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With your arms as a pillow against the cold wooden feel of the bar, your head rests and you gaze affectionately at the loosened-up man sitting beside you, sipping on a shimmery blue drink, fingers curled around that damn glass so alluringly. He sends a crooked smirk your way before directing his focus back to your group of friends conversing behind him—Gavin, Connor, and a new addition that your brother has taken an odd liking to, Nines. Drunken laughter echoes throughout the dimly lit space, and an unusual familiarity in the clinking of coins dropped in the bartender’s tip box.
Your fingers drum rhythmically on the lacquered table with the sway of classic rock, eyes closing pleasantly. Ever since Sixty happened, the everlasting turbulence that plummeted your mood each evening lifted so courteously once he graced you with stability and much more than you had the heart to ask for, a soothing shower during a never ending dry spell.
A warm hand tangles in your hair and ruffles teasingly, loose strands falling over your face ticklishly. You open a suspecting eye, peeking at the man performing the act. You cheekily stick your tongue out. The golden of the bar lighting illuminates his charming features, casting an ethereal halo. And—you know what? You’re generous. Squinting, you endow him a magnificent pair of feathery wings too as a dumb smile unconsciously etches itself on your lips.
“Silly Androids…” you murmur drowsily, relinquishing an arm from your weight and placing it beside your head, fingers subtly inching towards him. You aren’t sure he catches it, but when he glances back at you, eyes softened a fraction, the stranglehold of pining tightens further. His hand leaves your hair to cover yours, warm and heavy and present.
“Get a room!” an annoying voice huffs from the other side of Sixty. Gavin’s glass of rum slams down with a loud clunk. He’s sulky-faced and glowering straight at you. Eye twitching, you scoff—he’s probably bitter about his situationship with Nines.
However, you were jealous of him. Jealous because it’s so obvious Nines wants him the same, whereas you and Sixty? Who knows.
You’re about to retort something snarky when Sixty intertwines your fingers and faces your brother. Though his face is turned away, the aura he emits is comfortingly condescending. Simply imagining his eyebrows pulled together in a slight frown makes the butterflies stir a fluttery sensation. God, you aren’t sure how much longer you’ll survive.
“Very well. We’ll be leaving, then,” he responds, cool and detached. Your ears perk up and you sit up abruptly, a pout forming on your lips as you’re about to object with a whine. However, when Sixty flashes you that terrible expression that single-handedly saved yet in a way ended your miserable life, the words die in the back of your throat and you avert your gaze quickly, a hint of red sprinkled on your cheeks.
“Fine,” you grumble begrudgingly, standing up before shooting the whole group an admonitory glare. Sixty snorts and takes your arm, linking it with his firmly.
He leans down, his breath pleasing against your neck. “We’ll have an even better time at your place,” he whispers enticingly, causing the tips of your ears to burn red. You chop it off to it being the alcohol, but you’re always so unbelievably obvious it’s humiliating. You lean on his arm, legs wobbly under your weight at the inappropriate thoughts pooling in your mind and down to your inner thighs.
As you two walk out the doors of the dive bar, Gavin pesters Connor and Nines loudly behind you about the shared secret. You glance up at Sixty, and he looks back at you fondly with a cute roll of his eyes directed to your nosy sibling. You suppress a grin—you don’t want your cheeks to hurt again like every time before.
With a strong hand, he steadies your uneven steps and leads you away, to your awaiting car.
“Thanks,” you mutter gratefully. “But I’m not that weak.”
“I never said you were,” he replies. “Just need an excuse to be close to you.”
Your heart stutters at his flirtatious clarification, and you feel that familiar honeyed sensation again, soft yarn spooling and enveloping you in a placating embrace while your heart beats an earthquake in your weak-only-for-Sixty chest.
”You’re a sap,” you tease, deliberately bumping your shoulders into his. He bumps you back, and regardless of how gentle, you stumble. Your brain is a puddle of pining and drunkenness, your body simply the outlet. He holds you tighter for a second before sighing, unlinking your arms and instead snaking his arm around your waist protectively.
“And you’re a lush,” he retorts, opening the passenger’s door for you.
“Am not,” you grumble, clambering in sloppily, movements uncoordinated as you feel all gooey inside. “Only had… three drinks.”
“Because I didn’t let you continue this reckless behavior. Excessive alcohol consumption may cause many health complications,” he states matter-of-factly, “such as various cancers, increased risk of heart attacks, negative impacts to your mental health… The list goes on.”
You roll your eyes subtly. How nice it’d be to finally kiss that smartass mouth of his tonight. He stands there for a moment, and you stare back, biting your lip with expectancy.
