Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Hold my breath and I'll count to ten

I'm the paper and you're the pen

You fill me in and you are permanent

Then you leave me to dry

--Bright Lights and Cityscapes, Sara Bareilles

August 2040

On his two hands, Connor can count the times he's been utterly wrong throughout his entire life. Thus, it's certainly disappointing to add another one to the count.

In theory, he did have a point. He's refused to expend the time and energy to travel to a beach because there should be no significant difference between seeing the view on a photo and seeing the view in person. In fact, a photo may even be of better quality, since it's often taken by professionals. Those people understand lighting, contrast, composition, and other important matters in the field of photography. They would know how to turn a view into proper art.

It turns out, though, that he was certainly, unfortunately, unequivocally incorrect. He sits on the shoreline where water meets sand, where the breeze wafts onto his face, where he's surrounded by the faint aroma of salt. In front, the sea greets him in fantastic colors as it ebbs and flows with more beauty than he ever considered possible. It rolls in with the gentlest of waves. The only frustrating thing? It always stops just short of his feet before pulling back as if it were extending an invitation to approach.

Regardless, the view is perfect where he is. Being here is a welcome change from the day to day. He's far away from the city--from all the lights, the streets, the endless sound of passing cars, the thousands of footsteps from people always rushing to be somewhere they're not.

To be still and watch life simply pass by--a groundbreaking concept.

"Someone's having fun," a man says, sitting down beside him.

Connor smiles, but he doesn't look at the man. There's no reason to look when the view in front of him is a perfect cacophony of reds and greens and blues blending together into a memory he won't soon forget. Somewhere on the shore, the water glistens under the sunlight, white dots above the blue of its canvas.

The man continues, "Hell, just be with the fuckin' sea then. Looks like it's a better soulmate than I'll ever be." He follows it with a laugh, as if something joyful and serene is erupting within him.

Connor laughs at the quip as well, but there's more than that to be happy about here.

"You like it? Booked this just for you. Thought it'd be your kinda thing," says the man again.

As the last traces of Connor's laughter echo into the air, he says, "It's perfect. Everything is perfect. However, I would have appreciated proper internet connection," he says. The man simply laughs.

The water begins to roll in again, and Connor prepares, leaning his head back with eyes closed to take in the feeling. The water reaches his feet.

And suddenly he's falling.

And his eyes open to a white ceiling above him.

Not again. Not this again. If he tried hard enough to go back to sleep, would the dream resume where it stopped? He can certainly try, so he closes his eyes, but going back to sleep proves impossible. The sun peeks through his bedroom window, assaulting his eyes with the morning light.

Why is he still having this dream?

And perhaps--just perhaps--it's a sign something has changed, but he brushes away the hope. Still, the curiosity takes over. He holds his breath and holds up his right hand to his face. Maybe it'll be back this time.

Of course, it's not. Neither hope nor curiosity have ever yielded results in this case.

Attached to his ring finger is the same thing he's seen every day for the past year. On the base of it: an ethereal gray string in place of the shimmering, bright red that used to be there.

He looks towards the window, to the sight of the sky, and the yellow hue caresses his face, the sunlight a warm touch on his skin as he pulls himself out of the blankets. Sitting up, his white bedroom moves into view, and he looks down in thought at his hands clasped together.

It was the same dream again. It's always the same one on days like this: a man he never directly sees brings him to a beach. It's colorful, peaceful, and there's no internet connection, but he's the happiest he's ever been. Sometimes it feels as if it's the happiest he'll ever be.

Moving to the side of the bed, he asks himself the same question every time he has this dream. When will I finally move on?

When will he finally move on from the day his soulmate passed away last year? On his birthday no less. Now he's had this dream. On his birthday again.

Is he still stuck in the past? There's his wallet on the nightstand. Perhaps looking at it will help him determine how he's feeling now. It's been a while since he's had this dream. Maybe he'll be fine. Maybe he won't be fine. Unfortunately, his curiosity is more important than the risk.

Inside an unassuming pocket of leather in his wallet hides an unassuming little photo of someone he doesn't know. He's never met him. They were supposed to meet and they should have met, but life did what it often does--change things, remove parts of the equation intended to be constants.

