Just in case: Life is Strange's spoilers in the chapter!
In fact, the tie was not just an occasional accessory for Detective Anderson: it was a daily dress code.
Even for simple errands, he never went out without having chosen in his collection, a treasure carefully sorted in a drawer. So far, he had gathered about thirty, and not a band of silk had funny motives: all were strict, sober, and above all, of excellent quality.
The one he was wearing that night was in indigo tones, streaked with very thin silver lines. A model too classic and that was clashing with the bar. Just like his attitude.
Connor was leaning on the counter, anxiously watching the time on his phone. He had been sitting there for only two minutes, but it seemed like his ordeal had been going on for hours. His jacket was still on his back and he had not ordered anything yet, in case Gavin would stand him up.
It was early; few customers were enjoying the happy hour, or rather, the golden hour. They drank their beer near the windows glowing red because of the end of the day, bathed in a warm light. A cat would have stretched in this heat, happy and fulfilled; the opposite of the detective who was worrying.
His only way to reassure himself was to manipulate this coin. In turn, Connor planted the thin rim in his palm, then slid it between his knuckles, mastering each swing thanks to the habit.
It was ridiculous, yeah, but it maintained the little trust he could felt, so it was out of the question to end that ritual.
When, at last, Gavin pushed the front door, the coin slipped and hit the counter surface with a crystalline resonance. Connor made it disappear in his pocket, as fast as if it was a shameful thing. He prepared to get up to greet the man, then changed his mind: he preferred to adopt a detached attitude, to be as nonchalant as Gavin Reed.
For tonight, the prison guard had swapped his shirt for a t-shirt. He had also stuck a leather jacket in the crook of his elbow, a sign that he planned to stay until late, when it could still be a little cool.
Under the left sleeve, some tentacles stretched, embedded in shades of gray in the skin. The tattooist had applied himself, giving movement in the curves, loading them with impressive details: one of the tentacles was pierced by an anchor, another was wrapped around a mast ready to break— so many little things that let imagine a multitude of stories of this still hidden octopus.
Connor stared at the tattoo, feeling the urge to pull that sleeve up to find out where those supple arms could lead him.
For his part, just like the day before, in the corridor of the prison, Gavin detailed Connor from head to toe, then he pointed at the outfit with a wave of the hand:
"In fact, whether it's a date or to interview a prisoner, you dress the same way. Should I take it the wrong way or Price must be flattered?"
"No, it's just my way of dressing."
A little anxious, Connor smoothed his tie, but Gavin burst out laughing and invited him to sit at a table rather than at the counter. He preferred one-on-one exchanges.
As soon as he sat down, Connor asked:
"Has Peter Price spoken about me since my visit?"
"No, he didn't talk about you, but now, let's agree about something, Connor: we're not talking about work. My weekend has just begun, so I forget everything about prison until Monday morning."
It was also a date, but Gavin avoided specifying it, perhaps out of pride, perhaps because Connor seemed so serious that it did not really look like a date yet.
"I'm sorry, we don't talk about work anymore."
They placed an order and, a few moments later, a waiter put two half-pints of beer; pale ale and bitter.
Connor did not know what to talk about to avoid work, and the time to think, he sipped his drink, letting the bubbles tickle his upper lip.
To move him a bit, Gavin chuckled:
"Fuck, look at you, you look like a virgin before his first night." Hearing it, Connor began to cough as the ale went down the wrong way. "Hey, don't die on me! But you're the one who invites me, and you've nothing to say to me?"
"In fact, since yesterday, I was wondering what made you change your mind? You've been as tough as Price, and yet you've agreed to see me again."
"Yeah, remember to thank him next time you pass: if Price had spoken, maybe I wouldn't have pity on you and I'd sent you to fuck yourself."
Gavin looked down, a sign that he was lying, but Connor still noted the advice, laughing sincerely.
Then, he took advantage of the moment to satisfy his curiosity:
"By the way, what made this scar on your nose?"
"It was in a brawl, two years ago: five detainees had begun to fight, and when we tried to separate them, one of them released a blade and— voilà. It's nothing: a colleague almost lost an eye."
"Oh my God—"
"It's okay. The guys apologized." Gavin said, and the irony snatched a sorry laugh from Connor:
"I guess it was the least they can do— Well, we agreed not to talk about work, and finally, we come back to it."
