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Chapter Text

A boy sat on a jagged slab of rock, surrounded by the bubbling, screaming rivers of red lava. His captor’s voice echoed above him—harsh, frantic, laced with fury and sorrow—but the words no longer reached his ears. Years of hearing the same cruel litany had dulled their meaning, turned them into distant noise.

The heat was alive, a ravenous beast clawing at his skin, burning through layers of ragged cloth until only shadows of fabric remained.

Above him, a shadow loomed, sharp and fractured, a storm of anger and regret tangled in the shape of a man.

He waited. Silent. Patient.

Until the twisted reflection of his father finally retreated into the skies, leaving the volcano trembling with silent sorrow. He knew the man would not return for a long time, his pattern of disappearing for days etched in time like a cruel promise.

When the air finally cleared and the threat was distant, he lingered, waiting a little longer, just to be safe. He felt the suffocating heat like a shroud around his chest.

Then, with trembling hands, he seized a jagged shard of black stone, cold as ice, sharp as a bitter secret, and began to claw at the burning walls that held him captive.

The lava roared and hissed like fireworks, a violent chorus of destruction orchestrated around him. But he pressed on, driven by a desperate hunger to escape, like a caged bird tearing its way through the bars, feeling the fresh wind glide against its blood-stained feathers once more.

The molten iron seared his skin like wildfire, the remnants of tattered cloth melting away like liquid coal.

Without the sun’s light, he was no more than an animal, every inch of his flesh felt like it was being pierced by a thousand claws, like wounds freshly rubbed with salt, every movement a new stab of agony leaving him raw and vulnerable.

But he didn’t care.

Because he was finally breaking free.

Chapter Text

I was ten when it happened. When I had followed a rabbit down a hole and never found my way back.  

My father had said no, to leave it alone.   

But I chased it anyway, into the shadows, straight into the teeth of something even the man of steel couldn’t save me from.  

I think I’m starting to regret ever following that rabbit.   

Except the rabbit was my paternal grandfather, and the hole was a trip through space.  

I don’t think there’s a word for it, but denial comes the closest.   

It’s not because of where it took me. But because of who it turned me into.  

Nobody knew exactly what had happened, or where he’d gone for a week and a half. 

But time didn’t move the same where he was. 

To everyone else, his absence had only been a few days.  

But to him, it had been years. 

His eleventh birthday passed unnoticed, swallowed by the strange days he spent away, a marker of time that existed for everyone else but not for him. 

When Jonathan had finally found his way back, he was fourteen instead of eleven. He was taller, sharper, but something was missing. 

The spark in his eyes was dulled, like a part of him had never returned with him, left behind burning somewhere in the depths of the volcano.  

The day he had come back, he had his scans done at the Fortress of Solitude, confirming his parents’ worst fears. He was, in fact, himself, Jonathan, but nothing about him was quite right.  

His mother had held him tightly, her tears shimmering in her purple sapphire eyes—eyes that once shone brighter than amethyst—that never spilled in the end. His father, unable to contain his frustration and denial, had flown out of orbit, shattering meteors in a storm of anger, mourning the son he never got to watch grow through those three quiet, fragile years. The son whose life he had missed. 

His mother’s embrace felt like the calm after a storm. Still, but deafening in ways Jon couldn’t explain. She was whispering her gratitude to the gods in the sky, weaving words of pride for how well Jonathan had endured it, how maturely he had taken it all. But he didn’t feel like he grew at all. He felt like his view of the world had shifted, coming apart at the seams he had spent three years trying so hard to keep intact.  

Back at home, his clothes were all three sizes too small, his bed seemed like it had shrunken during his absence, and his old card collection was still there, exactly where he had left it—only a few dust particles settled on it instead of the thick layer one might expect. Somehow, nothing had truly changed. Yet nothing was ever going to be the same. 

He couldn’t meet his own gaze in the mirror without flinching. The boy who stared back wasn’t him, not really—just the ghost of the sweet, unguarded child he used to be, haunting him with what he could have been. If only he had listened to his father, if only he had tried harder to smother his insecurities that had grown like weeds in a flower bed full of lilies.  

What felt like forever to him had been just a few hours to everyone else. What seemed like an eternity was, in fact, only ten days. 

He still remembers the hollow pull in his chest, a void of apathy dragging at his heart the moment he returned. His grandfather had wrapped him in clothes meant for him, heavy with the gold and red crest of the House of El, displayed proudly on his chest. But Jonathan didn’t feel like an El. Nor did he feel like a Kent—or even a Lane. He didn’t feel like he belonged here, in Metropolis, on Earth, or anywhere. That trip to space—to learn, to find his place, to find a purpose—only led him to question everything even more. 

He remembers sitting across from his grandfather, trying to explain what had happened during those years away. His mouth kept moving, spilling words in a frantic, endless flow, on and on, while his mind felt like an empty mausoleum—a silent, cold, decaying manor inhabited only by the ghost of the boy who once lived there.  

He had called Damian—his best friend—the day after he reunited with his parents. The call wasn’t a short, five-minute check-in, just like Jonathan had expected. Something quick to catch up on yesterday’s elementary school drama, forgotten after a few days. Instead, he had spent the whole afternoon on the phone, ignoring the guilt gnawing at him for the rising telephone costs. 

Damian had been angry at first—confused by how Jonathan was suddenly his age, and unmistakably taller, different. Jonathan’s voice cracked every five seconds and had to go get a new glass of water every once in a while to stem the vocal cords. Then frustration crept in, mingling with denial and shock, until finally, Damian was speechless. Jonathan even heard the other boy’s heavy breathing, a shaky breath held tight as if he was wrestling with his tear ducts to keep his true emotions hidden. 

Jonathan couldn’t do anything but sit there on the couch, assuring Damian that he was fine, even though every time Damian called him “Jon,” his heart flinched. It was a reminder of everything they used to be, and everything still unspoken between them. 

Neither of them said it, but the silence stretched heavier than any words could—what happened to Jonathan during those lost years wasn’t something easy to explain. It was a gulf widening between them, even as they reached out. 

Sometimes, Jonathan would pick up a pencil, the familiar weight of the handle comforting in his hand, and start to scribble a new prompt something simple, something silly, in hopes of feeling the normalcy he had once felt when Damian used to turn his words into an illustrated masterpiece, like one of their old comics. But the words would catch in his throat, the letters stuck in his muscles. He’d remember that nothing was the same anymore. The pages were blank, but the space between them felt heavier, filled with things unsaid, places they couldn’t reach. 

Jonathan had started to realize he no longer could write prompts. Those years trapped in the volcano had stolen not only his shine but also his creativity. 

More often than not, the pencil would fall back to the table, untouched, and Jonathan would sit in silence, wondering if the boy who used to sit with him on Metropolis rooftops during the loneliest nights—hours spent without a hint of regret over how they passed—could still see the same stories he once did. 

He still tries. He still tries to shine, to be the golden rays of sun in the darkest times, the optimistic one in the room. But those hopes and dreams were ripped from him too, like pages torn from a burnt notebook. 

