Chapter Text
More often than not, as we grow older, we molt from an idealized shell of what we expected adulthood to be like. This picture-perfect reality where we have a typical (boring) nine to five office job that allows us to live comfortably, a quaint house built in the late sixties that you’ve already put a deposit down for, and you’re miraculously prepared to pay off your mortgage for the foreseeable future. Possibly the most far-fetched expectation one could have: financial literacy.
Loneliness was not an epidemic you fell victim to. As you watch marmalade paint the walls and stars stretch their limbs, deafening quiet wasn’t a familiar concept with a doting husband, or wife for some, by your side. A counterpart that you’ve narrowly missed the resentment stage with, someone who worships the ground you walk on, and the feeling is absolutely mutual.
A healthy child that you sacrifice your own goals for, this laundry list being written of fantastical hopes, dreams, all fucking make believe. Your desires are selfish, the (eventual dwindling) happiness of all those around is what truly matters in life.
This masterful image had been strewn together from poorly produced television shows, by the hands of underpaid writers crammed in a bleary room stinking of smoke— and, yet, it’s already more accurate than when you believed you could become an astronaut, or anyone of importance. That promise your parents tell you as a child that everything’s gonna be alright. Safety came in numbers, and you were flat out broke.
That life wouldn’t be a complete, utter whirlwind of unending agony. Surgery was in dire need from all the razor sharp blades you’d had lodged in your back. A streak of maintaining consistent suffering for thirty-six fucking years was impressive, from an outsider’s perspective.
Long gone are the days of merely worrying about what sugary cereal to have for breakfast. In the blink of an eye, your Captain America bedsheets were swapped for ones that only boasted a singular color. Legos are tucked away to gather dust as you turn to collecting heartbreak instead. Not a comparable trade-off.
We become the things we’ve always feared most: our parents, an eerily uncanny form of a past abuser that still haunts you in your night terrors. The sort of villain you’d boo at in comics as a kid.
It was a combination of these three for Gavin, plus a cocktail of various other ailments of asshole. For a guy that’d never been keen on bullies, fucking laughed in the direction of the dumb jock that picked on some pasty kid with glasses for reading comics in the lunchroom, just being himself… you couldn’t even call it ironic that that’s exactly what he’d become.
Fuck, wasn’t the whole reason he joined law enforcement because he wanted to help people? Protect those that couldn’t fend for themselves, make a goddamn difference in this corrupt world that benefited others and mattered. What his brother failed to do. What everyone thought he was incapable of (and, currently, he was only proving them right).
Abandonment, rejection, hatred. Leaving this floating rock without finding a real sense of purpose. All the shit that plagued him, kept him up until his alarm was forcing him onto his feet for another repetition of copium. Pretending like his useless existence wasn’t slipping through the gaps in his fingers like the finest of sands.
When people met Gavin, their first reaction was not fondness. The way he could paint with insults wasn’t endearing. Get under people’s skin and prod at insecurities even they weren’t aware they had; nothing about the childish way he conducted himself was cute. Hell, most hardly remembered his name, other than thinking, ‘oh, you mean that pompous asshole from the other day?’.
Who the fuck would willingly jot down their name on the sign-up sheet to be around… that? He was seen as this radioactive, ticking time bomb with all red wires; there was no way to diffuse him. He was a bartender with an eclectic stockpile of chloroform, bleach, and battery acid in stock.
He’d tried to masquerade as a moderately decent human, until it just came to bite him in the ass in the end. Thinking he could maintain a stable group of friends he could shoot the shit with on occasion, dabble in bare minimum social interaction that wasn’t tied to his place of work. It was almost humorous, looking back on it now. Almost. Rule number one: don’t craft a suit of armor out of thin, fragile glass if you’re barreling head first into battle.
He’d tried to have movie nights with Tina, mimicking the good ol’ times where they’d stay up all night naively chit-chatting about what they’d hoped for in the future. Rifle through one of his binders full of physical discs, dig up a few classics; The Iron Giant had a recurring guest appearance. Make a bowl of greasy popcorn to share as they’d gossip about boys, and dick around on Omegle equivalents (nothing could ever hold a flame to the original).
