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“Timothy Drake-Wayne.”
The moment of truth. Tim takes a deep breath and exhales slowly, trying to calm himself. For someone who likes to appear well-maintained and calm at all times, he is one massive ball of inner anxiety.
Don’t trip. Don’t stumble. Don’t fall. Shoulders back. Head up. Smile.
Tim completes the exhaustive list in his mind as he strides over to the stage. One foot in front of the other. He stands tall and proud, climbing the stairs with practised ease and natural grace. His lips twist into what could resemble a smile, but he’s too focused on keeping himself upright to think about it too hard. Don’t stumble. Don’t fall.
The stadium erupts into polite applause as he treads the boards. It’s a little louder than for every other graduate – he’s the first of the Wayne family to graduate publicly; with a floozy father and out-of-control siblings, this seems a momentous occasion to the public. There are a dozen sounds of cameras clicking, school photographers standing in place of paparazzi, taking photos that Tim knows will be carefully selected and considered by Wayne Enterprises before any are allowed in public view.
Don’t stumble. Don’t fall.
The entire empire’s future is resting on his shoulders. College was easier for Tim than most – he had an apartment where he could study, and he didn’t have to worry about how to afford his next meal. Even while fighting Bruce for a ‘transition period’ into the company during his final year, which Bruce had wanted to postpone and Tim had wanted to rush through, even while undergoing a literal transition period on testosterone, fighting through a second puberty in his early twenties. He was here, alive, breathing.
Don’t stumble. Don’t fall.
This was Tim’s chance to break away from the latter half of his last name, to show the world he was something more than a Wayne. And he had, kind of, by graduating with dual honours in Marketing and Psychology – things he had wanted to study, courses he had picked not out of duty to Wayne Enterprises or loyalty to his family but because, for once, he had a choice.
Hell, did it feel good.
Tim extends his hand three steps away from the principal, who smiles brightly and shakes it in encouragement. She hands him the diploma, rolled in Gotham University’s signature navy blue ribbon, and he takes it with a steady hand. “My most congratulations, Mr Drake,” she tells him, and Tim feels a swell of pride in his chest. “May you do great things with your life.”
Too anxious to speak – smile was on his mental checklist, but speak correctly was not worth the risk – Tim just nods in thanks and lets his hand fall to his side. The moment he steps away, moving to walk off stage, a loud whoop bursts through the applause, bright and cheerful. Too cheerful for a Gotham resident.
Tim draws his focus away from the stairs, internally chanting his checklist like a mantra as he scans the crowd. He can see Bruce and Clark standing as they furiously applaud, with the vigilante managing a tight smile and the meta grinning from ear to ear. Both Dick and Jason stand beside them, looking proud and smug. Jason slips Dick a note, presumably losing a bet that Tim will enquire about later.
And then there’s Kon.
Standing on his plastic blue chair without a care in the world. He’s smiling brighter than the sun itself – ironic, Tim thinks as his own smile softens into something a little more genuine, a little more natural – and he’s clapping with a speed that seems a little too inhuman for such a public space. Tim feels his heart skip a beat at the sight of his boyfriend, and the clone boy’s grin widens just a little more as he picks up on it.
“I love you!” Kon yells out over the crowd, his hands twisting into a heart shape. Dick rolls his eyes while Jason fakes a gag, which earns both of them a fond smack on the head from Clark, but Tim doesn’t focus on them. Instead, he pinches his diploma between his middle finger and palm, making a quick heart gesture in return.
Suddenly, the mental checklist is the last thing on Tim’s mind.
—
“Congratulations, Timmy!”
Two hands clamp down on Tim’s shoulders, drawing him out of a conversation with yet another classmate congratulating him on graduating. He nods to them before shifting out of Dick’s grip and turning to face his family.
“It might be graduation, but I will take you down, Wing.”
The threat does nothing to deter Dick, who just cackles brightly. Tim can’t remember when he last saw his family this happy – and it’s because of him. Finally, he did something right.
