Archive of Our Own

Connor has been looking forward to Christmas. The holiday itself doesn’t mean much to him, but the opportunity that would arise on that special day is something he has been living for since long before the trees began to shed their leaves. A chance to see clearly once more, to clean his body of the incessant software errors that are always there, in the corner of his vision, reminding him that if something doesn’t change soon, he might very well end up in the scrapyard. Because every time he closes his eyes, his heart gets flooded by an endless yellow avalanche. It either simply doesn’t hurt, or the pain of it is buried so deeply under the one that has brought the virus forth in the first place that he is unable to feel it at all. 

He sighs and finally disables the ticking counter that has stopped scaring him weeks ago. Death isn’t something he fears, but that doesn’t mean he is eager to experience it any time soon. Who else would take care of Hank the way he does. Who else would provide Sumo with all the exercise he needs. To disappear this early on would be more than irresponsible of him. 

That’s why he has to make the first step tomorrow. The first step to recovery. 

He walks into the living room which is currently draped in darkness, serving as an ideal place of relaxation for the former lieutenant. The man has developed a habit of taking regular naps, often dozing off on the couch just after the sun sets, his fluffy friend not failing to mimic him every time. Both lying sprawled on their favourite cushions, their quiet snores complementing each other, creating a brutally domestic symphony. Connor smiles at the scene, his chest aching for the things missing in this almost perfect picture. He goes to the large window and takes in the beautiful sight courtesy of the dancing snowflakes painting the world white. Snow hasn’t been something he would appreciate, not after all the bad that went on when it was around, but its connection to the revolution has been gradually waning. It’s just something that exists, without an opinion, without malice or benevolence, without free-will. There is no point in holding any strong emotion towards it. But he still does. He thinks he likes it a bit more than he should. Because every time these complex miracles are around, it feels like the world is getting rid of its dirt, like there is a hope hidden somewhere under the cold blanket. Because that’s his only saving grace now. Hope.

Connor has never planned on falling in love with anyone. It’s not a concept that appeals to him very much. He was happy the way he was - just simply being alive, helping his most important friend with everything he possibly could. Especially after the man’s sudden cardiac arrest, there just wasn’t a space in him left for something or someone else. He even quit his job as a detective to follow Hank into a healthier environment after he had been told that he can’t work anymore. Not that Hank resigned willingly and without a struggle. He had to be forced out of the department by Fowler who by then refused to bend to his immature will anymore. 

And that’s how it happened. 

When all was settled and they were ready to move on, their colleagues threw a farewell party for them, a pleasant surprise to be sure. What wasn’t very pleasant was when an obviously intoxicated detective Reed called him over to an empty corner, when he looked at him like he was seeing a religious idol, when Connor didn’t stop him and allowed their lips to meet for the first and last time. It was a small, tender kiss. The kind girls write about in their secret diaries. Barely there and yet able to split him into two parts. It gave him the ability to give one half of himself away, just like that, without warning, without remorse. He felt drunk tasting the remaining alcohol on Gavin’s skin, overwhelmed by the fact that the man got so close to him all of his own volition. A gesture that would linger on his mind for the year to come. They hadn’t talked that much before that deciding moment if he doesn’t count the forced apology and the awkward chitchats they had attempted for the sake of maintaining a healthy work relationship. He hadn’t hated the detective,  found him tolerable at most and insufferably charming at the least. 

The true reason why Gavin kissed him that night still remains a mystery to him, that is if there even has been any, to begin with. He’s completely fine with not finding out. It’s not all that important, not in the long run. What matters the most is the memory of it, the undeniable impact it has had on his uncertain heart. The minute a seed has been planted, growing into a field of flowers that would eventually put him dangerously close to the end of all he’s ever known, that exact minute has been the driving force behind all that he’s done since then.  

Maybe if they cut ties after Connor left Detroit, if they didn’t seek each other out like plants in a dire need of water, maybe then the flowers wouldn't bloom. But once he received his first text message asking how he has been, how the move is going, mundane topics like that... he knew he wouldn't be able to stop looking for the smallest, most casual contact between the two of them. Things like sharing photos of Sumo being his usual goofy self or commenting on the weather conditions in their respective locations, little trivia about nothing important at all, and yet those were the information he thought he could die for. 

