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Teenage rebellion suited the two young adults fairly well and so did the substance abuse that was closely affiliated with that age range.
They drank and they smoked whatever they thought would result in a "fun experience" allowing themselves to momentarily put their missions and greater purposes aside to go ahead and giggle about whatever they pleased and spend their nights bumbling around like fools.
Such nights even occurred amongst the two even in Nanda Parbat — Bruce had invited Anton to his room a little after curfew and with a reserved and devil-like grin and when the other teen arrived he had tossed an unmarked baggie of gummies to Anton. No words needed to be exchanged.
Anton had spent the next hour or so laying flat on his back, idly tracing patterns over the wrinkles of the sheets that bunched up around him, the body high made it feel as though he was melting into the mattress of Bruce's bed — he was absolutely certain that Ra's had given Bruce the bigger room and the better bed — He tilted his head up to look at Bruce, who was in the midst of writing something in a little travel journal of his, it was a considerably cute habit; but ultimately it was stupid to keep records that could be used against you.
His eyes lingered on Bruce for a while, instead of his usual refined posture, he slouched and leaned over the diary, peering at the pages as his pen scratched away at the paper at a slower pace than usual.
Bruce almost always had the same pensive look whenever he scribbled his day's lessons into the book — Anton was particularly fond of the way Bruce's nose would always scrunch up in a very particular way if he ever made a mistake in his writing and had to cross it out. He had seen it happen a couple of times; how Bruce change the grip on his pen, scrunch his nose and cross out his mistake with much more force than necessary before changing his grip again and sighing out his frustration through his nose — but now his eyes were lidded and he sighed every so often as if the effort of recounting his day's training was a burden and his pen was an exhaustible weight that was shackled to his hand.
Although most of the content of the book was made up of retelling, musings and criticism, Anton had found — through a night of snooping — that Bruce often doodled in the margins, mostly portraits or moving humanoid figures busying away with their scribbled lives, Bruce was no Loomis or Bridgman but he could pass as one of their students if you squinted your eyes.
Bruce had a very cute nose; that's what Anton thought at least, he had a cute nose that Bruce had always failed to capture when he did the occasional self portrait in his diary.
He had a tendency to draw himself far more mannish than he actually was; his jawline would be far sharper, his eyes sterner and his lips thinner — in Anton's not so humble opinion it made him look less kissable and it felt like a crime; a crime against the natural order of the world.
Anton knew that in time Bruce would develop the features that he coveted and sketched out with a tender hand and it frustrated him to no end; Who did Bruce even think he was to do this to him? To have to trade his softer features for more defined ones; surely it had to be a punishable offence?
It was as though Bruce was challenging him as a man; he was taunting him through the penned out sketches he was never supposed to see, and so they had to settle this as men did.
"Drop your pants." Anton demanded suddenly.
He sat up sluggishly and threw his legs over the edge of the bed, readying himself to make a scene.
"What?"
"I said: Drop your pants." Each word enunciated slowly as though Anton was convinced that Bruce was daft.
Bruce paused his scribbling after a moment, finally processing what Anton had just said, he pressed his lips into a thin line.
"It finally happened." Bruce muttered solemnly, not bothering to look back at Anton as he continued to write. "All the drugs you did finally killed your last brain cell."
"Last I recall we did all those drugs together." Anton scoffed as he got up, stumbling and nearly tripping over Bruce's stupid bag while making his way towards him.
"Allegedly. You have no proof."
"You're as high as a cloud right now, don't bullshit me." He sneered as he snatched the diary from Bruce, scratching a scathing, bold streak of black ink right across the page Bruce was writing on — Anton did his best to ignore how his heart temporarily stuttered at the way Bruce's nose crinkled in irritation; it must have been startled by how enraged he was over Bruce being such an obstinate prick.
"Allegedly high." He huffed out — clearly unaware that his eyes were now bloodshot — as he lamely rose from his seat.
Bruce didn't make an attempt to grab the book from Anton just as yet but settled on glaring at the other who decided to make a show of rifling through the pages.
Anton made sure to give a critical hum every time he flipped to a new page, for the most part he skimmed through the drudgery Bruce deemed important, but he still held a carefully kept grin on his lips to make it clear that Bruce was not going to go without being mocked.
Since their separation in Canada it had been a while since he was able to go through Bruce's diary, new passages were scrawled in with a date and place atop of each entry.
For the most part, the entries without him were boring and it was safe to assume that Bruce would have been just as bored living it.
But one particular page captured Anton's attention in a vice grip.
It was a sketched scene of the two of them — and it was far from wholesome.