“Let’s not resort to violence so early in the morning,” Bruce rolls his eyes as he approaches, shoulder to shoulder with Clark, who sends him a slightly disapproving look.
“How about we don’t resort to violence at all?”
Tim is wrapped in a pool of his family, booming with “Congratulations!” and, “I knew you could do it, Timbo!”, and a half-bitter mutter from Jason about, “Lost a fifty ‘cause you didn’t trip, Pretender”. He feels warm and fuzzy, and he’s almost too wrapped up in the moment to notice the gap by his side.
Almost.
“Hey, wait,” Tim struggles his way out of the death grip, trying to shake off his family as cameras snap around them, non-discreetly stealing a fleeting moment of love between the cold-stone Wayne family to sell to publishers. “Where is—”
Before he can even finish, a weight drops down onto Tim, causing him to stumble forward, eyes wide and shoulders tense. But before he can resort to violence, which, it might be fun to piss off Clark a little, arms wrap around him with a protective warmth and a kiss is planted onto his temple.
“I’m so proud of you, sunshine,” Kon grins against the Tim of skin’s face. The shorter lad tries half-heartedly to shrug him off, muttering an excuse about, Kon, my family are here. “I always knew you were super smart.”
Dick snorts. “Smart enough not to trip, huh, Red?”
Jason scowls. “Shut up, Bluebird,” he mutters, throwing a sharp elbow jab to Dick’s ribs.
“Wheel thief!” the older lad retorts, giving his brother a hard shove.
“Fight me, Circus Guy!”
Clark steps forward quickly, pulling the two lads apart while Tim watches with a smug face. “Both of you, pack it in,” he scolds lightly, though there’s no malice to his words. Everybody knows Clark is too soft to reprimand anybody, even when he does his best to look disappointed and ends up looking more like a kicked puppy. “How about you just go outside for once?”
“And do what?” Dick scoffs.
“Fight in the sun, it’ll make a nice change,” Bruce breaks in. Clark turns his kicked puppy expression to Bruce because, you shouldn’t encourage them to fight!, all while Jason tries to sweep Dick’s legs from under him as the acrobat jumps.
“Well, this has been lovely,” Tim interjects after a moment, addressing nobody in particular. Kon drapes himself over Tim like a blanket, chin tucked against his boyfriend’s shoulder and a dopey grin on his face. “But I think I was promised BatBurger when I graduated.”
At the mention of food, Dick and Jason brighten up, their bickering forgotten almost instantly. Bruce and Clark guide them towards the side exit, still discussing healthy bonds (“Brothers should be encouraged to support each other, B!”) and sibling rivalries (“As long as they kill each other and not some criminal, sweetheart, I don’t care”).
Not that either of them can comment on those factors, but Tim keeps that fact to himself.
The family make their way out of the stadium, Bruce and Clark falling into step while Jason and Dick become engrossed in a conversation about some dumb TV show. Tim follows behind them, his graduation gown flapping in the wind, until Kon slips off his back and grabs onto his boyfriend’s hand instead, pulling him to a stop. “Hey.”
Tim turns slightly, glancing at the rest of the group who haven’t noticed them pausing. “What—”
Kon leans in, capturing Tim in a soft kiss. His free hand comes up to cup the graduate’s cheek, his thumb gently running along Tim’s cheekbone in the way that makes his legs shake a little. Kon pulls back after a moment, his cyan eyes shining with something between adoration and love. “I really am proud of you, y’know?”
Tim doesn’t bother fighting down the warmth in his chest. It splatters across his cheeks, and he ducks his head a little, pressing it to the clone boy’s shoulder. “Thank you, Kon.”
Kon hums softly and turns his head, pressing a gentle kiss to Tim’s head. Their hands weave together, and from the distance, Dick turns back to them, calling out, “Come on, loverboys!”
Tim has never felt quite so happy.