Lost in the Void, Found in the Stars | Damian Wayne Oneshots

Moving Target | Connor Hawke

Summary: A city that never sleeps, two boys chasing something they can't name.

.・。.・゜✭・»»--⍟--««.・✫・゜・。.

They don't talk about where they met. It wasn't romantic. It wasn't even memorable. A shared table in a too-crowded ramen joint during a summer downpour, that's all.

But if you ask Connor what he remembers, he'll say it was the clink of chopsticks against porcelain and the way Damian didn't flinch when thunder shook the windows. If you ask Damian, he'll say the miso was bland and the company was tolerable. But that's a lie. He remembers Connor's hands-knuckles scarred, veins visible like the roadmap of someone who never really stopped moving.

They never stop moving, either.

One week later they're on a bus to a nowhere city, fake names and loose plans, sunglasses and leather jackets in eighty-degree heat. Damian reads poetry in French under his breath, barely audible beneath the wind whistling through the cracked window. Connor's got a Walkman and old cassette tapes-Bowie, Sade, some crap synthwave that makes Damian's eye twitch but he lets it play anyway. Because Connor's mouthing the lyrics and he looks peaceful like that. He looks untouched.

At a gas station that smells like burnt coffee and tire grease, they kiss behind a stack of propane tanks. It doesn't mean anything. Not at first. Just too much adrenaline and nowhere to put it .But Connor starts sleeping closer after that. And Damian stops flinching when he does.

The days blur. Gold light on concrete, cigarette smoke curling in a spiral above cracked balconies, kids screaming and skateboards clattering down uneven sidewalks. Some afternoons are hot enough to slow the city down to a crawl. On those days, they lie on the roof of a run-down motel and count planes instead of stars.

Connor says, "I think I died once."

Damian doesn't even blink. "When?"

Connor turns his head, freckles catching the last of the sun like someone drew constellations across his face with burning ink. "I don't remember. Just that it was quiet. Until I met you."

Damian doesn't say anything, but his fingers twitch where they're brushing Connor's. He doesn't pull away.

There's a night, maybe in Chicago, maybe not, when the world is rain-slicked and electric. Neon signs smear across the wet pavement like oil in a puddle. They run through traffic like idiots, coats soaked, shoes ruined, Connor's laughter echoing off the buildings like some kind of defiance. Damian hates the noise but he still laughs, just once, mouth open like it hurts.

They break into an empty art gallery. Damian knows the alarm codes. Of course he does. Connor stares at a sculpture made of twisted metal and bones and says, "This feels like us."

Damian tilts his head. "Dead things welded together by violence?"

Connor grins. "Beautiful. Sharp. Unnecessary. Still standing."

It's three a.m. when Connor kisses him again, the kind of kiss that leaves bruises on the soul. Something that tastes like whiskey and truths you don't want to say out loud. Damian doesn't sleep that night. He just watches Connor breathe.

They fuck up a lot. Missed trains. Fist fights. Damian leaves for a week once-disappears to Prague on impulse, maybe to see if Connor will follow. He doesn't. Not right away.

But when Damian's standing on the Charles Bridge, watching dawn stain the river with light, there's a tap on his shoulder. No words. Just Connor. Just there. Like he always is, even when he's not.

They sit on the stone edge, shoulder to shoulder, silent until Damian says, "I hate that you knew I'd be here."

Connor shrugs. "You always go to bridges when you're sad. Like you want the sky and the water to argue over who gets to keep you."

Damian punches his arm. Hard. Then doesn't stop him when Connor pulls his hood over both of their heads and kisses him like the whole world is ending.

They live in fragments. Rooftop beers in New Orleans, sunburnt skin in Miami, stained sheets in Tokyo. Long drives through desert roads where the sky stretches too big, and everything feels like a secret kept too long. Their pasts sit in the rearview, faceless and quiet, and they don't look back. Not once. Damian teaches Connor how to draw. Connor teaches Damian how to sit still.

They don't say I love you. They say, "Don't die tonight." They say, "Try the fries, they're shit, but I saved you some." They say, "You grind your teeth when you're dreaming again."

Sometimes Damian wakes up with Connor's hands on his face, like he's memorizing the edges before they disappear. Like he's terrified one day they will.

The last time they leave a city, it's snowing.

They're standing at the train platform, the kind that only gets a train once every three days and the benches are more rust than metal. Connor leans into him, shoulder pressed against shoulder, and the cold bites at their cheeks, noses pink, breath visible.

"You ever think we'll stop?" Connor asks.

Damian watches the snow melt on Connor's eyelashes. "No."

Connor smiles like that's the answer he wanted.

"Good. Me neither."

Somewhere down the line, no one knows their names. Their faces are in murals, unrecognizable. A blurry polaroid of two boys kissing on a rooftop becomes someone's proof that love existed once, even if they can't remember who took it.

And maybe that's the point. Not to last forever. But to burn so bright no one forgets the glow.

End