March 1st, 2039 - 9:44 P.M.

Connor doesn't come over on any day other than Saturdays. He told Gavin this last week, when he explained the schedule he has for his work, which Gavin doesn't press to know about. He made that little deal with Connor as a joke—mostly just to see if Connor would agree to it and answer him, but he hasn't exploited it. Not really. It's more complicated than that. He doesn't want to reverse their roles. He doesn't want to interrogate Connor until he spills every last horrid detail of his life. He just wants Connor to tell him. He wants to learn things without having to prompt him.

Gavin doesn't know why, since his curiosity since the last night they saw each other has been itching at him, forcing him to bite his tongue from asking again and again why Connor is here, why he was in Seattle, what happened when he was younger. Et cetera, et cetera.

He thinks he just wants to know Connor inside out. Not to make the two of them match—Connor doesn't know everything about Gavin, but he knows so much that sometimes he lies awake at night wondering how Connor can keep coming over, keep talking to him, keeping being there to listen to his words when he knows what kind of blood is staining his hands.

Connor doesn't come over—

Not on any other day than Saturdays.

Except today, when he arrives with Tina and a little sack of books to add to Gavin's shelf, which he has consumed almost entirely three times now. New content help ease the nerves in his chest from still being unprepared to see him, despite Tina's text warning him an hour ago.

It's just not that easy, sometimes, when it comes to Connor. His mixed feelings have become both clearer and murkier with each time they've crossed paths. When they were once tainted by the past, now they're tainted by whether or not he actually really does like Connor. He sits in this strange place between being a genuine friend that Gavin can laugh with and being this person that is hard to ignore or forget from before. The serious nature of what happened once upon a time. Things feel lighter now, here, in this cabin in the woods. There is less pressure. It's easier to laugh. It's easier to smile. But he feels guilty for it sometimes, too.

"Gavin?"

"Kitchen," he says quietly, his voice faraway and distant as he watches Connor by the shelf, plucking one book at a time from his bag, setting them in a careful stack on the shelf. Tina is at his side, her hand touching his wrist, bringing him back slowly.

Connor turns around, the scarf around his neck laying loose around his shoulders, "I can go, if you want."

"What?"

He's confused. A little lost. He's been too focused on Connor's face, on the way his mouth moves like he's trying not to recite the title printed on the spines of the novels he's chosen for Gavin.

"Tina told me she was going to try some repairs today," Connor says. "I know it can be a private or a personal thing, so I can go, if you want me to."

"You didn't bring your own car."

"No, but I can wait outside in Tina's if you want."

"It's cold outside."

Tina snorts, stepping away from the two of them to the kitchen. The clatter of her toolbox against the granite countertop seemingly so far away now.

"Gavin," Connor says, like he's trying not to smile or laugh. "It's okay. Really. It's not that cold. I only came to deliver the books, anyway. So it's fine."

Gavin nods, slowly, like he's lost the ability to talk. He is thinking about what it's like to have what little skin he has pulled away, to have pieces of himself stripped apart, to have parts of himself exposed and open while Tina messes with his insides. Not in the painful way that Zlatko had, but in a strange kind of vulnerable way that makes him feel one second from falling over dead.

But Connor is leaving. Moving toward the door, out to the cold that still plagues them, with it's foot of snow and it's ice-cold wind.

"Connor—" he says, taking a step forward. "You can stay."

"What?"

"You can stay. It's okay. I don't mind."

Because it's cold outside. Because it could be an hour, trapped alone in a dark car after the sun has already set, bored and alone.

Because Gavin doesn't really mind if Connor sees him that way.

"Okay. I'll stay."

.

.

March 2nd, 2039 - 2:04 A.M.

Connor is running. Feet pounding against pavement, cold winds blowing past him. He's running and he can barely breathe. He is aware of how little he is breathing. But off in the distance—

His brother.

Running just the smallest bit faster than him. Running along this straight path, further and further. Just at the edge where his body is barely there. But Connor runs, too. Through the black, choking back the need to stop and fall down to breathe.

He's running but he isn't fast enough. He's never fast enough.

He stumbles, falling forward, hitting the road hard. Blood smears on the pavement beneath him, his hands and knees skinned, his chest heaving for air. Connor gets to his feet, looking in the distance that no longer has the little speck of a person there. White clothes against the black sky, against the black grass and black road. No light. Not even the moon or the stars.