There are times when Jonathan watches his mom prepare dinner, slicing paprika and onions with the same grace she’s always had. He sits quietly at the kitchen table, letting the sound of the knife on the cutting board fill the room. He knows she feels the guilt crushing her heart. Because she was with him at the start of that trip and left early. It really wasn’t her fault, Jonathan knew. But he also knew that she blamed herself and would always carry that guilt. 

But sometimes, another image slides in, uninvited, and unasked for settling at the bottom of his heart: the shadow of his so-called father, chopped into neat little pieces with a kryptonite blade, then discarded into the trash like moldy vegetables. 

He blinks, and the kitchen comes back into focus—the vegetables, the steam, his mom’s quiet hum as she stirs the pan. The thoughts should disgust him, but it doesn’t. Not as much as it should. That’s what scares him most. He’s ashamed of the way he just let’s those thoughts swirl instead of loathing himself for ever thinking such things. He wonders if the volcano had changed him in ways he’ll never scrape off, never let go, the shadows never disappearing no matter how much light he tries to pour into himself. 

The steam rising from the pan curls in the air like the smoke that once choked his lungs—suffocating him, but never quite killing him. The man hadn’t let him die, at least not by wasting away in smoke. For a heartbeat, the scent of onions becomes the acrid stench of scorched stone, and the hiss of oil is the hiss of lava splitting rock beneath his feet as he clung to the steadiest slab he could find. His grip tightens on the table until his knuckles pale, until the wood complained and his palms slick from sweat, forcing the kitchen back into place. Lois glances over her shoulder, concern etched deep into her features, and Jonathan slips on a smile—too quickly. Pretending is child’s play. Stopping is like trying to climb unsteady ladders to heaven. 

Every rung gives way beneath him sooner or later. The smile cracks, the steps creak, the light stops guiding him, and he feels himself falling back into the heat and the dark, where the air is denser than lead and every breath feels stolen, taxed, and weighed. The silence screams louder than a lion’s roar, but it drowns before it can reach his ears, where even his own thoughts move sluggishly, as though pushing through tar. 

Sometimes, he wonders if the climb is even real—or if the ladder is just another illusion, keeping him occupied while the fire waits. That’s the part he never says out loud. The climb was never toward heaven at all. It was only ever away from hell. 

To everyone’s relief, it was summer break, which meant Jonathan’s sudden aging didn’t have to affect his education, at least not yet. He still had a month to get used to normalcy—well, whatever that meant now—before he’d be enrolled in a new school and have to sit through the explanations, the paperwork, the stares. Maybe Bruce, Damian’s father, could help him quietly arrange some fake documents; Bruce had a way of making problems disappear, the kind of way that involved late-night phone calls and names Jonathan had never heard before. Or maybe it would be easier to just be homeschooled, safe from the awkward questions and quiet whispers. 

But summer didn’t feel like a reprieve. It felt like a holding pattern, a waiting room between two versions of himself, one grieving and one raging. But truthfully, he didn’t fully recognize either of them. 

He filled the days with half-finished tasks: books started but never finished, sketches abandoned after a few crooked lines, chores left midway through with the broom leaning against the counter like it was waiting for him to come back. But he never did. It was easier to drift between things, letting time slip through his fingers like sand, than to commit to anything that might remind him who he used to be, yet doing just enough to forget who he had become.  

Often, he would find himself wandering around the barn or out in the fields, threading his fingers through the wheat that had not yet ripened, ripping the unripe grains off their stems, hoping, that maybe no one would notice if a few stalks were missing their grains. 

He’d hide among the glowing crops, letting the golden sunlight wash over him like a quiet balm, desperate to catch every last ray on his skin, trying to soak up the solar energy he hadn’t felt for three long years. The warmth was a soft reminder that he was still alive, still connected to the world in some small way. The stalks around him rose tall and proud, like ancient birch trees guarding a forbidden forest, hidden from ordinary humans, shielding him from curious eyes and unwelcome questions. 

In those moments, he felt like a gentle cryptid, a creature caught between two worlds, neither fully seen nor understood. The wheat rustled softly in the breeze, whispering secrets only he could hear. He imagined tiny leprechauns sneaking in to braid his long, wild hair with threads of sunlight and shadow, weaving comfort into the strands. But deep down, he knew he wasn’t one of those magical beings. He was something more complicated. He was broken, stretched thin, and trying to piece himself back together beneath the endless sky. 

The fields became his refuge, a place where time slowed, and the weight of his transformation felt lighter, if only for a little while. But as the sun dipped lower each day, the cold reminder would return that this fragile peace was only borrowed, and the world outside the golden crops was waiting to pull him back in. 

But his days in the fields ended abruptly, cut short by his parents’ announcement that they were moving to Metropolis. 

Chapter Text

“To be closer to work at the Daily Planet,” they had said, “and for a fresh start.” Jonathan wondered if that was really the whole truth, or if “a fresh start” was just an excuse for something else, something unspoken and heavier. But he didn’t question it aloud. 

No more Smallville.  

He could no run to the fields and hide from the truth, no longer imagine little leprechauns tumbling over each other, clutching his hair and weaving it into braids, wrapped in delicate crowns of flowers. The mythical forests of his daydreams had faded, and no ancient birches stood tall to shield him anymore, no secret groves offered their silent protection. 

The golden stalks that once swayed like guardians in the wind were gone from his days, replaced in his mind by glass and concrete he had yet to see. He wondered if the city would have places to hide, places where sunlight could soak into his skin without being swallowed by the shadows. Maybe there would be rooftops, or quiet parks where he could pretend the hum of traffic was just another summer breeze. But it wouldn’t be the same. The wheat fields had been a kind of camouflage, letting him disappear into fantasy when the world felt too loud, wrapping him in gold until he almost forgot the darkness that had followed him home. 

The day of departure rolled around the corner before Jonathan was ready for the impact. 

He stood on the porch, arms slack at his sides, watching his father move back and forth between the house and the truck. Boring cardboard boxes stacked like uneven bricks, plastic tubs full of kitchen utensils clinked dully when they hit the bed of the truck. The couch, too heavy for most people to manage alone, was lifted with casual ease and slid into the dark space at the back as if it were made of feathers. 

Jon bristled. A knot of fear tightened in his stomach. The fear of his father. Admitting it, even in the privacy of his own mind, felt wrong. Guilt crept into the pit of his heart immediately, sharp and sour, because no matter how hard he tried to remind himself this was Clark—his father, the man of hope, Superman —his thoughts betrayed him time after time, painting someone else’s shadows onto the familiar features he’d once admired. The face of the man who had kept him in the dark for three years. The one whose voice still echoed in the back of his mind like a siren’s scream, impossible to outrun. 

Despite the weight pressing down inside him, the morning was deceptively gentle. The wind brushed against his face, carrying with it the scent of the fields—dry earth, sun-warmed grass—and beneath it, the faint sweetness of his mother’s perfume. The smell made his chest tighten in a way he couldn’t name. Like he wanted to remember it forever, but also wanting to bury it deep into his memories, never to be found again. He inhaled carefully, almost greedily, as if taking in enough of it now might let him keep it with him in the city, bottled somewhere in the back of his mind for when the air there turned too heavy to bear. 

