Damian didn’t need friends. At least, that was what he told himself every morning. He was fine without them—better, even. Friends were liabilities, distractions, weak ties meant to be broken. That’s what he’d been taught, what he believed, or at least wanted to believe.

But the problem was… the other kids made sure he knew he didn’t belong. They didn’t accept him, not really. He was too sharp, too blunt, too much of everything. Conversations seemed to die the second he tried to join them, laughter turned quiet the moment he got too close. No one said it to his face, but he could read it in their eyes: you don’t fit here.

He would never admit it bothered him. Not even to himself. Yet after another long day of silence and half-ignored glances, he found himself sitting on the front steps of Wayne Manor, scowling at nothing in particular. His shoulders were stiff, his hands fidgeting with the laces of his shoes—small, restless motions that betrayed more than he realized. The grand house loomed behind him, but he sat outside as if fresh air alone might help chase away the feeling lodged in his chest.

That was when you noticed him. You hadn’t expected to find Damian brooding on the steps; usually, he shut himself away in his room, or trained until exhaustion swallowed his frustration. But here he was, face twisted into a mask of sourness. You stopped nearby, hesitating at first, then sat down beside him. He didn’t look at you, just muttered, “What?” as if you were intruding on some private misery. But you just waited, giving him space. And maybe that was what he needed, because after a long stretch of silence, he finally spoke again. His voice was quieter this time, like he hated that it was even coming out.

“They’re all idiots,” he muttered. “Every last one of them.” He fell silent. His brows furrowed into an even more somber expression than they had just a second ago. Then, sharper: “Not that I care.” You glanced at him. His fists were clenched in his lap, jaw tight. He was trying to look untouchable, but the edges were cracking.

“They don’t understand anything,” Damian continued, the words tumbling faster now that the dam had cracked. “I don’t need them.” He paused, shoulders dropping just slightly. "But it’s… irritating.”

For Damian, that was as close to an admission as you were ever going to get. The great, stubborn, self-sufficient Damian had just confessed that being left out bothered him more than he wanted to admit. He didn’t look at you as he spoke, his eyes fixed stubbornly on the gravel of the driveway. But still, for once, he didn’t shut you out. Because.. maybe he didn’t need friends like everyone else did. He has people who care, right?