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I.
Here’s the thing about having your brain full of information downloaded by an evil science organization that created you to serve a nefarious purpose, is that you get confused about whether it’s okay to wear lipstick.
Conner thinks a lot about how he should think. His body is mostly alien DNA, but he’s never set foot on the planet his bones would call home. There’s a sliver of him that’s human, and it’s this world he was brought into, but he didn’t grow up in it; his nursery was a test tube, his school was an endless stream of psychic propaganda, his first love was his fist connecting with the glass and shattering his way to freedom.
He should be all Cadmus, but he’s not. He should be all Superman, but he can’t be. And he should know if it’s okay for a boy to put on lipstick, but he doesn’t.
It’s late, it’s that foggy patch of time just before midnight where you could just as easily go to sleep for twelve hours as you could stay awake until dawn. It’s the time when bats go out to play, and tonight the Bats are definitely playing at something, because Tim is sitting cross-legged on his desk, swiping makeup onto his face like he was born doing it.
“You can’t tell anyone,” Tim says for the third time. “Anyone else knows and it’ll get back to Batman.”
Conner’s sitting backward on a chair, arms folded on the backrest, and he tries not to preen at “anyone else.” Anyone else but him, like he’s the final defense for secrets kept, like Tim’s just handed him not only an inch but the whole mile.
“I can keep a secret,” he says, also for the third time, and they both know it. “Like I’d tell Batman anything. Like he’d believe me.”
“It's Bart I’m worried about. Bart hears about it and then Wally will, and Wally will tell Dick, and Dick will keep it saved for the most embarrassing moment possible, and then the whole family will know I looked like this and didn’t take a picture—” This being a face made smooth and white by some miracle of paint and powder and the start of smoked black and dark red shapes that make Tim’s eyes look sharp and fatally blue— “and B will know that I worked a case on my own that he didn’t know about.”
Tim makes it sound like the end of the world, like earning even a fraction of disappointment from Batman would kill him. Maybe it would. Tim’s the good Robin, the right-hand man, or he tries hard to make it look that way. To be that way and to also do what he needs to. Conner wonders what it might be like, to care so much about not disappointing a person that you’ll contort your whole body into a certain shape to do it.
Maybe Tim hasn’t let Batman down before, or not down far. When all you’ve done is disappoint, you stop really worrying about how it makes anyone feel.
“You’re safe from Bart,” Conner says. “I gave him a snack and sent him to bed. It's just us.”
“Thanks, mom,” Tim says, meeting Conner’s eyes in the mirror. The black shadow across his eyes turns his smile devious.
Conner rests his chin on his arm. “Tell me what you’re doing now.”
“This? Eyeliner.” Tim does something delicate with an almost surgically thin brush, and suddenly the inner corners of his eyes look cat-sharp.
“And that?”
“Gel for my eyebrows.”
Conner feels like he’s in art class watching someone paint, or sitting in the kitchen and watching as M’gann turns a stack of edible ingredients into an inedible baked good.
“Where did you learn all of this?” he asks, plucking up an unused brush and tracing the bristles across his hand.
“What, you don’t think cosmetics are included in the Boy Wonder School of Hard Knocks?”
“Nightwing taught you?”
“No, actually it was Batman.” Tim sees Conner’s mouth drop in the mirror and twists into a smile. “I know. You wouldn’t believe the covers he’s had. Hell, his secret identity practically is a cover.”
Conner tries and fails to imagine Batman’s stern mouth done up in makeup and makes a face. Which is interesting. Why is it that seeing it on Tim makes Conner feel unmoored, but the thought of Batman makes his nose wrinkle? That feels a little homophobic, Cadmus.
“Batman taught you how to put makeup on,” Conner repeats.
“Well. Batgirl did most of the practical instruction. Eyeliner is wicked hard.”
“So,” Conner says as Tim starts hollowing out his cheekbones with a dusting of grayish brown powder. It makes him look like a piece of glass, sharp enough to cut. “So, you’ve done this before.”
Tim hums. “Loads of times. Most covers usually require less work, but I find that no one really remembers me when I dress like this. Or rather, no one would recognize me once it’s all gone.” And Tim pulls out a bullet of lipstick. “And that’s the fun of it, isn’t it?”
Conner loses the thread of the conversation because Tim is coating his lips in dark, velvety swipes that go on clean and smooth, like a marker. Still cross-legged and half hunched on the desk, inches away from the mirror; wearing some sort of edgy skirt-over-leggings situation that should look corny as hell but doesn’t. He smells like powder and sweat, like the Smallville High backstage dressing room when Conner helped out with sets during Oklahoma. There’s something—something about the masculine angles of Tim’s wrists and elbows, the soft curve of his neck and the ridge of his spine, his hair grown into short curls—and the precise and easy way he swipes on the lipstick. Conner feels struck by something that feels like longing in his gut, gets that itch to hold that he usually quashes or trades for breaking a building apart.