He hears something behind him. The snap of something followed by metal screeching against itself. He turns, looking up to the place where he was running from. The endless black carries on, punctuated only by the bodies hanging in front of him from metal hooks, like they're pieces of meat.

But they aren't. Past androids that he recognizes. Long blue hair left messy around a woman's face. Short cropped blond hair smeared with blue. Connor's feet move on their own accord, pushing him through the space, past the bodies that surround him, doing his best not to look. He keeps walking until they disappear, even after the blood on the bodies changes from blue to red.

And there—

In the distance.

Not his brother, but Gavin.

He recognizes him instantly. The sharp angle of his body, the glow of the light underneath clothing. He's on his knees, looking back at Connor. He's staring at him with the same look he had when they first met. Anger and resentment that wouldn't ever go away.

Connor tries to speak, but his voice fails him. Nothing comes out but a tiny croak, just to prove that he won't be able to say a word.

Someone appears from the shadows, a gun glinting at their side. Connor can't make out their face, but he tries to scream anyway. Tries to warn Gavin. GET UP. RUN. PLEASE.

He tries to run forward, but he can't, he slams against something dividing the two of them. A glass wall preventing him from getting there, to help. Gavin isn't moving. He isn't doing anything but watching Connor with that same look, even though he is still trying to scream, even though there are tears streaming down his face, even though his fists are hitting the wall again and again to no avail.

The sound of the gun clicking is like it's right next to him, placed at the back of his head instead of Gavin's. And he wishes it was. Kill me.

Not him.

Not Gavin.

.

.

March 2nd, 2039 - 2:15 A.M.

He wakes with a jolt. The sound of a gunshot lingering in his ears that he knows isn't real. Connor's hand brushes away the tears on his cheeks. They've stopped, but he knows he was crying in his sleep. He just doesn't know for how long. There's this strange feeling sitting inside of his chest. An overwhelming fear that makes his heart beat fast.

Gavin is alive. Gavin is fine.

It was just a nightmare.

It was just a nightmare.

.

.

March 2nd, 2039 - 6:47 A.M.

"Hello?"

"Hi," Connor says quietly, his voice small and nervous. "Tina gave me your number. I just—I didn't know if it was okay to call. But I did anyway. I just…"

"What's wrong?"

"I wanted to talk to you," Connor whispers. "I should… I should go."

"I've barely said three words, you're going to hang up on me like that?" Gavin asks, curling up on the couch. The cat walks across the back of it, finding a place in his lap quickly. "Talk to me."

"It's stupid."

"Look, we're trying to be friends, right?"

"Right."

"Then talk to me."

Connor laughs, but it is lacking all of the humor in it, "I don't understand you. I don't understand how you can just let everything go. You hated me so much and—and what? I saved you, and everything is fine now? I tell you about my ex and you feel sorry for me, so you want to—"

"Connor," he says. "I don't pity you."

"You're being nice to me."

"And?"

"And it's—it's making me uncomfortable. You're making me uncomfortable. I preferred it when you were mean to me."

"Okay," Gavin says. "I'll be mean to you. Will that make you feel better?"

"Yes."

"Fine. You dress like a freak. You're always wearing these striped sweaters and I don't know where the fuck you got them from but they never look good. The colors are all mismatched, but you somehow managed to match your shoelaces to them every fucking time. Who does that? Who takes the time to do that? How many fucking shoelaces do you have?"

"Gavin," he says quietly.

"What, not mean enough? You want me to insult your personality, too? You want me to be angry with you? I am. You're frustrating. You're annoying. You barge into this place and you tell me all these things about you and it makes it hard to hate you. I wish I did. It would make me feel better. It would make more sense for me to hate you. I keep trying to hate you. I keep trying to at least dislike you."

"That's not an insult."

"It is. You weren't supposed to be you, Connor. You were supposed to be someone that I hated. You were supposed to send me off to kill me. You chose the wrong android to save and you keep doing it."

"I keep saving you?"

He lets out an annoyed sigh. Because yes, in some ways, that's true. Every Saturday when Connor comes over and they play a card game and when he laughs and he smiles, he makes Gavin laugh and smile. It feels cruel, it feels like he's being saved from the thoughts that plague him. It's the only time he gets a break from it all.

"You forgave me," Gavin whispers. "Why can't I forgive you?"

"What did I forgive you for?"

"Hurting them. The others. You know what I did to them. I told you."

