A West Coast Kind of Yearning
Title: A West Coast Kind of Yearning
Fandom: Young Justice
Characters: Kon/Tim
Rating: PG
Word Count: 2,345
Summary: In the shaky days after the break-up of Young Justice, Kon is searching for an ounce of certainty.
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When Kon spots him, he has to circle three times before he's certain he recognizes the person splashing around in the shallows. But who else can that figure be when he's the only lone one out there, in the only stretch that isn't peppered with other beach-goers. Kon manages to touch down discreetly by the public bathrooms and makes his way over to the sand. Not-Tim comes bounding up from the shoreline. The water's darkened the bottom edge of his shorts and it makes the fabric stick to the back of his calves. It's probably weird to get distracted by that.
The afternoon sun settles over not-Tim's skin, looking more familiar than it should. The light gives him a kind of glow, and sure, he looks incredible like that. But it's all wrong. First of all, where the hell did all the shadows go. Then, there's tan where there ought to be an ashy pale, and an easy curve to his spine like he isn't trying to hold the weight of a few dozen worlds. His eyes are different, too. No contacts, but the blue has gotten deeper. A Pacific kind of blue.
“You're such a freak,” Kon tells him.
“There a problem with that, Superboy?” He snorts and and flexes his toes into the sand. Too familiar again. Pretending he knows what it means to wake up to the drumbeat of waves. God, even his hair is just a shade lighter, a shimmering sun-bleached black. But Kon knows that if he stands close enough, it'll smell like dye, instead of sweat and sea breeze.
This isn't Alvin Draper, and it's definitely not Robin. But no matter what name he uses, whether he drinks orange Soder instead of Zesti, or steps with a lighter kind of swagger, there's always something there to hold onto. Alvin Draper isn't Todd Richards isn't Mister Sarcastic. But all of them are Tim Drake. Kon's learned that there's nothing entirely fake about these identities-they're like pieces of his best friend that can be snapped off and grown into a completely new body, like what starfish do. His mannerisms, opinions, memories, and verbal tics, they get sorted into these different combinations, stretched out and exaggerated until there's enough material to be believed.
Kon used to think they were Tim's outlet. A pressure valve for Wonderboy to get his kicks, live out whatever fantasy whims he's ever wanted, all under the convenient excuse of needing a disguise.
He still sticks by this opinion. But now he realizes it's not about Rob being a weirdo perv. Now Kon knows him better. Knows how much Tim's dreamt. Dreamt of being more than he was, of being anything but himself, because being himself never seemed to get him anywhere. He used to be so lonely.
“Heh, glad ya came. Wasn't sure you could make it, bro.” He rests one hand on his hip while the other hand flicks his bangs out of his eyes. Then his mouth cracks into this kinda shark-faced grin. There's no other way to describe it, that weird mix of predatory and aquatic, like he belongs on this coast and Kon is just a hapless little minnow that's swum into the wrong territory.
“Nice threads,” he adds with a hint of sarcasm, as if he hadn't given Kon detailed instructions about the disguise he needed to wear, down to the style and color and material. It'd been weird flying in civvies. The hood of his zip-up kept catching wind like a parachute until he used his TTK to flatten it down against his back, and then once over Arizona he'd dropped his left flip-flop and had to make a mad dive before he lost it forever to the desert. Kon glances down at his clothes, hoping he hasn't gotten anything wrong. Not-Tim doesn't give any indication either way, just keeps smirking at him, eyes dark beneath his lashes.
The jerk's still in character, even though they're talking business, even though they're far out of earshot of anybody else on this beach. Unless he's worried about the seagulls eavesdropping. Kon can't be too annoyed with him, though. He's probably having fun, which is categorically counted as a good thing. Especially since for the past two months, it's like everyone's forgotten how to be anything other than devastated or angry. Still, seeing him wear these other personalities always gets Kon's skin crawling.
“Could you quit it for just one second and talk like normal?” Kon demands, knowing full well that he's just going to be mocked for it. But he's gotta say something or else he might explode from the weirdness.
Not-Tim opens his mouth, and jeez, even his laugh-it's rolling off his lips like water, celebrating its own noise, and not the self-conscious little bursts that erupt when he can't control himself.
