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“Bruce.”
Dick, poised gracefully and confident in the landing of the manor’s grand staircase, left arm tucked behind him against the waistline of his charcoal black tuxedo, gently lifted his right hand towards the man at the top of the flight, palm up in invitation. His eyes were glimmering in the incandescent light from the hall’s various crystal chandeliers, their colour matching the Nightwing blue sheen of the silk scarf wrapped artfully around his hips and tucked under his buttonless suit jacket. Bruce permitted himself a minute smile, only a quirk of the lips, as he descended the stairs to join him, the swallowtail of his suit fluttering behind him.
“Black again?” Dick grinned, running his hands along the smooth fabric of Bruce's tie to adjust the gold clip that secured it into place on Bruce’s crisply ironed white dress shirt, courtesy, as always, of Alfred.
Bruce leaned his head forward and he could see, see the slight dryness of foundation and concealer skillfully hiding the valleys marring Dick’s golden skin. He almost caved in to his desire to rest his chin in the waves of raven coloured locks on the shorter man’s head, but he settled on revelling in the scent of a cheap peppermint shampoo that he knew was always on sale two months before Christmas at the minimart down the street from Dick’s Blüdhaven apartment, and a pine nutmeg cologne that he had gifted Dick three birthdays ago. He smelled of freedom and of sunlight, and Bruce both adored and despised the way the scent would wash him over with an inexplicable giddiness and pool inside his chest.
Gently collecting Dick’s hand into his own, their fingertips both cold from the winter chill in the manor, he let Dick lead him down the staircase into the Great Hall of the manor, their steps calculated and with a slow swing, in time with the harrowing undulations of the oboe in an orchestral rendition of ‘Send in the Clowns.’
“How’s Alfred?” Dick murmured, words slightly muffled by the fabric on Bruce’s shoulder that he’d pressed his mouth against.
“Busying himself.”
Dick smiled against Bruce’s shoulder, “And Timmy?”
“He’s coping.”
“Bruce,” Dick stared at him, eyebrows knitted, his face furrowed into a frown. Bruce was ever so tempted to slip his fingers between the brows to smooth them out but he exercised utmost willpower to keep his left cupping Dick’s hand and his right tucked in the faint curve of Dick’s waist.
“You need to talk to him.”
“I-,” Bruce hesitated, “I can’t. That’s what you did. I’m not you.”
Dick pulled the two of them to a standstill in the center of the hall, where the snail spiral pattern of the hardwood floor met in the center, “You can, and you will. He needs you. Now more than ever.” He looked away, towards the shadows amongst the pillars in the far corner of the room, as he added softly, “Jason says so too.”
Bruce's expression grew pinched as he glanced at the clock, hoping to catch a glimpse of the boy there, but there was nothing to see so he rather he firmly nudged Dick back into their timed steps, “Is he…” well?
The end of the question died between Bruce's lips. Dick did not respond immediately, but when he did, it was rueful, “He is. But he still doesn't want to see you.”
Bruce pursed his lips in begrudging acceptance and resumed their dance, unvoiced thoughts churning in his head.
“You’re brooding. Stop that,” Dick was smiling at him, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. Bruce would never get tired of seeing it.
“I missed you,” Bruce breathed, voice barely audible above the music.
Dick stiffened, feet stuttering, and tilted his head upwards, staring straight at Bruce, azure eyes wide in disbelief and mouth slightly agape, as the older man placed his hand across Dick’s jaw and brushing his thumb lightly across his cheekbone. It was a momentary lapse, lasting barely a millisecond, and regaining his rhythm and composure, Dick sealed his lips quickly in an understanding smile, Bruce’s touch burning his skin a flush red. The reaction was expected and Bruce played through several possible future scenarios inside his head, but settled on remaining silent whilst continuing the dance. It must’ve been almost sixteen more measures of the waltz before Dick responded with a quiet, “I know.”
“Does it get easier?”
Dick hummed, letting his head fall against Bruce’s shoulder to hide the pain showing on his face, “If you let it.”
“It’s not fair, you know, B, when you choose to say it now.”
Bruce thought back to when Dick was eighteen and angry and they were both brash and young. To when he was pressing his lips against Dick’s smile, and their bodies were entwined within the bedsheets. To when he watched as Dick fell apart when he threw him to the ground and told him he didn’t need him, not then, not ever. To when Dick’s eyes slid closed for the last time, strapped in that damn machine in front of him and all of the apologies he had wanted to tell and the dreams he had always wanted to share tear at his throat as he screamed his name.
“Dick, I-”
“Richard.”
The two men turned towards the voice that rung sharply through the hall; Damian was leaning against the wall, dwarfed by the shadows cast by the pillars. The boy’s voice softened, “our time is up.”
“Dick…,” Bruce's voice was rough as it was dry, from having not used it in several months, and he quickly wound his fingers around Dick’s wrist, leaning in close, bringing Dick’s pretty lips against his parched ones all the while engulfing him in a hug, his breath ghosting across Dick’s ear, “Happy Birthday, Dick.”
“Thank you, Bruce,” the acrobat grins from ear to ear, a mere glint of regret buried within the crystalline facets of his eyes.
“I’ll see you again next year,” Bruce whispered, his heart torn as he watched Dick detach himself from his grasp to slip his fingers into Damian’s waiting hand, the boy tilting his head to peer up at Bruce.
“Pennyworth knows, Father, that you are not taking them," Damian moved his head to gesture in the direction of the small bump in Bruce's pantsuit pocket where the orange pill bottle sat, unopened.
“They don’t help.”
“You need them. For Gotham’s sake and yours,” Damian reasoned.
“Damian.”
His son scowled, his grip on Dick’s hand tightening, “So be it.” He turned on his heel and dragged Dick after him to join the third boy, barely taller than Damian, flitting about in the shadows, Dick’s shoulders lifting in apology.
Bruce gifted them the faintest mournful smile as they faded into the black, leaving the man standing alone in the frigid emptiness of the manor, sorrow painted on his face.