His gaze drifted past the porch steps, over the gravel driveway, beyond the old bus stop at the edge of the property where the wood had long since faded to gray. Finally, his eyes found her, standing a few feet away, arms folded loosely, her hair swaying in the breeze, and that same, confident yet sweet smile upon her lips.  

“Mom,” Jonathan muttered, softer than he meant to. 

He stepped forward and wrapped both arms around her waist, pressing his cheek to her shoulder, deliberately keeping his father out of his line of sight. He didn’t want to deal with the delusions. Not now.  

He was almost as tall as she was now, his hair growing longer than hers, the strands wild from years without a trim. There hadn’t exactly been a barber in that volcano.  

She smoothed a hand over the back of his head, the way she used to when he was little, and had lost his favorite toy car. The gesture was warm, and familiar—comforting in a way he didn’t want to let go of—but it carried a quiet finality, too. It felt like one of those moments people look back on years later and realize was a goodbye to something more than just a place. 

His mother coaxed him into helping with the move, urging him to carry a few boxes to the truck so his father wouldn’t be working alone. He hesitated, fumbling for an excuse—anything that didn’t sound like the truth, anything that didn’t name the gnawing paranoia and the childish fear curling in his gut. But the words tangled and fell apart before they could leave his mouth, and in the space his silence left, she was already pressing a box of ceramic plates into his hands. 

Jonathan sighed in resignation, the sound slipping out of him like a slow leak in a pipe. He hefted the box and plodded toward the truck, each step heavy, unsure which weight he was dragging more, the weight of the plates or his own.  

Upon getting into the car, Jonathan buckled his seatbelt out of pure muscle memory, the click sounding louder than it should have. He turned toward the window; eyes fixed on the house where he’d spent the first ten years of his life. He didn’t even register the engine roaring to life, until the farmhouse started to shrink. Slowly, frame by frame it shrunk, until it slipped entirely from view. In its place came a rush of blurred golden streaks—fields of unripe wheat bending under the gentle wind—and scattered brown shapes dotting the wild grasslands. Cows, maybe. Or horses. Or… brown sheep? Did those even exist? Probably. Jonathan couldn’t say for sure. He’d never seen one in real life, unless the pixelated ones from Minecraft counted—which didn’t.  

He listened to his parents’ conversation absent-mindedly, the words washing over him in a blur. First about work, then about Superman, then the Justice League—names and titles that had once seemed distant and heroic, now felt strangely ordinary in the hum of the car. Eventually, the familiar rhythm of small talk gave way to something more pointed: school . 

“So, Jon,” his father said, voice casual but carrying that weight Jonathan always noticed, “me and your mom enrolled you in St. Morrison Middle.” 

The nickname blew him off guard, but the words landed harder, like lead bullets into his glass heart. St. Morrison Middle. A new school. New faces. New rules. He swallowed hard, trying to find some familiar thought to cling to, but his mind only circled back to the echoes of the fields, the endless golden stalks, the quiet corners where he had felt invisible yet safe. That’s where he wanted to be right now. 

The rest of the car ride was pure torment. His legs had gone numb from sitting too long, and every muscle felt tight and brittle. The seatbelt dug into his shoulder in a wrong angle, and his bottom ached as if the seat cushion itself were mocking him. Every passing mile seemed to stretch on forever, the monotony broken only by the blur of passing signs and never-ending fields of wheat and more fields that stretched into the horizon. 

Finally, after what felt like an eternity and another intolerable ten minutes his father slowed the car to pull into a gas station. The engine cut, and for a moment, the silence of the world outside pressed against him. Jonathan practically leaped out of the car, stretching his stiff limbs and inhaling the crisp air like a man who’d been underwater too long, and he could finally move without restraint. 

The scenery warped before his eyes, the golden fields melting into muted shades of gray. The gentle sway of wheat was replaced by jagged rooftops and straight concrete lines. City buildings climbed toward the sky like steel trees, and the hum of distant traffic replaced the whisper of wind galloping through open fields. Jonathan pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the car window, trying to memorize the last traces of farmland before they disappeared entirely. 

It wasn’t like he’d never see the fields again. His grandparents still lived in Kansas, and his mother had promised, that they’d spend the next festive holiday at their farmhouse. But he already missed Smallville. Maybe he had always missed it, but only now he realized that what he missed wasn’t the small town—it was the person who had lived there. 

Everywhere he looked, there was movement. People rushed past, coffees in hand; cars darted in organized chaos; elderly pedestrians balanced carefully across streets. But it all felt alien. Still, it felt less alien than the sensation of his own skin. His left arm itched, and he resisted the urge to scratch, the unfamiliar tingle only making him feel more… unmoored. 

The soft sunlight filtering through the clouds couldn’t compete with the reflected glare of glass and metal. The smell of city air, sharp and electric, drifted through the slightly cracked window, mingling with the lingering scent of gasoline and exhaust. 

Jon’s stomach twisted. He missed the simplicity of gold and green, of open blue skies where he could lie and pretend his imagination was the only law. But here, the city seemed too big, too loud, too… permanent. And yet, he couldn’t tear his gaze away from the streets, the towering buildings, the life pulsing around him—the home he’d now be forced to call his own. 

He wondered how his favorite cow—Strawberry—was faring at his grandparents’ farm. Would she still remember him when he came to visit during the holidays? Would she still lie down, inviting him to settle against her warm side after finishing chores, her soft body rising and falling with each breath? Jonathan wasn’t sure. The thought made his chest tighten, and features knotting with a mix of longing and unease. 

Eventually, the car ride came to a stop, but his thoughts didn’t. Uneasy and emotionally raw, Jonathan stayed still, letting the world settle around him without him. 

The apartment loomed before them, its shadow stretching across the street like a nightmare made of steel. He watched as his father started unloading boxes from the truck, while his mother fumbled with her keys, searching for the one to their new home. 

Jonathan stepped out of the car and, without a word, moved toward the truck. He grabbed a particularly large box, its weight biting into his palms. His teeth sank into his lower lip as frustration welled up. He had super strength, so why did it still feel so heavy? Was something wrong with him? Was he weaker than he was supposed to be?  

“Jon, let me help you with that,” his father offered, already reaching for it. 

Jonathan tightened his grip and took a deliberate step back, pulling the box farther from him. He wasn’t a child anymore. He didn’t need his dad swooping in like he couldn’t handle something as simple as carrying a box. 

A small frown tugged at his father’s expression, something warm and caring flickering in his eyes. But Jonathan didn’t see care. He saw pity. 

His chest tightened, throat prickling with sour acid. Pity was worse than weakness—worse than failing to lift a stupid box. Pity meant his dad didn’t believe in him, didn’t trust him to stand on his own. He was supposed to be the next Superman after him. Inherit the title “Caped Crusader.” How dare his father look at him like that? 

Jonathan pulled his lower lip up at his father, the motion tight and strained, his eyes flashing with sharp contempt. He gripped the box as if daring it to crush him. Without a word, he turned and started up the apartment stairs, his father slipping out of view, each step a declaration, each breath a silent protest. 