"Zlatko made you do that."

"CyberLife made you hurt androids, too. We aren't that different."

"I could've quit."

"And lose your mom and your boyfriend? Come on, Connor. You're not stupid. You didn't have much of a choice. You lost your entire life."

"I wasn't helpless."

"And I was?" Gavin asks. "No. We both could've run away at some point. I wish I had. You wish you had, too. But we didn't. There's nothing we can do now."

Connor is quiet. For a long, long time he's quiet. Just the hum of a car in the distance, the quiet radio playing music that doesn't sound like something Connor would actually like. And Gavin doesn't know if what he's saying has even come across the way he meant it. He didn't talk about how exhausting it is to continue to hate. Before, he was fueled by rage. He was fine with that. It was all that kept him going. But he is too tired to hold grudges. Not when they are so equal in the ways they've hurt people.

Connor has spoken enough about his adoptive mother that Gavin can see the things he doesn't admit to. He can see how carefully Connor chooses his words. He can see how thoughtfully he jumps away from certain subjects. Gavin can see the subtle similarities between a woman handing cases to her son and the ways in which Zlatko would place weapons in his hands.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong now, Connor?" he asks.

"I had a nightmare."

"Just now?"

"No, late last night. It's…" he trails off. "I just wanted to talk to you. Hear your voice."

He nods, even though Connor can't see him, "Does it feel better now?"

"Yeah. A little," he's quiet again. "Thank you, Gavin."

"Come over tonight. Tina's making dinner. You should be there. I can't eat and she always makes too much."

"Okay," Connor laughs, small and soft. "I'll be there."

.

.

March 2nd, 2039 - 7:08 A.M.

The traffic light turns from red to green. The van hums underneath his feet as it moves forward again, Gavin's words echoing inside his head.

You forgave me. It hadn't ever occurred to Connor that he needed to forgive Gavin for anything. And maybe forgive isn't the proper word. Connor never needed to pardon Gavin for his crimes. He was never held prisoner at the DPD because he hurt androids, he was never on trial for the things he did. He was only ever there for the sole reason that he was a deviant, and CyberLife found him. What Gavin was forced to do never seemed like something that Connor needed to hold against him. He never had to forgive him, because he never had a real reason to think Gavin needed to be forgiven.

It's funny, almost. How they see themselves as monsters in this way.

.

.

March 2nd, 2039 - 5:32 P.M.

Tina and Gavin cook together, and Connor watches from the sidelines, offering conversation or his skills in chopping things when necessary. His phone rings half-way through, and Connor rejects the unknown number, ignoring whatever it is in favor of Gavin telling him a story about how he used to be a cook for Zlatko, sometimes. Not often, not always, but it was his job once upon a time. He doesn't finish talking about it, and Connor doesn't need him to. He already knows where Gavin's story goes after that.

Tina makes pasta, setting cloves of garlic in front of Connor repeatedly until she's satisfied with the amount he's given her. And when it's done and they sit down to eat, he chokes back on the parika and the cumin, which earns a laugh from the two of them. And he's glad he has this little moment where Tina and Gavin can laugh at him.

It's strange. It's a good kind of strange. It feels so surreal that he's afraid to reach out and touch it, because he thinks it will probably shatter and there will be nothing left.

So he doesn't.

Connor goes quiet, watches the two of them interact as though they're old friends. He knows this isn't the life any of them wanted-Tina's lost her job, Connor's lost his mother, Gavin has been pushed aside further and further into nothingness until he's been forced to live in the middle of a forest, pretending he doesn't exist at all-but this moment is at least a shining brightness in this little dark part of their life. Their relationships are something to hold onto, to be happy for.

This isn't the life any of them wanted, but Connor thinks it's the first time he has ever been able to call someone a friend.

.

.

March 2nd, 2039 - 7:23 P.M.

Connor waves a goodbye to Tina from the kitchen, plates and silverware in his hand. The two of them have plans tomorrow, Gavin's heard. Coffee at a rival cafe. They joked about it when they first showed up. That they were going to steal their secrets to get Tina's place more business. She says it like that, her place, like she owns it now. Maybe she does. Not literally, but metaphorically—Tina has a presence when she is unbound by the duties and rules of an establishment, when she loses boundaries and becomes this great laughing, teasing girl that makes him wish he could've had a childhood, just so he could know her outside of these walls.

