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Dick doesn't feel sad as he stares at the blank piece of paper in front of him. Sadness doesn't feel like this. His hands shake as they grip the pen. No, Dick isn't sad.
Dick Grayson feels empty.
Completely hollow. Like he's lost in the space-time continuum of brotherhood, like someone reached in and ripped Dick's heart right out of his chest, leaving him feeling absolutely nothing.
Nothing except regret.
He doesn't even realize the pen has snapped in two; he only notices when he hears the sharp crack.
What's the saying?
The bridges are burned, there is no turning back. Maybe Dick should have just done the impossible and hauled the ships over dry land himself.
But no. Dick is here right now, with a blank sheet of paper in front of him and a broken pen in his hand, trying to write a eulogy for a brother he barely even talked to.
And he realizes he knows absolutely nothing about Jason.
Dick wants to throw up. He hurls the broken pen at the window in a blind rage, wishing he could just chuck his shame, his regret, and everything else right along with it.
His brother is dead, and Dick Grayson doesn't have a single memory to honor Jason with.
Dick's breath catches; he isn't even sure if this is some kind of panic attack. The air feels solid, clogging his airways. His vision shakes like a violently rattling camera. Dick practically throws himself out of the desk chair, stumbling on shaky legs until he reaches the window and drops to his knees. He leans his back against the cool wall, desperately trying to catch his breath. In, out, in, out. Inhale for five seconds, hold for eight, exhale for three.
God. Jason is never going to breathe again.
Dick's hands find his own throat. He can't even control his fingers as he tears at his collar.
When he finally manages to undo the buttons, he can breathe a fraction better.
The bile is still burning in his esophagus, his sphincter muscles fighting just to push it back down.
His breath hitches. Dick didn't want this, no.
He was just angry. At the world, at everything, at Bruce, and maybe at himself.
Most of all at himself.
He left and didn't look back.
He got fired, and he didn't look back.
Then someone else came to the house. Bruce forgot about him and replaced him. He fired Dick and— and—
This time, Dick scrambles up and barely makes it to the bathroom.
He was lonely.
Dick hated being alone. He hated it more than anything else in the world, and that was why he was so angry.
No one should be alone. Everyone needs a family, everyone needs someone.
Everyone should have their own person.
And why did Dick think it would just end? That it would just pass?
It ended in sheer devastation.
Damn it.
Dick hated being left behind. He only existed as much as the people around him saw him.
His knees buckle. He collapses in front of the toilet and throws up. Just bile and a little stomach acid.
His tongue goes numb. There's vomit in the cracks of his lips, but mostly, there's just regret.
Dick trembles as his hands grip the cold marble.
Dick hated being left alone, and Dick left Jason alone.
Jason died alone.
Thinking no one was coming for him.
He blindly feels around for the toilet paper. As he wipes the stringy vomit dripping from his chin, he scrubs way too hard.
As if he could scrub the regret, the desperation, and the hopelessness right out of his skin.
He wipes until his skin bleeds.
"I like Jane Austen."
A hand gently reaches out to stop the one trying to tear at Dick's own jaw.
A hand that is too gentle, too small, practically nothing more than a silhouette.
Dick doesn't actually feel the physical touch. It's just a white mist tinged with a faint red, taking the shape of a tiny hand.
It's warm, but not a burning heat. A gentle warmth—like wrapping yourself in a blanket, like watching a show with your favorite plushie.
Actually, it's more like the warmth you feel when you hug someone you love; the kind of warmth that wraps around your soul rather than your body.
The small hand moves gently but firmly, rubbing as if searching for the radial pulse point at the base of Dick's thumb.
Dick doesn't feel the touch. You can't touch clouds.
But he feels the warmth.
It feels like not being alone.
The voice echoes again.
"I like Jane Austen."
"My favorite animals are cats."
The voice speaks again.
Like it's coming from somewhere else entirely.
From another world.
Or?
Dick isn't exactly sure, but he can't bring himself to lift his head. He can only stare at the hand gently stroking his own.
"I haven't watched a lot of movies before, but I think Robin Hood might be my favorite. We watched it once with Bruce."
The voice speaks again.
"I wanted to watch Peter Pan with you, too. I guess it's your favorite. I read it, but I haven't watched it yet. I just didn't get why a kid wouldn't want to grow up. If you're a grown-up, you can defend yourself."
Dick can only swallow hard.
He pushes himself away from the toilet.
He still can't lift his head.
The silhouette kneels down next to Dick. As Dick shoves himself back against the wall, the silhouette ripples, like a mist suspended in the air.
Like it will completely vanish if Dick breathes too harshly.
"I have a fox. A plushie. In the mattress on my bed—I cut a hole in the mattress and hid it in there. It's my favorite toy. Catherine made it."
Dick doesn't even realize he's let out a sob.
The silhouette doesn't seem to understand why Dick is crying. It speaks up immediately, laced with sudden concern.
"Are you okay?"
Dick can't speak.
The silhouette gently rubs Dick's shoulder in concern.
"I... I can leave."