After getting everything inside, Jonathan finally took a proper look at the apartment. It was modern. The rooms were brighter than the farmhouse in Smallville—pearly, crisp, clean—but colder, emotionless, and… dead. No memories lingered here. No love was put into building this monochrome land. No vibrant floral wallpapers. No creaking floors or the soft chorus of crickets at night. Only institutional white walls and wood-tiled floors that felt almost painfully artificial. 

The neatness and lack of color almost made Jonathan spin one-eighty and head straight for the door, but instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.  

He stared at the walls, at the painfully artificial wood floors, and let out a frustrated sigh. Maybe he could call one of his friends… no, they wouldn’t understand. Not after the absurd way he’d aged up… but one person might. 

His fingers hovered over his phone. With a small, resigned sigh, he muttered, “Well… Damian it is, then,” and dialed. 

Chapter Text

St. Morrison Middle.  

Jonathan would have to sit in classes with kids a year younger than him, because he couldn’t keep up with his own peers. Not after the incident.   

During the last weeks of summer, he had tried, really tried to study. He’d forced himself to pore over books, to claw back some kind of enthusiasm he once had for the idea of freedom inside those windowless volcanic walls. But the words wouldn’t stay still, refusing to cooperate.  

Equations blurred into cracks of volcanic stone. Sentences unraveled into smoke and ash. Every time he promised himself tomorrow will be better, tomorrow slipped away before he could catch it, dissolving into yesterday.  

Even his birthday had gone in a flash like a camera shutter, leaving him wondering if time itself had moved on without him.  

Now he walked the crowded hallways, carrying a backpack that no longer seemed to fit him, hanging loose and crooked off one shoulder, like it still belonged to the boy he used to be. He had gotten rid of his old Superman keychains, leaving behind only an empty void, trying to appear his age—his physical age. The other kids noticed. He could feel it in their eyes.  

“Hey, you new?” one voice called, somewhere to his left.  

Jonathan kept walking.  

Whispers trailed him like shadows. Isn’t he too old for this grade? Why’s his voice all weird? He’s kind of creepy looking. He pretended not to hear, but every word carved a little deeper. 

He was taller, his shoulders broader, older than them—at least on the outside. Yet he stumbled through the basics as if he’d slept through entire years of life. Which, in a way, he had. Just in another world.  

He stood at five foot six, looking down at his new classmates, most of whom barely reached five feet. Shame gnawed at him, a quiet snarl of everything that had happened. He clutched the strap of his backpack like a lifeline and exhaled slowly, feeling the weight of their gazes. Their eyes bored into him, silent questions of why he was here drifted through the stuffy air.  

So now, he dragged through the only empty hallway there was, trapped in a body that felt strange, head down, eyes glued to the map the principal had given him, trying to locate the gymnasium. His stomach growled, pleading with him to turn around and follow the others to the cafeteria. He inhaled sharply, silently ordering it to eat air for lunch.  

He wandered out to the field, the search for the gymnasium abandoned somewhere deep in his mind.  

He climbed onto the spectator benches, the painted red metal biting into his bottom. Memories of the volcano—and the shadow man—slipped back into his thoughts, quick and unwelcome. He fought the urge to scratch his palms, and his chest tightened, as if his body remembered what his mind was desperate to forget.  

Around him, the field stretched wide and empty, the brittle grass whispering under a hesitant breeze. The distant clatter of a ball, the echo of voices, made his stomach twist. Every shadow seemed to flicker, every movement in his peripheral vision felt like it was watching him, stalking him. He kept his head down, eyes fixed on the concrete under the benches, counting cracks in the pavement like a talisman against the rising unease.  

And then—they appeared. Three boys, maybe four, striding across the field with a confidence that made the sunlight gleam off their careless smiles. Even from a distance, Jon could feel the pull of their presence, like a tide he had no choice but to meet. They weren’t bullies in the obvious sense—not shoving him, not sneering—but the kind who smiled too wide to be genuine, the kind who dared each other into trouble just to see who would blink first.  

“You’re the new kid, right?” one said, dropping onto the bench beside him without waiting for a reply.  

Jonathan stiffened. “…Yeah.”  

“Why did you transfer here? Got expelled for twisting a sissy’s undies too tight?” the tallest of the four boys joked, earning a round of cold laughter.  

Jonathan’s stomach sank. He swallowed hard, wishing the ground would swallow him first.  

The one, who sat beside Jonathan, seemed to catch onto his discomfort and smacked the taller one, his face painted with mock sympathy.  

“Oh, bugger off, Denis. You’re making the poor kid uncomfortable.”  

Jonathan shifted on the bench, tugging at the strap of his backpack as if it could anchor him to somewhere safer. He wanted to disappear, melt into the red metal, but something inside—a dangerous curiosity—kept him rooted in place.  

“What class are you in?” the same boy asked, leaning back casually.  

“Seventh.”  

“You’re twelve?”  

“No, I was put back a grade. I just turned fourteen.”  

“We thought you were fifteen,” Denis said, eyebrows raised.  

“You look bored,” one added, sliding a half-empty can toward him with a grin. “We could fix that.”  

Jonathan didn’t touch it. His stomach twisted into knots. But for the first time all day, the stares didn’t feel like pity. They felt like an invitation—and that, more than anything, made him want to lean in, despite the small, wary voice whispering that it was dangerous.  

“Don’t worry, we’re not going to bite,” the first said, leaning back on the bench and stretching his legs out. “You just got to roll with us. You’ll see—it’s fun.”  

Jonathan swallowed, the metal tang of nerves rising in his mouth. His mind screamed at him to run, to disappear into the cafeteria crowd, to blend into the noise and chatter. But his body sat there, rooted, drawn to the strange magnetism of their confidence, even as a small, wary voice inside whispered, this is dangerous.  

He should have left, walked away and never looked back. Instead, he stared at the field, the grass brittle and yellowed in patches. The wind tugged at his jacket sleeves, lifting the edges like a teasing finger. He wanted to vanish, to sink between the metal slats of the bleachers, but his body refused to obey.  

The boys sat a careful distance away, watching him. One kicked a pebble, letting it clatter across the concrete. Jonathan’s stomach clenched at the sound, but he couldn’t look away.  

“What’s your name, dude?” the soda-can boy prodded.  

“Jonathan.”  

They all exchanged a knowing glance, then erupted into loud, raucous laughter, sharp and volcanic.  

“Jonathan? Seriously? Did your mother hate you so much that she gave you an old man name?” the tall one, Denis, mused.  

“I refuse to use such a grandpa name. You got any nicknames?” the boy beside him asked, leaning in with a sly grin.  

Jon hesitated.  

“Jon’s alright.”  

“Pff,” the soda-can boy sputtered. “Jon? What are you, five?”  

“What’s your name then?” Jonathan shot back defensively, his stomach tightening.  

“Oliver,” the boy answered. “That’s Michael, and he’s Liam.”  

“Or just Mike,” the one beside him added cheekily.  