It made Anton feel delightfully scandalised that Bruce had envisioned them in such a manner, he let his fingers trace the lines that were thrown onto the page with an intense fervour; an attempt to immortalize his little fantasy in ink and paper.
A mental image wormed its way into the front of his mind; Bruce waking up suddenly — Panting. Drenched in sweat. Face glowing with a harsh blush.
He would throw the blankets aside as he rushed to the corner of the room where he had settled his treasured leather satchel-bag that he had picked up in Nepal. Rummaging around in it and biting down on his bottom lip until he finally retrieves his diary to put down his brain's unholy desire, each line etched with an avid need to keep such a vision from slipping past his grasp.
In Anton's humble opinion; it was a good mental image, but of course he couldn't dwell on his imaginings for too long; he still had to make Bruce settle his dues, and embarrassing him was one of Anton's favourite methods of collecting.
Coupled with a condescending "Oh, wow." He finally turned the book around for Bruce to gaze upon his hurried handiwork.
He could see Bruce's cheeks burn a bright red — almost matching the same shade as his bloodshot eyes.
He turns the book around once more to get a better look, letting his fingers trail down the grooves left by Bruce's hasty penmanship and rest where their crotches were drawn — pressed up together in a fit of passion, under a pencilled moonlight — as he glances up at Bruce with the smarmiest smirk he could muster.
"It's a very nice piece, Bruce… but there's one important detail you failed to capture accurately."
Bruce remained silent as he waited for Anton's critiques; ready to catch him off guard and get his book back into his possession.
"Mine's bigger." Anton proclaimed as Bruce finally made an attempt to grab the book out of his hands which he dodged and held above the Gothamite's head tauntingly.
"What are you even on about?" The words were gritted out, as a pang of frustration and embarrassment coursed through Bruce's veins.
He makes another swipe for the diary, missing once more.
"You know what I'm talking about."
Anton holds the book closer for Bruce to grab, but pulls it away a second later.
"No, I don't-"
"Liar."
"No, you're just being stupidly vague-"
"I was so obviously referring to my cock, you idiot."
The reveal earns Anton a look of offence from Bruce.
Upon realising that retrieving his book would be a futile affair Bruce moves away to throw himself down onto his bed.
Watching the way Bruce abruptly ends their fight only serves to aggravate something inside of Khoa, they choose to toss aside the book since it fulfilled it's limited use in tormenting Bruce.
He strides over to the bed once more and stops in front of it.
"Oh, don't tell me you've suddenly become a prude." Anton bites the last word out like a slur.
"No, you jackass, I am just in awe at how obsessed you are with your own cock-"
"I'm not obsessed, I just have a healthy sense of pride, and rightfully so-" When he sees Bruce's scrutinizing look he makes a show of pretending to stroke himself with long strides.
Bruce turns his head away, he wasn't sure how he had managed to tolerate Anton for this long, he presumed it probably had something to do with the shrooms they did together.
… It was most definitely the shrooms.
"Haven't you heard? Pride goeth before the fall." Bruce mutters, in a weak attempt to instill some sense of shame into Anton that he probably couldn't feel in the first place.
"Don't quote The Bible at me, you coloniser."
Bruce didn't know Anton could say the word "Bible" — let alone know of scriptures — without bursting into flames. He watches his friend from the bed for a second longer to see if there were any wisps of smoke rising from his skin before shooting his next barb.
"Oh, Would you rather I quote The Torah or The Quran instead?"
"No thank you." Anton answers quickly, he knew well enough that Bruce was a big nerd and that it was highly likely that he had those religious texts memorised by heart; not because he was any sort of individual of Abrahamic faith but because he was extremely petty.
"But since you've made no effort to dispute my claim it seems fairly obvious on what the verdict is-" Anton continues.
"'Verdict-?" Bruce echoes incredulously. "This isn't a court room-"
Anton thought that with the way the two danced around each other it may have well been.
"Come on, just admit you aren't as well endowed as me."
Bruce let out a semi-amused huff, he was too high to properly wrap his head around and grapple with Anton's unabashed narcissism.
"I sincerely doubt you're endowed with much."
"Ouch. My feelings."
"You don't have those, you prick."
"I can still understand when I've been insulted."
"And for your information my thing is bigger than yours."
"What?"
"… What?"
"I said "What" first — did you just call your dick "your thing"… like a child?"
Bruce was quiet, he had a bit of a habit of censoring himself after growing up in high society — although "high society" was a pantomime of propriety while they indulge in baser desire behind closed doors they still kept a closed mouth on what went actually occurred — and it was a difficult habit to kick.
"We're men; it's a perfectly normal part of our anatomy."
