Chapter Text
Bruce said once that Dick was his first love. The one light in his dark world. Dick never doubted that his love was real, truly. But he also knew the phrase was just some bullshit Bruce threw to the media at the beginning of Dick’s life at the manor and the journalists kept asking Bruce if he would get married now that he had a child. Because apparently single parenting was such a horrendous and traumatic event for a child by Gotham standard. And not the twice a week festive show by colorful criminals on the street.
Dick knew love, once, was not something that Bruce was allergic to. Instead he drank it like an addict. Drowning in a cheap display of love while Dick, barely in his teens, with one hand safely wrapped inside Alfred’s warm fingers, could only watch from the side.
Heads leaning too close to whisper jokes that Dick could not find funny.
A kiss on his cheek. Or the back of his hand. Or his temple. His neck. Everywhere else.
A lipstick stain on his collar. The smell of strong perfume on his blazers.
An arm sticking to his waist. On his shoulders. Staining him with heat that lingered. That disappeared after a night.
And when the little Dick asked if that was love, Bruce only laughed. Because love was the only luxury he could not afford.
It made Dick wonder, would he, too, grow up to be a man poor on love, a man so desperate of love, recklessly throwing himself into any open arms in front of him. He wondered if that was the fate of an orphaned boy with no friends.
Yet Dick embraced love with the soft touch of the morning sun, and realized that Bruce did know of love, had grown him into one. Only that he could not accept love that was made for him. As if he was undeserving. As if he was unholy and the only thing worthy of him was the superficial love made on his dirty body.
Even until in his twenties, all Dick could do was watch, although now he could shift the wandering hand on Bruce’s arm into a polite handshake and pull him a little further away from sweet empty promises to take him to bed. And Bruce had said nothing. He had laughed, making a sound that was dangerously similar to him choking on tears. Like Dick was working him open in a surgery without giving him even a drop of anesthesia to ease the pain.
Then he would take another glass of champagne, forcing his brain to forget – Bruce would argue he was not drunk, but Dick knew Bruce. Loneliness was his biggest enemy. One that he fought by putting on a cape and a mask and punching criminals under the moonlight.
It was easier when there was something else to distract Bruce. A criminal case was one, although Dick would never nominate it as his favorite. Bruises and blood were truer lovers for Bruce, something that Bruce’s empty heart accepted easier. Yet vigilante activity never was a good coping mechanism. A little argument and snarky comments from one billionaire Oliver Queen in a fundraising gala filled with people born and raised from money was a better choice.
Dick heard from one of the reporters that they knew each other for a long time. All the richest people did.
But there was something more than familiarity, that even the mask of their other persona could not completely disguise. As the glimpse of Oliver Queen entered his eyes and pulled drunk Bruce away, the beginning of a sarcastic remark ready at the tip of his tongue. But Bruce turned to him, with a smile that was too genuine to be the mask of Brucie Wayne. Oliver had pretended not to melt as he sent him aside to where Dick was.
Dick had managed to pretend he was calling Alfred, although he didn’t have to turn around to see the image of Bruce's head on the dip of Oliver’s neck, as the latter whispered to his ears in voice softer than the air. And if, when Alfred came with their car, Oliver had talked to Alfred like an old friend and patted his shoulder like he had done that a thousand times, or when Alfred, with a tone that was slightly strange to Dick’s ears, asked Oliver to come by some time, and his answer had been filled with guilt, all rich people knew each other, he tried to remind himself.
But Bruce and Oliver could not stand each other, just like Green Arrow and Batman couldn’t. All the Gothamite knew about it, had been throwing shades on the Star City residents for the longest time. All the reporters knew about it, waiting for the newest sparks of the two local celebrities. Even all of the justice leagues knew about it. But Bruce never was one to talk about the past.
Even when Bruce embraced danger like his life didn’t matter. Like the future would never matter.
Dick didn’t mean to peek. Didn’t mean to catch the way Bruce, in the examination bed in the medical bay after one justice league mission with one too many wounds, probably high on pain-reliefs, leaning into Oliver’s touch on his cheek.
Dick almost jumped in and tried to explain to Oliver that Batman might not be in his right mind, but Oliver had leaned close, until their foreheads were touching. Oliver’s hand settled in the small space of Bruce’s back like a habit. Then Oliver had asked, “do you always have to be intoxicated to talk to me without starting a fight?”
There was softness laced in the words that were not meant to be said. And guilt too, yet guilt always hid itself better between layers of pride. Dick could see Bruce’s body shifted, and a soft murmur of something that was too soft for his ear to catch.
When did you fall out of love with me?
In another life, Bruce’s heart would bleed with anger, screaming, how could you do this to me, and Oliver would gather him into his arms, with the promise of tomorrow. And the next day. And forever.