Jonathan scanned the group, finally spotting Liam. Quiet, almost delicate, with golden hair and a sun-kissed, freckled face, he looked oddly out of place among the others.  

“What do you say, if we call you Nathan?” Oliver suggested, grinning.  

“Sure,” Jonathan muttered, feeling the weird tug of acceptance—and unease—settle over him.  

“So… Nathan you into sports?” one asked. His tone was casual, but there was an edge in it that made Jonathan’s skin prickle.  

“I… uh…” Jon’s voice stumbled, like sand through a sieve. He swallowed. He used to play baseball. He used to love baseball.  

“Not really.”  

The boys exchanged glances, unreadable grins flickering across their faces. “Cool,” the first said. “We’ll teach you.”  

Jonathan felt the pull, the subtle magnetic force of wanting to belong, to not be the outsider for even five minutes. But something deep inside warned him to stay back. That small warning voice, buried beneath shame and curiosity, whispered, don’t let them in too far.    

The sun rose higher, changing directions of the shadows across the field, The boys laughed softly among themselves, their movements casual, easy—but their eyes never left him. Jonathan realized he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly, trying to straighten his posture, trying to look like he belonged, like he was rising from the ashes.  

And for just a moment, he almost believed he could.  

Chapter Text

“Come on, Nathan,” Denis goaded, a crooked grin plastered across his face. “Don’t such be a pussy.”

Jonathan could count each tobacco-yellow tooth in that grin, could almost smell the rot between his gums that gleamed like something proud, defiant. Filthy, disgusting and ugly.

The other boys snickered, their laughter curling into the air with the smoke. The cigarettes hung from their fingers like trophies, the tobacco rolled neat and sharp by Michael’s practiced hands. Smoke swirled around the five of them like venomous serpents, slithering into Jonathan’s nose, clinging to his hair, coating his skin.

Jonathan couldn’t breathe. His lungs filled with poison that did nothing to his Kryptonian body but still suffocated him all the same. It wasn’t the nicotine that choked him. It was the weight of standing there, of knowing this was wrong. Dead wrong. Dangerous and reckless.

And yet, the boys stared at him, waiting, like his whole place in their circle depended on what he did next.

Jonathan forced a thin, sharp smile. “No thanks.”

“Buzzkill,” Oliver croaked, extending his cigarette to Liam.

Jonathan hadn’t expected Liam to smoke, but even gold and sun-kissed boys could be fake and deceiving. He watched as the soft boy accepted the cigarette, inhaling deeply, smoke curling around him like a second skin, caressing him like a sweetheart, coating his hair and clothes with poisonous love, filling the space between them with something heavy and choking.

Jonathan wondered what Liam had been like before meeting Oliver, Denis, and Mike. Was he kind? Chatty and optimistic? Or had he always been like this—a pile of coal coated in gold, the dirt hidden beneath freckles and soft curls, suffocating anyone who came too close?

The five stood in silence behind the abandoned building, the occasional flick of lighters breaking the dark. Jon felt a pang of homesickness, a desperate urge to go home, to curl against his mom like he used to when he was small, and tell her everything—about these new friends, about how bad they were.

But he didn’t move. He stayed rooted to the spot, a mask of disinterest fixed to his face, as if he were above them all, hiding the part of him that just wanted to run.

He didn’t know why he stayed. Why was he staying? There were so many other people at his school he could have befriended—so many safer, kinder choices. And yet, somehow, he ended up with these four.

Michael took one last drag, exhaling through his nose like an angered bull, his messy hair adding to the image, tangled and wild. “Come on, Nat. One puff won’t kill you. Plus, I worked so hard to roll these.”

Jonathan’s fingers twitched as if drawn toward Michael’s rolled cigarette. He clenched his fist, nails biting into his palm, heart thundering. One puff, he told himself. One puff and they’d leave him alone. But he couldn’t. Not yet. Not ever.

His stomach twisted. The weight of their eyes pressed down on him, the smoke curling around him like chains. Why am I even here?

“I said no,” he muttered, voice low but steady.

Denis leaned in, smirking. “What, scared? Don’t tell me you’re scared of your mommy.”

Jonathan forced a thin smile, hiding the churn of guilt and homesickness. How dare they speak of his mother like that? “Just… not my thing.”

Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Fine. But don’t act all high and mighty while we’re having fun without you.”

Jonathan felt a flicker of shame curl in his chest. He hated that it stung—hated that part of him wanted to argue back, to defend himself, but he stayed silent, letting the words settle like smoke around him.

He dug his nails into his palms again, wishing he could disappear. The urge to text his mom burned hotter than the smoke swirling around them. But if he left now, they’d laugh—he’d be the joke, the weakling, the outcast.

Suddenly, a shadow shifted across the cracked pavement, and Jonathan froze. The boys hadn’t noticed, too busy puffing smoke like smoke rings in the dark. But the figure was moving closer. Closer to him.

He closed his eyes, trying to shield himself from the delusion, and for a second, all he saw was red. Hot, molten, and fierce, like the heart of a volcano erupting inside him, burning him until there was nothing left but ashes.

The keys jingled, before Jonathan could push the correct key into the keyhole. He prayed with all he had, that the smell of nicotine had decided to let go of him. He felt ashamed, disgusting, even at how he had just let everything slide. Fifteen-year-olds, smoking. Underaged. For God’s sake. He should have done something—called the cops, lectured them, especially Liam.

When the door finally opened, his mother stood there, arms crossed, watching him.

She raised an eyebrow, her expression a mix of curiosity and concern. “Rough day?”

Jonathan hesitated, opening his mouth, knowing that once he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop—spilling everything about the four boys, about the smoking, about the dizzying carousel he’d been swept onto without even realizing it.

But he didn’t. He didn’t speak of Denis. Not Michael, not Oliver, not Liam. The words stuck in his throat, heavy and suffocating. He wanted to explain, to confess it all, but the guilt pressed down too hard. Instead, he forced another thin smile. “Just… tired, Mom.”

“Did you have fun?” she asked, smiling softly.

“Yeah, fun,” Jon muttered. “I’m going to go do my homework now.”

He excused himself, quickly slipping past her on the way to his room, silently pleading to the Gods that he didn’t reek of tobacco.

His room was cold. Not the kind of cold that comes along with winter, freezing air biting your skin to the point your fingers turned pink and your lips trembled with a purple hue. But cold in a sense where you felt no familiarity towards your surroundings, nothing welcomed him. Only apathy stretched across the space like a thick fog. He had tried to make his room lively again, trying to cover the stupid institutionally white walls with posters, but none of them pleased him the way they did to his ten-year-old self. In the end, he discarded them somewhere into the depths of his closet, never to be used again.

Now, his walls stood blank and blinding. His bed was unmade. Even his black-and-white flannel blankets seemed to mock him with their monotony. The only exceptions were the scattered schoolbooks, small sparks of color like tiny traces of life in an otherwise lifeless room.

Jonathan didn’t even bother doing his homework before slipping into bed with his clothes still on, his body sinking into the unmade sheets as his mind drifted toward everything and nothing all at once.