"I know that-"
"Call it a penis."
"Fine. My penis is bigger than yours, happy?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't believe you."
"This is absurd."
"You're only saying that because you know you have a smaller dick."
"Am not."
"Then why are you so afraid to show me your dick?"
"Because you're so adamant to see it — it's weird. you're being weird."
Unfortunately, Anton could see that Bruce had a point and he was suddenly and violently reminded of Aesop's fable on the Sun and the North Wind.
He was going about this in a far too direct manner for Bruce's delicate senses, he had to ease into it.
"I'll show you mine. You show me yours…" Anton paused thoughtfully "and then we measure."
"Why do we need to-?"
"Because this is about honour and truth and you made an inaccurate claim."
"A claim." Bruce echoed hollowly, he was severely regretting befriending Anton.
"You claimed yours is bigger than mine, keep up, Bruce-" He informed, Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose but nodded along dumbly as though he was paying attention as Anton proceed to ramble on about how he was to prove that he was indeed superior when it came to the size of his dick, but it all fell on deaf ears — one must imagine that Anton's rambling sounded a lot more like the warbling trumpeting sound the adults in The Peanuts produced than actual words when Bruce quickly lost interest in what the other was saying.
It's only when Anton reached to clumsily undo the drawstring of his linen pants that Bruce came back to the present, swatting Anton's hand away on instinct.
"What the hell are you doing-?"
"As I said, we are to compare our sizes are we not?" Anton swatted at Bruce's hand in return.
"I never agreed to that-" Bruce reached to swat at Anton's hand once more in an act of justified vengeance.
For a moment the two ceased their arguing, as they slapped at each other's hands.
At least until Anton suddenly pulled back in order to feign disinterest in Bruce.
"Clearly you can't challenge my claim." Anton taunted, he attempts to fiddle with his belt and tighten it around his waist signifying how he was done with this and with Bruce. His mind was still a tad bit foggy and his movements were far slower and less refined than they usually were — where the fuck did Bruce even find the gummies in Nanda Parbat? He didn't know how but he was sure Ra's was involved.
Bruce still didn't move, staring at him with an unreadable expression on his face. It annoyed Anton to no end — why couldn't he just play along?
Finally, Bruce spoke up — if he were a better man who was more stable in his identity he would have shut down the challenge immediately — His voice low, thick brows knitted together thoughtfully.
"… We will need a measuring tape," Bruce thought out loud, Anton let his hands fall to his side as he stared at his best friend wide eyed, it would be futile to fully depend on sight alone, Bruce's genius was one of the reasons he held respect for him, that, his cute nose and his ass, it was a good one ... a terrific one even, a work of art to be admired, it was such a shame it was attached to such an infuriating man.
"We're not doing the bone press method?"
"You know too much about dick measuring."
"I am just a man."
"… Right. We should get two tapes to be sure so neither of us can screw with the data."
"Technically, we need three. We need one as a control, right?"
"Where the hell would we get three measuring tapes from?"
"Where would we get two?"
They didn't have one to begin with so the idea was quickly dismissed and resumed the idea that they could measure on sight alone.
"…Let's just get this over with."
They both dressed down into their boxers, their shirts still on but the sides hiked up under their armpits to keep the fronts of their shirts from covering what needed to be seen.
They locked eyes, brown eyes boring into greyish blues as the air between them grew thicker. Both were hesitant; this was sure to be a moment that would change both their lives, one that would open up certain revelations and alter their perceptions of each other for the foreseeable future.
"Shall we give this a count down?"
Bruce nods.
"Ten, nine, eight—"
"Can't you just count down from five?" Bruce snapped impatiently, interrupting the count down, Anton rolled his eyes, his frustration clear.
"If you hadn't interrupted me I would've been done by now, Bruce." He chastised, pointedly turning his head away as Bruce flipped him off.
"Fine, on the count of three this time then." He concedes, Bruce nods as the countdown starts once again.
"Okay; three, two…"
"This is so stupid…"
"One!"
…
"Why didn't you pull your boxers down?"
"Why didn't you?"
"… it's the eye contact, it's making this far more awkward than it needs to be."
"Fine, we both close our eyes or something."
"How do I know you won't peak first?"
"You're just going to have to trust me"
"Right, and that ended so well for me last time."
"Bitter resentment is not a good look on you, Bruce, don't even try."
"I'd say it suits me fine, but sure, whatever you say."
Anton scoffs which launches them into another petty argument; after a few more minutes of bickering and a pinky promise that they will actually adhere to the count down this time, they shut their eyes and strip from their boxers.
"On three we open our eyes?"