And there’s that little question, coming from Cadmus or Kansas or high school—if this is allowed. If Tim can just do it like he’s done it before, like it’s easy. Like he likes it.
Tim rubs his lips together, the smooth black like petals on his mouth. He cleans up a corner with a finger, blots a black O on a tissue. Conner knows he’s staring, but there’s nowhere else to look; the points of Tim’s cupid’s bow could stick in a wall like a batarang.
“What?” the lips say.
“Huh?”
Tim regards him. “Interesting.”
“No, I’m just observing,” Conner says, a little defensively. “You know, the skill.”
“Right, so you can analyze the moves and incorporate them into your skillset?” Tim laughs, and it’s only a little derisive, so it doesn’t sting so much. “Or do you just want to try out the look?”
Conner makes a show of taking in Tim, who’s slicking his hair back with icy gel. “It’s not so bad, I guess.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“I mean,” Conner laughs, “for a cover. It’s not Tommy Terror though.”
“And thank god for that,” says Tim, but there’s a faint flush spreading under the pale foundation, across Tim’s cheeks and nose where his faint freckles are all covered up. “It’ll do, I guess.”
Conner picks up the lipstick tube, rolls it between his palms. “You look good,” he says, almost to himself, because it’s true and it quiets that voice. Then again, “You look good, Rob,” and Tim’s blush deepens, and he splutters into laughter.
“Thanks,” he says, grinning. “The point is to blend in, though.” Then he applies more false facial piercings than Conner has seen on any human ever. Dots of metal under his bottom lip, bracing one eyebrow, tucked into his cheek like a dimple. He tucks a nose ring into his septum and scrunches his face in an almost-sneeze.
“Uh-huh,” Conner says. “Where are you going again? Infiltrating a local Hot Topic?”
“Wow. What other burns you got, alien boy.”
“Going to a Slipknot concert at a state fair? Maybe, I don’t know, digging up bodies in the cemetery for demon-summoning?”
“Now you’re dangerously close to engaging in stereotype.”
“You have a pentagram on your shirt! What am I supposed to take away from that?”
“Technically, it's a pentacle.”
Tim is putting the final touches on his cover. Studded bracelets, chains tethered to his belt, a silver ring thick enough to crack a jaw if hit with it. Conner still has the lipstick in his hands, and he considers pocketing it for later. You know, just to hold, maybe. Or to look at. The problem is, Tim would know it was missing. That’s the issue with having a detective as your best friend; you can’t really get away with shit.
“I’m intel-gathering,” Tim is telling him, all professional and serious in that laser-focused way he gets, made only a little ridiculous with his slicked-back hair and his nightmare makeup. “Missing persons cases in Gainsly aren’t adding up, but I’ve got a lead on someone who can get me info. But masks make her nervous, so Batman and Robin won’t be much help. There’s a night club on Canal Street. That’s where I’m going, as Milo Lister."
“So…you’re going clubbing.”
Tim’s tugging on a black hoodie riddled with holes like it’s been half-eaten by moths. He’s doing his best to be casual. “Yeah. But like, not for fun. In case that’s not clear.”
“I don’t know,” Conner says. He turns the lipstick over in his hands. “Could be fun.”
Tim pauses, just one moment of going entirely still while he thinks. He gets that from Batman, the same way that all of the Bats move like they don’t quite follow the rules of gravity like everyone else. Conner knows that he is weighing the possibilities of letting Conner come with him, or maybe debating just how gently he wants to let him down. There’s the no-metas rule for Gotham, and Conner really isn’t interested in getting on Batman’s bad side. And there’s also the fact that most simple missions tend to go sideways more often than not when Conner is involved. He doesn’t know why, if he’s cursed like Kara said he was, or if he just has rotten luck, but sometimes even Tim’s competent team leadership isn’t enough to keep things from going to shit.
“It’s okay,” he says before Tim has to say no. “You should get going. I’ll cover for you if Bart or Cass wake up.”
“Kon—”
“But also, and don’t take this personally, but they’re never going to believe you’re eighteen dressed like that. Wait, here—”
He shrugs off his leather jacket and holds it out, and already he can see Tim in it, sharp wide shoulders and the smell of home. It’ll look so good that Conner’s jaw aches thinking about it.
Tim looks at him. “No, you can come with me, we just have to—change up your look.”
“And put all that shit on my face? I’d look like a freak,” Conner says with a laugh that hurts, just a little. His words echo oddly, and there's a terrible bog-like feeling rising in his chest. And he doesn't know why.
He’s still holding the lipstick. Fuck. Now he has to figure out a way to put it back or hand it over and keep this painful smile on his face while he does it. Tim is watching him, and Conner isn’t sure where it was that he fucked up. Maybe it’s the Cadmus in him after all.