Then, she got a ring on her finger, and the dynamic duo mutated to a trio.
In the end, nothing ever fucking worked out for him, and it wasn’t the universe trying to curb stomp any remaining glimmer of hope he had. It was solely by his own design. It was easier bringing out that reaction by force, sparking that thought of disgust, pulling that hatred out of others firsthand. Forcing people to fucking despise him before they could really decide for themselves who Gavin was.
Shit, if his cat had a sense of awareness, he was certain she’d pack up her bags and move out, too. Whine, whine, fucking whine. Not the good tasting kind, either. Christ, he resented himself.
Altruism was a springloaded trap. No one truly gave a shit about anyone anymore. Like a ripe piece of fruit dangling right in his reach, self absorption didn’t feel like the next best option, but it was. The key point to indulging in prioritizing one’s fragility over all else: it’s about protecting yourself, that’s it.
Pain doesn’t find its way to you unless it’s self-induced, because that way, it could be controlled. No longer did he have to patiently wait in the sidelines with a bright red target slapped on his back. Hurt had become a comfort for him, like a long lost friend whose number you’d never blocked.
Gavin never jumped out of bed one random morning, sprinting to his balcony to pledge his diligence to becoming the textbook definition of a narcissist. Like anyone would willingly exchange the popular kid title for one that classified him as a loser reject. He was freefalling from a seventy foot skyscraper without a parachute, without a clear exit plan in mind.
Everyone’s window of tolerance varied, but guess fucking what? He was maxed out, that was it. He was done caring about the friends that kept him around like a pet, who liked him solely as a designated drunk driver– not to brag or anything, but he was personally related to a God-tier actor of parodying a sober person. Even when stoplights blurred to diamonds, he could get everyone home without a single fender bender.
The amount of times his parents expressed anything beyond a neutral emotion towards him, he could count on one hand. Loved to tote around his brother like an exotic bird in a solid gold cage, though. He was so fucking done trying.
In a man’s eye, Gavin was nothing more than a body to warm a bed for a few hours. Not even a full night. He wasn’t that hard to win over; offer to close out his tab, and casually sprinkle in that they could go back to an apartment without roommates… yep. That’s what did it for him, that was the winning combo.
Stepping beyond a quick fuck wasn’t a delusion he entertained any longer. How the fuck was he supposed to form a connection with someone when he presented himself as having no personality, other than being a bitter, pessimistic bitch?
Deep inside of him, Gavin had this tragic sob story that he’d throw private pity parties for. When he found himself kicking away his sheets and waking up drenched in cold sweat, that’s when he’d dig through the yearbooks he’d hoarded. Thumb through the bookmarked articles of the thousands of interviews his brother had done with US Weekly, or Time Magazine.
Watch clips of press conferences that’d garner well over ten million views, of the man he used to inhale pizzas with and mash buttons playing Street Fighter until their mom would stomp up the stairs, forcibly unplugging the TV so they’d drag their asses to bed. Skim newspaper columns that’d mentioned Hank by his full legal name, citing his courageous contributions to their community. Never his own– what had Gavin done that was noteworthy, besides hold the world record for how quickly he could bring an innocent bystander to tears.
He festered in ruminating on what once was, what could’ve been. All the shit that he kept to himself that made him so damn bitter. Snap like a turtle anytime someone showed even a sliver of warmth towards him– he wasn’t deserving of it, he didn’t need it– of course he craved sympathy, desperately longed for a fleeting touch of human affection. Fuck. Lying came too naturally.
Gavin wasn’t ready to share it yet— not that he’d ever want to, ever be ready to— but, especially not this early in a story that reluctantly kept writing itself, involving a cast that was so much better than him. Their natural allurement like an artificial fishing lure, metallic sheen catching light in all the right ways; you couldn't tear your eyes away, regardless if you wanted to. Talk about driving hazards.