They step outside onto the porch, Gavin cold without a jacket, but walking with Tina to her car to say goodbye.

"This was fun," Tina says. "Are you two always like that when you're around each other?"

"What?"

"You seem happy."

"Should I not be?"

"No, it's good," Tina replies. "I'm glad you two are getting along."

"He's nice when he's not interrogating me," Gavin says. "So?"

"So, nothing," she says with a smile. "Just… how nice is he?"

"You think he's faking it?"

"No, but I know that kind of look," she says, reaching out, tapping him on his nose. "You're in love."

"You're making assumptions."

"Yeah?" she asks. "I've never seen you smile like that before. And I've never heard you laugh so much before."

"He makes me happy. That doesn't mean I love him."

Sides—

Who could love a thing like him? Even if he did like Connor, it would be one-sided. It would be devastating and cruel and hopeless.

A lot like his life feels already when he's left alone for too long. He craves the contact and conversation he has with Tina and Connor. It doesn't mean he loves them. It just means he is getting relief from a long-suffering week spent alone, with repetition and quiet.

Though, he doesn't think that's entirely true. He knows he loves Tina. He just can't get those words out without it sounding strange, like a confession, when he's just trying to make it clear how much he cares about her as a friend.

"I guess not," she says, tilting her head to the side. "But you did forgive him."

"I did. Love doesn't need to come after forgiveness."

"It could come after friendship."

"Tina—"

"Okay," she says, holding her hands up in surrender. "I'll stop. I'm sorry. It just seems like the two of you could… I don't know. Be happy together."

"I'm an android, Tina. And what about you? What about your romantic life?"

"Oh, please," she laughs. "You're all I've got. You and Connor. And a shitty job. And we're talking about you. Do you really think you being an android could stop anything?"

"I think it would make it messy and stupid."

"You're already messy and stupid."

"Thank you."

The two finally say goodbye, the car door closing behind Tina as she backs out of the driveway, disappearing down the street. Gavin doesn't linger for too long, coming back to the house. He pushes the door open, the sound of dishes being done coming to a slow stop as Connor glances over his shoulder to see Gavin step inside, shoes stomping the snow off the bottoms onto the rug, the door closing quietly behind him.

But he watches Connor by the sink, the small smile on his face, the way he reaches a gloved hand to wave to him as though Gavin was gone long enough to warrant it.

And he thinks—

Fucking shit.

Tina was right.

.

.

March 7th, 2039 - 1:07 P.M.

Gavin doesn't really know how to mourn the loss of a life, but he gives it a try. He comes up with something fractured and broken, plucking pieces of different things from the books he's read, for the glitched knowledge inside of him.

He makes his way through the forest, out to where the edge of the lake appears. So far off that he knows it'll take a while to get back. He doesn't let the cat follow him out. He makes sure she stays inside, watching him as he departs with his bag of things, her confused and curious face pressed against the window as he leaves.

All of the androids at Zlatko's had names. Things he kept secret and safe from their keeper, from Connor, too. Things whispered in the dark in the early mornings when Zlatko would finally turn in, leaving them free to speak without fearing that their voices would be overheard, despite the thick walls, despite the floors between them.

Gavin was a name that was gifted to him by one of the newer androids. She had it stuck on her tongue, repeating it over and over again. Talking about the boy she used to take care of. He doesn't know how it became his. Not really. That part of his memory is foggy. But he remembers it being a name that was given to him, not stolen, not assigned. It was packaged like a pretty thing, pressed into his hands, a quiet gesture, this can be who you are.

And he accepted it. Of course he accepted it. Anything was better than Reed and the way it sounded when it came from Zlatko's mouth or the officers at the precinct he was assigned to. Gavin felt like him, it felt like something breaking away from the heavy weight of CyberLife.

He writes their names down on scraps of paper, the long list that seems to never end, the names of the androids that were his friends before they could no longer look at him as anything other than their torturer.

The paper burns fast, the wind carrying them away to the water, pulling them from his grasp, ashes dusting the space between him and it. He says a goodbye but he also says i'm sorry and thank you. Carefully crafted, but never enough. He could know every word there ever was and he wouldn't be able to say enough about them. He wishes he could cling on a little tighter. He wishes that he could've helped them. He doesn't think he'll ever forgive himself for being the one that lived. He doesn't think he will ever stop harboring this hatred towards his body. But he can't throw it away. He can't throw the life away that they were deprived of.