These past few days, his heart had been beating faster than usual—and not in the thrilling, comforting way he wished it would, but in a restless, uneasy rhythm that left him yearning for tranquility, something he couldn’t seem to touch anymore.

His body was in distress, yet his mind had sunk into apathy, icy and detached, even as his body burned like skin against flames.

He pressed his palm against his chest, feeling the unsteady beats of his heart—a bitter reminder that he was still Jonathan. That he was still alive and breathing on Earth though space had twisted time itself, aging him three years in just ten days.

The clock ticked, steady and indifferent, as if hurrying him somewhere, though he had nowhere to go. His eyes grew heavy, even though night hadn’t yet settled. The room felt too white, too black, too many shades of gray pressing in on him like a printed handout full of equations. He’d have to tell his mother tomorrow how depressing their new apartment was.

That night, Jonathan saw Damian. He was right there, but he wasn't. His face twisted and warped until it was nothing but shadows and silhouettes. He slithered around Jonathan like an enormous, poison-green snake, his venomous gaze biting through skin, stripping him of everything until all that remained was molten lava—sizzling, burning, and consuming everything in its path, drowning cities in red-hot fury, leaving behind only trails of obsidian and the charred trunks of the past.

Then the sirens screamed, everything reverberating in his ears—from the echoes of dead heartbeats to the frantic cries of birds.

Jonathan’s eyes shot open, his heart hammering so fast it felt like it could carry him to the moon and back in five seconds. Another nightmare. He pressed his hand to his chest, the same ritual he performed every morning after a horrendous slumber. The alarm clock blared, relentless. Moments later, his mother burst into the room.

“Jon, turn that off!” She insisted.

“Sorry,” Jon muttered, rubbing the nape of his neck. He’d slept in some awkward position again, and the stiffness made the remnants of the nightmare press heavier against his chest.

He silenced the alarm and swung his legs off the bed. The floor was cold, but what can you except from a room as lifeless as this? Without a glance around, he made his way straight to the bathroom. Stepping into the small, cold space, he avoided the mirror, finding the sink oddly fascinating instead. After brushing his teeth, he moved to get dressed—nothing flashy, just a pair of jeans and the same sweatshirt he’d worn more times than he’d like to admit.

“Jon, baby, should we trim your hair a little?” his mother asked over breakfast. Jon just shrugged. The truth was, he didn’t want to cut it. He liked it long—not because it was an awful lot of work to manage, but because it felt like the only piece of himself he still had control over.

He poked the egg, lips twisting into a frown as the yolk burst, bleeding across the plate.

Lava.

Jon’s brain froze, and so did his body. The apathy he had felt last night melted into a storm of confusion and fear. He couldn’t move. His fork slipped from his fingers, clattering onto the floor. The sharp, jarring noise echoed through the kitchen, rattling his thoughts, ringing in his ears, scorching his skin, tightening his throat.

His heart felt like it would burst. His vision dilated, blurred. His hands trembled uncontrollably. He was back in the volcano.

His mother’s words slurred together into an indecipherable hum, her face melting into shadow. Her mouth moved, but Jon couldn’t hear anything.

The next thing he knew, he was in his room, lying on his bed, the soft weight of blankets pressing against him like they were trying to keep him anchored to reality. His mother hovered nearby, a relieved expression softening her features as she brushed her fingers gently through his hair.

“You’re awake,” she murmured, her hand lingering on his cheek. Her thumb traced a faint line along his jaw, almost as if she could erase the fear from him with a single touch.

“Mom?” he croaked, his voice hoarse. What the hell had happened? He wanted answers. But before he could ask, the question was answered in a way that made his stomach twist.

“You… passed out,” she muttered, eyes fixed on some point beyond the room, as if she were staring into the memory itself. Jonathan could read the worry etched in every line of her face; he wasn’t dumb. Something serious had happened, something she wasn’t telling him.

He stayed quiet, trying to piece together the fragments of memory that still clung to the edges of his mind. Then he noticed a figure near the doorway. At first, his heart leapt—he thought it was him again, like he was trapped in some nightmare loop. But it wasn’t.

A man in a flannel shirt and jeans stood there, adjusting a pair of glasses that kept slipping down his nose. His presence was calm, grounded… familiar. His father. Jonathan’s chest tightened. Questions bubbled up, but something in the man’s stance, the way he didn’t meet Jonathan’s eyes, told him not all answers were coming tonight.

And then, the man’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his expression flickering ever so slightly—a shadow of duty. Jonathan had seen it many times before. Without a word, he turned toward the door, his steps echoed through the halls. Jonathan’s hand shot out, wanting to call out to him, but the man was already gone, leaving behind an unsettling quiet that pressed down harder than the blankets.

Jonathan sat there, bitter acid bubbling inside him. He knew he was looking at his father, not him—but why was the man he once idolized so distant? Where had the warmth gone, the reassurance that had always made the world feel less heavy? The silence in the room grew heavier, pressing in around him like a living thing.

Then—a faint sound. A soft shuffle near the doorway, almost imperceptible. Jonathan froze, heart hammering in his chest. He could feel eyes on him, watching from the shadows, but no one was there. Only his mother, sitting on the edge of his bed, unaware of the presence that seemed to coil around the corners of the room like sentient silhouettes.

His breath hitched as a chill ran down his spine. Something wasn’t right. Something was still here.

Something that only he could see, and nobody else.

Chapter Text

There was blood everywhere.   

Jonathan’s hand clenched around the scissors, knuckles bone-white, the metal slick and warm against his palm. He could look away from the mangled remains of his father. His eyes were wide, and his limbs stiff from shock. The sight didn’t make sense. It didn’t fit. Superman wasn’t supposed to bleed, but the proof soaked the tiles, spreading out in a dark, sticky halo.  

He was dead. Jonathan knew that. His chest no longer raised, no longer fell. His body was going cold. The blood pooled at his father’s feet, thick and sticky, a dark mirror to the heat rising in his own chest. Every breath felt wrong, as if the oxygen itself recoiled from his lungs. The scissors trembled in his hands like they had a will of their own, whispering:  

Do it. Do it.  

He pressed the metal closer, and his vision swam with reds and blacks, shapes folding into one another like paper in a storm. His head throbbed, words pulsing in his skull. Everything warped and bent, confusing his sight. Everything was melting around him. His heart raced like horses on dandy fields His stomach heaved, every bite of food he’d swallowed clawing its way back up his throat.  

The object trembled in his grip. His head hurt. His hands didn’t feel like his own anymore—trembling, slippery, foreign. Everything was so wobbly.   

He felt so dizzy.  

He raised the scissors and carefully positioned his hands. The handle was slick against his trembling fingers. His gaze lingered on the face before him, fear etched into every line, frozen forever in wide-eyed terror like well-preserved fossils in glaciers. For a fleeting second, Jonathan thought he could hear a heartbeat. His own, his father’s, the world’s—it didn’t matter.  

He drew a deep, jagged breath, chest aching and drove the blade forward, straight into his own throat.  

He screamed. The sound tore through his throat, ragged and desperate, before shattering into silence. His eyes flew open.  

