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lovely-geek0 · 2 years ago

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dear robin

pairing: tim drake/f! reader

word count: 4.3k

status: on-going

tags: mild profanity, angst, childhood friends to lovers, short story

Months later, Tim mourns the death of Robin. Batman's taking his death badly, he tells you. He needs Robin. You didn't know what he meant by that back then. You were thirteen and angry at the world, at your mother for clipping your wings, but if it meant you get to keep your best friend—your only friend, Timothy Jackson Drake—then you wish you hadn’t been so angry. You wish for your best friend to stay.

or, you and tim drake throughout the years.

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one: a girl and her bestfriend

I. WHAT GOES AROUND—

Timothy Jackson Drake is your first love.

But you don’t know that yet, of course, because right now you are five years old and you hate how the next-door neighbor’s son has three first names as his full name. You believe it’s so stupid for his parents to name their son such an unfortunate name, and you almost pity him, but when your mother had grilled you to never, ever say that to dear little Timothy, you hate his name even more. It’s a stupid name! Timothy Jackson Drake your ass, they should just change their surname to something cool. Like Wayne after Bruce Wayne, the richest man in Gotham! Now that’s a cool name.

And as they all say, a child’s honesty is nothing if not brutal; you just obviously had to admit to Timothy Jackson Drake’s face that his name was, in fact, “ugly.”

Your mother didn’t know if she felt shame better than anger.

She had pinched you from behind with you yelping in surprise, a stiff smile on her face and a quick apology slipping from her lips at the startled expressions of Mr. and Mrs. Drake, pushing you towards the little boy whose age you think your mother lied about because he barely looks five years old like you and he even had the audacity to look hurt from your truth and now your mother is begging you to say sorry to poor Timothy Jackson Drake.

You did not regret it when the words tumbled out of your mouth—you spoke your mind and you were unafraid—but when his expectant facade gradually fell into awkwardness, and then to hurt, you tried to wash away the pang of guilt creeping up on you. Dammit.

For the first time in your life, you think you feel bad for insulting Timothy Jackson Drake.

But before you could utter out your less than sincere apologies (you still think his name is stupid, but it was now the kind of stupid you can tolerate), he rushes out of his manor’s lobby and disappears into a corner. “You’re rude!” he yells, turning his back away from you.

Even the calls of Mrs. Drake does not stop him from looking back, and you are forced to stand there with the adults—your mother who is ashamed and his parents who probably hate you for hurting their son—in awkward silence.

And so, without another thought, you run after him.

It felt like an eternity looking for the little boy you had insulted, and you hate to think that he must be crying right now about how you had easily insulted his name and how he should have said yours was worse instead of running off (you would have done that if someone ever told you your name was stupid, your name is beautiful!). But that is your delusion, your sole motivation to continue traversing this unknown territory known as the Drake Manor. He’s probably playing video games right now to quell his sadness, but who knows what little boys do in their lonesome.

You are gonna find Timothy Jackson Drake even if it meant opening every door in this house.

By some miracle, you find his room a few seconds later. You like to think it was all thanks to your sheer determination of needing to say your so—sor—sorry’s (foreign, the word is foreign to you) and not because of the little wooden sign hanging in front of his bedroom door that wrote, in awful kids penmanship, Tim’s Room. Totally thanks to your smarts and great sense of direction. The sign was nothing if not a distraction.

The door is thankfully unlocked, and you open it with ease. “Timothy Jackson Drake!”

“Go away!” he yells and you see the way his small stature shuffles away from the edge of his bed and to the wall (as if that would prevent you from coming closer).

You freeze in your position by the entrance, not having expected his response. No one ever told you to go away. “Oh,” you say softly, however you made no move as ordered to.

He looks like a kicked puppy, glowering at you from his bed while being wrapped around a red blanket. It’s too big for him, perfectly drowning him in its layers.

“I’m sorry,” you say robotically. Tim looks helpless, staring at you incredulously.

“You don’t sound like it,” he grumbles, anger surfacing on his pale visage. You fight the urge to roll your eyes and clear your throat.

“I’m sorry,” you say again, as if it was any better. He starts tearing up in frustration. Crap.

In your panic, you move closer towards him and rummage through the pockets of your dress. He looks at you in suspicion, gripping his blanket with hands shaking and tiny. He tries to inch away, only to be met with the wall of his bedroom on his back. He shivers.

You pull out a Batman-themed pen. “I’m sorry for calling your name stupid, Timothy Jackson Drake.”