He'll do something. Eventually, he'll find a way to do something to help. He'll find a way to save his people.

And he won't forget them. He won't ever forget them. It would be impossible.

.

.

March 10th, 2039 - 3:43 P.M.

There is blood dripping down his nose, and he's trying to do his best to stop it, but he keeps looking at the blood staining the tissues. How much there seems to be, how little it probably amounts pain has subsided. He almost wishes it hadn't. A physical pain is a break from the emotional pain, and the emotional pain is too much to bare anymore. It's too heavy. He only gets breaks when he's with Gavin. Those little moments of reprieve are the only thing he's clinging onto.

His mother's birthday is next week. His biological one. He can feel a tightness in his chest remembering the loss of her. How disappointed and angry she would be with him now. How let down. And she has every right to be. He was led down this path and didn't do anything to stop it.

"Connor?"

He looks up, the bright light of the sun blinding him for a moment before Gavin comes into focus. It takes him a moment to realize where he is. He doesn't remember driving here.

"Hey."

"Hey yourself," Gavin replies. "What are you doing here?"

"I don't know."

"Well, how long have you been out here?"

He shrugs, "Does it matter?"

"Yeah. You're turning blue. You must be freezing."

"The cabin was locked," he says, but he doesn't know if that's true or not. He can't remember trying the knob. He doesn't remember knocking. "I'm fine. I should go, actually."

He doesn't move. His muscles feel weak. Too weighed down. Like his bones have been hollowed out and filled with sand.

"Come inside."

He shakes his head, "I don't want to."

"Then why did you come here?"

He lets out a breath, shaky and wrong. Filled with all of the emotions that prick at his eyes and push him toward crying.

"I didn't want to be alone."

"So you came to me?"

"Tina's at work. Don't be flattered," he tries for a laugh and fails. "No. I mean, yeah. I came to you. I can talk to you. It's easy to talk to you. You know enough about me that… it's not like your opinion of me can get much lower."

"I don't have a low opinion of you, Connor," Gavin replies. "I just think you should let go of what happened."

But he can't. He has pushed it down, suffocated those feelings for as long as he can remember. He didn't talk to his adoptive mother about the death of his biological one. He couldn't allow himself to feel anything toward androids because he would sacrifice his mother and his boyfriend, and they were the only things he had. It had taken far too long for him to see enough humanity in an android to do anything about it.

He can't let go. This is the culmination of his life.

Sometimes he wishes he could go back just so he would still have the safety net of his mother there to catch him when he falls.

But he did fall, and she shoved him away.

"Connor. Come inside. At least get warm before you go, okay?"

"The heater in my car works," he says, standing up. "I'll be fine."

"Connor," he says, catching his arm, pulling him to the spot. "Stay. I'm worried about you."

"I'll be fine."

"But you aren't right now, and if you don't stay I'll find a way to make you."

.

.

March 10th, 2039 - 3:51 P.M.

Connor sits on the couch with three blankets wrapped around him. A different type of cold than last time. This is the bone deep kind of cold that follows hours of sitting in the cold with the kind of heavy thoughts that torment a person to the point of physical illness. He can see it in Connor's face, like he could see it before. But it's a different look. It's the look Gavin has studied in the mirror countless times when he was trying to decide if anything was worth it anymore.

Gavin doesn't know how long Connor was out there for. He had left sometime before noon to go back to the lake. He's made a ritual of it. Watching the water, burning a slip of paper with a name on it. He can only manage one a day. By the time he manages enough words, he doesn't have the energy to linger by the lake any longer.

He thought it was something he could do all in one day. Say goodbye to all of them, let it go in one evening, but he was wrong.

He doesn't know how long Connor's been outside, but he knows he's been gone for a long time, and it's a cold day, and there's dried blood on Connor's face that he lets Gavin wipe away with a wet cloth carefully, never making eye contact with him.

"Talk."

Connor looks up to meet his gaze, "About?"

"How you ended up here," Gavin says, stepping forward, a hand reaching out to trace the bruise forming on the side of Connor's face. "What happened?"

"Two androids staying at the farm got in a fight. I tried to break it up. One of them hit me. I'm fine, I told you."

"You're not fine. You haven't been fine. I don't think you've ever even been fine."

"No, but how am I going to fix that?"

Gavin kneels down in front of him, carefully taking Connor's face in his hand. It hurts to care about him. It hurts to see how he's destroying himself. Turning himself inside out the way he does.