They have never mentioned what happened at the party but Connor hasn't minded as long as they kept in touch. Figured it would be too awkward to bring it up at this point in their acquaintanceship. These messages were the favourite part of his days and he didn’t want to make some stupid mistake that would take these precious moments away from him. Each evening they'd make time for each other, sharing virtual space for a few minutes. Sometimes they'd just exchange silly nonsense that would make Connor laugh out loud, disturbing Hanks' usual nap break. Instances like these made him start believing that there could be something more between them, something worth investing in. And on a night when the Moon shone the brightest he has ever seen, when they both were smitten by the beauty of the celestial object illuminating the midnight sky, only then has he realised that he has already been falling for a long time. There was love on his mind, nestled deep within, just beginning to infect his whole being. Maybe it was born through the concept of being close to someone both physically and spiritually, maybe it was a gift from the universe itself, or the two things combined, he didn’t care. His eyes were watering with ache he was sure would only grow as time would go on. One he assumed he would never want to get rid of.  

He had the urge to finally gather enough courage and just call the stupid detective, for he more than anything longed to hear his voice, to have something concrete that would tie him to that human being. They haven't really talked with anything more than text since he and Hank moved away to the countryside, and perhaps that has been for the best. The distance between them has been dulling the pain a bit, and he fears that the smaller it becomes the more he'll give in to the accursed wanting. It has been plaguing his mind enough already. He’s even had trouble concentrating on his tasks due to his head being full of Gavin. Mostly fantasising about their possible future together, like a young maiden experiencing her first love. To be frank, though, he hasn't been far from it. Not quite a maiden, but who could be sure what hides behind his outward appearance. Not even Connor himself has been able to think that far.  

It used to be a happy sentiment, being in love. One that would make him smile to himself when he was cooking for Hank or hum some random tune he’d heard on TV while folding the laundry. It easily could have just stayed like this, a bliss that felt like the one silver-lining in his current living situation. 

It could have, but it didn’t.  

Things began changing when the DPD got assigned a new detective android that had been coincidentally discovered in an enclosed section of CyberLife tower, right before the building has been taken over by some other corporation he’s had no interest in. 

One RK900, a model that was created to replace Connor, had the revolution failed. Better in everything he does, with eyes so blue they can sear a hole into your heart. The android has been forcibly deviated and willingly decided to join the police force as a part of his self-searching, or that what Connor has figured through Gavin’s description of the guy since it was none-other than the irksome detective who has been chosen as his partner. And Gavin hated it, at first. Constantly complaining about him, listing all the unpleasant qualities of the “plastic prick”, as he called him, assuring Connor that his new partner is nothing like him, that the two androids wouldn't be able to withstand one another were they to ever meet.

That by itself wouldn't be all that worrying, that is if every single conversation somehow didn't involve “Nines”. Gavin started to talk about the android using that name almost a week after his initial arrival, addressing him with a said moniker as a joke only to have it stick, becoming the RK900’s official title of sorts. 

Just about every single day Connor had to read about the myriad of things his lookalike did or said while the duo was working together. And as if that wasn’t enough, Gavin's stories were becoming more scarce as time progressed, and that's when he first started noticing the errors in his system. They were quite minor at the outset, not worth looking into them further, just there, in the background, like a quiet whir that one could easily fail to hear if they didn’t concentrate hard enough. Besides, he was too busy caring about Hank and Sumo to pay them any attention, not bothering to connect the dots when those errors seemed to intensify whenever he received a text message from Gavin, one that had little to do with their relationship. Not that there has been any profound bond between them, at least not beyond the exchanged messages. His little problem started intensifying somewhere in autumn, when the trees were on fire, decorating the streets with their flaming grace. As he was in the front yard, raking those fallen leaves into a nice pile that Hank asked him to burn and feeling sorry for their inevitable demise, his entire core shook with something he couldn't identify at first. A yellow squall assaulted his vision for the tiniest of moments, causing him to still himself so he could find out whether it was just a part of his vivid imagination or something far more dangerous. If he really did want to know, he had no choice but to once again enter the garden left dormant inside of him. He would have to finally deal with the not so small problem anymore, unfortunately enough. And he didn’t want any of it, but something told him that he should . That it would be the best decision, and not only for his own sake. He thought he could postpone this forever, that it would eventually go away, but apparently, such luck hasn't been in his possession. Not then, not now. 

So he closed his eyes and let fate take him away from all that was safe and familiar.

