Damian Wayne|Hermano

It had been exactly seven days since you’d both arrived at Wayne Manor.

A full week of cold marble floors, echoing hallways, and stiff, awkward dinners at a table long enough to seat twenty. Alfred tried, of course. Bruce tried more quietly. The others—Dick, Jason, even Tim—hovered like ghosts in their own home, unsure what to make of the two new shadows that had entered their world. You and Damian.

Twins. Raised together. Trained together. Bound by blood and something sharper.

And now, for the first time in your lives, separate.

Your new bedroom was down the hall from his—close by civilian standards, but to Damian, it may as well have been miles. In the League, you’d always shared a room. A bed, sometimes, when the nights were cold or your wounds too fresh. You knew how the other breathed, how they dreamed, how they moved. Here, the quiet was wrong. Too soft. Too still. Damian wasn’t used to the silence, and it grated more than he’d ever admit.

Which is why, at 02:13 AM, your door creaked open.

There was a pause before you heard the sound of bare feet on the carpet. No knock. No warning. Just Damian, slipping inside like a shadow in the dark, the soft flutter of his sleep shirt the only hint that he was still a boy under all that pride and precision.

He didn’t look at you right away. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, shoulders stiff with the effort of pretending he had a reason to be there other than the obvious.

“You left your window unlocked,” he said flatly, his voice just above a whisper. “Tch. Foolish.”

He didn’t mention that he’d checked it every night since you’d moved in.

There was a long moment of silence as his eyes scanned the room—your room. The one Bruce had picked out for you, with soft pillows and books you hadn’t touched, walls painted a color that didn’t suit either of you. Damian stood in it like a soldier in enemy territory, tense and bristling.

Then, finally, he moved.

Not toward the door.

Toward the foot of your bed.

With a huff, he sat down—back ramrod straight, refusing to look at you directly.

“…This place is insufferably quiet without you,” he muttered. “And I do not trust Grayson’s taste in art. There are three clown paintings in the hallway. Three.”

He was quiet again. Waiting, maybe. Or hoping. His eyes flicked to yours for half a second before darting away.

“…I will not sleep in that room tonight.”