The picture stares back at him. Markus painted this at Carl's art studio six months ago, when Connor needed a crutch to help him through his ordeal. “Would this not be…too painful for you, Connor?” he’d asked. Connor didn’t say anything then, simply waiting for Markus to finally look at the large canvas beside him and say, “All right. I would be happy to.”

Connor watched him as he painted, answering Markus’ questions about what the painting should look like as he worked.

What do you want him look like?

What color is his hair?

What color are his eyes?

Sunlight blazed through the studio's ceiling-high glass walls, illuminating the wooden shelves, the little cans of paint strewn around the tables, and the easels and canvases neatly tucked away in corners. It was bright and beautiful then, as if the whole studio was art, but it was hard to care about anything other than the painting. “You may paint his eyes…” Connor said, hesitating, thinking of the right color. He couldn’t choose one. Green? Blue? Perhaps it didn’t matter, so he said, “Gray.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Connor observed every line, every stroke, watching the dollops of paint on Markus’ palette flatten and slowly meld into each other as the brush worked through them. He watched as Markus blended colors, dotting and dashing them on the canvas, filling in the details of a face Connor only ever imagined in his mind.

When Markus finished, he stepped to the side, revealing his work.

Connor breathed a sigh. A weight on his chest ebbed away, replaced by a deep, forlorn yearning.

Staring at him from the canvas was his soulmate. Or at least, what he believed his soulmate would have looked like if they could have met, if he’d been there before he--whoever he truly was--passed away on Connor's birthday that year. An unseen force pulled him towards the canvas, and he had to remind himself to not touch it no matter how hard he wanted to. The paint might not have dried yet. Instead, he settled on tracing his fingers around the side of the canvas and on the air above the painting. Every little line, stroke, and color came together to form his vision of his soulmate’s face: chiseled jaw, gray eyes, black hair like his own, every detail colored more beautifully than real life could ever offer. There he was--so close, so close to touching his soulmate at that moment, but it was a lost cause. He’d never known his soulmate, and he probably never will.

As Connor looked down on the painting, he saw his hand, the gray string on his finger, the only connection he’d had with his soulmate for all of his life. His gaze lingered on it, tracing the way the string began at his finger until it trailed off in the distance, vanishing into the air.

Now, he had this painting instead.

“I would like to keep it with me. Could we digitize it?” he finally asked.

“Of course, Connor. I’ll pay for everything.”

“No. I want to purchase it to compensate you for your trouble.”

“All right, but it was no trouble at all. Don’t worry about it.”

It’s the least I could do is what Markus meant to say, but the omission was for the best.

They had it scanned and Connor printed out the smaller version of it now in his hand.

As he gazes at it, he wishes he could stay in his bed, sink into the sheets, and do nothing. It's an inviting comfort. How long would it take for this weight to lift if he simply lied down and tried to dream about the sea?

But he shakes his head. Things have changed now.

For months he kept telling himself, “This is my only chance at life, and I will make the most of it,” until he believed it. Life can be mundane, almost boring nowadays, but there's beauty in the mundane. He sticks to his routine--a contract he made with himself a year ago: to get out of bed regardless, because the day calls and he needs to answer. Today is no different. He has a routine to finish, things to do, places to visit, a birthday to attend to. Today, he’ll have to call his friends, buy a new novel, sit in a coffee shop somewhere and read.

It’s the weekend. I have the week off. It’s my birthday, he thinks. If there’s anything he promises himself this week, it’s that he’ll have a nice time.

He gets out of bed and after his morning routine, he starts his weekend routine. It begins with Connor playing the piano for exactly one hour from eight to nine in the morning. It’s the same each time. He sits down at the mahogany-colored upright piano in his living room, bright sunlight creeping in through the window on his right. For a while, he practices his scales, then he plays a song based on his mood. Happy means happy songs. Sad means sad songs. Today, he plays a song where he can’t name the emotion - somewhere between hope and longing.

Nocturne Op. 9: No. 2 by Chopin. His fingers dance on the keys, precise in the way they press the notes, but colored with the emotion Connor wants for the song. Hope and longing.

It’s a song he’s played a thousand times before, from back when he was still a teenager. On Sunday afternoons, his mother would tell him, “Connor, play that piece for me,” as she lied down on the couch. He didn’t need to ask which one. It’s his mother’s favorite piece. He’d play it for her as she closed her eyes, drinking in the melody, the music, the rhythm of the notes as they circled around the room. “Play it again,” she’d say when he finished. And he’d play it over and over until she fell deep asleep.

