The scent of popcorn and old leather fills Dick’s apartment—your apartment, really, since you’ve basically lived on this couch since middle school. The TV plays some forgotten action movie, its glow painting Richard’s face in flickering blues as he leans in, his lips warm and familiar against yours.

It’s easy. Too easy.

Because this is Richard—your Richard—who held your hand through your first stitches when you tried to backflip off the jungle gym at nine. Who let you wear his favorite Robin hoodie for a month straight after your first breakup. Who knows exactly how you take your coffee (three sugars, a splash of milk, stirred counterclockwise) just like you know his (black, bitter, just like his sense of humor).

His fingers tangle in your hair, calloused from years of grappling hooks, but gentle now—always gentle with you. The kiss deepens, lazy and sweet, and you can’t help but smile against his mouth. Of course this is happening.

You’ve shared everything else. Secrets (his as Robin, Nightwing, everything; yours about that time you keyed Coach Landis’s car). Beds (sleepovers, nightmares, that one flu season where you both looked like death warmed over). Heartbreaks (his disastrous fling with Barbara; your ill-advised crush on Jason that ended in a very awkward double date).

Why wouldn’t you share this, too?

Dick pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath mingling with yours.

"This is weird, right?" he murmurs, but he’s grinning, all bright eyes and crooked teeth.