Tim takes the jacket. “Kon,” he says, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes Conner feel like all of his teeth have been pulled. “First of all. I don’t think my contact would talk to me if I wasn’t alone. That’s the reason. But second, you wouldn’t have to make yourself look any way you didn’t want to, if you did come with me. That’s what a cover is all about.”
“Sorry.” He scrubs an embarrassed hand over his face. “I didn’t mean—it’s not shit, I didn't mean you, you know. I just. I don’t know.”
Tim takes off the horrible holey hoodie, and then he’s slipping into Conner’s jacket, pushing up the sleeves. Conner was right, it does look good. Sleek and wrinkled just enough to be well-worn, nothing affected about it, with his arms bare to the elbow and his shoulders dark and sharp. He looks at home in it, which eases Conner a bit. Then Tim is walking toward him—closer to looking him in the eye with the high boots he’s wearing—
“Come here,” Tim says, and Conner lets himself be led to the desk and sits down in front of the mirror. The lights are still on, bright and buttery and ringing the mirror on all sides like it’s a starlet’s dressing room. Kon’s reflection is washed out, every imperfection stark on his face; his jaw is too square, the dimple in his chin too pronounced, his brow too strong. He looks like Superman, like always, but he looks so severe in a way that feels both familiar and new to him.
Tim leans down so his face is in the mirror too. For all his stark makeup, he looks pretty, the way he always looks pretty, but especially because he’s giving Conner that soft smile that rearranges his insides.
“You wouldn’t look ridiculous,” Tim says. “Here.”
He plucks the lipstick out of Conner’s hand, like he always knew it was there. Conner opens his mouth to offer up some sort of explanation, as if he could, but Tim just hops back onto the desk, tucking one leg under himself for leverage as he leans forward.
“Don’t you—you gotta get going—” Conner says.
“The night is young,” Tim says, uncapping the lipstick. “This is important. Possibly the most important thing I’ll do tonight. Nothing is more important than seeing what you look like in—” He checks the bottom of the tube and cracks up. “Alien.”
“What?”
“It’s—” Tim is laughing so hard that his chain necklaces are making tinkling sounds. “It’s what it’s called, I swear.”
Conner takes the tube, and Tim was telling the truth. He sputters into laughter. “No way!”
“See, it was made for you!”
They’re both grinning, and Conner doesn’t even feel nervous when Tim leans in. He’s practically straddling Conner to get close enough at the right angle, and his steady heartbeat thrums so loudly in Conner’s ear, like the beat of music being played next door. Tim’s holding the tube delicately, his little finger extended like a posh person drinking tea.
“Okay,” he says, and he’s half serious, like this really is important. “The key to clean lines is to brace your hand against something. It’ll give you more control.”
Then he’s leaning close, and his pinky is resting against Conner’s chin, just the barest touch. “Open your mouth,” Tim says, and Conner does, and he does not blush, he’s not going to think about that later, he’s not going to listen in on Tim’s heartbeat just in case it speeds up a bit. The lipstick goes on drier than Conner thought, and lighter too but still smooth somehow, a little cool. He holds still, lips parted, and he gets to look at Tim’s face up close while he concentrates. If he focuses, he can see Tim’s bare skin underneath the makeup, his eyes without all the shadow, the regular cut of his cheekbones without the contouring, all of it focused solely on Conner.
“Okay?” Tim checks in, which is a very Rob thing of him to do.
“Eah,” Conner says without moving his lips.
“Personally I don’t get the ‘alien’ thing,” Tim muses as he works. “Though judging by Bar—Batgirl’s makeup bag, makeup names never really make sense. This should be called something like. I don’t know. Midnight Suede.” Then: “Stop that.”
But Conner is laughing so hard his side is aching, and he might be ruining the lipstick. “What the fuck,” he wheezes. “What the fuck, Rob. Midnighah—”
“Okay,” Tim says, defensive. “So I’m not good at naming. I get it.”
“Rob,” Conner says, wiping away a tear. “Robin. Your name, which you chose, is Red Robin—”
“Okay.”
“Bad at naming doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“Jesus, I get it.” Tim rolls his eyes, but he’s trying hard not to crack, Conner can tell. “Do you want to leave here looking like Queen Amidala or are you going to let me finish?”
Conner chokes down his laughter and tries not to smile as Tim gets back to the task at hand.
“No more lip from you,” Tim says, mock-scolding.
“Or really, one more lip, when you think about—”
“Silence.”
“Now that would be a good name.”
It strikes Conner how easy this feels. That has to count for something, right? His best friend is making him up with lipstick, and it feels easy, and normal, and very few things in his life have ever really felt easy or normal. Maybe that means it’s okay for him to do this, the way it’s okay for Tim to do it and for Cassie to cut off her hair and wear a binder sometimes. If he’s not scared or disgusted, then maybe they didn’t ruin him completely from the beginning.
“All right. Rub your lips together,” Tim says, snapping the cap back on the tube with a little pop, and demonstrates. “Like this.”
