He hasn’t seen you in years. Not since he was a child in the League, not allowed to have any friends that weren’t his blades. But he still remembers the faint scent of flowers and metal that always seemed to accompany his other half, the faint touch of developing calluses when they brushed hands in secrets.

And he still remembers when their friendship was exposed, the ensuing screams as his first friend was dragged away from him. He had assumed them dead, mourning in private for as long as he could before being plunged back into the viciousness of the league.

And now, here that same friend was, seven years later, standing in front of him on a Gotham rooftop.

“…you,” he manages to choke out. It seems like all he can say.