When he looked at this specific bunch of souls, he’d feel like he was constantly being prodded by an electric poker. Kind of like the time he'd tazed himself in training (...on accident, yeah.) Surely not because coffee wasn’t doing the trick, and he needed something stronger to wake up that morning. Moving along...
People had to earn their rights to learn about him. People just needed to ask and stop expecting him to present himself like an open library book. He didn’t work like that, not anymore. You couldn’t rent him for a couple of days, only to shove him back in a designated sun bleached spot on a dusty shelf when you were done with him. Forgetting of his existence (not a hard task), holding a dampened cloth to his pages as they'd wither, tear, rot. Waiting for the next person to come along to do the same thing all fucking over again.
He knew how the people at their station gossiped when they thought he had his ears clogged with cotton. Anderson sneering under his breath to Jeff about how much of a liability he was. It’d be easier to find a replacement that could exchange the bare minimum pleasantries with their coworkers– he just wasn’t worth the hassle for Gavin floating at baseline, doing only enough to not get his ass canned. Jokes that followed with a punchline of him needing to get laid, grabbing any guy he could off the street to finally settle down. Only then he wouldn’t have a need for the stick he lodged up his ass twenty-four seven.
We all pick up habits we swore as kids to never touch, like occasionally spending money recklessly on bullshit sweet treats you don’t really need, or never touching your stove because cooking is so overrated. Drinking for fun until it becomes not so silly. Until you black out, wake up in some guy’s bed who you don’t even remember the name of. Smoking in casual settings because it helps calm your nerves, until casual turns into every evening below the vent in your bathroom.
Gavin was always three things: bitter as hell no matter the mood or time of day you caught him in, silver tongued because he loved watching people crawl in their skin, loved getting people so pissed off it got physical, and he could feel warmth trickle down his cheek (the warmth he preferred nowadays). And, finally, melodramatic. If that wasn’t already obvious.
Every minor inconvenience turned into an outburst of feigned rage. Like, now. He was standing in a beaten down gas station a few blocks from the precinct, fuming over the shiny, new plaything that'd been packaged up with an extravagant bow, presented to him as his partner. And, why was putting a few blocks of distance between them the safer decision? Nines no longer wiped away Gavin's weighted words like accidental droplets of spilled milk. Complacency was out the window. He'd rightfully earned a bruised cheek, and a sorely overdue serving of just deserts.
Jealous, maybe, because Nines didn’t have to host inner wars with feelings? Gavin had been called every nickname known to man, new obscenities had been created solely to describe him. So why was Nines the one getting under his skin this time, because this was nothing he wasn’t already used to.
He tapped his fingers against the counter.
Maybe because plastic wasn’t supposed to fight back? Plastic was supposed to fucking listen, work for humans, take his orders, do what he fucking said. He could blame all his anger on the fact he was forced to be in this position in the first place, expected to act like a walking soup can was anywhere near as intelligent as he was.
Trying to imagine Nines wasn’t the one making him feel angst he hadn’t experienced since he was seventeen. All because he’d tried to pry into his personal life the other night; pestering that was near innocent, he’d entertained because he was bored (that’s what he was calling it).
Questions along the lines of: if Gavin had any pets because Nines knew Anderson had a dog, and what his favorite meal was so Nines could pick it up sometime (nagging because all he ate was coffee, apparently).
Then, that turned into what he liked to do in his free time. Gavin gave Nines a genuine answer: if he was feeling lazy, it was replaying familiar video games. If he was stuck in his own head, it was a walk down by the river (he could go for one of those right about now). And, if he wanted to spice it up a lil, get those creative juices flowing, that meant (basic) coding, dabbling in sewing, sketching— he wasn’t good at coding.
He couldn’t even consider himself decent, but in an attempt to make some extra pocket change, he'd freelanced for developers that desperately needed an extra hand for blase IOS apps.
So, he asked: ‘Where did you learn how to code’, and Gavin, being brain dead and over tired, replied: ‘My brother’.