Connor didn’t have to look twice to know that something was amiss. The sun was glowing through the branches, illuminating the pond and all of its surrounding beauty. Everything was nice and peaceful. Perfect, in a way. But there was also something more, something that hasn’t been there before. 

Something he’d never thought he would see there. 

He crouched down to inspect the anomaly spread all over the patches of green grass, tracing the small yellow petals like they might cut him if he wasn’t careful enough. 

Dandelions. 

About a hundred of them. They were all over the place, like stars dotting the night sky. A sight for sore eyes, to be sure. Connor has always liked dandelions, admired their resilience, the charm hidden in their simplicity. They don’t care whether someone loves them or finds them a waste of space, they would grow regardless of what people think of them. For a short while they would take over all the greenery they could find, letting themselves be known to everyone who has the ability to perceive. To those who are willing to look. After all, one might blink and miss their blooming splendour. Though their white, feather-light heads full of seed are no less sightly. And if you picked one up, well then there is a chance you just helped create more. More goldenly sparkling possibilities. 

Dandelions might be harmless enough in the real world, a mostly innocuous weed that is just trying to survive and live to its fullest potential, but here, within a preprogrammed tufts of grass, Connor just couldn’t determine their true purpose. Whether they meant to harm, heal, or just idly watch over Connor's psyche as it slowly deteriorated with the absence of their life source was anyone’s guess. He didn't have the right answer, not back then, not before performing a full analysis of his software. Something he was deathly afraid to do.

Still, as he was stroking the little amber petals, he could sense the ominous aura emanating from the flowers. He didn’t dare to try and pick one up, feared that something terrible would happen if he did. But Connor is brave when it comes to curiosity, so he didn’t listen to the tiny voice in his head nudging him to go away and leave it be. Instead, he cautiously pulled one stem up from the ground. Well, he would have if it was achievable. No matter how hard he tugged, what amount of force he used to release it from its earthly cell, the dandelion stayed firmly rooted to the ground. He moved onto another, just in case the issue lied within a specific plant, but the result was always the same. These dandelions were not going anywhere. Not easily, anyway. 

Suddenly, it was all too much, dread and confusion and something he couldn't yet define was filling him inside out and he needed to breathe. Needed to get out of this lawless garden.  

When he blinked himself to reality, the Sun was nowhere to be found, the grey grass in Hank’s backyard drenched through and through, just like he was. 

The fireplace crackled peacefully, drying his wet hair. He took this quiet while to try and focus on something else than the dancing flames hypnotising him into joining. He was almost ready to initiate the scan, just one simple command and his system would do all the work for him. He could swallow up the agitation and deal with it in a clinical manner if he really wanted to. But Connor had a theory. A theory that was making this whole process impossibly difficult. He read over his last conversation with Gavin for the tenth time in five minutes, searching for something hidden between the lines, something that would tell him that the man has him in his heart, the same way Connor does. 

The detective was enthusiastically describing how Nines finally met his cats and all about the androids’ weird reaction that he absolutely doesn't find adorable. If he did find something, it was the concealed fondness the detective has had for his successor. Without giving himself another chance to hesitate, he sprawled on the floor next to the heap of fur that didn't even bother to look up from his relaxed pose and finally pressed the metaphorical button that would lead him to the truth about his condition. 

It's not as rare as one might believe, the vicious virus that has already stolen more lives than would ever be fair. He never gave the disease a second thought, but it has always lived in the back of his mind, like an old book tucked under a bed, forgotten to time. So naturally, he’s never pictured dealing with such ailment, not once has he considered the inevitability of it. Not even after he realised that he’s fallen in love. What a stupid mistake that has been. Now he's stuck with a predicament that could very well be his undoing and the only remedy is miles away, spending his time with a person who's almost exactly like Connor, but exceedingly better at everything. Nightmares would truly be redundant at this point. 

He contemplated telling Hank, so he could say that he’s never lied to him, but the poor man doesn't need any more bad news. He wouldn’t be able to help and the implication of this would make everything just worse.

Ever since the old man has retired, he’s become more and more irritable. It’s like his grumpiness has lost its limit as soon as they moved out of the city. Connor doesn’t feel like his effort isn’t appreciated or that he’s in the way, though it gets more burdensome than what he’s bargained for sometimes. It makes him notice all those vile things that live inside of him, feeding on his agony. It’s near impossible to control his tangled emotions, and his company it’s only making it more difficult. Hank has never laid a hand on him, but the lack of physical violence means nothing to him. He’d rather be hit a million times than to have to listen to him yelling over some nonsense that none of them can control. 

