A/N: Prompt "Jaime catches Bart being sad/out of character, and he helps him or they share their first kiss or anything works" from Intertwined-trickster.

The eyes are what haunt Jaime the most. More than the emaciated body and cracked lips, the scraggly hair and smudges of black that indicate charred flesh. Because the pair of eyes don't just convey heartbreak, they mirror everything Bart fought to escape from.

Jaime's quivering finger floats to the page, skimming the grainy paper. The drawing is so realistic, as if someone breathed in a real photograph and exhaled it onto the paper. If he squints, the lines, which are quick and certain, even seem to move.

His hand feels numb as he gingerly turns the page. The next image shows a blurred object with angel wings protruding from it. This drawing is not nearly as detailed as the first, but, in its own way, seems just as dark.

Jaime feels his throat tense up, tightening with guilt. The sketchbook had been lying harmlessly on Bart's dresser, but now that he's seen what the pictures depict, he knows that this counts as an intrusion. And he feels guilty, betraying his friend's trust.

But, in all honesty, he doesn't feel that guilty.

So engrossed in the fluid lines, the artful shadings, he doesn't notice the sound of approaching footsteps until it's too late.

"Hey her-man-oh, I-"

Jaime jerks his head up from the sketchbook, which falls limply from his grasp, landing back on the dresser with a thud.

Bart's face slips into a quiet frown, his arms resting stiffly at his sides. He doesn't ask for an explanation, but Jaime feels obligated to give one. The problem is, he can't think of an excuse to justify him going through Bart's personal things.

"Your drawings," he murmurs lamely, "they're really good."

Bart gives an almost imperceptible shrug. "I've had a lot of practice."

"How come you've never shown them to me before?"

"My sketchbook's like… like a diary. Andgoingthroughit not crash dude, not crash at all."

Jaime flinches, but, much to his chagrin, he can't seem to let it drop. "Are there are pencils and paper in the future?"

"No," Bart laughs hollowly, a sound that is foreign to Jaime's ears. "No, I used to trace images in the dirt. Ya know, to commit things to memory."

"That's what these are," Jaime gestures vaguely to the sketchbook. "Memories."

For a moment, Bart just stares pensively in the direction of the dresser. "They're just drawings."

"They seem so real," Jaime counters.

"They were, once… but not anymore. Thingsarechangingandthatlifeneverhappened," his words blur together at super-speed, as they so often do when he's excited or upset. Bart inhales sharply, holding the breath until his chest aches. "That's why I draw them. Soon I'm going to be the only one who's lived through all that. And someone needs to remember."

Something shifts in Jaime's gaze, something bordering pity. Forcing his stomach to still, he lifts up the sketchbook with careful fingers and opens it to the front page.

"Who's this?"

"I don't know. Really, I don't. I watched her die… but I never knew her name."

"I killed her," Jaime guessed.

Bart's mouth opens, an unspoken "no" forming on his lips.

"You drew a plasma canon in the woman's pupils. I did kill her."

"No, you didn't."

Swallowing, Jaime turns the page. "What's this one?"

"The Watchtower."

The Hispanic's eyebrows rise, eliciting a sigh from Bart.

"The Watchtower may be home to the League in this time, but in the future it isn't a symbol of guardianship," Bart inhales sharply, "at some point it falls out of orbit, leaving a huge crater when it lands. And taking half of Gotham with it."

"Why did you draw wings?"

"Uh, I dunno, guess it fell kinda like a vengeful angel."

Jaime wants to know the story behind all of Bart's drawings, if only to quell his curiosity. He's seeing a whole new side to the Caucasian teen.

But the question that does tumble unbidden from his lips is something he's been wondering for a while.

"Is it all just an act? A façade?"

Bart's expression slackens. "What? N-no."

"But most of it is, isn't it? The laid-back, hyperactive speedster front… it's not the real you."

Bart's forehead creases into a frown. "No… no, it's not."

"Then what is the real you?" Jaime's voice has a harsh undertone to it. The question is more than an inquiry; it's a demand. Jaime's seen the real Bart before, of course. But only glimpses, so fleeting he sometimes wonders if they're real.

"I don't know."

Jaime open his mouth, but Bart interrupts.

"I don't know, okay? The future was about staying alive. Self preservation, finding food and water. And the more people you looked out for, the lower your chances of survival were. Maybe if I got a bit more used to the idea of belonging somewhere," he pauses, as if to say more, but he can't get his tongue to form proper words.

Jaime's voice drops to a soft whisper. "Who do you want to be?"

Bart steps forward, albeit tentatively, and eases the sketchbook from Jaime's grasp. He plucks a stubby pencil from the dresser, and begins to sketch lightly. By the time he's finished, the heel of his hand is tinged grey from smudging. Finally, he reveals the drawing.

Jaime's eyes widen, quickly darting from Bart's face to the drawing and back again.

"Really?"

The most Bart can manage is a stiff nod. Bart counts the seconds in his head, the moment fueled with a tension he's never known before. His chest contracts painfully, and it's as if the entire world is holding its breath for what happens next.

Every inch of Bart's skin is prickling with heat, and he senses Jaime's hands on his face more than he feels them. The air is suddenly thick, charged with a tangible energy, and each inhalation is agony on Bart's lungs.

Bart stands precariously on the edge of his tiptoes to wrap his hands around Jaime's neck, pulling the older boy to him. Jaime's parted lips fill the gap between them, ghosting over Bart's ever-so-softly. The kiss is gentle, and soft, and feather-light, but long. After a few moment, it occurs to Bart that this is his first kiss. He feels a humming in his chest, something curious rapidly growing within him. It feels as if his mind is lost in a haze, so he doesn't remember to count the minutes. He knows the kiss lasts for a while, as if they're both afraid that once it ends they'll snap out of their stupor and go back to just being friends.

Bart isn't really certain about most things these days, but he knows that after kissing Jaime like this, he doesn't ever want to be just friends again.

When the need for oxygen finally kicks in, their lips pull away, but their bodies don't.

Bart's gasp for breath catches in his throat as Jaime's lips travel across his jaw line. "Te amo." His voice is a breathless whisper against skin. Jaime repeats the phrase, leaving a blazing trail along Bart's jaw.

"Te quiero, te amo."

Bart cards his fingers through Jaime's hair and breathes in his familiar scent. He smells like home and safety.

"Bart."

"Mm?"

"Could I keep the drawing?"

"Yeah,sure,of course," a note of surprise accentuates his tone.

Bart watches Jaime carefully tear out the drawing, as if it were the most precious thing in the world.

"You okay her-man-o?"

Jaime offers a small nod, not lifting his eyes from the page. "Just committing it to memory." Not that he needs to. Even if he tried, he probably couldn't forget the quick sketch of Bart's lithe arms resting on his shoulders while their lips pressed.