When Conner complies, the texture takes him by surprise. It doesn’t feel like paint, but it doesn’t feel dry either. His lips feel velvety like rose petals, and when he moves them he finds that he’s aware of all the shapes his mouth is making. He lifts a hand to touch, but Tim slaps it away.
“You’ll smudge it,” he says, and then stops to look at Conner intently.
“How’s it looking?” Conner asks.
“It—” Tim says, his voice gone a little hoarse. “It looks good. Um. You look good, Kon.”
“Yeah?” He’s suddenly nervous to look in the mirror, grateful that all he can see right now is Tim crouched in front of him. He rubs his lips together again, just to feel the sensation of the glide. “What I said before,” he says, “I didn’t mean it.”
“I know.”
“I just was—in my head, I guess, you know, thinking about what other people might think.”
“I know,” Tim repeats.
“Which is stupid, because it’s just you here and—” And I’m safe with you, he doesn’t say. “I was just nervous.”
“Kon, I know,” Tim says. “Believe me, I know. It’s like, for all the weird shit in our lives, there are these rules we still have to follow about—about what we wear and what we look like and how we act. At least that’s how I see it. Makes you feel like you’re being watched all the time.”
“Yeah. That’s—that’s it.” Conner thinks for a moment about explaining that he is being watched all the time. To most people, he’s Superboy, an extension of Superman. The symbol, the colors, the powers. Even for his friends and teammates, the League, Conner is derivative. Cadmus liked to say that a lot. Derivative. Instead he just says, insufficiently, “I’m sorry.”
Tim shakes his head. “It’s okay, Kon, I get it. But also,” and he’s got his hands on either side of Conner’s face. They’re close together, Tim perched on the counter with his boots on either side of Conner’s thighs, crouched near enough that Conner can smell his own jacket on Tim’s shoulders. Tim smiles, soft and wide with matching lips. “You look really, really good.”
“I feel really good,” Conner admits in a whisper.
“Yeah?” Tim’s thumb is doing something to Conner’s chin that he can feel in his toes. He’s aware of how near Tim’s lips are to his, how near Tim has been to him this whole time, near and touchable.
“Yeah,” Conner breathes, curling his hands around one of Tim’s ankles. Conner could kiss him, reach over and press his lips to Tim’s face and pull back to see a black mark as evidence. He could smear that perfect, sharp mouth with his own until it was messy and soft, making dark trails down Tim’s neck. If Tim kissed him back, they would match.
The buzzing, when it starts, is close enough that Conner feels it vibrate in his bones. They both jump and break apart, and the moment is gone.
“Shit,” Tim says, scrambling to pull out his phone—his cover phone, one of those cheap ones you can set up and burn as soon as possible. “I’m late. Shit. I need to get to Gainsly or I’ll miss the meetup.”
He’s sliding off the counter and grabbing his disguised utility belt from the clothes rack, slinging it around his waist. Conner scrambles up after him, feeling a bit bereft like when the heater turns off and the cold starts to seep in.
“I’m sorry,” Tim is saying, and Conner can practically see him working out the issue in his head, if he can somehow stay and still meet his contact. If anyone could figure out how to be in two places at once, it would be Tim.
“Go,” Conner says. “You can't miss it, Tim, go.”
“I’ll be back—you'll stay here?”
Conner ought to head back to Kansas, or offer himself up for a mission. He could really do with feeling useful right now.
“It's just—” Tim is pulling a cap out and situating it on his head, and with all the makeup on his expression is inscrutable. “I'm interested in whatever we—kind of felt like this was a moment, you know, and I—”
“I'll be here, Rob,” Conner says, a little bit of the warmth coming back. “You can't be late for the demon summoning.”
Tim laughs, halfway out the door. “Asshole.”
And then he's gone. All that's left to do is turn around and look in the mirror, which Conner hasn't done. It felt like more of something he could do with Tim next to him, Tim’s face next to his in the reflective surface, not alone, not weird, not a freak. He does touch his lips now, smudging be damned; just a light finger testing the middle of his lower lip. When he looks down, there's a faintly purplish impression of the geography of his lips on the pad of his finger.
Just as he's going to chicken out—leave the room, find a tissue and wipe it off, pretend he'd seen it when Tim comes back—he notices a weight in the pocket of his jeans. He reaches in and pulls out the tube of lipstick, and he laughs. Leave it to Robin to be slick enough to plant it without him noticing. Alien. It's just his shade.
Conner takes a deep breath and turns around. There, in the mirror, is his face. Same as it was before, a little too square, a little too harsh. Too much like a certain famous face, but that's just how it is. But his mouth—his mouth. Conner smiles, and the lovely painted lips smile along with him. It’s pretty; it’s almost perfect. And suddenly he can see a glimmer of someone else. Someone he wants to get to know. Someone he wants to find.
II.