"Can you talk to me?"

"I talk to you all the time."

He doesn't. Not really. He holds a lot of himself inside. Telling Gavin about things that happened to him or that he did isn't the same as talking. He is skipping over things. He's holding back.

But he isn't going to get anything from Connor now. He can tell. He's locked up.

"Take a second then," Gavin says quietly, placing a hand on his chest. "Don't think. Just breathe. Okay?"

"I can't stop thinking."

"Then think about something else. Think about something positive."

Connor nods. His chest rises and falls against Gavin's hand. His eyes linger on Gavin's face, sweeping over all the parts he hates, though really, that's all of him. Every piece of himself he has he doesn't like. But Connor's eyes settle on his face where the skin doesn't cover, where a faded scar resides on the bridge of his nose, where the scratches on the surface carry on down his neck.

They stay like that. For a long time they stay like that. Longer than the minute he intended. And then he pulls his hand away when he can't take the feeling of being watched anymore, and his gaze lands on the floorboards.

"Thanks, Gavin."

He nods slowly, "Did it help?"

"Yeah."

"What did you think about?"

"You," Connor says quietly. "I thought about you."

Gavin looks back to him, falling back a little. Surprised with how he says the words. So soft, so tentative, so scared.

"I never regretted helping you, Gavin," Connor says. "I would do it again a thousand times over. I just… miss my moms. Both of them. I miss my best friend. But I'm glad I have you. I'm glad I saved you. You deserve to be alive."

"Connor-"

"I'm not done. I'm sorry I lied to you about saving the others. I didn't think you would come with me if I told you the truth. I didn't… I didn't see a way to help them. I wish I had. I know they were your friends. I think they would've forgiven you if they had the chance to live. If I could trade places with any of them-"

"Connor. Stop. It's over. It happened."

It's easier to not think about them too long. He doesn't want those thoughts resurfacing. He needs to shove it down as far as he can to survive. He can only manage the few hours in the woods. He can't manage this, too.

"Okay. Okay," Connor is quiet for a moment. "I should go."

"Do you want to?" Gavin asks. "I… want you to stay."

"What?"

"I want you here, Connor."

"Okay," he replies, a ghost of a smile. "I'll stay."

.

.

March 10th, 2039 - 9:20 P.M.

He's watching Gavin mess with the shelves in the living room. Rearranging books to try and fit more on there. Connor keeps bringing him more and more, but it isn't as if Gavin doesn't consume a book a day. It isn't as if they're going to waste. He has a sneaking suspicion Gavin doesn't even like reading—just that it helps pass the time a little faster. Connor has jumped around genres, themes, tones, so often trying to find something that will click with Gavin enough for him to comment on his enjoyment of it. So far, there's been nothing.

But right now Connor isn't really thinking of the books. He's thinking about his dream. He's thinking about Gavin on his knees, a gun to the back of his head. He is thinking about the nightmare from two weeks ago still, playing in reverse. The gun lowering, Gavin disappearing, the bodies with their running blood. His brother running from him, but in the reverse, he's running to Connor. He's a kid in the dream. The both of them, he thinks. Connor remembers being small at the beginning. He remembers being an adult to the end. He doesn't remember the shift. But he remembers the blood, he remembers the terror that froze him in his screams.

"Connor? You okay?"

"It's my mom's birthday, in a few days-the dead one," he says, not meaning to say the words but they come out anyway, with a small laugh. "I was thinking about her. I think about her a lot around this time of year."

A lie. He thinks about his mother all the time. Especially with Gavin around. He thinks about what his life would've been like if his mother lived, if the attack never happened, if his brother was never kidnapped. It's all he thinks about. His grief has consumed him for twenty-five years and it will likely stay that way for another twenty-five, thirty, forty—

Until the day he dies.

Grief never really goes away.

"I watched her die," Connor says quietly. "We were coming home from the movie theater. And we were mugged. But she didn't have a lot. I don't really know the story of why. I just know the who."

"You know who killed her?"

He nods, "Identified him in the morgue. He's dead, too."

"Connor…?"

"Sorry. I'm not making any sense, am I?" Connor lets out a little laugh, awkward and pitiful and full of sadness. "Um… it was a little bit before Halloween. We were coming home from the movies. Me. My mom. My brother. I had a twin. You didn't know that, did you?"

"No."

