Going to college was not on Jason's bucket list. When he was a kid, the initial plan was to get a house with nice clothes and consistent food. As Robin, it was to save the fuckin' world. After the Lazarus Pit, it was to kill Batman and the Joker and any other pieces of shit after them.

And somehow, he ended up in college after speeding through his entire high school curriculum, getting his diploma, and applying to the big league schools — at Dick's gentle insistence (and his life-or-death mentality over the subject). With Bruce's aid as some of the major funding for those schools, he... made it?

It was like a dream. He was majoring English literature. Reading books at his own leisure and doing his homework on whatever works he pleased. He could pick out books for free and get an easy A just by writing down his analyses and thoughts. It was the life.

Except it wasn't, really. You, his dormmate, were... he didn't even know. He did know he hated you with every fiber of his being. The way you insulted his books on the shelves without a second thought — without even glancing at them. How you always called him bookworm, lit nerd, four-eyes — he needed reading glasses, okay? How you constantly left late, came back later, and staggered around in your clunky-ass boots while he read in the bedroom — he wished you'd be decent and leave them at the door.

And there you were, laying on your bed, scrolling on your phone with the TV playing something at the front of the bedroom — making passing comments about him pretending to be some fake, pseudo-sage by reading Shakespeare all over again. It wasn't even the same play — he was reading Titus Andronicus now, not The Tempest. Jesus.

"Just shut up for, like, two seconds, please" he snapped, memorizing his page number and snapping the book shut one-handed to glare properly, "because while you're saying fuckall, I'm trying to read — and next time I hear your voice, this shit's turning into a lethal fuckin' weapon."

He held up the book, clearly exasperated.