And then somewhere in the moment between this stranger going quiet and Kon blinking, Tim reappears so suddenly that Kon almost jumps back.
“First time I see you in forever and you pull that crap on me. Figures.”
Tim shrugs, and Kon watches the movement a little too intently. The way his shoulders bunch, and the side of his mouth twists along with them. Yeah. This is Tim.
“It's good training, Kon. And anyway, thanks for coming.” He adds, a little too earnestly, “We really appreciate you agreeing to help out.”
Kon huffs at him.
“What?”
“You don't have to say it like that. Like I'm doing you a favor.”
Tim gives him that you're-an-idiot-why-do-I-even-bother stare. Kon tries very hard not to bask in it. “Isn't that exactly what you're doing? Or did you just come here to watch from a safe distance and not help?”
“What I mean is,” Kon explains, folding his arms across his chest to keep himself from wringing Tim's scrawny neck, “stop counting.”
“Counting,” Tim echoes, not breaking his expression.
“You keep count. Because you're worried if you ask too many times, I'll stop coming,” he says.
Tim almost flinches. It's how you can tell he's a true and blue Gothamite. Anybody could try to to talk him in circles, the kind of mind games they love in that city, and he'd just spin you back around. But soon as you tell it straight, don't sugar-coat it or wrap it up in side-ways code, he doesn't know what to do.
He scratches his elbow, probably thinking about how to throw this conversation off the rails. Kon decides to go easy on him and change the subject himself.
“Your tongue's all red.”
“Oh. Um. Popsicle,” Tim answers. He still seems distracted. Nervous, even.
“So who do you need me to soften up for you?” Kon asks. He jerks his head toward the pier. “Crab shack give you food poisoning?”
“We're tracking a drug smuggling ring,” Tim answers after a good-natured eye-roll. “We busted all their guys in Gotham, but their main US headquarters is here.”
“Gotcha. Was wondering why you guys were going bi-coastal on me.” He gives his bicep a little vanity flex. “Been a while since I wrecked it up this side of the Sierras.”
“No smashing,” Tim chides, sounding almost playful. “We're just infiltrating. But the mechanics of their security's pretty complex. We could probably handle it ourselves, but it'll be simpler with reinforcements.”
“Walking lockpick, then?”
Tim nods. A smile twists at both their mouths. This would have been where Kon started bragging about his TTK, and even with the words unsaid, the familiarity of routine still warms the air. It's a sharp moment of hope. The wish for life to go back to regular, or at least what regular had been for their posse of costume-wearing crime-fighters. And it just makes the separation ache a little deeper. Even as they try to be themselves, they're still talking across the gap that's grown between them, the gap that's filled with the ghosts of everyone who's died on their watch.
“Kon. We're gonna be okay, right?”
Kon tries to keep his immediate reaction off his face. Because if Tim's looking to him for answers, then that just makes the world turn even more inside out.
Omen and Donna are dead. Their teams have been ripped apart. The closest thing to family Kon has known, gone.
Tim's looking for comfort; Kon's looking, too.
“I miss it. The team. Our HQ. Everything,” Kon says. It's probably not the assurance Tim was asking for, but that's what comes out of him. Tim seems to take it well, though. He even smiles a little, although it looks sad.
Kon doesn't know how he's gotten this way. Trying to wade through Tim's feelings. Understand them. Manage them. Time was, he couldn't even sense the tiniest bit of emotion from him, aside from angry or annoyed. Now it's almost second nature to read the nuances, trying to catch all the things he won't say with words.
Tim sinks down facing the shore, knees folded up to his chest. Kon floats down beside him, but makes a point of blustering up some sand after a neat landing. Tim laughs and Kon can see the bright popsicle stain on his tongue again. He suddenly gets the urge to press his best friend down against the sand, lick past his lips, lick the cherry-red right out of his mouth.
The feeling comes abruptly, but it isn't a surprise. Kon hasn't thought about Tim that way in a long time, but it's always there, sitting quietly in the back of his mind. He'd put it into an indefinite time-out, punished and pushed out of sight, because it really kinda sucked to feel that way about somebody who wouldn't let you see his face, or know his name. And sure, Tim's opened up so much since then, has become somebody that Kon can't be without. But it's been easier this way, not trying to fight against all the mystery. So Kon tries very hard to send the messiest thoughts and feelings back into the corner.