Where did you grow up, and Does your brother live in Detroit? and What does your brother do for a living?. The questions didn't stop.
Fuck, that’s why he was upset. Because he asked just a little too much, started digging a wound that Gavin couldn’t control the depth of, couldn’t quick fix with a band aid, couldn’t stop by just not thinking about it.
Nines acting like it cared, acting like it wanted to get to know him, acting that it had any feelings or self-awareness other than what was programmed into its motherboard.
Gavin experienced firsthand how cold Nines was, how it could stare death straight in the eye without blinking.
His teeth were grit, breathing making his nostrils flair like a dragon blowing smoke. He focused on the little irks surrounding him; you’d think by twenty thirty eight the dumbass irritants of life would be solved.
For example, when a place such as this shitty establishment tries playing an even shittier pop song off the radio, but you can’t hear it anyways because there’s a cooler mimicking a rocket taking off.
Or, the damn computer that'd been taking three whole minutes to ring up the one singular drink Gavin didn’t even need in the first place, giving him this wonderful time to rant for no one other than his conscious to hear (and loathe). It seemed like the future was too focused on implementing neon lights into everything, and popping out plastic problem makers instead of fixing life’s actual problems.
Gavin slid a twenty towards the cashier when the computer finally made a ding, a sign that he was one step closer to walking out that door, figuring out his next plan of action. It was surprising, seeing someone behind a register that was actual flesh and bone.
There were more human service workers now since a large majority of androids had been recalled. Or, rather ripped away from their positions without notice— wasn’t a sight he’d seen since he was a teen. Since before fucking Cyberlife, since he was in Boston, worrying about what band posters he’d fill his room with.
And, no, he didn’t answer Nines’ questions because, like he’d said, you had to earn the answers.
Nines didn’t deserve to know Gavin had willingly moved to Detroit after Cyberlife’s success. That he could’ve gone to school anywhere, could’ve roomed with Tina back in their hometown (this was before she'd transferred here herself, right around the point their friendship took a massive dive off a cliff). Instead of attending university in Massachusetts, New York, or Pennsylvania even, he came to Michigan under the false pretense he’d have the same luck that his brother had.
Luck had never been on his side, and all Gavin had going for him was a streak of wondering why he'd wasted his time. When he first came here, he had found 'friends', or, acquaintances— people that would gather every Sunday night at an old junkyard and place high bets on which dilapidated last season Cyberlife model would be first in destroying its opponents, before ultimately killing itself. As much as androids filled him with insatiable rage... he had his limits.
He’d been living here ten something years and never once cared enough to properly furnish an apartment and call it home, because Michigan wasn’t his home. Not like Boston felt much homier either. His family sure wasn’t home to him.
“Have a nice day.”
Gavin’s eyes snapped up. He pocketed his change, didn’t feel inclined to respond to rehearsed sentiment, and so he silently turned on his heel and left.
He pulled back the metal tab of the energy drink that he knew would make him feel less energetic and more spastic and anxious, but whatever, he didn’t care. He was trying to cut back on smoking so much— he’d recently been burning through several cartons every few days, and his wallet was starting to ache from it.
Despite being nearly December, it wasn’t absolute shit out. Nice enough not to have to wear a heavy jacket (while still needing something covering your arms), no gloves or scarves just yet. Clear skies too. Any snow from the past few days had disappeared, like that brief blizzard never happened. Which was good, because he hated driving in the snow.
People in Michigan couldn’t drive for shit. Fuck, he’d take busy city rush hour traffic over horrible U-turns and people riding on his ass any day. So that was the thing he was thankful for today, he guessed. A few more days to enjoy not wanting to slam on his breaks and purposely start an accident just so he didn’t have to drive anymore.
He took a long sip of the concoction he knew was composed of sugar, mostly chemicals— mostly chemicals that were going to be the cause of his early death. He just needed a second to breathe. Get away from that place, from the yelling and phones ringing, from familiar faces that sneered in his direction.
But, apparently, that task was harder to achieve than he thought. Because nothing was nice about the sight approaching him.