He can't tell if Gavin is lying to him or not. He was an android prototype built to help the DPD. He had access to files. It might've been a different city in a different state, but files are shared across the country to help connect crimes from serials. It wouldn't surprise Connor if Gavin knew everything. But he is broken, still. He was supposed to be scrapped. He was supposed to be destroyed. And what the scrapyard didn't do, Zlatko tried to clean up, too.

But Gavin looks honest right now. He looks like he's telling the truth.

"The guy shot my mom after he took her wallet. And then he took my brother."

He says the words as simply as he can. Getting them out with little pretense. There isn't a reason to skip around this part of the story anymore. There's nothing else he can say.

"And you?"

"I was screaming. He couldn't take me, too. I don't know. Maybe he didn't want me," he says quietly. "You want to know why I was in Seattle, right?"

Gavin gives him this look that says both yes and no at the same time, as though he's too scared to admit that his curiosity is craving answers. But he is. People always are. And even if he wasn't, it's fair this way, isn't it? To tell Gavin what he kept inside of him. The gory details of his childhood.

"There was a detective that was working the case. Morgan. He was my friend. Sort of. It was complicated," he says, biting back the need to add messy to the sentence. Everything in his life is complicated and messy. He thinks they are the only adjectives that can describe him from now on. There will never be a time in his life when he isn't complicated or messy. "He wanted to take me in, but he couldn't. It would be against the rules for him to continue to work on the case and be my adoptive dad. And he couldn't… I don't know. His hours were bad. He didn't have a lot of money. It didn't work out."

"So you were adopted?"

"Yes. I moved around foster homes for a while, long enough to know when you get somewhere that feels safe you need to stay. So I agreed when she and her husband asked to adopt me. He died a year later and she moved to Detroit. Morgan used to check up on me every year," Connor says. "He'd always apologize that they hadn't found my brother or the killer yet."

But he would call Connor almost every month for the first few years, too. It's just that he would try and reject the calls, reject the life that he could have had. He never allows himself to indulge in a reality where Morgan could've been his dad. Father figures are much more difficult for him to understand. His own father died before he was born. Amanda's husband was dead within a year, which he had spent trying his best to be there for Connor. But he kept pushing him away. He just wanted to grieve. He just wanted to be alone and left in peace.

Connor prefers not to think of him, of any of the three men vying for the spot of his dad. It's easier. And things weren't left on good terms with Morgan. He said things he didn't mean because he couldn't handle someone continuing to care about him. He couldn't be around someone that would always and forever remind him of the smell of a dead body, of a morgue, of case files and blood samples. Morgan was the representation of everything that went wrong.

And Gavin might've been designed to work with the DPD, but he never felt like it. Even their meetings in the archive room, the constant pull to the station, he never associated Gavin with policework. Connor wonders if it would've mattered anyway, or if he would still want to be around Gavin like he does now.

"They found my brother," Connor says quietly. "After they had me identify the killer, they found his corpse. It was buried in the unfinished basement of his house next to the remains of a dog."

Gavin takes a step toward him, but Connor shakes his head, looking down at his hands in his lap, twisted around each other, nails digging into skin, trying to bite back the memory of being shown the bones, carefully laid out in the structure of a skeleton. The thing that represented his brother. The thing that was his brother.

He spent twenty-five years wishing and hoping that he was still alive or at least wishing he got confirmation that he was dead.

In retrospect, it was easier to believe he was still out there, somewhere. Connor thought he wanted to know for sure. He was so fucking stupid. He was so stupid to believe that the not knowing was worse than his brother being dead. At least when he didn't know he could pretend that his brother was alive and living under a different name, not knowing that he used to have a twin brother and a mother. Not knowing who he was. But happy. Alive.

Knowing he's dead hurts more than any of that. It hurts more than losing his mother, his adoptive mother, El, Morgan—

It hurts more than all of it combined.

When he looks back to meet Gavin's gaze, his hand comes back up to Connor's face, brushing away another tear. It's gentle and soft and—

And Connor wants to kiss him. There's this flash of fear that he only wants Gavin because he is helping ease a little bit of the pain he harbors inside of him, but he knows it isn't true. It's not because there are traces of Elijah in his features. It's not because he's being kind right now. It's because it's Gavin, who for the last two months has proven to be a person beyond his anger, who is holding Connor like this, who is looking at him not like he's a killer but like he's himself. And he thinks about how Gavin had complained about his sweaters and his shoelaces and he has a hundred things he could return back with that. The books, the candles, the cat.