Often, he catches himself yearning for something else, living conditions more agreeable, perhaps. 

It’s not fair to have these kinds of wishes, not since the old man is the one who requires his presence. Though it’s not like he wouldn’t be able to afford another caretaker if it came to it.

Connor is not irreplaceable, after all. 

After he succumbs to the virus that is ravaging his code, the former lieutenant will have no other choice but to find someone a little more qualified, a carer a little less selfish. 

It’s gotten worse ever since Gavin text stopped coming altogether. Or maybe it was Connor who didn’t reply to a message from two months ago, the details aren’t all that important to him. The disillusioning reality has shown how the detective can very well function without him. Proved to him that he doesn’t rely on the inferior android for happiness. Connor does, though, and the more time passed since their last interaction the more he longed to get in touch with the man. But as December was approaching with a speed of light, it was getting more and more impossible to just contact Gavin out of the blue. He’d probably be too busy to indulge in such wasteful activity just as chatting with a person that might not even be his friend. 

 So he had no choice but to wait for the greatest of excuses in order to do what he has been itching for all this time. And what better opportunity than a Christmas greeting. 

The holiday couldn’t come soon enough, for his condition has become dire, dandelions now leaking beyond the confines of his garden. Practically all of his functions have become affected by them, significantly slowing down his efficiency. Even Hank has begun noticing that something might be wrong with the android, worries that got immediately dismissed by a precrafted explanation. 

Everything he did was accompanied by incessant thoughts about Gavin and what they might do if they ever see each other again. In the unlikely case the man shared his feeling, that is, and the odds have been all but turned against him. Still, there is a minuscule sparkle of hope illuminating the darkness of his mind, telling him that even utterly improbable things have a chance to happen, every once in a while. 

Only twelve more hours and he’s going to find out where his destiny means to take him. For the time being, he’s occupied by taking care of the last load of laundry that needs to be dealt with before tomorrow, because God knows he wants to get rid of any possible distractions that might take his mind off what’s the most essential. 

As he takes the clean shirts out of the washing machine and puts them in the laundry basket, his system alerts him of an incoming message. It’s a bit odd to receive one at this hour, considering it’s well past eight in the evening, but he doesn’t expect it to be anything all that unusual because his mood doesn’t correspond with a circumstance more than mundane at this very moment. Lately he’s been getting unsolicited update offers that are now filling his inner recycle bin, so he fully expects it to be one of them.

But deep down, Connor foolishly wishes that it’s something more, something that would finally lift his spirits. 

 Lately, his thoughts have been floating all over the place, not finding any concrete anchor which would help him make sense of what has been going on inside of his mind. A part of him might have been excited for all the possibilities hiding behind the horizon, another one terrified to death because they were all futile. He had no way of telling for everything has been veiled in the thick fog which might have very well been caused by the sickness that has been slowly taking over him for months now. It doesn’t hurt, nothing does anymore, and not because he can’t feel pain, but because it has been numbed down to almost nothing, and the longer it’s left to stew, the less he can discern his feelings. And maybe that’s for the best too, because he’s sure of only one thing at this point. The undeniable love he harbours inside of him. Love for the idea of escaping this house, for spending his life with someone that truly matters to him, a person who would make him happy. His feelings have been made out of numerous sentiments that have accumulated in his heart and created a singular emotion pushing him towards his doom. 

But before he can act on them, he must get rid of the weeds that are plaguing his beautiful garden. It’s a bit of a shame, really, for he does find those invading flowers enticing to a degree, likes how they brighten the place up, how they house a hope of new unexplored possibilities within their small petals. 

If only they weren’t set to suffocate him, if they didn’t thread their vines around the sheer essence of his being with the intent to eradicate it wholly. 

But it’s not like he didn’t have it coming. Because somewhere far in the back of his mind he’s always yearned to fall like that, to get familiar with feelings like these, the need to share them with the right person. Though he would do his best to deny it before having been shown the smallest sign of affection. 