Sometimes he questioned if his life was a spoof of the Truman Show. Spontaneous things always happening right on cue, like a goddamn soap opera. Trying not to think too hard about Nines, ignore the problem that was Nines, and now here it was.
One minute to himself. That’s all he wanted. He knew he’d have to face Nines eventually, because he needed to work— his partner, the case, didn’t matter if he disagreed with either. He needed to finish the task at hand, and he wasn’t going to ignore going back forever. But, for once, for the first time in twenty years, he wanted to be able to think before he spoke.
On one hand, he knew his resentment was irrational (to an extent, pieces were justifiable). Did that make him want to stop being spiteful, make him want to be buddy buddy with Nines? Hell fucking no. But he didn’t want to say something stupid to the first— not person, but… animate object —who asked him something deeper than ‘my place or yours’.
He didn’t want to regret his next words, and, there wasn’t a lot Gavin regretted anymore. Another quick swig and he grit his teeth.
Oh, the range of expression these advanced Ken dolls could muster would always impress Gavin. With their silicone skin, everything was hyper realistic; wrinkles to a raised forehead (despite never naturally having them, never being able to grow old, to age), creases and laughter lines when one would smile.
More than enough times during an interrogation, androids would mimic what nervousness might look like. Rapid blinking, hands being rubbed together, feet tapping a fast-paced beat. He wasn’t impressed because he believed there was some sort of soul bouncing around in that hardware, but because it was cute. They tried so hard to fit in with the herd that they only became black sheep.
Here Nines was, stopped abruptly, inches away from him, and Jesus, this model was huge. Taller than Connor even, it felt like Nines loomed over him, like staring up at a damn skyscraper.
Nines’ dark brows were furrowed as if to mimic being downright pissed off, the kind of look Gavin could tell was accompanied hand in hand with a deep fire burning within the pit of your stomach. A wildfire that was inextinguishable. Not like Nines could feel that, but, Gavin knew.
Narrow melting pots of silver, those eyes looking more like marbles, and they were so venomously slit, like a tiger patiently watching its prey, a cobra waiting for the right time to strike. Cheekbones only more devilishly defined from hastily being sucked in, finger tapping against a sleeve.
There was no change to Nines’ complexion: skin as pale as sour oat milk, with an even balance all around. No hints of tomato-colored splotches, no pink burning at the tips of ears, nothing that would indicate being flustered in the slightest. He wouldn’t know Nines was irritated if it weren’t for the mimicked traits.
Gavin was staring, he already knew, and accepted that. He stared at a lot of people, always passed it off as being lost in thought, or that he was judging. He wasn’t exactly judging Nines, more so… studying.
Drawn to watching Nines’ hand run through a field of unnaturally silky brown locks, each strand of hair voluminous enough that a hairdresser would be sick with envy. Nines’ hair was too perfect, nothing out of place, still styled, even as fingers spread apart and combed through. The smoothing was for naught, because it seemed like the hair hardly moved.
Watching Nines was like… like watching a doc on Animal Planet. Learning about a new species for the very first time. And although he wasn’t an A+ student in his younger years, hated history and anything to do with documentaries normally, he wanted to study this specimen.
Now, whether he wanted to accept it or not, this is exactly what he did when he went to some sleazy nightclub, found a cute guy, and made up his mind that he wanted to take him home and have his way with him.
Same steps; mouth sort of agape, mind a little hazy, eyes glued to his subject. Didn’t mean shit in this situation, but it was an interesting… observation. Nines was sculpted to be a pretty face; didn’t automatically mean Gavin was jumping at a chance to touch it up close.
This is also when Gavin realized Nines wasn’t in a jacket. Not the usual black turtleneck that gave off hipster coffee shop owner vibes, not his favorite leather bomber he lent out (again, didn’t mean shit, and it wasn’t supposed to be up for grabs, it just happened), or the obnoxiously pristine, and brighter than a lighthouse, Cyberlife issue.
