Chapter Text
Connor is the one that doesn’t like planes, but Gavin is the one that ends up physically sick when they land. Hours and hours spent sitting beside each other, hands held tightly together, Gavin comforting Connor with the promise that everything is okay. He knows Connor is already well aware of this fact, based just on the reassurances Connor has repeated to himself. He’s an android—spilling out facts left and right. There were a few times when Gavin fell asleep against his shoulder and woke to the quiet sound of Connor listing out different airplane parts underneath his breath. Statistics to help comfort him.
I don’t like heights. It was one of the first things that Connor told him when their relationship took its final step past awkward coworkers into something else. A few months after he deviated, a few weeks after he was allowed to work at the station. The two of them up on a rooftop for a case. The first time they really worked together. Gavin had watched him stay by the door, leaning against the wall, looking at Gavin with more fear than he thought androids could really feel until Connor consistently proved him how authentic the emotions inside an androids head are.
I don’t like heights. It was said a dozen times over in their relationship. Times when Gavin ran away from him to the rooftop of his apartment because he knew Connor wouldn’t follow him, even though Connor managed to show him how wrong he was every time.
When he asked why Connor did it, why he would risk feeling terrified and in a near confrontation with one of his only fears, Connor told him you’re more important than that fear, Gavin.
What a stupid idiot.
But he’s glad. He’s glad for the times that Connor followed him despite his aversion to heights and he’s glad for the times when they would go somewhere like a carnival or an amusement park and Connor would be the one to drag him over to the Ferris wheel or up onto a roller coaster.
It’s a stupid fantasy, but one that Gavin liked quite a bit. Kissing at the top of a Ferris wheel, looking out over the city or the water or something, anything, really, to remind him that he is metaphorically on top of the world with someone he loves.
Stupid and overly romantic. Ridiculous. Gavin doesn’t particularly like heights either, but he liked that. Holding Connor’s hand, keeping him steady, keeping him calm. Feeling like, for the first time, that somebody needed Gavin as much as Gavin needed them.
The plane, he knew, was not something that Connor was very fond of when they planned this trip. The desire to see the world was something Connor talked about constantly. Not wanting to rely on what CyberLife told him the world was like. Needing those experiences to be real and solid. Something tangible to remember. Open waters terrify Gavin. Heights terrify Connor. Both of them too stubborn to face their fears or even really fully admit them.
Connor could have shut down. The flight from Detroit to Paris is nearly eight hours. Gavin wouldn’t have blamed him if he went to sleep and waited it out. Sedation is something Gavin is familiar with. Preferring always to be knocked out than to deal with something. The short cruise Connor has planned for the two of them to go on in the next month is likely to be filled with too much alcohol and staying indoors to pretend that there isn’t a vast blue nothingness stretching as far as he can see.
All the flight showed Gavin was that Connor was stronger than him, which isn’t something he thought of as a surprise. He knew the moment they got together that Connor had to be the one to keep them together. Gavin simultaneously ready to push Connor away at any point but also never let him go. Too emotionally attached to the one boy he believed really loved him.
It took years and years before he trusted Connor’s word. Gavin still thinks Connor is a complete idiot for ever falling in love with him, but he believes it now unlike he had before. Connor had told him a thousand times, tried to reassure him, failed at convincing him until he slowly started to chip away at Gavin’s disbelief. More effort than Connor deserved to be put through. Gavin is glad he stuck around, even if it means being put on a boat for a longer period of time than he’d ever willingly do with another person.
But Connor is like that, he supposes. An exception to all of his rules. The only person he’d ever think about spending more than a few hours within another country is Tina. Chris is his friend, but they aren’t nearly as close. Connor is his boyfriend. His stupid idiot boyfriend, and Tina is like his sister. They might as well be blood-related, as if DNA could somehow validate their importance to one another.
When they land, Connor breathed out a sigh of relief and Gavin’s insides twisted up suddenly, the solidity of the ground beneath his feet bringing attention to the way his head started to swim, filling with fog while seemingly emptying itself of everything but cotton and pain. His eyes hurt, his stomach twisting and turning and threatening to rid it of its contents. He doesn’t know if it’s a real virus or the feeling of being in high altitude for too long. Jet-lagged, maybe, but he doesn’t really know what the phrase means either. He just knows he needs to close his eyes and rest.
When they reach the hotel, Gavin abandons his things as quickly as he can to lay in the bed, stretching his hands out towards Connor and begging him to come to his side and sleep for a little while. As if the comfort that Connor could provide him would be medicinal. It usually is. The need for Connor’s arms to just hold him for a second and give him a moment to think without jumping to conclusions or panicking or being an absolute idiot like he normally is. Connor doesn’t, though. Not right away. Gavin falls asleep to the sound of the luggage being moved around. Clothes hanging up and papers being set aside. He wakes later to Connor laying down beside him, pulling him close against his chest with a quiet apology for waking him. Gavin barely listens, instead finding his way as close to Connor as possible, soaking up the warmth and breathing in the soft scent of strawberries and fresh linens that clings to his clothing.