He sighs again. He sure does sigh a damn lot for someone who doesn’t breathe. Your hand finds its way to his navy tie as he leans into the car carefully, tugging him down until your faces are inches apart. Your breaths condensate in the cold night air, mingling together in mist-like tension. He holds himself up with a hand firmly planted on the seat beside your thighs, and the other on your upper arm. He presses a knee into the car seat, invading into your space dominantly.
Your fingers snake up his chest tentatively, to his broad shoulders and exposed neck. Arms finally settling on his shoulders, he leans closer, pushing you back. Your eyes grow lidded with simply the feel of him, tender yet strong against your inebriated form. His hand slides up to your face and cups your cheek, running his thumb soothingly under your eyes. You lean into his touch like you’ve done a million times before, eyes closing contentedly. Your lips tingle pleasantly when they briefly brush against his palm.
His warmth is a ray of sunlight in the dead of the night when he leans in closer, his nose brushing against yours briefly before he takes you in a soft yet ardent kiss. Your lips mold against his perfectly, and your insistent body demands more of this sweetness of his mouth on yours. Like a butterfly sucking saccharine nectar from a ripe flower. He’d be the sassiest butterfly to exist, yet you’d still give him all of you and more. Until you’re no longer exploitable of beauty and meaning, stripped down to bare roots.
When he pulls back, you let out a little reluctant whimper. He smirks airily and you just want to wipe that expression off his face with another searing kiss. But both Sixty and you are much too stubborn. You push him back weakly. As expected, he doesn’t budge, but the smirk disappears from his lips, replaced with something less casual. His hand leaves your body and delicately brings your knuckles up to his lips.
You watch as your fingers are bombarded with light touches of his soft lips. If possible, you’d have already passed out on this gesture of affection. God, you want to marry him.
The thought aches a great deal in your chest, knots tying tightly in your abdomen. What were you to him? A friend, definitely, but was there anything deeper underneath the insufficient label? Perhaps friends with benefits, but all the same your heart constraints tightly at the thought. The title sounds so overwhelmingly wrong.
But that was all you two were going to be, wasn’t it?
He masterfully plays off any dating allegations if Gavin, or literally if anyone asks. Maybe he isn’t ready. Maybe he’s just testing the waters out with you, discovering what he likes and dislikes, and when he’s ready and you’re no longer useful, he’ll find that person he really likes. The one he wouldn’t dismiss when it comes to relationship status.
Your mood completely sours at the thought, biting your lip in frustration. Sixty feels it. He looks at you quizzically and tilts his head, the peppering of kisses coming to a devastating stop.
“Did I do something wrong?” he inquires with slight worry.
You force a laugh, shrugging it off. “No, sorry. Just…”
For once, you’re tongue-tied, all excuses escaping your grasp. You avert your gaze guiltily. You know lying never works with him, but it’s a bad habit that clings and sticks like a leech, except this entity is not physical and isn’t as easy as prying off. For such a human body, there’s so much thick emotion barely controlled behind your voice, eyes and countenance. You think someday you might crumble under the weight of it all, like a dam bursting under pressure. Except it’ll be your mopey tears, endless and irksome. And no one will care.
People find you burdening. You knew it even before they confronted you verbally. Especially your parents, sometimes your brother, and notwithstanding your fair weather-friends all throughout grade school. However, with new independence, you didn’t have much of a reason to cry so much anymore.
God, Sixty, it’s all his fault. His fault for being so terribly handsome, charming and funny. For cruelly tearing you apart and carefully stitching you back up, all inadvertently.
“Can we go back already?” you ask, feigning impatience. Maybe anger or annoyance would wash away traces of heartbreak. Ostensibly, it works—Sixty backs off, his touch lingering before completely dropping it, more than confused at your actions. Nevertheless, he doesn’t pester. Secretly, you wish he would sometimes, but his disregard is probably for the greater good. You can’t ruin this paradise handed to you by the heavens by being irrational, by being you.
You know he’s different from everyone else. It’s not fair to compare him to fake friends, yet you’re sure even he would hate your emotional side.
“Alright.” He deftly fixes his tie and shuts your door once he’s made sure you’re seated well, casting one last glance at you through the tinted windows before walking around the car to the driver’s seat. Climbing in, he shoots you a concerned look and you meet it with a sorry smile. He’ll understand. Probably.
He starts the engine and you can’t bear to look at him again. The engine hums as he backs out of the parking lot, a constant keeping you in the moment. Streetlights come and go, bright against your reflective eyes as you stare out the window, blinking the relentless emotions back. At every traffic light, you can feel his gaze on the back of your head. You wonder if it’s pity or irritation that he looks at you with.
The drive to your apartment is short, not far from the bar. Convenient since it’s a usual hangout spot.
