Work Text:
Bruce Wayne decided he hates the desert.
The sun is blazing down on him, the air hot and humid. The fine sand below his shoes weighs down. Bruce is tempted to throw away those damn flip flops in frustration before he caught Anton staring at him, a smug smile on his lips. Bruce frowns and looks away.
Bruce wished he never had met Anton. If Bruce have never met him, he would’ve never embarked on this tiresome journey to find a man named Ra’s al Ghul. He would have not travelled here because he would’ve been dead without Anton.
Anton is Bruce’s …friend? Enemy? Rival? Bruce does not want to go down this rabbit hole. Not without remembering what this man had done.
But Bruce believes that Anton’s a good person.
Anton’s brown hands are covered with long white sleeves, protection from the sun. His short hair gleaming under the sun.
If only he could stop thinking about the day Luka’s body was surrounded by stained snow. His head blasted open in front of Bruce and Luka’s blood splattered on his face. And Anton had turned his attention towards Bruce. The pistol that has claimed Luka is now staring directly at Bruce.
He felt like he was five again. The way he had felt when a pistol is pointed toward Thomas and Martha Wayne. That pathetic, useless feeling. The way he felt helpless when he watched his father went down first, until the murderer went after his mother. He could not stop it.
He hated this feeling.
But what he hated more was the fact that Luka’s blood was on his hands as well as Anton’s. He remembered it clear as day. How Anton was accused of being capable to murder by Luka, their teacher who was training them on firing weapons, and how Anton proved it to be right.
Luka had pointed the pistol on Anton, accusing him of being a killer. Anton and looked at Bruce and Bruce had pulled out his rifle.
“Bruce, he’s going to kill me. You have to take the shot.” Anton had said pleadingly, his voice low. Though his dark eyes were strangely empty, his voice remains the hopelessness in it.
“There’s no other way.”
Bruce needed to protect Anton. He’s a good person, Bruce knows it. His heart hammered in his chest, the fear spiking his head as he lifted his rifle to disarm Luka, the bullet meeting the metal body of Luka’s weapon and knocking it out of his hand. It fell down on the snow, ruining the picture of innocence and purity.
Anton had crouched to pick it up and shot Luka.
Bruce had been a coward once. Crying as Luka took his final breath.
Anton had turned the pistol at Bruce and said he wasn’t what Luka said he was.
A killer.
But if he weren’t a killer, then why is Luka dead? Why would Anton turn the gun on him?
They were… friends.
They fought afterwards. Anton questioned Bruce about his moral code of not killing and Bruce questioned Anton on why learn how to stop crimes if he was going to commit crimes.
“Crime fighting is an art, Bruce. And Luka is a master painter who threw away his brushes! But I have a vision,” Anton had rambled like an insane madman, “You and I could be the greatest artist.” His eyes, Bruce would never forget, were shimmering in the bright winter sun.
“After all the time we spent together.. our friendship..” Bruce spat weakly, “You’re still scared to be anything but alone.”
Bruce had no idea why he had raised his rifle. He supposed he was trying to protect Anton. Who accompanied him in the dojo in South Korea. Who laughed and joked while Bruce listened. Who fought for Bruce when he was cornered by assassins. Who held his hand while retreating after a bad fight. Who challenged him and teased. Who had complimented Bruce’s “otherworldly yet water splashing” charisma, yet falling for it himself.
Who leaned in close to him on a bridge.
Which could mean nothing.
Bruce thinks that Anton he stayed with was the real one. Not the one that slaughtered Luka in cold blood then fought Bruce that resulted in him being knocked out and just left there.
Bruce had continued on this journey, howver long without his friend. But he missed him. He missed his friend Anton. Not the killer.
The real Anton, Bruce is sure, is right in front of him right now. His steps are slow yet steady under the extreme temperature.
But his heart can’t take a second disappearance.
So he puts his heart into training. On learning languages and practising gymnastics. On escaping tactics and meditation.
But not letting another person in again.
He wants to think that all those training could prevent him from that helpless feeling again. But truth be told, he does not know what to do after.
He would eventually return to Gotham, then what?
-
Minhkhoa Khan hates the desert.
He despises the way the sun stings his skin like back home, and the way the sand stretches far, far away with no ends.
The desert is like Bruce in a way.
Lifeless and void on the surface. Under that exterior was an ecosystem full of life. No matter how much he denies this, Bruce Wayne’s heart is extremely fragile.
That’s what Khoa hated about him. Capable of feeling. How he can never disconnect himself, de-attach his love and respect for Anton.
Anton is an act. A pseudonym for Minhkhoa Khan.
Bruce doesn't know.
Khoa knows that Bruce hasn’t forgived him for that. He makes it clear with those frowny looks and furrowed eyebrows where “Anton” would tease him about wrinkling his face at the young age of twenty-four.
Bruce has always been a pessimist.
But what Khoa said was right. Crime fighting is art. And all he wanted was to be the best.
And Bruce could be a close second.
Deep down, Khoa knows that Bruce is better than him. The way Bruce could shoot is spectacular. A natural born talent. He could be an arsenal of weapons, gunning down vicious criminals and filths off the face of earth. But instead, Bruce wanted to be a righteous asshole.
That no killing rule of his is moronic. Criminals should attain consequences. If they’re people who could do monstrous acts the first time, there will always be a second time.
Khoa sometimes wonders what would happen if he had killed Bruce after he was knocked out.
He fainted after the fight and Khoa had pointed the pistol toward his head.
Bruce’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow. His face was stained with Luka’s crimson blood. He looked serene with frozen drops of tears on his face.
Khoa just couldn’t muster the strength to pull the trigger seeing his peaceful face. Not even with his eyes closed and face squeezed tight.
Khoa doesn’t know why he couldn’t do it.
He supposes it was too easy.
But he would never want Bruce dead either.
-
The desert night is cold. A complete difference with day.
The winds blew their fire shut.
“I spent minutes trying to start that fire.” Anton mumbled.
Bruce supposed he could even convince himself to forget that Anton is a murderer.
This won’t last.