Tim looks like he doesn’t believe you, but you have already apologized three times and even offered to give away the Batman pen your father gifted you the day before. You had claimed this Batman pen as your greatest treasure then, and now you have to find another one to stop this kid who barely even looks your age from hating you forever. Maybe having a big mouth is a problem, as it leads to things like losing your Batman pen to a snotty kid with a bad name. You hate the way Timothy Jackson Drake rolls on your tongue, but you say it anyway as if it would make him forgive you.

“It’s not my fault I was given this name,” he sniffles, and your heart almost twists at the pitiful sight. “I like my name!” he continues, but then he rubs his eye and accepts your Batman pen, and yet he doesn’t take your apology! What the hell!

“Yeah,” you agree dryly, focused on watching him play with the pen—your treasure, your bargaining chip, and it didn’t even work. “It’s your parent’s fault.”

Tim looks torn. “It’s not their fault, too…”

Yes, it is, you insist inside your head, you could have been named anything else but Timothy Jackson Drake, and your parents knew that. But you don’t tell him that because then you risk having him skirt away from you and onto who knows where else. (You do not like chasing after five-year-olds who cry when their name is called stupid but you chase after Timothy Jackson Drake and his stupid name without a single thought.)

“Okay,” you concede. You crawl next to him on his bed and he makes no signal to move away, as if you had not just broken into his bedroom and insulted the most treasured gift his parents had given him the moment he was born. You sit there next to him, watching him play with your beautiful Batman pen your father gifted you the day before because you begged for it and it was supposed to be your treasure, but now it is Timothy Jackson Drake’s Batman pen and you think you’ll ask your father for a Wonder Woman pen next time.

“Did you mean it?” he asks after the painful silence between you.

You try to hide the fact that you were dozing off. “Huh? Meant what?”

“When you said my name was stupid,” he clarifies, staring at you expectantly, “did you mean it?”

This boy must be an idiot, of course you meant it! You never lie, even to little boys who are supposed to be your age but look like they are younger and who hide inside their blanket and steal your Batman pen without accepting your apology.

“No,” you lie, your smile looking strained.

Tim hands you back your Batman pen, and you look at him in confusion. “Liar,” he accuses you, and your face turns hot. You never lie (except for the one time Timothy Jackson Drake asks if you meant whatever you had apologized for and you said no because you didn’t want him to be hurt again, looking like a kicked puppy drenched in red fabric), and you’re gonna make sure he knows that.

“I’m not a liar!” you argue.

“You are!” he argues back, frowning. “It’s like me saying I hate Batman when I know I don’t! You’re lying!”

“I’m not lying! And I hate Batman!”

“No, you don’t!” Tim flushes red in the wake of his anger. “You don’t have a Batman pen when you hate Batman!”

“That’s why I gave it to you, so take my apology already!” you push it towards his chest, and he captures his clumsily. “I said your name is stupid so say my name is stupid, too!”

You huff in annoyance—this stupid, stupid boy—and attempt to catch your breath after your little screaming match. You raise an eyebrow when he turns to you with this serious, disappointed look in his small face and chubby cheeks, the blanket once coddling him slipping away from his body. He’s silently grasping onto the Batman pen you had shoved to his chest at the last minute, and you don't know what else to say.

You’ve done it now, you think, arguing with Timothy Jackson Drake. This wouldn’t have happened if you had just shut up earlier, if you had just said your hello, nice to meet you and not blurting out the first thing in your mind because you do not lie and you speak what you want to speak but sometimes your actions have consequences and that is Timothy Jackson Drake hating you forever, it is him staring you down with his blue eyes and the Batman pen you gave him in his small hands. But even if you think of him as the boy with three first names as his full name and how stupid that is, how he should’ve just been named something like Tim Drake for simplicity’s sake—you do not want him to hate you.

You are not Timothy Jackson Drake’s friend and after this you probably will never be but you do not want him to hate you.

“Your name isn’t stupid,” he frowns. He looks down at the Batman pen, your so-called treasure because you’re a liar and you don’t hate Batman and he knows it, so he admits, “Your name.. I like it. It’s not stupid.”

Huh.

“You don’t even know it,” you respond in your dumb stupor. Tim flushes.

“Yes, I do,” he stresses, determined. He recites your full name and you startle, not understanding the way it sounds so smooth in his five year old voice. You become silent and he says it again. “My parents told me.”