He wakes often. His head always hurting too much to stay awake but his body no longer exhausted enough to provide him with the luxury of sleeping. His napping comes in short intervals. Jolting him awake at any tiny sound or movement. Most often it’s Connor, moving a little bit underneath him, flipping a page in the book that he’s brought to bed with him. An android doesn’t require sleep, but he placates Gavin more often than not. Shutting down at night with him or spending the hours in the dark consuming a new book he’s borrowed from Hank or the library on Chris' recommendation.
Once, he wakes up to Connor gently nudging his shoulders, telling him he should eat. That his sickness is probably a result of his empty stomach. His head hurts too much to keep listening to Connor talk, pushing away his words and squeezing his eyes shut tighter in some vain effort to will the pain away and wish the sleep back again. It’s a dreamless excursion. Dark blackness and an empty void that wraps around him every time. It makes the passage of time slip away from him, feeling like the slumber he does get only last for a few minutes, even though he's sure it's much longer.
He wakes up again when Connor is on the phone, saying something he can’t understand. It takes him longer than he wants to admit for him to recognize it as French. He lingers for a moment, peeking out in the dark room at Connor as he speaks. He doesn’t understand a single word. He took French when he was in high school—too uncaring to remember anything he did manage to learn. He failed the class, never even got past the basics. His brother was the one that later became fluent in the language, later bought the expensive mansion in Paris for their sister during her brief time as a model.
But Gavin?
He doesn’t know shit.
And he never expected to ever leave the well-known territory of Detroit or Michigan, let alone the country.
“What are you doing?” Gavin says, knowing his words are coming out a little hoarse and broken.
“Ah, are you awake now? You’ve been sleeping for twelve hours.”
Gavin shakes his head, finding the blanket and pulling it over his head, “I’m not awake. I’m not even alive. You’ve brought a corpse with you to France, which is an oversight on the airport's side. I don't know how the managed to let you bring a corpse across borders. I'm fairly certain that's illegal unless you have the proper paperwork. Do you have the proper paperwork, Con?”
"Are you done being dramatic?"
"Yes. No. But yes. For now. But I might die in another couple of hours, so just jot that down as a reminder, will you?"
“You’ll be fine," Connor says, but it's in that tone of voice he gets when he's trying to pretend that Gavin doesn't amuse him. Hiding it away like it's letting Gavin win if he smiles at his jokes. They played that game for too long before they finally dated. Connor played a lot of games with him. A little fucking tease. "I’ve ordered you some food. I’ll shove it down your throat if I have to.”
“Shove something else down my throat, will you?”
“Gavin.” Like a mother warning her child. Connor will make a wonderful parent someday. This is all just practice. Gavin playing the part of a stupid angsty teenager. “If you can make your jokes, you must be feeling better.”
“Unlikely. It’s just my default.”
“I know.” He feels the weight of Connor on the bed beside him, pulling at the blanket up over his face. “I’m asking seriously, Gav. Are you feeling any better?”
He shrugs. It’s impossible to say yes or no without feeling like he’s lying. The pain of his stomach ache has left him with only a strange almost buzzing and empty feeling. Like he's been hollowed out. And his head feels worse. His eyes hurt as though the mere concept of actually using them to see is too horrid of a thought but the pain just shifts into a different version when he closes them. He used to get like this when he was younger. Headaches that left him dizzy and nauseous and the only thing that helped was sleeping it off. Refusing to be awake to deal with it. Waiting and waiting for it to just go away on its own. It's how he is with a lot of things.
It’s their first day in Paris and he’s ruining it.
“Sorry I'm like this," he whispers.
“It’s alright, we've got plenty of time,” Connor says quietly. “You’re not doing it on purpose."
He shakes his head.
"Gavin, it’s not…?”
“No,” Gavin says. “It’s not.”
It’s not emotions putting him here, making him unable to get out of bed. It’s not a deep hit of sadness and the inability to want to do anything but wallow in his pain and never leave the safe confines of sheets and duvets. But he understands why Connor would think that. It’s not a hard leap to make. There were times when they were dating when Connor would call into work for him, make up excuses. Taking over the job that Tina was often in charge of on her own. The only things he could ever like about those days were the ones Connor stayed with him, holding him close, whispering that everything was going to be okay, telling him that he loves him. Gavin never needed those days for the reassurances, but they were the days he often needed it said to him the most, too.
“You can speak French,” Gavin says quietly, changing the subject. “I didn’t know that.”
“CyberLife equips most of their androids with multilingual capabilities.”
“Most?”
“I have a wider variety than an ordinary household android, but only just.”
“Oh. Can you say more?”