Too bad that the one he’s been dreaming about doesn’t exist within his reach. If he allowed himself to think realistically for a second, the probability of him being in Gavin’s thoughts the same way the human occupies Connor’s is close to zero, and that’s why his last solace lies within hope itself. There truly isn’t anything else keeping him going at this point.

Not because he doesn’t love Hank in his own way, but taking care of the man has been quite taxing on his own well-being. It’s not fair to want to leave for better pasture, planning to entrust him to a stranger like his oldest friend is nothing but an inanimate object to be handed over without a second thought. Connor can’t even imagine abandoning the poor soul, and that’s why he avoids thinking about what might come after as much as he can, which is plenty. The future is all but abstract to him. Perhaps it’s because there isn’t any. 

He’d hate for it to be the case, prays against it with all the strength he has left. 

These are the reasons why he has been putting off looking at the message. Because now he knows who the sender is, and it makes him terrified to read the contents of the text. He sighs and scans the message for any unwanted content, just to buy himself some more time to settle down into something less dreadful, something similar to placidity. That’s how he finds out that he hasn’t been sent words, but an image instead. He doesn’t know how he should react to such development, all he registers is that it does nothing to calm his speeding heart down.

Better rip off the bandaid quickly, as they say. He pulls his body upon the washing machine, not to make himself comfortable, but as a precaution in the case he suddenly stops having control over his system. Sitting on the ground would make much more sense in this scenario, but he likes the feeling of being elevated. It makes him imagine that he’s levitated himself above all the issues that are making his current existence less than pleasant. He feels safer that way, safe enough to curl his lips into a slight smile. At this point, he’d do just about anything in order for this draining tension to go away. 

So he taps into his hidden stash of courage and finally opens the message. 

“Merry Christmas,” the photo says. 

That’s all he can see for the first couple of seconds before his brain catches with the rest. It has been too busy sinking his heart down to the ground and under.

For a brief moment, Connor thinks he’s found himself in a dream because the people in the picture look almost identical to him and Gavin, but he’s sure he hasn’t seen the man since spring, so surely he must be looking at an illusion. Then the details come to the forefront and the sad reality rushes right back to him. 

It’s not Connor who’s kissing Gavin’s cheek, but none other than the RK900, the one who has been partnered with the person he’s been in love with this whole time. The one who has been given an affectionate nickname Nines, and with that, ruthlessly filling the shallow hole that Connor’s left in Gavin’s life when he left. 

As they have been growing apart, Nines had all the opportunity in the world to become close to Gavin. It wouldn’t be too far-fetched to conclude that the two RK androids aren’t all that different from each other after all, especially when it comes to appearance. Even Connor was fooled at first, not willing to let go of the last strand of hope he has weaved for himself in this bleak void of despair.  

He almost wants to cry, but the beaming look on Gavin’s face doesn’t allow him to submit himself to sorrow. Because loving someone should mean wishing all the happiness in the world for the person that our heart has chosen. 

There’s a new root of relief being sprung amongst the seemingly endless pain. Relief that he won’t have to try so hard anymore, that his heavy book is slowly closing on him. He doesn’t know how much longer he would be able to withstand this despair anyway. Now he doesn't have to find out. 

What he should find, though, is someone to look after Hank for him and then he’s free to go, wherever this malady intends to take him. It most likely means to turn him into nothing, but where would be the fun if he didn’t hold on to a last bit of belief before everything ends for him. 

He hastily puts together his own Christmas greeting, not wanting to appear like there’s something strange going on with him. Wouldn’t want Gavin to think that he’s impolitely ignoring this act of kindness that he shouldn’t ever deserve in the first place. He picks the most suitable picture of Sumo lying down in the snow, looking as unbothered as ever and types a general “Merry Christmas” underneath the fluffy creature, not having the power to fiddle with the image beyond that. No one can ever know what he was planning to do the next day, the seemingly happy couple least of all. 

As soon as the greeting is set on its way, the view in front of him blurs. His emotions get out of control, happy to aid the illness with his untimely demise. He doesn’t have the energy to defend himself, not when he’s so close to being put six feet under if he’s lucky. So far, there has been little proof for it. 

He’s aware that there’s no point in fighting, that there’s a high chance that he wouldn’t be able to win even if he did try. So he lets the tears run their course. Maybe wallowing in his own stupid personal misery will make everything more endurable. In his frenzied head, he goes over how foolishly gullible he was for believing that he has ever been worth something, that someone would be generous enough to love him. In the end, it all was nothing but a waste of time, just as he feared. A beautifully painful waste that can cost him his life.