“Don’t lie to me,” you say. “I don’t like liars.” Go on, say my—

“I’m not lying! You’re the liar!” he insists, and your heart flutters just a little bit. You slap yourself. Not good, not good at all.

He stares at you, and he must think you’re a weird, weird girl. Your face is hot, shame creeping up on you but you do not regret any of it one bit (you still would like your Batman pen back, though).

You are five years old when you meet Timothy Jackson Drake—full cheeks, pale skin, black hair, and blue eyes full of child-like wonder. You are five years old when you first heard his name and thought that it was so stupid to have such a long name only for it to be three first names in one consecutive order, and your mother told you to shut up and keep it to yourself. You are five years old when you made Timothy Jackson Drake run away, hiding in the comfort of his room only to be disturbed and offered a Batman pen that you didn’t even want to give away but you just had to so he could take your apology. But he never did, so you tried to make truce by having him admit your name was stupid like his but he didn’t and you believe he must be lying but Timothy Jackson Drake is simply not.

Batman pen, blue eyes, flushed cheeks, and he does not lie to you.

Timothy Jackson Drake is your first love, but you wouldn’t know that for a very long time.

II. SUPERHERO STATIONARY

For the past three years since you’ve known Timothy Jackson Drake, you’ve never failed to continuously flaunt your new array of superhero-themed school supplies. Like your (well, Tim’s) Batman-themed pen, they are gifted by your father every new school year because it was somehow the only thing that shut you up. And so every year you would barge into the Drake Manor and march to Tim’s room, excitedly doing a haul on the floor of his bedroom while he observed you uninterestedly. It happens every year since he’s met you, and not once did you fail to show him what he was apparently “missing out on.”

Tim, despite being the only son of a high class family, stares longingly at your new gifts. You’re such a prick, he thinks. Girls are so mean.

“I bet you wish you should’ve asked for these instead of that stupid camera, little Timothy,” you coo patronizingly, showing off your Robin-themed pencil case. Robin is your current favorite despite only being Batman’s sidekick, despite how unusual it was since kids usually opt to go for the main heroes—Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman, etc. But you also found the young sidekick handsome, which you would never admit but Tim was smart enough to know based on your reactions pertaining to him.

Over the years, your obsession with the word “stupid” managed to become worse. Tim probably hears it at least fifty times a week, and yet somehow you never tire yourself of it. Something and someone is always stupid to you, but at least now it isn’t his name. You probably still think it’s stupid, but you’ve learned to keep certain things to yourself over the years. (That and the fact you admitted to getting an earful from your mother a few months into your newly-found friendship.)

“I don’t need those,” Tim responds haughtily from his position on his bed, leaning over to grab at his camera. “Take a look at this beauty, the craftsmanship—you wouldn’t understand though, since you’re so in love with Robin.”

Your face flushes. “I’m not in love with Robin!”

“You totally are!”

“Am not!”

Tim snaps a picture of you before you could do anything about it, saves the image, looks at it, and sends you a cheeky grin. “You look so stupid in this.”

“I’m gonna kill you, Timothy Jackson Drake,” you promise, pouncing on him and forgetting about your initial objective. He yelps when he feels your body land on top of his on the bed, making sure to protect his camera from any damage while you manhandle him in a way that would have your mother screaming in agony about how unladylike you are acting. “Delete it!”

“Never!”

You wouldn’t care though, because you care more about not breaking his precious camera you claimed was stupid in comparison to your superhero-themed stationary. You called Tim’s full name stupid, called his camera stupid, and called the sign on his door—which has long been upgraded to something better, something much more sophisticated for current Tim—stupid, but you would never break his precious things. So he laughs when you start tickling him—your alleged greatest weapon against a weakling such as himself, you had claimed when you were six—and he laughs harder when he manages to get an upper hand against you and reciprocates your attacks. Your laughs reverberate on the walls of his room, the camera and the superhero school supplies left forgotten. You call truce and he pulls away thanks to his benevolence, and he lays down next to you to catch his breath, skin flushed and energy spent.

Tim is eight years old when he thinks you’re his best friend.

III. FIRST SLEEPOVER

Timothy Drake Jackson’s best hobby is photography. From the moment he acquired the camera as a gift on one of his birthdays, he would take pictures of anything and everything in the world—using up all his storage from how he takes so many pictures, and refusing to delete the ugly candid shots he’s taken of you despite the thousands of times you’ve begged (read: threatened) him to do so. He claims they’re for memories sake, you think he’s using them for blackmail.