Tim makes it to Manhattan, Kansas, just after 10pm with a bottle of vodka and a tension headache. He’s half-heartedly texting Dick as he walks up the stairs to Bart’s apartment, part of his brain still mulling over his economics project. The other part is picking apart the clues in his case pointing to a probable ice attack on Gotham Central Bank tonight.
He knocks on 3C just as his phone pings. It's a selfie from Dick: Nightwing tossing up a peace sign, Red Hood in the background pointing to a shockingly phallic stalagmite of ice next to an ATM.
haley’s dad
temp play @ the bank tonite
Tim’s temples throb.
Tim
mister freeze? his tech signature didn’t match the samples i took from the vault
haley’s dad
captain cold. have a fun night off!! 😏
Tim
it’s MY case!
The door opens, and Bart is there.
“You forgot, didn't you,” Bart says by way of greeting. He doesn’t look surprised. “I told them you’d forget.”
“I didn’t forget,” Tim says. “I’m here! I have alcohol! I never forget things. I’m just busy. You know, with school.”
“You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you.”
“No I do not,” admits Tim, who has midterms next week and still hasn’t recovered from sending Mad Hatter to Arkham last night. He glances around the apartment: empty except for a pile of unfolded laundry on the sofa that looks like it might be sentient. “Did we cancel? Did I forget that we canceled?”
“So you remember that we’re meeting up tonight, but you don’t remember what tonight is?” Bart shakes his head. “Tim, you’ve led us through space.”
“That’s not the same thing! I don’t need to know what day it is in space.”
“You’re a detective! That’s your whole thing!” Bart goes fuzzy, then clear again, this time with a bag of gummy worms in his hand. He shoves a handful into his mouth and then sweeps a hand around the room dramatically. “Detect what it is that you forgot.”
Tim groans and thunks the vodka down on the table. “Well, it’s past laundry day,” he says, gesturing to the person-shaped pile of clothes.
“Actually, those are clean. I just prefer to keep them that way.”
“Wait,” Tim says, putting it together. He sticks his head out the doorway, notes the carved pumpkins in front of the apartments he passed, the lurid orange and purple decorations. Bring booze, Cassie had said, we’ll need to do shots to get through the party. “Wait. Halloween is next week. Isn't it?”
“It’s tonight, Timmy. It’s fine, we all knew you’d forget about a costume,” Bart says, with a long-suffering air that Tim resents. “Probably every night in Gotham is Halloween, right? Lots of tricks, one or two treats.”
He tosses a bag at Tim that catches him right in the chest. “What’s—?”
“The costume, Rob, keep up. You don’t have another concussion, do you?”
“I just flew myself here from Gotham,” Tim points out in his defense.
“With a concussion?”
“This—” He's looking in the bag, confused at first and then understanding, then exasperated. “I can't wear this. Why did you have to—you guys are the worst.”
Bart snaps a picture of Tim’s distress, then another when Tim flips him off. “Chop chop, get changed. We were supposed to be at the black box four minutes ago, and I know how slow you are.”
“I'm not wearing this.”
“Sorry,” Bart says, not sorry at all. “Costumes required for entry. You know theater people.”
“Well, what's your costume, then?” Tim takes note of Bart’s unassuming jeans and t-shirt, suddenly worried that Bart has planned for them both to be a matched set.
“Okay, wait there, it's a good one.” Bart speeds away again and reappears wearing the same thing, but this time he has a black paper circle the size of a dinner plate taped to his chest. “Get it?”
“I…” Tim wonders if he might have a concussion after all. “I don't…”
“Wait, see,” and Bart turns around to show off the matching black circle taped to his back. “Get it?” he says, striking a stiff pose with one hand waving.
“Bart. Do you think maybe you're the one with the concussion?”
“Come on,” Bart says, crestfallen. “Void Nexus Jerry?”
Tim checks to make sure Bart hasn't sneaked a superspeed shot of the vodka and finds the bottle still unopened.
“Jerry the Void Nexus?” Bart scratches his head. “Has that not happened yet? I could've sworn that's happened already.”
“What's a void nexus??”
“I swear it's happened by now!”
Tim’s phone pings again, and again as he’s taking off his shirt to put on the heinous costume Bart gave him, but instead of Dick, this time it's Kon.
superboy(friend)
where are u 🥺
you're gonna miss time warp
also fyi cassie chose the costume
Tim
this is the worst thing i’ve ever worn and i wear a cape most nights
superboy(friend)
send pics? 🥺
-
The Kansas State black box theater is crawling with kids in costumes. Someone’s hijacked the light system to bleed purple and green and sickly orange all over the seats. There’s a disco ball hanging from the catwalk. Multiple fog machines burp acrid cascades of cold mist across the floor, and there’s a projector casting The Rocky Horror Picture Show on the back wall, music blasting, stage swarmed by dancers. Someone steals the bottle of vodka out of Tim’s hands almost immediately, but he lifts a half-empty bottle of Fireball right back. A quick, discreet toxicology report confirms it’s not roofied, but a couple of swings confirms it tastes like a spicy asshole. Perfect.