That is when Dick finally yells.
"No, no, stay."
The silhouette flickers, but it doesn't leave.
There is something in the air that doesn't belong to this world.
"I like Peter Pan," Dick says. "I like him because he saves the lost child."
Jason gently strokes Dick's shoulder blades, tracing soothing circles.
"Did you like Captain Hook?"
Dick immediately says no.
Jason thinks for a moment.
"Every story needs a villain for it to end."
Dick flinches in agony.
"For it to end?"
He can barely manage to get the words out.
The silhouette pauses.
"Everything has to end."
Instead of replying, Dick asks,
"Did you... did you have any favorite places here?"
Jason answers without even thinking.
"The library, the conservatory, and the kitchen—"
Dick's head snaps up instantly, blurting out in pure shock,
"Alfred actually let you into the kitchen—?"
And that is when he finally sees him.
Robin. Jason. His brother.
He is wearing a blood-soaked Robin uniform. How did he not notice it before? His hands are cuffed, and his domino mask is torn right under one of his eyes.
Oh, God.
Dick is going to throw up again.
The silhouette smirks when he sees Dick's gaze freeze, flashing with pure agony.
"Guess I went with a pretty bold look for this month's fashion mag, huh?"
Oh, God. Jason. He is... he is funny and thoughtful.
The silhouette drops all the way to the floor to cover himself up, crossing his hands and tucking them between his legs.
There is less blood on his knees, so he pulls them tightly to his chest.
"Alfred even taught me how to bake cookies. I'm practically an expert," the silhouette says proudly."You should have tried my tahini and walnut cookies."
He thinks for a second, then adds cheerfully,
"There might still be some in the freezer."
"Tahini? What are you, an old man?"
Dick tries to ask sarcastically, but his voice comes out too wet and desperate for it to work.
Jason grins.
"Tahini is nature's chocolate."
"No, it isn't," Dick says, letting out a small laugh. "Chocolate is already natural."
"Cocoa is natural." The silhouette pouts. "You're just talking out of your ass."
"There's a cocoa tree, and they make chocolate out of it. So natural chocolate exists," Dick insists.
The silhouette flickers in annoyance.
"You're literally saying cocoa, so it's not chocolate."
"You've been hanging out with Alfred way too much."
The silhouette replies immediately.
"He is the coolest person I have ever met in my life."
Dick smiles.
"Mine too."
Dick raises his hands in surrender.
"Alright, alright, I won't make the little ones cry."
Jason sticks his tongue out.
Dick actually lets out a laugh this time.
"How incredibly mature."
"I'm fifteen. I don't need to be mature."
The words hit Dick like a physical blow.
No, no.
Damn it.
Fifteen years old.
Technically a baby. A kid. A brother.
And now he is never going to grow up.
Dick's breath trembles again as the silhouette speaks.
"I... I have to go after tonight, well—"
Dick can't even process it.
"You're going to leave?"
The silhouette nods.
"But tonight... tonight we could hang out. We could watch Peter Pan, or go up to the roof and look at the stars. Look, no making fun of me, okay?" Jason says in all seriousness.
"Staring at the gargoyles of Bruce's gothic architecture is total bullshit, but I pitched a tent up there and put up some fairy lights. I have a telescope Bruce got me for my birthday last year, and even an astrolabe, so... if you want, we could stargaze and then watch a movie. But we don't have to! Just... just... actually, never mind, you're—"
"I'd love to."
Dick lunges at the silhouette.
He hugs him.
He hugs him so fiercely that for a split second the mist dissipates and Dick thinks he's going to vanish completely, but he doesn't. Jason carefully loops his cuffed hands around Dick's neck and returns the embrace.
Like he doesn't know how to do it.
Like Jason doesn't even know how to be hugged.
Dick squeezes him even tighter.
"I'm sorry, I... I'm sorr—"
Jason shushes him.
"We have time to make up for it, and... you're cool. You're my idol. You are not going to cry," Jason warns.
The next morning, there were a million things Dick could write on that piece of paper.
Jason's favorite animal, his favorite food, the book he hated the most, his favorite movie, his favorite constellation. The fact that he was the only nerd alive who still knew what an astrolabe was. How he could find the North Star using just the palm of his hand. How he swore way too much, how he squinted when he talked, how he twitched when he got mad, but how he was so incredibly gentle underneath it all.
How he never wanted to hurt anyone.
How he just wanted a family, how he just wanted to help.
How his biggest dream was to be like Dick one day.
How he absolutely loved going to school, how he always wanted to join clubs but was just too shy to actually do it.
But he isn't going to write down a single word of it.
He isn't going to give that kind of speech at the funeral.
He isn't going to say, "He was a good person."
He isn't going to say, "We are all devastated."
He is going to say, "Jace's favorite book was Pride and Prejudice, and his taste was basically on par with an old man's."
And then, he will add with pride:
"But he deserved the world, more than any of us did. He was everything we could never be. He was my brother."
Then, he will wink at the sky.
But in all likelihood, because of the tears, it won't look like a wink at all.