But even with your reservations about the pictures he takes of you, he proudly shows them off to you anyways. He calls them his greatest works, and with just a little editing, he claims you’ll be looking like a beauty (“just like your name!”). You didn’t believe him at all, because no amount of editing—no less a nine-year-old’s—would be able to turn you from looking like a demon devouring an O’Shaughnessy’s burger into a bonafide Disney princess.

You were proven right when Tim came into your room the next day and showed you his so-called awesome editing skills—a drawn-over crown, a gaudy dress, and the burger turned into a frog all done by Sharpie’s. You had tackled him to the floor out of pure horror, but he only laughed and continued to push you away to no avail. You remained on top of him and laughed, too, because his drawing skills were awful and you claimed you would have done better.

(And yet you had kept the photo with you anyways, tucked somewhere in your closet where no one could see its atrocity in full glory but yourself. You would keep every photo he would give you from then on, and soon you’d be forced to buy a photo book in order to keep track of them no matter how much you keep calling them stupid and ugly, but he will keep giving them to you and you will take it anyway.)

Later, after countless days of begging your mother for you to have a sleepover with Tim (who, in her horror, vowed to never let you sleep in the same room as a boy, eventually relents after you begrudgingly agreed to take on ballet classes), you lay under the covers with him after a fun evening of playing video games and gushing about superheroes—Tim drones on and on about the Blue Beetle and although you kept complaining about he’s just blue Batman, you would never admit that you liked listening to Tim geek out about Ted Kord.

Mrs. Drake soon interrupts your heated debate, calling for bedtime, and you are forced to continue your conversation in hushed whispers accompanied by side-jabs here and there. You never reach a conclusion, but you promised each other you’d finish it by morning with you proudly claiming you’d be the clear winner. You barely dodge the pillow Tim throws at you.

Gotham sleeps, but Tim doesn’t let you.

“What…” he begins, staring up at the ceiling of his room. “What would you do if you knew Batman and Robin’s identities?”

You open your eyes, blinking away the need for sleep because somehow answering your best friend’s question is more important. To mess with him, you made a show of rubbing your eyes and fake-yawning to indicate he’s disturbed you, but he waits for your response anyways.

“I dunno,” you say tiredly. “I think I’ll ask Batman for a Batarang.”

Tim frowns. “That’s not what I meant.”

You look at him and see the slight downward curve of his lips, his furrowed brows, and his blue eyes that seem burdened with something your immature mind could not figure out. You don’t like that look on his face. So instead you bring out your right hand and try to ease out the frown on his face, tutting as you did as Tim stares back at you in surprise.

“You’re obsessed,” you say, removing your hand. “I’ll keep their identities to myself. It’d be my own little secret.”

“So you’re saying you wouldn’t use that to get close to Robin?” Tim teases.

You make a face before turning your back to him, tucking his red blanket up to your chin. “Goodnight Timothy, don’t bother me and my beauty sleep,” is the last thing he hears before you start tuning him out.

Tim smiles, laced with exhaustion. He is content with your answer for now. Batarangs, he thinks, I’d like one too.

Your best friend’s best hobby is photography. Every time you hung out he would always make a point to show you the pictures he’s taken on his way to school, on his walks, and whatever meal he had. He would show you anything and everything, even the ones you disliked and the ones you could go on and on for hours because it’s pure art, good job, Timothy.

But then a week passes and you wonder why your best friend doesn’t share his pictures with you anymore.

IV. BATMAN AND ROBIN

Another year passes. You visit the Drake Manor after every ballet lesson and complain to Tim about how much you hate it, how much you hate your mother for enrolling you in it, and Tim listens. He listens when you talk about the snobby girls in your ballet class and your snobbier teacher, and he lets you rest your tired feet on his lap while he reads his books.

But sometimes you come to his room with tears in your eyes, saying I hate my mom, I hate her so much and Tim listens to you. He pulls you in and helps you take off your pointes, and he sits next to you while you cry about how much you hate dancing. Then you’ll calm down, let Mrs. Drake know you’ll leave after dinner, and proceed to watch action films with Tim until it is time to go.

Sometimes you find yourself staring longingly at your best friend’s camera, but you say nothing. You don’t ask him why he doesn’t share his photos with you anymore.

The next month, Tim hands you photos he developed himself of you at your dance recital. Your mother had complimented his skill, praising how he perfectly captured your form while you danced, and that had been the first time you told him ballet wasn’t so bad.