“Kon’s coming on soon!” Cassie says when he and Bart find her among all the chaos: Black pea coat and top hat, spindly gloves and stark white and black face paint—all the makings of the Babadook, but with thigh-high rainbow gogo boots.
“The Gogodook, nice,” Bart says. “Classic. Almost as good as mine.”
“Uhhh.” Cassie takes in Bart’s black circles, and Tim feels better. “...Snake eyes?”
“No! God, have none of you heard of Void Nexus Jerry?”
There’s an Elphaba standing next to the Gogodook, and she raises a Solo cup to Tim. “That you, Princeton boyfriend?” she says, and he recognizes her as Cassie’s girlfriend of four months.
“Kansas Anita,” Tim replies, raising his bottle of Fireball to her and tilting up his cheap domino mask.
“You really call me that?”
“I know more than one Anita.”
She nods to his costume: Thin, shapeless synthetic fabric that’s gonna soak up all of his sweat and smell absolutely vile later, black and green with a generic geometric symbol at the center of his chest. “Green Lantern, right?”
“Actually, it’s Viridescent Flashlight,” Tim says, holding up his hand to show off the green apple-flavored Ring Pop that Bart gave him. He figures that this must be a punishment for last year, when Tim forgot a costume (he was busy, okay, he’s always busy) and tried to pass off his very high-tech Robin mask as a prop he’d made from worbla.
Anita nods. “Big superhero fan?”
“Oh, yeah,” Tim says, and he’s turning to the stage because he recognizes the music, and he knows he’s about to get his cheap dollar-store socks knocked off. “Especially that Superboy guy.”
It’s like Kon hears him—actually, he probably did. He enters stage right dressed as an absolute knockout Dr. Frank-N-Furter, with a feather boa around his shoulders, holding three beer bottles that he passes out to nearby friends. Everyone’s cheering and the music is deafening, but Kon is looking right at Tim, snapping over to him in block heels. He’s got his curls teased out into a charming swoop, face glittering with makeup, all muscle and lace and narrow hips. Tim notices the window of skin between Kon’s very small shorts and the tops of his stockings, and he breaks into a sweat.
“Holy shit, dude,” Bart is yelling, “you win Halloween.”
“Hey!” Cassie says.
I'm not much of a man by the light of day, the music growls, and Kon is lip-syncing with cherry-red lips that make Tim feel like he’s been lit on fire. Could be the whisky, but historically it’s just Kon. But by night I'm one hell of a lover.
“Hey, your boyfriend is pretty hot,” Kansas Anita bellows in Tim’s ear.
“He’s alright,” Tim yells back, and above him, Kon shouts a laugh. Tim finds the feather boa wrapped around his neck, and Kon is clacking away, square shoulders bare and reflecting the colored lights like polished stones. Tim wants his arms around those shoulders with the same intense itch that he gets when he solves a case, when he finds the missing piece. Kon’s always the missing piece, more often than not these days with him in Kansas and Tim at Princeton.
He watches Kon move around the stage with electric confidence, and suddenly he’s blooming with something warm that’s not from the Fireball. He remembers a time, over five years ago now, when every move Kon made was an apology, when he wore the S like a mark of shame. Cadmus did that to him, made him that way, but the world kept him like that, and it took the team to coax him into the safe haven of himself. Kon was so brilliant, and full of life and a capacity to love, always just vibrating with it, and now he’s passing it to everyone else and Tim is so, so proud.
He’s also a little tipsy, and about normal amounts of horny.
I see you shiver with antici—
Kon’s looking at him again, eyes bright and mischievous. Probably Kon has been looking at him this whole time. Maybe above average levels of horny, then.
“PATION,” they all scream, explosive.
Bart takes the bottle of Fireball from Tim and downs the rest of it with a whoop as the room cheers. With his metabolism, he’ll be drunk for probably seven minutes at the most.
The song ends, and Kon strikes a final pose. The sound is deafening. Campus security is definitely going to hear them at this rate. Then Kon is hopping off the stage, a little too gracefully for someone in heels, and he’s bounding up to them, slick with sweat and shining with glitter. He grins, teeth brilliant. Tim is so smitten, it's silly.
“Hi,” he says, a little too quietly, but Kon can hear him just fine.
“Hi there,” says Kon, giving him a once-over.
“Viridescent Flashlight,” Tim supplies.
“Right, right. Never liked that one,” Kon says, trying not to laugh. “Seems like a real asshole to me.”
“I’ll tell him you said that,” Tim whispers, and Kon cracks up. His boyfriend is pulling him close for a kiss, and this is what Tim flew across the country for on a Friday night. He wraps his arms around Kon’s neck and pulls him close, breathing in the smell of powder and sweat and Kon’s musk, and sucks a lacquered lip into his mouth.