Morning light bled faintly through the curtains. His mother stood over him, her hair a tangled mess, eyes wide with panic. The world was quiet except for the first hesitant calls of morning birds.  

No blood spilled from his neck.  

No scissors gleamed red on the floor.  

No frozen faces stared back at him, locked forever in horror.  

Only his mother. Only the morning. Only the horrible weight of what he had just seen.  

“Jonathan!” Lois’s voice cut through the haze, sharp and desperate, and he finally jolted back into reality.  

“Mom?” His chest heaved as he gasped the word. He had never heard his mother in such distress.   

“What’s wrong, baby? A nightmare?”  

Jonathan gave a shaky nod. His throat was dryer than cereal left out too long. He tried to swallow the scratchiness away. It didn’t help.  

His father was nowhere to be seen again. Sometimes Jonathan wondered if his grandfather had returned the wrong boy, and that was why his father looked at him like he was a stranger, not a son.  

His heart ached, so sharp it drowned everything else out. He didn’t even register his mother wrapping her arms around him. He was supposed to be the next Superman, not some pathetic drama king choking on nightmares.  

He wanted to tell his mom everything, but the words stuck. Something was still wrong—he could feel it, lurking just outside the safety of her embrace.  

His mother helped him out of bed, her hands steadying his trembling frame as his arms refused the commands of a mind tangled in a fortress of incoherent thoughts. Cold light filtered through the window blinds, casting a blue glow across Jonathan’s room and back, making his skin appear almost translucent and the space around him melancholy. His mother’s eyes lingered a moment longer than necessary on his left arm and back, scanning his skin with a weight of guilt behind them. Jonathan hardly noticed; his thoughts were knotted in the remnants of the nightmare, his chest still aching from its jagged pulse of fear.   

Slowly, she guided his arms into a crisp white collared shirt, tugging it over his head with gentle insistence. His fingers twitched, clumsy and uncooperative, as if the morning had stolen their memory. She threaded his arms into the sleeves of his jacket with careful precision, straightening the fabric and smoothing the wrinkles as though layering calm over chaos. Jonathan wanted to speak, to ask why his body felt so foreign, so detached, but the words died in his throat.  

He knew that his mother wouldn’t have any answers.   

The room was quiet except for the faint rustle of fabric and his ragged breathing. For a brief moment, the morning light caught in his hair, and he wondered if the world outside would ever feel as steady and gentle as his mother’s hands.  

“You’re like a mini version of your mother,” someone had told him years ago—well, six Earth months ago, though in the strange calculus of his mind it felt more like three and a half years. Time didn’t flow the same for him anymore; moments stretched, twisted, and bled into each other. Faces he remembered clearly seemed impossibly distant, while memories he thought he had long buried felt as fresh and sharp as yesterday. He wondered if anyone could still see the resemblance now—his features, his mannerism, if they could still hear the quiet echoes of her laughter in him or see the shadows of the way she tilted her head when listening.   

Probably not.  

 The thought twisted in his chest, half melancholy, half longing, as if the world had already forgotten what he once was, and perhaps what he still might be.  

At school, Jonathan dragged himself to class, dreading each step. Two months in, and still the students’ eyes bored deep into him, unrelenting. Like they could spot every single one of his insecurities and flaws if they just looked hard enough. Today felt different, though. Jonathan could sense that something was about to happen.  

The bells rang. They had always rung, but somehow, they were louder than before, sharper than he remembered, making the hairs on his neck stand on end, blurring the world before his eyes, and turning his knees to jelly. He didn’t want to go to class, didn’t want to face the humiliating shame of not being able to answer even the easiest questions.  

He bit his lip hesitantly as the classroom neared. On impulse, he decided to detour to the nearest bathroom, planning to spend the entire class there. Hopefully no teacher would catch him hiding, and without a hall pass. He didn’t really want to be discovered, sitting in a stall, doing nothing but staring into the nasty scribbles etched into the walls and door.  

The sharp scent of blueberries, mixed with a lingering tang of something burnt, hit his nose. He already knew what was coming. His so-called friends had decided to camp out in the bathroom to puff on their e-cigarettes.  

Jonathan lingered at the threshold, the scent of blueberries and burnt sugar curling into his nose, curling like smoke tendrils around his mind. Every inhale made him wheeze, tight in his chest. He wondered how he could call this friendship, this camaraderie that tasted of lies and nicotine, and still call it something worth keeping.  

He hesitated. One part of him wanted to avoid them, to disappear into the hallway and pretend the bathroom didn’t exist. But the other part didn’t want to go back to class either. That option felt worse, so he drew in one last breath of air, steeling himself, before stepping into the cramped haze of blueberries and nicotine.  

“Nathan, dude!” Denis greeted.  

Jonathan forced a smile and stepped back, keeping some distance from the tobacco-teethed boy. Oliver munched on a donut, lost in his own world. Liam leaned against Denis, almost glued to him, head resting on Denis’ shoulder, looking pale and weak. Michael’s fingers tapped furiously on his phone.  

“Is Liam okay?” Jonathan asked, a note of concern creeping in.  

“Yeah, his dad’s a dick,” Michael muttered without looking up.  

Jonathan noticed the smug smirk on Michael’s face as his typing sped up.  

“What are you doing?” Jonathan asked, curiosity sharpening his voice.  

“Found a fag on my feed,” Michael snickered. “He’s whining pathetically about ‘gay rights.’”  

“Is there something wrong with being gay?”  

The room froze. Every one of them—except Liam—turned to stare. Oliver’s donut was abandoned mid-bite, chocolate melting across his fingers. Denis paused his e-cigarette, smoke curling lazily around him.  

“Is there something wrong ?” Michael’s eyebrows shot up, incredulous, as if the question were absurd. “It’s weird, and hella retarded!”  

“Yeah, dude. Don’t tell me we’ve friended a queer,” Denis barked, laughter dripping with mockery.  

Jonathan felt his face heat, a flush creeping up his neck. Nothing was wrong with being queer—but they were his friends… and he didn’t want to lose them.  

“I’m not a fag,” he said, forcing a laugh that tasted bitter. “They’re sick in the head.”  

Michael kept going, ranting about how queer people didn’t deserve rights, how they should be treated like animals—but Jonathan barely registered the words. If any of it did reach him, it seemed to slide right out the other ear, leaving no mark.  

Instead, his attention clung to Liam. The boy didn’t look well—pale, almost shivering, a little too close to Denis, and certainly the blueberry-scented nicotine swirling around them wasn’t helping. Jonathan’s chest tightened, a knot of panic forming in his stomach. His mind raced: Should I say something? Intervene? Step in?  

But the words wouldn’t come. His throat felt thick, dry, uncooperative. Every second he hesitated, the smoke curled tighter, the boys’ laughter got louder, sharper, and he felt smaller, pinned in a corner of the bathroom that smelled of burnt sugar and bad choices.  

Liam coughed quietly, turning his head, and Jonathan’s heart lurched. He could see the discomfort etched on his face, the way he seemed to shrink against Denis’s shoulder. The guilt clawed at Jonathan, sharp and insistent. I can’t just let this happen. I can’t.  