"When I can boast, it doesn't bother me." Looking around, Gavin suddenly noticed, "How do you know this bar? I didn't know you were listening to Serj Tankian."
Indeed, they were listening to Harakiri at that moment, and the nasal voice of the singer revived memories. This old warning, turned into a hymn of love, still pinched the heart with desperate words.
"When was it released, already?"
They could not remember, so Gavin checked on his cell phone:
"The album was out on July 10, 2012."
"Woah, I was 12 years old— I still remember my father: he was so happy that he made the CD play for months."
"And do you like that kind of music?"
"My ringtone is Knocking on heaven's door, the Guns' cover."
"You're kidding me!"
"Then call me, you'll see."
Gavin made a call and Connor's cell phone started vibrating on the corner of the table. He immediately recognized the chorus sung by Axl Rose's broken voice.
Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door.
Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door.
He had so much trouble believing, he was speechless. Connor had to have humor for having this music ringing, not to mention that his pretty mouth did not match that of a cop, more than that of the angel who would open the door—
"I can't believe it."
"I look like some who only listens to Schubert, right?"
"Hell yeah."
"In fact, I'm also listening to Schubert, but I prefer Tchaikovsky."
"No, no, stop! You ruin all the charm!"
Charm.
So there was charm? Connor felt himself blush, and he blessed the darkness that was beginning to settle around them.
The sconces, naked bulbs concealed by cardboard cones, made the lights uncertain and deceived the senses. In the shadows, the perfumes grew, the laughter clashed in a hubbub as constant as the whispers of the sea. The ears could have drowned in these waves of sound, but Connor, like Gavin, focused on the voice of the other, attentive to the slightest anecdote.
The detective told the guard about all the hours he had spent in the front of his father's car, an old 92 Lincoln Town Car, as gray as a November morning, listening to Skid Row, Metallica, Linkin Park, Slayer— Today, Connor understood why Hank was cutting some tracks, especially Alice Cooper's ones, or why he was singing a kind of mumbo jumbo to censor some lyrics.
Hank Anderson had never worn any tie in his life, and even on the most formal occasions, he never made the effort to wear even a bow tie around his neck. Anyway, he had always preferred jeans and leather jackets, bringing a radical contrast with his beloved son.
And yet, they had in common this passion for this music.
"Okay, you've got crappy tastes for clothes, but for music, wow," Gavin confessed, ordering a second beer.
"Thank you— Are you drinking again?"
"I came on foot," Gavin defended, "when I go out, I never take the car, and the subway's my excuse to drink over the limit. But don't worry: you won't have to stop me for public drunkenness."
"I'm watching you closely."
Connor, for his part, ordered a non-alcoholic beer.
Since they were talking about music, they kept going, evoking past, crossing common points, and Gavin was again surprised by another revelation: Connor was a player.
"I especially have a weakness for investigative games."
"Ah! Now, I'm less surprised. Let me guess, you become a fan of these game with— Heavy Rain?"
"In my first game, I couldn't save Shaun," Connor confessed, "and I cried like a baby, first because I was sad, second because I was convinced that it meant that I'll be a very bad investigator. I was barely 11 years old and my life was already ruined."
Gavin burst out laughing, touched by this childish naivety.
As for him, he preferred horror, still remembering the hours walking in the cursed city of Silent Hill, fleeing the possessed in Alan Wake, discovering the remakes of Resident Evil before playing the originals.
They mentioned several titles, sharing old opinions, before agreeing on an essential point: Life is Strange was a fucking masterpiece.
"Let's see if we can get along. Connor, moment of truth: who did you sacrifice, in the end?"
"I sacrificed Chloe, of course! You can't kill an entire city for one person!"
"You're too down-to-earth! I sacrificed Arcadia Bay, I didn't gave a fuck."
He continued to mock him, until Connor sighed:
"So that means we can't get along?"
"I forgive you this youthful mistake, don't worry."
They went astray on delusional theories of a game released more than fifteen years ago. In the sharing of these memories, personal elements emerged: which studies they followed, some family stories, opinions— Each element revealed them a little more, like retired clothes.