You’re very aware Sixty is bad at emotions. Met with an emotionally unstable person like you, it would be a mess. A preventable one, however. As long as you keep your cumbersome self in check.
You don’t know how to bring the mood back after ruining it, this silent tension all too chilling. All because you stupidly let your fucking thoughts stray and ended up mourning a love that doesn’t exist. Not to him, anyway. It’s very real to you.
Sixty squeezes your hand reassuringly. “We’re here. Do you want me to stay?” he asks thoughtfully. He kind of sounds like Connor. He wouldn’t have to ask if you didn’t let your emotions get the better of you. You’d be joking and bantering all the way to your bedroom, not suffering this unbearable tension in the car.
If he stays, you'll probably end the night by locking yourself in the bathroom with the excuse of taking a shower. If he doesn’t, you’ll be a sobbing whale the moment the door clicks shut. You opt for the former; you left with him to ‘get a room’ anyway. Maybe some sex will make you forget. Filling you up fully with him instead of the thoughts of him that break down your entire existence.
”Yeah. Please,” you finally reply, voice coming out as a croak. You feel so bad the guilt locks your jaw and scratches from inside until it dares to tear you open. You don’t look at him when you climb out. Your legs thankfully don’t give out from under you pathetically for the one second Sixty isn’t glued to your hip. He holds you carefully as you head to your apartment.
Once inside your apartment, you kick off your shoes and set away your things. He follows, routine all too familiar. You plop down on the couch, lying down glumly as the tap runs. Sixty returns with a glass of water, nudging you up to a sitting position with a strong arm. His gaze bears such care your heart wants to blow up into a firework and simultaneously disintegrate to ash. He brushes a strand of hair back before placing the cold cup to your lips, tilting it as you gulp down, grateful as you are. When you’re done, he wipes the drop of water trickling down your chin with his thumb and sits down beside you. The couch dips under his weight and you lean onto him, kicking your legs over his lap. The glass disappears to the coffee table as it’s just you two and silence.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asks, smoothing a hand over your thigh. The action alleviates some dread as you focus on simply the sensation. It’s warm, a little ticklish, yet pleasurable in that heavenly sense when it’s Sixty doing it. His rough hands on you.
You shake your head, nestling your face into the crook of his neck clingingly. “No.” God, you’re wretched. So much so that the moonlight streams onto your pitiful form, exposing you to the spotlight where you win the number one prize of being terribly pathetic.
“I just need to know—is it because of me? Something I did?” he inquires further, resting his chin on the top of your head.
“No,” you choke out. “Sorry, I don’t know why…”
You want to distract yourself. Pulling down the blinds to your outside world so it’s just you and Sixty in this messy apartment, your secret affections locked out of view. He’s right here, looking down on you with worry. You sulk even further. You do this too often.
“You know I’m here for you. Don’t push me away,” he mutters intently, your name on his lips as a soft warning.
”Not that simple,” you grumble quietly, sliding your hand to his, fingers intertwining. “You’re a detective. Figure it out yourself.”
He huffs, exasperated. You aren’t entirely sure you’re sorry for being such a stubborn ass.
You look back up at him and your eyes meet. He squeezes your hand reassuringly, staying unusually silent. He blinks once. You blink twice in return. He tilts his head ever so slightly, eyes almost flashing recognition, lips pulled into a thin, unreadable line. Uh oh, you didn’t actually mean it. This can’t be it, right?
The silence stretches out between you and you’re sure he can hear your heartbeat, erratic and racing. Your cheeks have burned up hotter than Sixty’s mechanical core, probably.
“Why are you so difficult?” he finally says, squeezing your hand. You open your mouth to scoff and object, but the next second he’s haphazardly closing the distance. His mouth is on yours, hungry and devouring as he slides a supporting hand to the back of your neck, pressing you in. You melt into the kiss, eyes closing as you savor the taste of him on your tongue. The hand that held yours left to trace up your thigh, making you squirm a little involuntarily, just the way he expects.
When you part, you catch your breath while he stares intensely at you, unmoving. The hand on the back of your neck trails to your cheek, palm warm and smooth. You can never read him, so it doesn’t help that he doesn’t say anything.
“What?” you demand, growing more flustered by the second.
“I’m simply admiring my favourite person,” he replies, lips curling up into a soft smirk.
You don’t have a response. A shy smile tugs at your cheeks and you bury your face in his chest, a hand bunching up his shirt. “Shut up.”
He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Can I be honest with you?”
Your heart drops, fingers tightening their hold as you shift uncomfortably. “What is it?”
“I… I’m not Connor. I’m not good with emotions like he is,” he mutters, “and I just don’t know what to do when I see you struggling. I just don’t understand what the cause is.”