It was some weird sweater he didn’t recognize— still dark in colors, no crazy design or pattern, but too short in the hem. Gavin didn’t know where it was from, because Nines didn’t have extra pairs of clothes. Nines didn’t have a place to go and change into them. No home, no cheap motel room, and Anderson hadn’t offered the same hospitality as he had to Connor.
He could see the outline of the cigarette burn he’d left this morning, right under the collar. Wasn’t shiny or red, wasn’t even angry looking. It looked more like how a healed scar would. Hm. Guess androids didn’t bounce back as fast as he’d thought, then.
The way Nines’ arms were kept still, straight down at the side reminded him of his high school's trip to England. He could never afford them usually, but his brother offered to pay during his senior year. He wanted to deny, but he also wanted a chance to get the fuck out of America, and if he was given the opportunity to get as far away from his family as possible for a week, he was going to take it.
Nines was stiff like a marble statue, standing like a Queen’s guard, only this came naturally because there were no muscle spasms to worry about, no involuntary twitches.
“Reed.” Nines fucking growled at him, fully animalistic, fully sounding like Gavin was about to get another fist to his face. And fuck, he forgot how low Nines’ voice sounded now. Even though he was the one that requested the voice change.
Fuck, it made him shiver in all the right ways, made goosebumps rise on his arms, made him feel like they were surrounded thigh deep in snow. Their eyes were locked, and there wasn’t any color left in Nines’. All black, they looked.
He quirked his own dark brows, can pressed to his lips as he took another sip, forcing out a lackluster smirk, full of false security. “Lunchbox.”
But Nines’ next words of choice came as a surprise. “Are you intoxicated?” Because Gavin immediately started choking, wiping at his mouth with the back of his palm, almost laughing from the absurdity of that kind of fucking question.
“Sorry, what?”
“Are you asking what as in you didn’t hear the question, or would you like me to elaborate further?”
“The latter.”
Arms folded, posture straight, and no sense of amusement. “Alright. Let’s see.” Oh God, what was this. His own private interrogation?
Nines started: “You have been acting irrationally, and more so, impulsively, since nine o’ clock this morning. With you being quite eccentric, this wouldn’t be too far-fetched from your norm, but frankly that's not the case today.”
Gavin huffed. Why was he even humoring this. “What did I do that was irrational? Or impulsive?”
“At nine thirty-six, you received a call from your mother, which you didn’t want to answer, so you had me redirect her. At nine forty-two, she called you back on your personal phone, and you blocked her number. Then, at eleven thirteen, you made a costly purchase that totaled two hundred dollars. Also, you burnt me.”
“And, that’s all made you come to the conclusion that I’m drunk?”
“No. I was not finished. You have been standing here in a daze as I am trying to talk to you, ignoring me word for word, which, usually anything I say is met by some quick jab or remark. Not to mention that your pupils are dilated, your cheeks are quite flushed, and your heart rate is above nine beats per your average. So, I will repeat myself and ask again— are you intoxicated?”
This wasn’t fun anymore. No, fuck this. Maybe he didn’t have a headache earlier, but he could definitely feel one coming on now. He felt like someone was holding a plastic bag over his head. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs, collapsed. Throat, closed. No air coming in or out. He didn’t feel dizzy, but the ground underneath his boots was rapidly spinning like a tilt-a-whirl.
He didn’t know what he should hyper-focus more on; that Nines still fucking scanned him despite Gavin pleading at least a hundred times that he was fine, that he hated being scanned, that it was fucking gross and creepy. He despised it.
Or, that Nines knew Gavin was flustered. Maybe didn’t know for sure, because Gavin’s being accused of being drunk at work (which, hey, guilty on occasion, who isn’t. But those questions are much better reserved for someone else, and not him).
Regardless, Nines knew something was off. Yeah, he didn’t have any funny quips stowed up his sleeve. No insult loaded to fire back about Nines droning on, how annoying that voice was (because, it wasn’t, that’s what made him lose focus, and now, made him panic). Nothing about how Nines looked like an adorable toddler copying its mommy, trying to express emotion like a bad actor (no, Nines seemed genuinely upset).