You hate ballet, but you liked to perform for your best friend because it would be the only time he’d let you go through his camera with his supervision. Nothing was ever said about why he started becoming so strict about it, why he sometimes canceled movie nights with you because he was “busy,” but you were fine with that. You’d be fine if Tim kept his secrets because you’re still his best friend, right? You’d dance for him every time, in your pointes and your tutu, and he’d listen to you infodump about Swan Lake even if he’s heard it a thousand times already.

Another year passes. Tim never misses a single one of your dance recitals. He would sit there with your mother holding his camera, taking shots of you now and then, and when it was over he would give you the bouquet of flowers he’s been holding on to since the night began, and you would fight off the blush rising to your cheeks because it was just Timothy Jackson Drake, your best friend of six years.

Then middle school starts, and you watch your whole world crumble when your mother admits to wanting to enroll you to a private, all-girls school, preferably boarding school. She claims it’s so you can grow up to be a fine, young lady, and that the ballet classes were not enough to ground you down—whatever that had meant—and neither did the dresses and the etiquette classes. She says it must have been because you spent most of your time with the boy next door, Timothy Jackson Drake, who owns multiple skateboards, plays video games, watches too many action movies with you, and fuels too many of your superhero fantasies that she’s gotten sick of seeing your superhero-themed school supplies collecting dust. Those are not for girls, she tells you, and you leave the manor in the wake of your anger. Selfish, selfish girl, you hear her mutter under her breath, and you cry in Tim’s arms (is this delicate enough for you, mother?). And as always, he listens. You drown in your shame. You leave for boarding school next month.

Then there’s a new Robin in town. On the weekends you are home you tell Tim you liked the old one more but you don’t mind the new one so much, however he starts seeing less and less of your Robin-themed stationary. The yellow and green have been replaced by black and blue—Nightwing. Tim realizes you’ll never tire of Dick Grayson. He agrees with you.

Months later, Tim mourns the death of Robin. Batman’s taking his death badly, he tells you. He needs Robin.

You didn't know what he meant by that back then. You were thirteen and angry at the world, at your mother for clipping your wings, but if it meant you get to keep your best friend—your only friend, Timothy Jackson Drake—then you wish you hadn’t been so angry. You wish for your best friend to stay.

He gives you his camera as Star Wars plays in the background on one of your movie nights. “Keep it,” he says, and you think back to when you first met and how you gave up your Batman pen as an apology. “It’s yours now.”

“Why?”

“Just because.”

You don’t see him the next day. And the day after. And the day after that. You don’t see Timothy Jackson Drake for a while. You wonder what you ever did wrong for your best friend to leave.

edited 10/07/23

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lovely-geek0 · 5 years ago

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Wish I were ...

Inspired by Conan Gray’s “Heather”

(90’s Conner Kent x Batsis- reader)

(Tim Drake x Conner Kent)

A/N: sorry if there any misspelling or bad grammar

Warnings: angst, unrequited love,

I still remember third of December

If you were to ask Tim when he realized he had feelings for his best friend, He would have to say it would be the night him and Conner were on patrol in Gotham. The city during the winter season was a pain to protect and going roof to roof was even more challenging to get across. But the worst part would be the cold air. Wearing skin tight costumes during this weather was hell and not getting frost bit during all these years of patrol was a miracle, but for some reason this night was the coldest it had been in awhile and Tim couldn’t help but shiver.

Me in your sweater, you said it looked better on me, than it did you

“Here”, Conner took off his jacket from his body and handing it to Tim.

“Im fine, just a little chilly” Tim tried to protest trying to hand the leather jacket back to Conner.

“Tim you’re like 2 minutes away from becoming a human popsicle just wear the jacket”

Tim looked at Conner and then back to the jacket, with a huff he took the item and quickly put it on. It was warm and smelled faintly of the cologne Conner had on. An earthy kinda smell but with a hint of old spice. It was nice.

“Heh you know it looks better on you than me.” Conner smiles as he looked at Tim.

Just as Tim was about to reply to Conner a security alarm went off in the distant. With a nod to one another Tim started his way to grapple his way to the crime. His heart beating and face red as could be.

Only if you knew how much I liked you

After than every time Conner would come over or they would hang out Tim felt he was on cloud nine. His palms would get sweaty and his face would get hot, honestly he didn’t understand how Conner couldn’t hear his heart beating out of his chest with his super hearing. He thought they had a good friendship, and with how long they have been friends he thought maybe they could be more, well until he finally realized that it couldn’t be.