And yet, he stayed frozen, unsure how to act without becoming the next target, without drawing the wrong kind of attention. His hands trembled at his sides, and every instinct screamed at him to run—but he didn’t move. All he could do was watch, the weight of inaction pressing heavier with every passing second.  

By the end of class, the bells rang again. The boys were already on their way out of the bathroom, snickering about how they hadn’t been caught. Jonathan lingered, still uneasy, when it happened.  

Liam collapsed, hitting his head hard against the cold tile floor. He didn’t move. Silence fell like a stone in the cramped bathroom. Panic surged through Jonathan, freezing him in place. The other boys froze too, their bravado evaporating.  

Time slowed. The scrape of Liam’s head against the tile was a scream in Jonathan’s ears. His fingers clenched the edge of the counter, nails digging into skin, and he felt like he might vomit, or faint, or both. His heart thudded, a deafening drum in his chest. He wanted to cry, to scream, to collapse—and yet, he stayed frozen, each second stretching into a lifetime.  

Jonathan wanted to just drop down onto the grimy floor next to Liam, to escape it all, but his body refused to give out. His ears started ringing, and Liam’s unconscious form warped in his vision—freckles bleeding like molten gold, limbs twisting into serpentine shapes that slithered across the tiles.  

“Liam?” Oliver croaked, his wide-eyed expression uncannily like a terrified frog—but pink.  

Denis gave a sharp kick, but still, no response.  

“Damn… we should run,” Oliver muttered, his face twisting with fear and frustration.  

Jonathan’s heart thudded violently. His mind raced: Call 911? Help him? What do I do? The smoke and the lingering scent of blueberries made him dizzy, but he forced himself to kneel beside Liam, checking for a pulse, hoping—praying—that he was still alive.  

Thankfully, he was still alive—but his heartbeat was faint, fragile. Panic clawed at Jonathan’s chest, and he screamed, a ragged, desperate sound that echoed off the bathroom walls.   

“Help! Someone, call 911!” Jonathan shouted, his voice cracking.  

At that, the three boys scattered like flies, leaving Jonathan alone with the unconscious figure on the cold tile. A strange, heavy clarity washed over him. He didn’t know what had compelled him to stay—concern, fear, or maybe a bitter, self-imposed duty. He couldn’t let another life slip into ignorance, into a long, never-ending nightmare. Not when he had glimpsed too much in his own stolen years.  

Whatever happened next was a blur. Faces swirled past him, blurred and indistinct, like paintings smeared by rain—students, lifesavers, a bundle of golden hair being carried away onto a stretcher. Sounds collided in a chaotic symphony: sirens blaring, shouts echoing, frightened students wailing—but none of it made sense. Every word slurred together, each sound clawing at his mind, leaving him adrift in a storm of noise and confusion.  

Questions came in rapid bursts: “Who saw this happen?” “What did you do?” “Is he breathing?” Jonathan answered in fragments, twisted half-truths spilling from his mouth like serpents before he could catch them. Somewhere between panic and fear, he knew these lies were a shield—for them, for himself. The adults excused his slow, stuttering responses as confusion, as denial—but Jonathan knew the truth. Every carefully crafted word, every omission, was a defense. He was protecting them, the very friends who had abandoned him when it mattered most. And yet, a part of him recoiled, hating what he had to do, despising the version of himself forced into obedience, loyalty, and silence.  

That’s something Jonathan would never do—but Nathan would.  

Chapter Text

“I’m scared, Damian,” Jonathan muttered, voice tight. His eyes stung, but he refused to let the tears fall.

Damian sat beside him, fingers brushing gently through the soft curls of his hair—something Jonathan had only ever seen Damian do with his pets. The movements felt… familiar. Safe. Fragile.

“I’m so scared,” Jonathan repeated, voice cracking this time.

Damian’s bedsheets smelled faintly of laundry detergent, while his clothes carried the crisp, heavy scent of old money. Jon buried himself in both, clinging to the contradiction as if it could anchor him.

For a split second, Jon—the boy he sometimes felt he still was—peered through the cracks. Ten years old again, trembling in Damian’s arms after accidentally hurting someone on a mission, terrified but cradled in trust and affection.

“What are you scared of? Damian asked.

There’s a lot of things I’m scared of, Damian—Liam lying on a hospital bed after collapsing in the bathroom, and I still have no idea what caused it. Denis’ ugly teeth and rotten breath. Michael’s comments about homosexuality.

“I’m scared of not being enough,” Jonathan whispered. “For my family. For… for you. After everything…”

Damian froze, just for a second, before his hand resumed its gentle rhythm. “Don’t be stupid,” he said simply, like it was fact, not comfort. “You are enough.”

The words should have comforted him, but they only made his chest ache more. Jonathan shook his head, pressing his face deeper into Damian’s shoulder. “Then why don’t I feel like I’m enough?”

Damian’s hand stilled again. For once, he didn’t have an answer.

It was hard to feel like Jon was enough. After all, he’d kept quiet when danger stared him in the face. And now Liam lay in the hospital, tubes tethering him to life, while Jon still had no idea what had actually happened. His throat ached with the words he could never say. He let Damian’s hand linger in his hair, pretending it was enough to hold him together.

When he got home, he went straight to bed without bothering to turn on the light. Tomorrow would drag him back to school, back into the eyes of everyone who already stared too much. He didn’t want it. Any of it. He hadn’t asked for this—the attention, the fear, the world seeming to unravel in front of him while he stood still, powerless.

His thoughts wandered despite himself, slipping back to Damian. To the way Damian had looked at him—sharp but steady, like green jewels set deep in a white sea of feelings Jon couldn’t quite name. The memory almost coaxed a smile out of him, almost. But Jon didn’t smile. Not tonight.

Jonathan stood in the dark, red staining his calloused hands, a wide pool of blood spreading beneath his feet. Whose blood? It’s a mystery. The smell of iron clung to the air, heavy and suffocating. Somewhere, far away, he heard someone called his name.

“Jon.”

It was Damian. His voice was steady, clear, cutting through the black like a single thread of light. Jonathan tried to move, his legs screamed to run toward him but his body wouldn’t obey. He could only stand and watch as the dark crept closer, swallowing the other inch by inch until his outline blurred.

Suddenly, he wasn’t fifteen anymore. He was ten again, small, raw, shaking but he wasn’t.

Because standing in front of him, staring back with his stolen face, was Jonathan.

No—Nathan.

Nathan’s mouth curved into a cruel little smirk.

“You can’t save him,” Nathan said, voice smooth as smoke. “You can’t even save yourself.”

Jonathan’s breath caught. The other had stolen his face.

He wanted to shout—but he had no mouth. He wanted to deny it—but the words curdled in his throat, rotting before they could escape.

The red rose higher, swallowing him whole.

Nathan moved through the crimson sea like a serpent, closing in, shoving him hard enough that Jonathan stumbled—if he even had legs anymore.

And then Nathan laughed.

Laughter.

That was all there was left echoing in an endless choir as Jonathan sank, as the world closed over his head, as the red drowned him.