“Hey,” Cassie’s voice cuts in. Someone taps Tim on the shoulder. “Hey. No devolving into sex monkeys yet, okay? Jesus, we just got here.”
Kon disengages with a sound Tim can taste and tucks Tim under his arm for safe-keeping. “Nice boots, Cass.”
“Thanks. Nice legs.”
Bart is rambling drunkenly to Kansas Anita. “No, so, listen, it’s this meme, right, like it’s everywhere, and it comes from this NASA article that was a huge deal and it’s like, they’ve found the first known evidence of a void nexus, right? So it’s this huge thing only it hits the feeds with this typo so it says, scientists have discon—dis—what’s the word when it’s a discovery? ‘Discovered the first void nexus jerry!’ And the feeds go completely crazy and then it was everywhere, everyone fucking losing it over Jerry and what’s crash is that they actually name it Jerry—only I’m not sure if it’s happened yet, you know, the time stream is moded sometimes—”
“Man, what did you drink?” Anita says. “Dude has half a bottle of whisky and can see into the future.”
They’re weaving through the crowd and dragging Bart along until they climb the stalls and find a couple of empty seats and collapse into them. Kon drags Tim into his lap, handsy and possessive as always, and Tim doesn’t even mind. It’s been almost three weeks since Tim last got out of New Jersey, and Kon’s taking his bachelor’s of agricultural studies degree at Kansas State a lot more seriously than Tim is with his engineering degree.
“Face it, your Princeton BS is just for show,” Kon said once. “You’ve got Wayne Tech R&D locked in. That’s nepotism for you.”
“When I invent something that changes the landscape of farming, you’ll be thankful for Bruce’s nepotism,” Tim replied. Kon’s right, but it’s Gotham that keeps Tim away, even though there’s texting and video calls, and Kon can and does fly halfway across the country most weekends when he’s not swimming in homework or performing with his Dragriculture Club. Doesn’t mean Tim doesn’t miss him, doesn’t whisper things to him throughout the day, knowing that Kon can hear him. It makes Tim feel crazy, this time in a good way. In the best way. God, he’s drunk. He hasn’t eaten dinner, that’s why he’s like this. He says so as he wriggles closer to straddle Kon and tuck his face into Kon’s neck.
“Ew,” Kansas Anita says, watching him.
“Don’t be homophobic,” Tim mumbles into Kon’s skin.
“He’s a lightweight,” Kon explains to her, rubbing Tim’s back. Then: “Bart, my dude, what’s with the circles? I don’t get it.”
Bart looks betrayed, but he’s already sobering up. “They’re voids, Conner. I’m Jerry the—” And he’s explaining it again.
“How’s the case going,” Kon murmurs right into Tim’s ear so he’s the only one that hears.
“Dick stole it from me.”
“Oh yeah? Bastard.”
“Nah. I’m glad I came tonight,” Tim says. “It’s been too long since I saw you perform.”
Kon preens a little, completely unself-conscious. “Yeah? You liked it?”
“You were hot. Obviously.” But it’s not enough. Tim lifts his head, shakes it a little. This is important, and he needs his words to work properly for him. “You were—every time you’re on stage it’s like you’ve opened up a part of yourself you keep locked in a cabinet. A part of yourself that’s not for just one person, but for everyone. It’s like sunlight.”
Kon jostles him with a laugh, and Tim gets to see his whole face brighten with it. “How much have you had?”
“Doesn’t matter. Couple swallows. Whatever, shut up,” Tim says, thumbs stroking Kon’s cheeks. “Hey, do you remember when we were sixteen, and I put lipstick on you for the first time?”
“Milo Lister,” Kon says with a grin. “Yeah. I remember him very fondly.”
Tim hums and readjusts to straddle Kon, jigsawing their hips until they fit together like a joint. This costume is actually quite accommodating, he finds, which is really convenient for him right now. “I really wanted to kiss you then,” he admits, like it’s a secret.
“Yeah?” Kon breathes. Every part of him pressed against Tim is warm and weighty, and Tim wants to drape Kon over himself like a blanket. “I wanted you to kiss me then too. I just wasn’t brave enough to do it myself. But that was the beginning, you know. You doing that for me, it meant that I could—start seeing myself clearly, or something.” Kon blinks up at him, and Tim marvels at how well he looks, like his skin is a favorite coat instead of a stiff, borrowed suit. His eyes are little moons, soft and happy and fixed on Tim. “You did that for me. And I don’t know if I ever told you that.”
Tim kisses him. He’s almost always in the orbit of kissing Kon, even when they’re on a mission or on patrol, like he’s on the edge of tipping into a black hole. Tim is very, very good at not falling into it. And he’s very, very good at pitching himself in when he wants to, and now he wants to. He kisses Kon’s lipsticked mouth the way he’s wanted to all night, wet and slow and deep. Kon wraps around him like cling film and gives as good as he gets until all of that pretty cherry lipstick and the gloss on top is smeared and rubbed to rouge.