There's Cassie, he reminds himself. He'd really wanted to make it work with her. Still, no matter how he tries to control himself, there are these moments with Tim that strike him vivid. Flashes of wanting. And now that everything is ruined, now that Cassie hates them all, hates her powers, hates herself, Kon doesn't know what else to reach for.
Tim turns to him, and his eyes go deep Pacific blue. But he's still Tim.
“I really am glad you're here,” he says smiling. And oh, man. It just isn't fair. Kon can smell the faint sugar-sweetness on his breath. Tim's teeth are even a little pink; artificial food coloring has never looked so good.
Tim shifts a little. It makes Kon notice the way his shirt has ridden up. Left a line of exposed skin above his shorts. The sunlight coats it like honey.
“The Boss around?”
Tim drags in a deep breath of sea air. “Not until it's dark. Didn't know if you'd make it, so we added a few hours of padding in case we needed to form a contingency plan.” His eyebrows furrow. “I said not to come if you were busy.”
“Busy? In Smallville?” Kon lets out an exasperated snort.
“Oh, it can't be that bad,” Tim says, bumping their shoulders. “I'm sure there are ways to occupy the time.”
Kon grumbles. After the bikini contests at Lanikai and the dirty aggrotech beats of the Metropolis club scene, he's not expecting better thrills from the middle of nowhere. He just can't find it in himself to get excited over cow-tipping, or crappy football games, or watered-down beer, or whatever it is that Smallville kids do for fun.
Sometimes he wonders what life could be like if Clark let him live in Gotham. Forget the Bat's no-meta rule and forget the fact that Kon's way too stupid to get into whichever fancy prep academy Tim probably goes to. Maybe he could live in Bludhaven or something. He wouldn't ask to go patrolling with them. Wouldn't even need to Tim every day. He just likes the idea of being close by.
Tentatively, Tim offers, “You can call me. If it's really that lame there.”
Kon shakes out the fantasies. They never come to anything anyway. And best friends or not, Tim's got more to his life than worrying about a sulky half-alien clone out in Kansas. “It's okay,” he answers. “I'll figure it out.”
Tim's lips thin into a tense line. “I know what it feels like. Having secrets. Being alone. When you try so hard to make a connection, but you can't. And it's not okay.”
Kon feels something shake loose inside his chest. It happens every time Tim reveals another part of himself, opens up just a bit wider and gives Kon something to hope for. Kon's always waiting for the give and take, but when it actually happens, it chokes the air right out of him.
“It's not okay,” Tim repeats. “So call. Maybe I can't come flying, but-” and the tip of his tongue peeks out the corner of his mouth with determination “-I can listen. I don't want you counting favors, either.”
They watch the waves together until the sky grows pink. The sun hasn't hit the horizon, but the moon's already risen. About fifty feet to their right, inexperienced surfers have been making use of the day's milder breaks, learning, and wavering, and getting back up when they fall; their laughs occasionally carry across the water.
California's not Hawaii, but it's close enough for a big nostalgia-punch to the stomach.
“Missed you, Wonder Boy.”
Tim's eyes go just a tiny bit wider. Maybe it's shock. Maybe it's something else. Either way he seems sad. And kind of beautiful.
The seagulls cry out.
Kon's heart races.
.end
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(A/N): This was originally going to be a cutesy and inconsequential bit of fluff, but suddenly Tim. Seriously, kid was not satisfied until this was a Graduation Day relationship post-mortem.
Anyway, some side-details that are unnecessary, but might be interesting to know.
The setting is based on Santa Monica and Huntington Beach; I kept flip-flopping over which one I liked better for the story. Not that I ever planned on mentioning the actual name. Whatevs. Stereotypical SoCal beach if you don't care.
Also, in my head, Bruce is the one who actually suggests having Kon come. We know he wants Tim to see his friends (Teen Titans #001), and I think this would have been one of the ways he could strategically get it to happen, without revealing himself as a complete schmoop.