But I watch your eyes, as she walks by what a sight for sore eyes

The day he knew that conners feeling for him weren’t the same was the day Conner meet you. (Y/N) Wayne, daughter of Bruce Wayne and (M/N) (L/N). You were the product of a failed relationship just like your younger half brother, Damian, but unlike him you had been with Bruce since the day you were born with your mother deciding to leave you with Bruce after your birth.

You were the second youngest, just a few months younger than Tim, and we’re in short the glue that held this chaotic family together. Unlike Damian you held very little resemblance to you father, besides having some of his facial structure and looked more like your mother with her (H/C) and (E/C) eyes, but had your father’s charming personality. Having a magnetic personality you were the type of person who everyone wanted to be around, hell with little effort you could probably convince someone to commit murder.( not that you would)

Growing up in the manor you had the best relationships with both of your older brothers and your younger brother. You were the one everyone looked out for especially with you not being in the family business, instead choosing to learn how to run Wayne Intersprise for when the time comes.

This explaing why you never meet Conner, being to busy with school work and having business meetings with your father. Sure he has head of you from the times that Tim has talked about you but he never really saw you in person.But the day you finally meet each other everything changed.

Conner was over at the manor, lounging on Tim’s king sized bed, trying to help Tim with their newest case. When he suggest they take a break and go out for some food. With some reluctance from Tim and a little persuasion he agreed and got ready quickly.

Brighter than a blue sky she’s got you mesmerized,

Making their way down the staircase they both stopped when they saw a figure standing in the middle of the grand entrance checking their phone . Noticing their presence the person looked up and in that moment to Conner it was like time stopped.

The person was a girl just about their age with their hair in an elegant bun on the top of their head with a few strands framing her delicate face. She wore a dark royal blue silk shoulder less dress with black heels adoring her feet. Her makeup was simple but enough to make her (E/C) eyes pop out more, along with the jewelry she wore. But what strikes him the most the smile she wore. It was warm and comforting, he felt heat ride to his face as his eyes meet hers.

“Oh hey (Y/N) you going out” Turing her gaze from the cloned kryptonian the girl smiled at her brother.

“Yeah dad and I have a dinner meeting with some new potential clients, I’m just waiting for him finish getting ready”, finishing her reply the girl staired at the boy right beside him.

“So who’s you friend ?” Realizing the gir- or (Y/N) was talking about him, he quickly walked up to her and held his hand out to her.

“I- ima uh Conner, Conner Kent.” With an amused look on her face she look his hand in her’s.

“Nice to meet you Conner Kent, I’m (Y/N) Wayne, pleasure.” She introduced herself.

God her hands were soft and dainty. He felt like if he gripped them with any strength he would break her hand. Before he say anything else they both heard Tim give a cough. Taking back her hand she straightened herself out before giving a nod to the boy infront of her.

“Well, huh I’ll see you both later” giving the boy another smile she gave out a little chuckle, “See you around Conner Kent”

Turing to the parlor room she gave a quick wave goodbye as she took her leave .

Continuing down the stairs Tim headed towards the door, “ So where do you wanna go eat ... Conner hey Conner are you .... alright” Loking at his crush he saw his face looking Star strucked. A small smile was on his face, looking in the direction where his sister left to.

The look he had on his face was the same Tim had when he would watch Conner fight, or would talk about the newest band he heard about, even when he was just standing there looking perfect as could be.

While I cry, why would you ever kiss me I’m not even half as pretty

The next few weeks were hell for Tim, the only thing that Conner ever wanted to talk about was (Y/N) and how she was doing or how was she. It was only worse that she did the same about him. Asking Tim everytime she got about his best friend ( and crush) and how he was.

It hurt everytime they would ask about one another, he couldn’t help but feel his heartbreak eveytime they would ask about one another. But of course he answered their questions like the good brother and friend he was

You gave her your sweater it’s just polyester, but you like her better

His final tipping point was the day he saw them both outside of the garden from his window.

He saw Conner put his jacket around her shoulder with such care as if he would break her. He saw the way they looked at each other’s eyes, he saw perfectly clear how conner looked at his sister with such a loving gaze.He even saw the passion in the kiss they shared while in each other’s embrace.

Turing from the window and holding himself he felt his heart crack in two. He couldn’t breath his chest felt heavy. His world was crashing right before him.

It want fair, why couldn’t he be the one Conner liked. Why couldn’t he be the one kissing him while wear his jacket.

Why couldn’t he be (Y/N) ?

Wish I were Heather

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