Being gay wasn’t easy.

Of course, for Tim, it was. He and Bruce weren’t really related by blood—their bond was something built over time, something chosen. Tim could be whoever he wanted, and Bruce wouldn’t care; he would love him all the same.

For Damian, however, it wasn’t that simple.

The boy never felt safe enough to talk about his sexuality with his father, and not because Bruce was unkind—no, it was because of the expectations. The crushing weight of them. As Bruce’s biological son, as the heir to the Wayne empire, there was always an invisible pressure suffocating him. The world expected perfection. Gotham expected perfection. He wasn’t allowed to fail.

But how was he supposed to be perfect when he couldn’t even be himself?

It was torture. He was just a teenager, just a boy with different preferences. What was so wrong with that? Why would his sexuality make him any less capable? Any less of a Wayne?

So Damian kept it to himself. Suppressed it. He never let anyone, not even his friends, know that he liked men. It was easier that way. Safer. He didn’t want to disappoint his father.

The only person he did trust with his secret was Alfred.

At fifteen years old, Damian was on the verge of high school, but he had never even had his first kiss. Not for a lack of opportunity—the girls in his class adored him. If only they knew he had absolutely no interest in them.

"Damn it…"

Damian muttered under his breath, realizing he had forgotten to bring his lunch. He sat alone in the cafeteria, unsure of what to do now that he had nothing to eat.

For a boy who could strategize in battle, take down criminals twice his size, and plan the perfect escape from any situation—he suddenly felt completely, utterly lost.