If he’s completely honest with himself, it was less about loving Gavin and more about wishing for someone to understand him, for another soul with whom to share the impossible weight of being. Or at least he thinks so. 

Sometimes, when the night was chilly and the sky clear, he would go outside and look at the star for hours on end, longing to have someone next to him so he could show them the brilliant view that made him see the impossible. That’s the most he’s ever wanted. A simple, unachievable wish. 

He allows himself to be selfish for a bit longer, laying his heavy body to the cold tiled ground. Not only because he doesn’t have it in him to do anything else, but because he can’t just exit the bathroom in this state and pretend that nothing out of the ordinary is going on. Hank would figure it out. Maybe the old man does at times act like he isn’t fond of the android very much, keeping him just because the poor machine needs a place to belong and it just happens that he could really use the help, but Connor would like to believe that deep down, the man does have a soft spot for him. However Connor is a creature of learning, and it would be illogical to let himself be burnt again. 

But reason isn’t enough to stop his unfounded endeavours.

Being in a frantic state like this, he has no choice but to let himself be carried away to his inner garden, which only aggravates his condition. Before he even has the chance to realise where he is, a flood of yellow assaults all his senses, leaving him temporarily immobile.

 The weeds are almost everywhere now, overgrowing all the original foliage that has been predesigned by his best friend Cyberlife. The pond is full of dead flowers, the path only just visible under the golden avalanche. If that wasn’t enough, he quickly realises that many of them have lost their yellow crowns, their heads now sporting white fluffy seeds. A key to endless reproduction. 

Looking straight at the culprit that is so adamantly set on murdering him does immediately suck all the remaining hope out of his heart. So he walks straight among the pretty plants and lets them consume him whole. 

Then he just closes his eyes and tries not to think about anything at all. Only the fact that death is lurking around is freely coursing inside his head, preventing him from coming to peace with the fact that he isn’t the one living in Gavin’s heart. 

On one hand, he can’t wait for this to be over and done with. On the other, though, Connor begins to recognise that he has an enormous desire to go on, regardless of the absence of love. The issue is he can’t decide which resolve is stronger.

And perhaps there isn’t a right answer, because they are both equally persistent. He’ll just have to trust his better judgement.  

In the end, it is up to him which one he chooses to follow. But not now. He’s too tired to tackle such an enormous dilemma.

For now, he simply wants to be as he is. Motionless,  

                                                                                           surrounded by a thousand dandelions.  

After a minute or an hour, (time isn’t something that exists in this garden), he finally decides that the best option would be to exit this program and see what could be done in the real world, only to find out that he isn’t able to. And not just that. His whole body has become rigid, so much so he can’t even move a finger. While he was idly lying on the ground, the loathsome flowers have spread all over him, trapping him under their unexplainable heaviness.  He tries to run a diagnostic to check if his antivirus could help, but the only thing he comes up with are vast strings of error messages informing him of his critical state. 

For a moment, he contemplates on staying here like this, letting his disease deal with the rest. It’s a tempting alternative, and if it wasn’t for Hank or Sumo waiting for him on the outside, he would probably go with it too. Sadly, he isn’t that cruel, or he tries not to be, at the very least. So he gathers all the remaining strength left in his artificial body and sets to break free from the stems tying him down to the grass, which of course results in a wasted effort. The flowers might have as well been made of lead for how unrelentingly resilient they are. 

It seems that this isn’t the correct way to go about it, and so he desperately looks around for something that would get him out of there because now he knows that he truly doesn’t want to end his existence, most of all not like this. It would be too tragic for his taste, to die abandoned in the confines of his own rotting mind, with no hope of someone coming to save him. Without having alleviated the heartbreak that has caused this mess in the first place. 

Maybe it’s too late for that, but he just wants to be cured, no matter what it takes. Even if it means he’ll forget all about the person that has been the centre of his universe, so be it. It may crush his heart to bits, but on the bright side, he might just survive. 

“I’m sorry to have loved you,” he whispers toward the dandelion sprouted near his mouth. A final goodbye to the fleeting contentment he was so lucky to feel, even if just for a short while. 