“You were wrong before,” Kon says when he pulls back to let Tim breathe, and yeah, the red is everywhere. “About me being up there for everyone. It wasn’t for everyone, it was just for you.”
Hands low on his back, breath in his mouth, the thrum of the bass and the cacophony of voices singing and I can make you a maaaaaaaan. They’re making out, probably with a little more intent than they should be while in public, and Tim’s tongue is still tingling a little from the whisky, or maybe that’s just the taste of Kon, like spice. Over his shoulder, he’s pretty sure Bart is taking a series of snapchats of them with himself in the foreground, and Kon’s laughing into his mouth.
“They know we’re still here, right?” says Kansas Anita. “We’re literally right here.”
“They’ll be normal tomorrow. Probably,” Cassie replies.
Tomorrow is Saturday. Halloween on a Friday and they have the whole weekend still. Tomorrow Tim will wake up in Kon’s bed with his soft flannel sheets and a borrowed nightshirt, and Kon will wake up obscenely early, like at 10am, to make Tim coffee.
Suddenly, Kon pulls away and makes a face. “Uh oh.”
“Uh oh?” asks Tim. “What kind of uh oh?”
“Uhhhh,” says Kon. “A few. Most importantly, campus security is on their way.”
“Well, we could have seen that one coming,” Cassie says, extending a gogo-booted foot to stand up. “Let’s go get something to eat or like, steal candy from kids.”
“That’s so evil of you,” Anita says with admiration, following her.
Tim shifts to slide off Kon’s lap, but Kon’s hands are tight on his hips. “Second uh oh,” Kon whispers, and squirms.
“What—oh. Oh, yeah,” Tim says, testing his hips against a certain hardness. He’s impressed actually, considering they’re in public. Interesting. He’s filing this away for future examination. “Okay, yeah, this is a problem. Those shorts are really small.”
“And tight,” Kon says, strained.
Bart leans over. “Hey, do you need to borrow one of my voids? Here, you can have one of my voids.”
They end up at a Waffle House at midnight. They make Tim pay, because he’s rich and because he never came through on the promise of shots, and they end up in a corner booth with enough food for twice as many people. Bart has a sausage-eating contest with Anita, and he does an admirable job of eating at the speed of a normal person to sell it. Cassie unzips her boots with a whoop of considerable relief, and Tim finds himself propped up against Kon’s chest, sluggish with the weight of five waffles and two insufficient cups of coffee in his stomach.
“This beats last year,” Bart says, having graciously lost the contest.
“What happened last year?” Anita asks.
Last year, Halloween ended early when All Hallows Day ended up ushering in a smattering of necromantic events across the globe. They’d welcomed in the dawn in Bosnia overseeing the reburial of the bodies once the alien reanimating influence had been dealt with. So yeah, this is an improvement.
“Well, for one, Tim had the lamest costume,” Cass says.
“I still do,” Tim points out.
“It’s tradition at this point. Next year, we’ll make you knock-off Batman.”
“Ah, Ratman,” Tim says.
“Owldude,” Kon offers, sucking on Tim’s green apple Ring Pop.
“Are owls and bats that equivalent? I don’t think they are.”
“And bats and rats are??”
Tim finds himself half-drifting, listening to Kon’s hummingbird heartbeat pressed to his ear. In his pocket, his phone buzzes—probably Dick responding to the selfie Tim sent of his costume. It will have gotten back to Bruce by now, so everyone will be having fun with it at home.
Across the table, Cassie and Anita are close to devolving into sex monkeys themselves. Any second now Bart’s going to speed away and leave them all to it, and Tim finds he wants to go home too, home to Kon’s apartment. He wants to watch as Kon wipes off his makeup and undoes the ties of his corset. He wants Kon, soft and sleepy and pajama-clad in a bed. He wants to wake up tomorrow morning and crawl over to Kon’s makeup bag, dig out their trusty friend Alien, and straddle Kon as he swipes that deep, velvety black on his boyfriend’s lips, just to watch him grin.
Tim rouses himself and tilts his head back to tell Kon all of this, but he stops. Kon is looking at his own reflection in the dark glass of the window, idly combing his finger’s through Tim’s hair. It’s like there are two of them, one real and one shadow, but both of them are Kon, both of them truer to him than any have ever been before. In Tim’s ear, Kon’s Kryptonian heart rabbits its constantly quick pace as he watches Kon look at himself and then, fondly, smile.
Tim wriggles closer. “Hey.”
Kon turns to him, and this time the smile is for him. “Hey.”
“Take me home?”
“What for, sleep? You, sleeping?” Kon exaggerates.
“I could be talked into it. After a while. Maybe.”
“Mmm. Me too. Maybe. After a while.”
“Okay.”
“Alright.”
“Kon?”
“Yeah, Rob?”
“You look good.”
Kon smiles. “You know what? I feel good.”