And with an even softer voice, one laced with regret and heartache, he said, “dammit Bruce, I care about you.”
I love you. Were the words unsaid. Clinging to the air. Past. Present. Future. Because love was not something someone had and suddenly forgot like car keys on a busy Thursday.
But there was commitment. Promises. Vows.
Circumstances.
The ring on Oliver’s finger glistened.
As if mocking Bruce and memories that passed its due date. Of a once upon a time. Of a simpler life. Where Bruce Wayne and Oliver Queen were just some other rich kids in some other boarding school. Where Oliver’s height once towered over Bruce and his arms could wrap around him. Hands, holding in secret. Because Oliver Queen was a flirtatious and charming teen and Bruce Wayne was a nerd. A beauty. But a nerd. And he hated Oliver’s guts. As much as he loved his confidence. His smile. His steady feet and broad shoulder as Bruce leaned in his embrace. In the hallways. Under the stairways. On a stormy night. Inside a thick blanket made of wool in the winter.
In the bloom of springs and the heat of summer.
Where the wind blew past Bruce’s bangs under the shade of a big tree in the space behind their school’s building and Oliver’s fingers tried to reach him like a moth to fire.
It would be a lie to say Bruce hated the pressure of his fingers on his skin. But he was a teenager with too much pride carried on his back, “stop touching me,” he said instead, empty threat and eyes looking away.
Oliver laughed, “how can I,” because that part was true. Then Bruce’s blue eyes glowed, like stars on a dark night, because at that age it was easy to be happy. Because in the world that was an endless black tunnel for Bruce, he picked him. And that was enough.
No talks of revenge. Of the cruel worlds that took away everything they held dear.
Only the pass of seasons and the smell of the sun. And the dreams of tomorrow.
“Penny for a thought?” Bruce put down his book and tilted his head back until it touched Oliver’s shoulder. It had been the third day since Bruce started the book. By now he should have finished it, even using it as the excuse for hiding behind the building because he needed a quiet space and Oliver needed Bruce.
Or maybe he did finish it. The book. But Oliver didn’t need to know.
“You’re beautiful.” Oliver said, breathed, his eyes never once leaving Bruce. So did his fingers, “I must be the happiest man alive.”
Bruce laughed, because life hadn’t hurt him yet, “because I’m pretty?” And Oliver, too, laughed, just because.
“Because life leads you to me.” Because happiness was easy. Because love was easy.
Because words were easy. Yet there were still words left unsaid.
I love you.
Bruce clicked his tongue, “I know you said that to a bunch of people.” The infamous Mr. Queen. There was no one who hadn’t been charmed by him.
“Don’t you trust me?” Oliver gagged, faking a disbelief. Both of them knew better, trust was different from love. There were some words, unsaid. Couldn’t be said. Of Obsession. Of hesitation. Of heartache. Of lies. Of things they didn’t want to believe just so they could feel alive. Together.
Of hope, of the future untold.
“I’ll trust you if you say that until we’re old and wrinkly.” If you stay.
If you’d let me, “I will.”
Until they realized their love had an expiration date. Until life ripped the little haven they made into nothing more than childhood dreams and long lost love. Until autumn came and love fell like dried leaves from a dying tree.
I love you. It might not be the same love that they whispered on the nights they embraced each other. It might not be the same air they gasped between inexperienced kisses, hands unwilling to leave each other. Still. There were many kinds of love.
There were words left unsaid. Words that would not be said.
“Ollie,” Batman, Bruce, breathed, like a slip of tongue, and they were back in the medical bay of the watchtower. Wounds digging deeper to the past, leaving Bruce lying nearly to his death. Still, Oliver’s finger on his skin tasted like familiarity. Yet the distance between their lips was no longer the space they were allowed to cross.
“Just go.” Like he did many years ago. And they could blame it on fate. On life. On everything that fucked their lives and pretend they were strangers. Again.
Bruce would never hold it against Oliver. Truly. He could never even blame him even if his heart wanted him to. It was just the fact that they were too young. Foolish young boys thinking that they were at the top of the world when they were actually cursed by fate.
“How can I,” Oliver said instead. With eyes soft, knowing. Not when you still said my name like that. Yet the air dissipated and it was getting hard for them to breathe.
Yet Oliver found a new home for his love. A love that stayed. And he was happy for him, genuinely happy. And so did Oliver.
Yet.
I love you. Because love was not one definite meaning someone could easily run out.
“I—,” I love you, yet Oliver’s voice died down, until we’re old and wrinkly, and even after.
There were many kinds of love.
I miss you.
As many as the words left unsaid from unwilling lips.
I wish you happiness.
As many as the breath taken between kisses, secretly shared under the moonlight.
Farewell.
And all Dick could do was watch. He didn’t even have the heart to ask.