Connor knows why Gavin reminds him of Elijah in this moment. He knows it isn't really anything to do with Elijah at all. He knows that this comfort and this connection they have are nothing to do with any similarities they share. It's why Elijah has been on his mind so much, why he doesn't ever seem to go away.

He loves Gavin. He thinks that's the word for it, and he tries it out tentatively in his head, matching it up to the face in front of his. This fierce protection and loyalty-it's not entirely resting on the fact that Connor wants to make up for his past mistakes.

His hands are shaking when he reaches for Gavin's waist, pulling him closer. Gently, waiting for Gavin to break away from him. Waiting for Gavin to say that he doesn't want this. But he doesn't. Instead, he moves forward closer, slowly moving to kneel on the couch, straddling Connor's lap, letting him come closer and closer.

Connor shifts, leaning upwards, about to kiss him before Gavin stops him, a hand coming up to rest against his shoulder, the other touching his mouth, a finger pressed against his bottom lip, where the synthetic skin doesn't cover. Just flat plastic. It's this tiny little moment that clicks inside of Connor in an instant. The questioning, the concern. How it would feel to kiss someone like that.

He doesn't know what to say to reassure him. His words are missing. Gavin is on his lap, so close to him, and Connor thinks Gavin wants this as badly as he does. So he reaches forward, pulling Gavin's hand away carefully, tracing the curve of his lip tentatively. A question he can't voice. But he doesn't move. He doesn't want to do anything without an answer. He is just telling him it's okay.

Gavin hesitates for a moment before closing the gap. He's the one to kiss Connor, though Connor returns it and is there to meet him. And it is weird, but it's good. Any bit of weirdness is washed away by the feeling of Gavin's hand on his neck, drawing him closer. Gavin makes this sound, small and almost unheard, but felt against Connor's lips that makes his hand on Gavin's back tighten in the fabric of his shirt.

It's a better first kiss than Connor had when he was in middle school, and it's a better first kiss than he's had with anyone he's ever dated. He is overwhelmed by the feeling of it, creeping up inside of him. He hadn't even realized he wanted it until a moment ago and now it's the only thing he can think of wanting for the rest of his life. He is seized with the fear that something will happen to Gavin, and he's terrified of the idea that eventually they will have to break away again.

But they do. Eventually, they do.

"Stay," Gavin whispers.

"Okay."

.

.

March 10th, 2039 - 10:47 P.M.

Gavin sleeps. It reminds Connor of all the times he heard about how animals will only truly fall asleep if they trust the people around them, and Connor watches him with a different kind of attachment than he had five months ago. He's afraid to touch him and wake him up, although he wants to. Just to feel him against his side. Gavin is laying close to him, but the cat is between them still. The cat with no name, curled up in the same manner as Gavin is.

They spent the last hour trying to find some level of comfort between them. Gavin held onto him, holding him close while he cried and tried to pretend he wasn't crying. He has to be back in the city early. He should be asleep right now. But he's too busy watching Gavin sleep and he knows if he closed his eyes and let himself dream, he would feel safe enough that the nightmares might not come.

But he's still scared. Scared of thrashing in his sleep. Scared of crying or screaming. Scared of turning this good moment into something horrible, even though it started out as such. It still ended so well. He still has this feeling of happiness in him whenever he thinks of Gavin or thinks of the kiss. But otherwise, he is paralyzed with fear.

His nightmares aren't always gory and terrifying. Sometimes he wakes with nothing more than an unsettling feeling. But sometimes they're terrible. Sometimes they destroy his days. Sometimes he is lucky to be able to put it aside long enough to exist as something other than a boy stricken with grief.

And sometimes he sees his brother laying in the morgue, waiting to be identified. His body is nothing more than bones, a computer-generated image based on what he would look like at the time of his death.

Seventeen years old to nineteen years old. They couldn't even figure out the exact year.

He was alive for at least nine more years after he was taken from Connor. He was out there suffering and hurting while Connor was applying to colleges and trying to come up with anything other than his mother's murder and his brother's disappearance as topics about the hardships he's faced in life for the essays all of the college administrators wanted, like they got off on the pain of their potential students.

He is thinking of Gavin, asleep and happy and wonderful and warm.

And then he is thinking of his brother, dead at seventeen/eighteen/nineteen, who never got a chance to be any of those things.