He blinked, cleared his throat rather harshly, and then shifted on his feet. “No.”
Nines nodded, head tilting side to side. He couldn’t tell what Nines was thinking. Why Nines even bothered to come out here. He was coming back; it wasn’t that big of a goddamn deal.
“Then, detective,” hands rubbing together slowly, like a conclusion had been found. “I believe I must file a report that you’re under the influence of illegal substances.”
And then heel clicked to concrete, and Nines was spinning around in one graceful swoop, marching back in the direction of the precinct. Gavin’s eyes widened. Definitely had a headache now.
“Wait,” Gavin almost tripped himself, nails digging into what felt like cashmere. Pulling maybe too hard, because he heard threads tear. “Can we just—” Nines met his wavering gaze, neck craned over a broad shoulder. “...back it up a little bit and not accuse me of being a druggie, for Christ’s sake.”
A sigh, and then another slight nod. “I don’t understand why you’re acting weird.”
“I’m not.”
“You are. Reed, are you all right? Truly.”
What a fucking stupid question. Of course he wasn’t okay, and he could feel something nasty forming on the tip of his tongue. It was getting harder to hold back his choice words, harder to not say something that'd bring their hatred to a mutual status.
Nines really was a crock of shit, asking if he was fine when Nines had been there with him, knew everything that happened earlier. Was the cause of the majority of it. The humiliation, the zero empathy that anyone would categorize as sociopathic that androids were graciously exempt from. All swept under a rug.
Nines leaving him with his own questions and returning like everything was peachy keen, watching Gavin drop dried crimson tissue after tissue into the trash because his nose wouldn’t stop leaking.
“Yes,” he hissed. Lying was easier. “I’m fine.”
Nines looked disappointed. He didn’t know how else to describe it, other than that. “You graduated valedictorian with one of the highest ranks in your class, exceptional for your age. You’ve earned numerous awards and gratitude from this state. And yet, you are stupid enough to think that I, of anyone that knows you, won’t be able to see through your lies.”
Gavin chewed his lower lip. “I said I’m fine. Drop it. Not intoxicated, don’t use drugs to begin with. Don’t trust me, you can test me when we get back. Actin’ like a fuckin’ know-it-all, yet you don’t know shit.”
“I’ve been worried about you, Reed.”
Gavin winced. It’s this shit that really pissed him off and made him want to turn in the other direction, and run. Not only because it gave him false hope that maybe, maybe, someone could tolerate him, someone could actually deal with his shit and mess of a person. That maybe, even if Nines didn’t bleed the same color as him, he could find something akin to a… friend in Nines.
He didn’t want to think that— oh it didn’t fucking matter whether Nines was an android or not (though, Gavin still refused to comply with Connor and use pronouns). This was about Gavin cocooning himself before the hurt happened again, because it always did. Didn’t let anyone past his concrete wall. The second he found comfort in anyone, found friendship it… it wasn’t worth it.
God, why did Nines keep fucking trying. It was almost sadistic that Nines still treated him with decency. That Nines acted like it could ever feel a drop of remorse, ever feel something for Gavin.
He rubbed his nose, and then sniffled. His hands felt cold against his skin. “No, you haven’t.”
“Don’t tell me how I do, or don’t, feel.”
“I just di—”
“Please, for once in your life, shut up. I know what you’re doing.”
“Yeah? Tell me.”
“You’re trying to control me. Because you don’t like that I am feeling worried about you. Is that why you’re irritable and cannot keep still? Because of the other night, me wanting to get to know you? Because of this morning? Because I did not react in a way that you wanted me to?”
Gavin quickly looked away, staring past Nines. Down the street, where he could see pedestrians walking about. At least no one was coming near them. “You know, congrats, you found me. Why don’t we get heading back now, hm?”
He clapped Nines’ shoulder, made the motion of moving past the tall fucking object in his way. But his legs didn’t seem to want to move. He felt paralyzed in place.