Teen Titans one shots

August 16th

TW: suicidal themes

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9 hours to go

The day starts like any other. 

Sunlight extends its hand through the curtains unignorably, as if to say "the rest of the world is out here, why don't you come and join us?"

Rightfully so. It's 3 pm. Before his death, he'd never been a night owl like Bruce. He'd spring from bed at the crack of dawn, waking Alfred up to watch the sunset just because. The rays used to be warm and inviting. Now they bounce off his eyeballs like a defective pinball machine. 

He didn't mind. Daytime never really did it for him. 

He walked to the sink. A dirty, mangled toothbrush awaits. He'd been using it for months, so long that now whenever he gargles the straw around the phelghm on his tongue, stiff bristles mix with the spit and the blood. 

He could've stolen the money for a new one when the thorns of the quills felt like silk. But he just didn't feel like it. He didn't feel like doing much of anything, really. 

He is about to skip the daily scrub and swallow his morning breath when Jason remembers. 

The concept of birthdays is a cursed one. How the day will go is just as much a lottery as the day you were born. If you are one of the lucky ones, you'll get presents, cards, cake. If you are one of the lucky ones, you'll be kissed and hugged, even if gifts and spending are scarce. If you are one of the lucky ones, you won't be curled up on the floor waiting for it to end so you can stop excepting.

The worst of those categories is when you've experienced all three. The taste of something better. 

He tries to make excuses to invalidate his numbness. 

You were born to two addicts who couldn't keep their pants up.

 Only three people besides you know today isn't a normal day. 

Who cares if you aren't one of the lucky ones? You weren't even supposed to have another birthday.

Lucky. Lucky. Lucky.

Happy Birthday to me.

He hunches over the drain and throws up. 

8 hours to go

"Xenothium? What  Xenothium?" 

He is so so tired, and if only they knew that under that skull domino hood his eyes were bleary and his head pounded so much that the rush of his own blood made him wince, maybe they would stop their instinctive punch-kick-punch-kick 'justice', maybe they would take him to a place where he could rest for a few days. 

But no. Those are for the real sick people, the ones you can see. He is a petty thief, a practice villain just for flirts and giggles, and he keeps up the facade, because how could he not? 

"Don't play games, X. Your little criminal hobby doesn't do anybody any favors." 

And then he notices Robin's flat-ironed mask is a little wrinkled, his spoked bangs a little mussed, and maybe he is faking it too. 

Maybe he's thinking about-

No. Stop. 

"You think I don't know that?" His metallic voice filter was rusty as a real robot, one struggling to move its joints and pretend to be human. 

"You know what, screw it. I'm tired of this." He shakes the wadded up rolls from their bag over the edge of the roof. Thousands of dollars worth of cash flutters over Jump City Bank like butterflies. Pedestrians try to catch some bills out of the sky. He's makin' it rain.