And then, he just... prays. To no one in particular, to everyone he’s ever met. On his lips, there are desperate cries for salvation, trapped in the confines of his skin, never to reach someone who’d have mercy on his soul. Maybe it has been his fault for falling in love with a distant soul, but his intentions haven’t been foul. He has meant well. A̶n̶d̶ ̶n̶o̶t̶ ̶o̶n̶l̶y̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶h̶i̶m̶s̶e̶l̶f̶.̶

He considers all that he’s done in his relatively short life, all the mistakes he’s made, tries to figure out whether 

they can still be fixed if he manages to escape his imprisonment. 

Amidst all the golden malady, he feels himself to be really small, a pathetic creature begging for a second chance to live like a dog begging for scraps, but with much more desperation. 

There are thick tears streaming down his face. A face that is now almost completely engulfed in yellow petals and grey seeds aiming to weave their way inside of him, forcing him to open his mouth so they can have an easy entrance. Still, he struggles against them, not willing to give in just yet. He yells that he’s changed his mind, that dying does terrify him after all, but no sounds are heard, not by him, not by anyone else. 

In the end, he is alone. Just like he was at the beginning of it all. Maybe that’s how it was always supposed to be, a fate that can’t be morphed into something opposite, no matter how patient he might be.  

With a last, resonating thought, he squeezes his eyes shut and waits some more. Waits for as long as it takes for him to escape the unbearable pain, to stop drowning in regret that happens to look like a thousand blooming flowers. 

And just like that, the universe ends. 

--

“-nnor.” 

“Son, wake up.”

A familiar voice. A voice that reminds him of home. 

That means he’s either still alive or the afterlife is not what he has expected it to be. In one way or another, it’s a surprise. A nice one, this time.  He opens those still weary eyes to find out which one of these he’ll have to deal with in the near future, but thankfully he doesn’t have to anticipate for much longer, because the first thing he sees is Hank looming over him, wearing a worried expression. 

He’s still trapped inside his mechanical vessel, still functioning. 

Some wishes do come true, apparently. 

 He automatically does a quick scan and finds out that he’s only been gone for about an hour. Nothing has changed since then, other than the errors that used to make living difficult are now gone. He initiates a system analysis right away, letting it run in the background while he reassures the man that everything is fine, but so far it feels like the errors never were there at all, like it was a part of his vivid imagination and not a terminal affliction. 

“Sorry, I must have entered a sleep mode without realising,” he attempts to calm Hank down since the old man can’t afford to hear anything that would put a strain on his already weakened heart. 

“I hope I didn’t make you worry too much.” Not that Connor deserves such treatment anyway, but he has to make sure that not a second of his friend’s precious life-span has been wasted on him. He would never be able to forgive himself if his reckless emotions caused someone else’s demise. 

Hank just shakes his head and leaves him alone in the bathroom. The dog has been lying in front of the door in the hallway, eagerly waiting for the pair to come out and scratch him behind the ears, no doubt. 

Connor loves them both, in his own special way.  

Just as he should. 

So this is it. He's still aching all over, without an idea of what he’s going to do in the next minute, let alone tomorrow. 

But maybe as long as he’s still alive there’s no need to think about it too hard.

He doesn’t know when he’ll stop loving Gavin, that is if he ever truly loved him to begin with.

It makes no difference to him because the hurt doesn’t care. 

To each their own, so it’s no wonder that in the end, Connor gets what he’s earned the most. 

                                                                                                                                  Freedom, (of sorts.)

He’s free from being tied by naive dreams.

                                                                                     At last.  

He waits for the scans to give him some concrete results, so he can be sure that he doesn’t have to be afraid of impending death anymore. Mostly, he longs for some semblance of calm. It shouldn’t be too expensive. 

The test comes out clear, which would be a good thing, usually, but the results evoke a strange sense of emptiness in him. More than that. It’s like he’s lost the very thing that was driving him forward this whole time. 

The sheer gravity of it crashes onto him all at once, without warning. 

If tears could solve all his problems, he would be the happiest man on Earth. 

Suddenly, he has no clue about what to do next. 

But becoming aimless is just a natural part of life and figuring oneself out takes time. He understands that, at least. So for now, he just wants to watch Hank enjoying Christmas as much as he can, and perhaps one day, he will be able to do the same. Because being alive means that there’s an infinite amount of possibilities.

                                                                                           ~~~~~~~~ 

“Here you go, boy.” 