Connor suddenly received an email, a simple notification about the latest articles in a magazine, and he was surprised to see that it was past nine o'clock. Even though the automatic subway was running all night, Connor suggested to Gavin drive him back: they still had so much to tell each other. Another night would be necessary, then yet another, and perhaps another—
The questioning of Peter Price might have been a failure; the policeman had enjoyed a very, very nice evening with the guard.
When they left the bar, they forgot the music and the other guests, resuming their discussion.
The street lights punctuated their way with silver halos, imitating full moons that diffuse calm glows. In the buildings, they could hear festive sounds, or at least their muffled echoes, but even the traffic seemed far away, giving the night a little rest, leaving the two men a little privacy.
Gavin and Connor took a turn and followed a path that ran along River Rouge. The parking lot was near a park, a little corner that the city had succeeded to preserve, keeping it green.
Detroit's reputation had improved in recent years, when neighborhoods had enjoyed a newfound youth, becoming almost safe havens. Gavin had witnessed this evolution, but Connor was from Columbus, Ohio, and he was already a teenager when Hank was transferred to Detroit.
From time to time, the sound of a fog horn coming from the waters of the river surprised both of them. The silhouettes of the boats, drawn in ink, dragged on the wavelets with the slumber of a sleepwalker, and without noticing it, Gavin and Connor adopted the same slowness, strolling more than walking. A way to gain time—
"And your father remarries that Amanda when you were still a kid?"
"I was seven, yes, but everything was done gradually. She scared me, at first: she was always so serious, so right— But I ended up admiring her."
According to the portrait Connor shown to him, Gavin imagined that Amanda Stern had become more than a mother: she had become a model. Gavin then thought he would probably get along better with Hank Anderson, already preferring this nonchalance Connor had mentioned.
This thought puzzled him all at once: why would he meet Connor's parents? It was ridiculous; they only had known each other since the day before.
The parking lot was rather small, leaving room for ten vehicles, but only three were parked. And all had their tires had been punctured.
Even though he recognized his car, Connor was speechless, staring at the scrap tires on the black rims.
The silence lasted a few seconds, before Gavin burst out laughing because of nervousness.
"Fuck, Connor, I know, it's not funny, but your face— I just can't!"
"It never happened to me, why did they puncture the tires?"
Gavin kept laughing, and he put his arm around Connor's shoulders, trying to bring some comfort.
"Some brats who wanted to have fun on a Saturday night, nothing more. Come on, I'm going to call a taxi."
"I'll pay the ride."
"That's fine! You'll have to replace four tires, so I can spare you an extra expense."
While waiting for the taxi, they settled on the hood of the disabled car, with, in front, the river. Connor leaned on the metal muzzle, and the rocking was scary: this nod confirmed that the tires were truly flat. He sighed.
They were closed to each other, the polyester blazer rubbing against the leather jacket, and then, as if the gesture had become natural, Gavin hugged him again. It was so easy when it was dark and there was nobody around.
"I'm sorry it's ending so badly. Maybe you'll be able to catch them?"
"Maybe, I will— It's a shame." Connor did not dare move, fearing that Gavin would move away. "But that doesn't spoil the evening. Will there be a second one?"
On purpose, Gavin took his time to answer, and when he was about to do so, a screech on the gravel caught their attention.
The taxi had just stopped in the middle of the parking lot.
"I insist, Gavin, I pay the ride, maybe you'll pay next time?"
"Clever, nice way to have a second date," admired the guard with a burst of laughter. "Okay, next time, I'll invite you."
Connor tried to look serene, containing the joy that climbed up his throat and tickled his cheeks. Summer was early in his belly, shaking his whole body with a hot heat.
And later, when the taxi parked in the street of the first destination, the burns revived a little more.
Gavin opened the door, but before going out, he turned to Connor.
"You know, you were almost cute earlier."
"When I found my car? I thought I was pretty ridiculous."
"Yeah, you were. But cute as well."
Then Gavin leaned forward, the tip of his nose barely touching Connor's, and he waited for the rest, leaving the other one to make the decision. It was unexpected, and of course, Connor came close.
He was certain he might burn Gavin, and not to hurt him, he flattered his mouth with small kisses, cautious and patient. It was as surprising as it was exciting, and Gavin would have been tempted to get him out of the cab to drag him to his apartment.
But there would be another time for that, so he pulled away just enough to wish Connor a good night.
Connor who asked:
"See you soon?"
"See you soon." He promised.