Your head spins. No, you can’t do this right now. His words sober you up and you still want to cling to the high, floating on the clouds instead of sinking in dark waters. You can feel his expectant gaze on you as you hide away from reality, from him, with silence as your answer.
He retracts his hand from your skin, voice falling flat. “...I see.” He gently pushes your legs away and loosens your grip on his shirt. Your eyes widen and your mouth parts to protest, yet the words are stuck in your throat at his unexpected motions.
He can only spare you one cold glance. “It’s because of me, right? I won’t waste your time any further if that’s the case.” He stands up and pats himself off, straightening his tie and adjusting his cuffs. “Who knew androids have emotions too?”
He grits his teeth, speaks your name with barely hidden spite that hits you like a punch in the gut. He adds bitterly, “And it doesn’t make this hurt any fucking less when I’m supposed to analyse the hardest of cases, yet I can barely grasp the reason why you kiss me one second like I’m some actual fucking human being worth touching, while the next, you retreat back into your mind and pull away.”
You sit there unmoving, staring up like a kicked puppy. You’ve never seen him so mad.
He lets out a heavy sigh, fixing his hardened stare at the floor. “You’re better off with someone who has the capabilities of understanding you.”
When the dreaded words sink in, your ears redden with hot, blazing anger. And maybe that was the push you needed as you suddenly find your voice again. You laugh a little, quietly, eerily, then burst out like a shattering vase.
“What the fuck?” You don’t mean to raise your voice so loudly, but now that you’ve started, it’s impossible to stop. Following his motions, you stand up abruptly and lock eyes with him (and somehow, you don’t stumble. Your ego thanks you.) His indifferent attitude is gone, eyebrows unknit and replaced with hints of shock that would make you smug if not for this peculiar situation.
“You’re just going to leave like that?” you accuse, stepping into his space firmly. “Relation- friendships aren’t”---you huff loudly—”you can’t give up on this so easily! Do you always find the quickest escape route whenever something… something upsets you?” You shove him, he doesn’t budge. “And for apparently the most advanced android prototype or whatever you claim, you sure aren’t so smart for thinking that you’re the reason I was sulking.” But he is.
You try to search for a hint of anything in his eyes. He’s back to that emotionless expression you wish you could tear off—anything to make him feel something, but alas.
“Okay, yeah, I know! I know I’m being so difficult! I’m always difficult, aren’t I? You probably wish you never got involved with me. I’m sorry I’m not as perfect as you!” You can’t stop the words tumbling out like an active volcano. “I can’t even blame you, that’s the thing. I would leave me too. It’s just all these- these overwhelming…” you trail off, and the fire-hot anger suddenly turns into a puddle of tears raining down your cheeks. “...emotions I can’t control...”
You wipe away your fat tears with your arm, lips quivering trying to hold in your choked sobs. God, you must be a damn ugly mess right now, crying in front of the one you’re stupidly in love with after yelling at him about something that’s not his fault in the slightest. You’ll have to run away in shame the next time you meet him if you don’t die of embarrassment tonight. But it hurts and you can’t stop and you maybe need to lessen the drinking if this’ll be the result every time, as much as the temporary feeling is nice.
Sixty puts an unsure hand on your shoulder. You can imagine his confused, better yet demeaning thoughts as he does the gesture like he’s never touched you before, and it makes you cry all the harder. Damage is done; it’s not as if your reputation will fall any further if it’s already at zero.
But just maybe you think too little of him, because now he’s wrapped his strong arms around you in a tight embrace, squeezing the air out of you. Like he’s never going to let go. He doesn’t say anything; he doesn’t need to. Just the feel of him, so stable and level, pressed up against your shaky self, makes your blood pressure lower. He holds you without judgement. Not outwardly, at least, and while you wet his shoulder without remorse, he rubs soothing circles onto your back wordlessly.
This is the man you want to spend the rest of your life with. It’s not simply a realization, but a cemented truth. The old him would’ve turned his back to you the moment things got too personal. The person you know now doesn’t and you just can’t live without him—can’t live without what has become normal: the whirring of his mechanical core quieting down as he goes into stasis, your head on his chest; the dim blue of his LED a personal night light; the stubbornness of his mouth that always gives in to your joking pouts; the way he touches you in bed like you’re some holy treasure worth worshipping. What a manipulative man.
But you can’t hold him accountable for you falling so deep when you wanted this arrangement.
“Please don’t go,” you whisper, sniffling.
He gives you a light squeeze and scoffs, setting up that sassy tone he knows you adore. “You won’t find me leaving you in this state.”
You audibly smile through all the pains and punch his arm without force, heaving subsiding into slightly shaky breaths. “You’re just great at making people feel better.”
He smirks, threading his hands through your hair tenderly. “I know. Let’s get you cleaned up.”