"Yes, Bruce."
"Wait-"
"Yes, Bruce?"
"Do we open our eyes on or after one?"
"What difference does it make-?"
"There isn't any real difference, I just want to be sure so we both look at the same time."
"Okay, on one then."
"… Are you sure-?"
"Fine, Bruce, we'll open our eyes after one."
"Maybe we should have discussed this before we closed our eyes and removed our boxers."
"You think?"
"I am sure we look so stupid right now."
"I'm sure you do."
"Okay, so we open our eyes after one."
They commence the countdown once more.
As soon as they open their eyes neither of them waste time trying to get an eyeful of the other's cock.
The room is dead silent for a solid minute before there is a loud outburst of confused clamouring.
"Where's your dick-?!"
"Where's mine-? Where's yours-!?"
"What do you mean where's my-!? My dick- My dick is missing!"
"Fuck your cock! where's mine-!?"
After some panicked sobbing, theorising as to where they could have left their dicks last and implicating Ra's and Talia for their sudden dicklessness they both came to the realisation that neither of them were ever born with that specific part of anatomy in the first place, and the room descended into a charged sort of silence.
It was Bruce who decided to fill that silence with a meandering one word admission.
"Disappointing."
"Agreed."
"But if we did…"
"If we did…?"
"If we did have dicks, what do you think we'd fancy to put them in?"
"A woman I suppose."
"Right, no, but I'm talking the more… Unconventional stuff."
"Ah… peanut butter jar."
"What-? Really? Why that?"
"Why not?"
"Point taken. I'd stack doughnuts on mine."
"What kind?"
"Strawberry with sprinkles."
"Pink on pink, talk about tacky… now I'm hungry."
"I miss the food in Dublin."
"Of course you do. The food in Shanghai was better."
"But if we did have penises… I hate that the plural form of penis is penises, it feels off phonetically; it's kind of a mouthful."
"You could call it 'an orgy'."
"… I got the joke but I refuse to acknowledge it. Anyway, as I was saying-"
"Yes?"
"Mine would be bigger."
Talia glided through the silent halls of the compound. She had been instructed to remind Bruce and Khan of the arrangement they had prepared — "A final test" as her father stated.
The winner would be bestowed the title of "The Demon's heart" and a place at the helm of their operation to lead the world its salvation.
It was much to her annoyance that she wasn't privy to this title she had consistently proved to be worthy of.
She had mulled over the situation almost obsessively and came to the conclusion that her father was holding out on her on purpose for some grand unexplainable reason.
Talia supposed that if she couldn't hold the title herself she could still think about which of her father's champions would be a suitable candidate.
It was after some debate that she had decided that it was Bruce who measured up to the metrics of the position; although he may be a little naive at times, he still held a strong mind and soul that always managed to achieve the unachievable — it also didn't hurt that he was rather nice to look at.
But all the admiration she may have held for Bruce seemed to be lit on fire and thrown through a window as soon as she opened the door to Bruce and Minhkhoa's chambers.
She was sure her father had taught Bruce more effective manoeuvres of attack that didn't include chucking an old pair of boxers at his opponent's face.
"You take that back." Bruce hissed with absolute vitriol and pointed a finger pointed at a temporarily blinded Anton.
Anton peels the pair boxers from his face, and makes a show of gagging and chucking the underwear in Bruce's general direction.
"I said nothing but the truth. It's not my fault that you can't admit that I'd be the one with the bigger penis."
Talia had seen enough.
She closed the door before she had to witness anything else; turned and made her way towards her father's chambers once more.
She quickly knocked on her father's door before entering, refusing to blink at all as she did so — she would rather die than be flashed banged once more with the mental image of Bruce's ghostly pale ass cheeks.
Ra's, upon seeing his daughter's shell shocked demeanour, raised an eyebrow and set aside the book he was engrossed in.
"Is everything alright, daughter?" Ra's asked almost hesitatingly, he wasn't all that sure he wanted to know what was able to leave his daughter so shaken.
Talia steeled herself before she spoke.
"Father, are you quite sure that you want one of those two as your second hand?"
Ra's stroked his beard for a moment, his brows furrowed, Talia was previously completely on board with Ra's taking Bruce as his second hand — but the sudden change in her opinion was jarring.
Before Ra's could respond loud footsteps could be heard outside, followed by a shriek of terror — judging by the pitch it was Bruce — followed by a cackle that sounded borderline psychotic.
Talia stared at Ra's and he stared back.
She then gestured at the door.
"They were naked, father."
"… Really?"
Ra's only got a solemn nod in confirmation. He sighed, finally understanding the root of his daughter's evident trauma.