself unable to stay awake.
He woke up in a room that was that much colder than the one that he had been in before. He was so confused and blinked tiredly up at the white roof. The white room. Eveyrhting was white.
change to it when he is fighting to pull himself up from concussion.
A battle that Damian had fought before, pulling him out of the drownings that threatened to keep him hostage. He whined—maube it came out—but he continued to fight. Though his limbs felt like lead inside his body, he pulled through the darkness, even without foot or hand holds. It was as if the darkness was luring him to stay down. He felt something on his face, over his mouth, and his mind supplied that it was an oxygen mask.
There had been someone having a medical emergency, and Damian slowly started to realise that the person who was having the medical emergency was actually himself. He didn't really know how to feel about it as his eyes slipped, and the bright light attacked his face and brought his head spinning.
He tried to sit up, but a hand forced him down. They weren't in the hospital anymore, but he felt dizzy as the smell and the humidity of the cave wafted over him. The cold felt so bad, and he wanted to just sink into it. "Master Damian, stay down. You have suffered heatstroke, and we are continuing to monitor you to ensure that there are no injuries to your organs. The swelling in your brain has gone away. But I suppose that you do not remember the last three times you woke up?" Damian shook his head. He didn't like the unease that settled in his stomach upon learning the information.
Not only had his fucking brain swelled, but he had lost an unknown amount of time, and no doubt that he had caused a scene in the middle of his father's lecture and caused a commotion. He didn't realise why it frustrated him so much. There were so many people there that any one of them could have had a problem. But, of course, it had to be him. It always had to be him. He was so frustrated, and for what reason?
He took a breath, trying to calm himself down as he looked at the roof of the medical bay. There were stars, and Drake made sure that they mimicked the actual sky and actual constellations. They weren't the same ones that Damian knew well; why in any place would they have to choose the consellations that were common over Nanda Parbat? He didn't know, but it felt strange, as he started to feel like it was so weird to be a part of the family. He recalled how Tim had literally lunged to catch him before he hit the ground. His mind was still fuzzy on the details, but he heard how worried Tim had been when he straight up collapsing right next to him. After probably slurring gibberish that didn't make sense.
He blinked back tears; he didn't matter—he didn't—he felt so warm at the fact that his family had decided to stay for him; they didn't care about the scene that it would cause.
Then he heard a rush of footsteps down the stairs; it was Tim who first broke in. With panting breaths, he saw Damian and rushed over. "Damian, oh god. Never do that again." Drake commanded, but Damian could feel the worry that lay under his tone. He felt Drake hug him, and he didn't push him away. It wasn't really fair to do that. Not when Tim had caught him and possibly saved him even more bed rest from a concussion.
That might have actually made the swelling in his brain worse.
So, to be honest, he wondered if Tim had saved him from brain damage. He wasn't entirely certain of how brains actually worked. But he supposed that Tim was allowed to hug him because he had done that. He wouldn't push his saviour away. "Whenever you're feeling unwell, tell someone."
Damian wanted to protest that he had. But he had done everything to try and not tell someone—everything other than walking away. Which probably would have made things turn out even worse. He closed his eyes and let his sluggish arms wrap around Drake. Maybe he wasn't as useless after all. He had done the stars, and he had saved Damian from brain damage.
He could almost feel the tiredness leeching into him from Tim; his arms seemed to want to take a place around Damian forever, holding him tightly. But Damian only shifted; the bed was technically only meant for one person, but what was he meant to do when Drake started to cry? "God, you fucker. You're not allowed to."
"Master Tim hasn't slept since you were brought into the hospital." Pennyworth explained. "It has been four days."
Damian felt a growl build up in his throat. How dare Drake be so obtuse as to not take care of himself? But it settled as he felt the tears against his neck. Maybe. Drake cared. He didn't know how to take it. But he also couldn't push Tim away, not as he fell asleep against his shoulder. Damian blinked but held his brother. "I will be down with food, if you are feeling up to it."
Damian nodded and placed his hand on Drake's head. His brother was strange. But he didn't hate it.