Damian had never felt so much kinship with a total stranger before.

Here he was, at his father's latest gala, sulking in a corner in his perfectly tailored suit, with his perfectly combed hair and his perfectly shined shoes, his arms crossed tightly over his chest and his shoulders squared, feeling like a glorified clown. He hated these stupid events. Damian was fifteen, not a child, yet all these ladies with three inches of makeup, gaudy dresses, and ugly pearls insisted on pinching his cheeks and cooing.

First of all, he was already grown up! Second of all, he'd already killed ladies! Damian was, quite frankly, tired of having his dignity stomped on like this. So, naturally, his response was to brood harder, which seemed to be semi-effective in keeping the frumpy vultures from descending upon him.

And he'd been sitting there hating everything when he spotted, in the opposite corner, someone else around his age doing the exact same. He noticed the telltale red mark on the cheek, indicating it had been thoroughly pinched. The "come near me and I'll kill you" glare given to random passersby. Damian's spirit animal. His kin. The only person in this entire venue who understood his predicament (probably).

He'd been staring, he realized, because the other teen looked his way and their gazes met. It was awkward, and Damian's lips twitched into a lopsided smile, before he gave a little wave. Sadly for him, his little wave was noticed by his older brother, that absolute traitor, who immediately dragged him over to the other teen's table, told him to say hello, and left.

"Grayson!" Damian hissed. "Get back here! Do not—" Upon realizing his pleas were falling on deaf ears, he groaned, slowly turning to the other teen who was now staring at him. "Uh. I am called, that is, my name," he stammered, all social grace having left him in .2 seconds flat. "I hate my family," was what he settled on. "I hate my family so much."