Connor smiles, the request likely doesn’t come as much of a surprise. Gavin likes his voice. He’s asked Connor to talk to him often. Nights spent falling asleep listening to small snippets of stories that Connor reads to him. He doesn’t care about the words, he just likes the sound of Connor speaking. It wasn’t necessarily born entirely from Gavin’s attraction to his voice, more so that they both are cursed with the ability to close themselves off. It’s just that Gavin tends to cover his walls up with the cloak of babbling about anything he can latch onto and using that as a distraction while Connor—
He’s just quiet. He doesn’t talk much. Words don’t come kindly to him. But reading aloud does. It’s a different kind of bonding. Something that doesn’t have to rely on terrible traumatic tales spilled out between them but just the act of being able to exist comfortably beside one another. They spend a lot of time just being able to sit by one another. Connor beside him on the couch while he plays a game. Gavin falling asleep in his lap while he reads. Watching movies or television together. It's how their first kiss happened. Watching a stupid romcom where the people refused to admit their feelings. Gavin babbling about how much he hated movies like that because it was so obvious and annoying because they were going to get together in the end. Connor telling him how stupid he is since he does the same thing.
Connor, revealing another one of his hidden cards. Telling Gavin that he's known for months and months that Gavin likes him. Since the first moment they met, really, that Gavin was attracted to him in a way that made him act like a fool. Gavin could argue that he does that anyways. Always acting stupid no matter what. Connor just heightened it with his stupid fucking hair and stupid fucking suit.
Their first kiss was small and tentative playing with the quiet sound of a movie that he doesn't even remember anymore, but he's sure Connor does. He remembers stupid things like that. Gavin's favorite coffee and his favorite shirt. Stories he would tell of his childhood, carefully selected ones that made him happy even now. Connor told him once that he remembers the exact outfit Gavin was wearing when they first met after his deviancy. He doesn't understand how someone has so much room in their head for such useless details, but he's glad too.
Glad that something as silly as jeans and a t-shirt were important enough for Connor to remember.
Or, maybe, just that Gavin was important enough to remember.
He was aware of just how in trouble he was the second Connor showed back up at the DPD. Knowing that this person in front of him was someone he was going to eventually fall in love with. He's glad he did. He's glad Connor gave him that chance.
“What do you want me to say, Gavin?”
“I don’t know. C’est la vie or some shit.”
“C’est la vie?”
“Or que sera.”
“Que sera isn’t French.”
“Okay, smartass—”
“How about this,” Connor says, leaning forward, pressing a small kiss against his nose. “Je t’aime. Do you know what that means?”
“I do,” he says, and he doesn’t know why he does this. Fight back the smile of happiness that spreads across his face when somebody he loves tells him they love him. Like the admission of how much gratification he gets will somehow deteriorate the weight of the words. “Anything else?”
“You want me to say more?”
“Yes,” Gavin says, leaning upwards and dragging him down for a quick kiss. “Never speak English again. It’s boring.”
“Okay,” Connor smiles brighter than he had before. “Tu me rends tellement heureux.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“Of course not.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“No,” he says, stealing another kiss. “Tu me rends gaga.”
“Are you insulting me?”
“No.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’m hurt,” Connor says quietly. “You’re supposed to trust me.”
“You could be saying anything. ‘Gaga’? Sounds like you’re making fun of me, and if you're making fun of me—”
“Gavin.”
“Yeah?”
“If I keep speaking French will you shut up and stay awake and eat when the room service arrives?”
He nods, knowing that he would’ve been awoken at the sound of the knock on the door or Connor forcing him out of his slumber anyway. But he’s getting something out of this. More of Connor stringing words together that he can’t understand but that he likes the sound of nonetheless.
Even if it means he’s being insulted. He’s used to that, too. Playful jokes passed between him and Tina. Connor teasing whenever he does something a little bit silly. Chris never giving him a break. He’s used to it. He doesn’t mind it anymore, but before it upset him. How often people would ridicule him. It took him a long time to separate the friendly kind of teasing from the insults that people like Hank and Fowler would throw at him. Things that were meant to make him hurt. People always wanted to make him hurt, it was always difficult to distinguish those that didn't. They always seemed so rare. Frighteningly so.
“I’ll read to you, then,” Connor says, placing one more kiss against his forehead. “I can translate it as I go, alright?”
He nods, moving as much as he can manage without the dizziness or the sickness settle in too much. Resting back against Connor’s arms, eyes slipping closed but not quite falling asleep again. It’s a little surreal, listening to Connor read to him in French, knowing he’s on another continent, in another country. He likes it. He likes this feeling. He doesn’t know quite what it is or what it’s called, but it’s pleasant. He thinks, maybe, it’s some form of happiness. Mixed with the promise of something new. There’s something else, too. Vaguely like a premonition. Just something he knows is going to happen. The solidity and the knowledge of how something is going to play out. Not like deja vu, just the comfort and commitment in his relationship and his feelings and knowing that when he asks Connor to marry him tomorrow, there isn’t a doubt in his mind that Connor will say yes.