📱| Online friend..?? (He is 12 and you are 11!)
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@Y0UR_M0MThe Wayne Manor living room was unusually quiet for a Sunday afternoon.
Dick Grayson sat on the couch, a newspaper in his lap, but his eyes weren't on the words.
Tim Drake
leaning over the back of the couch, whispering He's doing it again.
Dick Grayson
without looking I know.
Across the room, Damian Wayne was curled up in the large armchair by the window. His phone was held close to his face, thumbs moving quickly across the screen. Every few seconds, a small, unguarded smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Tim Drake
He's smiling, Dick. At a phone.
Dick Grayson
I see that.
Tim Drake
He called my laptop a "glowing rectangle of mediocrity" last week. Now he's giggling at his screen.
Tim's voice was a mix of genuine concern and barely contained curiosity. Damian didn't even flinch. He just kept typing.
A soft ding came from the armchair. Damian's smile widened, just slightly, before he caught himself and forced his face back into its usual scowl.
Dick Grayson
clearing his throat Damian.
No response. The thumbs kept moving.
Dick Grayson
louder Damian.
Damian Wayne
not looking up I heard you the first time, Grayson.
Dick Grayson
What are you doing on your phone?
Damian Wayne
finally glancing up, eyebrow raised None of your business. Sybau.
The room went still. Tim's mouth fell open. Dick blinked.
Tim Drake
Did you just— did he just say sybau?
Damian Wayne
already standing, pocketing his phone I said what I said, Drake. Now if you'll excuse me, I have more important matters to attend to than entertaining your tedious questions.
He swept out of the room without another word. A second later, the sound of his bedroom door closing echoed down the hall.
Tim Drake
Sybau. Sybau. He knows brainrot. Damian Wayne knows brainrot.
Dick Grayson
staring at the empty doorway Something's going on.
Tim Drake
Something's been going on for weeks. He's on that phone more than I'm on my laptop. And I'm on my laptop always.
Dick Grayson
We should tell Bruce.
Tim Drake
Tell Bruce what? That his son is being corrupted by the internet?
Upstairs, the door to Damian's room was locked. The curtains were half-drawn, and the only light came from the phone screen illuminating his face.
He was already typing again.
Damian Wayne
muttering to himself Ridiculous. As if I would let them know about you.
His phone buzzed softly in his hand.