Connor places the dandelion wreath on Sumo’s head, feeling proud of his nice handiwork. He refused to download a program that would help him with its creation, but still, he is a machine, so it’s not a wonder the flower headband has been made with precise accuracy. This time though, he doesn’t see it as a disadvantage, but quite the opposite. 

He has been slowly learning how to accept himself with all his flaws and strengths, after all. But the field of dandelions has brought him back to the time when he was very close to dying, (to when he still believed in miracles). It fills him with a bittersweet pain, one that he doesn’t mind. 

“Good boy,” he pets his soft fur as he contemplates on staying here a bit longer than he planned. Hank is spending time with Rose, his new lady-friend (“definitely not a girlfriend”) who has moved next door five months ago, so he doesn’t need to worry about him as much. The sun will set in three hours, so he has plenty of time to get back before that. 

The summer wind feels nice on his skin, awakening a weird kind of melancholy inside of him. He knows that this might be the last time he gets to walk Sumo. At least this distance. The poor boy doesn’t have much left in him. It’s tragic, but in a way, that too belongs to the circle of life. 

Connor is the anomalous one. He’s the creature that won’t naturally die like everyone else who has been born. 

But at least he’s not an exception. There are millions just like him.

And this fact alone makes him drop almost all of his self-deprecating thoughts.

Life isn’t so awful, not anymore. He likes his new part-time job working as a library computer on legs he got not only because the interviewer lady has not such a subtle crush on him (she’s almost eighty, bless her heart), but because they could really use his help.

 He tries to fill his days by being useful. It isn’t about the desire to be needed by someone, or to make himself feel good (most of the time he still doesn’t), it’s simply that he doesn’t know what else is there to do for him. 

And he can’t think of a better way to spend his time. 

To be honest, he does get a thing or two out of it. He loves the smell of old books that travel so many places only to always return to their little cosy homes. They are never truly alone, often sought after by many, even the heaviest, dustiest tomes have someone who would keep them company from time to time. It makes him envy them, the fact that no one expects them to understand more than what’s inside of them. 

Because he keeps asking himself more questions than there are answers for.  

It’s getting tiring. 

Too bad stopping is not a valid option anymore. 

The sun has begun to paint the sky crimson, a sign that it’s about to go to sleep. 

Right as he’s about to marvel at the beautiful view, he notices that someone has messaged him a few minutes ago. He doesn’t get contacted very often, not since the year and a half ago when he received a greeting that almost killed him. He isn’t all that curious, neither is he afraid. There is not an ounce of care for something like this in him.

 He’s decided that he can’t be like that anymore. 

Uneasy.

Scared.

H̶o̶p̶e̶f̶u̶l̶.̶

Sure, he often worries about Hank more than would be deemed necessary, but that’s different. It doesn’t compare to how he was back then. 

So he casually opens the text, without anticipation.

That’s why the unexpected flood of emotions comes as a shock wave. 

Connor has never seen a wedding invitation, nor has he ever attended such an event, and thus he has a hard time processing the attached picture for a while, not really sure how he should react. 

It doesn’t hurt as much as it would if he still was his old daydreaming self, it just prickles a bit. Like the mosquito bite he’s never got. 

But he doesn’t even register it, because all he can feel is some kind of bitter joy, or pride, possibly. Maybe a mix. 

When it comes to what matters the most to him in life, it’s wishing for the people in his life to stay the happiest they can be. For Gavin to get what’s best for him, so he doesn’t have to feel like his life is a waste.

 And the fact that Connor is not the sole reason for it is not important.  

He picks up the dandelion wreath and tosses it as far away as possible. He doesn't need it anymore, not today, at least. Maybe someone else will find a purpose in it, but it will probably rot away and become one with the ground, providing nutrition for other growing things. 

No tears form in his eyes as he slowly walks Sumo back home, but he thinks that he should shed at least one. For old times sake. 

He wonders whether Hank has also received the invitation. But knowing Gavin, he probably has. 

Connor wouldn’t want to attend the event without company.

 A smile on his face tells him that he doesn’t regret choosing life. No matter what’s on the horizon, he isn’t afraid to face it. And maybe one day, he’ll find his closure too. 

Even if no one cares, it will still count. His life counts. 

It isn’t a waste. 

It never has been. 

It only took a while to figure that out. 

But all good things take time.