She used to sing him lullabies. Now, he played her lullabies. It was funny, he thought, how they traded places that way.

The climax rushes in, his fingers alternating between two notes, strongly at first, then lighter as he moves down the scale to finish the song. He wonders how his mother is doing now, and that maybe he should send her a text later in the day. That is, if she doesn’t text him first.

It doesn’t take more than five seconds after finishing the song for him to see a notification on his phone from Markus.

Happy birthday, Connor. Simon and I sent you something in your mailbox. We hope you like it.

Connor’s outfit today is a simple plain white shirt under a baby blue hoodie and black jeans. It’s simple, minimalistic, and presentable - just how he likes it. Before leaving, he checks to make sure he has everything: wallet, phone, and his coin. The coin in particular is a gift from Hank, who thought that Connor’s coin tricks were, in his words, “Fuckin’ ridiculous, but still amazing, kid.” Since then, he’d bring that coin around with him, twirling and spinning it with his fingers while walking around the city or waiting for the bus.

He picks up the package Markus mentioned from the apartment mailboxes and opens it. There’s a note inside, taped above the box.

Connor,

Happy Birthday. We know what you’re going to say after opening this box, but please feel free to not even think about returning it to us.

We would be deeply offended.

Love, Simon and Markus.

They’re absolutely right, because when Connor opens the box to find a pair of Cyberlife’s new Augmented Reality lenses, an overwhelming urge to return it crashes down on him. It’s literally impossible to get these, because these are prototypes that aren’t even on sale yet. Live Vision, they call it, an intelligent pair of contact lenses that can show information about the world in real time.

Mentioning it to Markus was a terrible idea, but now he has a pair of them begging to be worn and he simply can’t resist. He puts them on, completely ignoring the prototype’s manual inside the box. As soon as he opens his eyes again, there’s a clean white box with black text on the center of his vision, telling him how to link it to his phone so it could show notifications. He follows the instructions, and the box goes away.

It’s utterly glorious, and he’s excited to see how they work. He’ll be one of the first to try it out.

He takes the coin from his pocket and starts doing one of his tricks as he walks out onto the street. Turning the corner onto the main road, he enters a bustling sidewalk with cars honking on the road.

It’s noisy in this part of the city (or any part of the city to be honest), but somewhere downtown, there’s a coffee shop that he goes to whenever he has the free time and wants to escape the monotony of his apartment. It’s a coffee shop with glass walls that let the sunlight in, a small garden with a fountain in plain view, fancy black wooden tables, and even fancier chairs and couches with seat cushions.

He’d love to go there today to read in peace, but he’ll go to the bookstore first.

A notification pops up on his vision, and it’s a birthday greeting from his mother. Unfortunately, he hasn’t read the manual for the lenses, so he doesn’t know how to make it go away. It disappears after some time, but not before Connor accidentally bumps into a man walking in the opposite direction. “Watch where you’re going, asshole!” the man shouts.

Connor lets it go, but he picks up his coin from the ground and stows it in his pocket in case it happens again.

It’s such a beautiful day out. Overhead, the sky is cloudy, and when Connor looks up for a moment as he walks, the sight of clouds are blocked by another birthday greeting from his father. A woman bumps into him. This time she has the manners to apologize before leaving.

This is definitely an inconvenience he’ll have to report to Cyberlife as a prototype user. Although perhaps it wasn’t such a good idea to wear the lenses without reading the instructions.

But he doesn’t have time to figure it out, because his thoughts keep getting interrupted by birthday greetings and other notifications.

When Connor arrives at the bookstore, notifications haven’t stopped popping up in front of him. He doesn’t notice the glass entrance door until he smashes into it and trips onto the floor as it opens, landing on his hands as another greeting pops up from a coworker. Happy birthday, Connor. Have a great day and take care of yourself!

He flutters his eyelids, trying to make the notifications go away, but it doesn’t work.

The next thing he tries is to use his hand to swipe the notifications away. He reaches forward as if to grab the notification, and swipes it to the right. It works.

He has to do it for each one, so he’s waving his hand left to right, and when his vision clears, there’s a man staring from the bookshelf aisle in front of him.

“…Everything okay down there?” says the man with a snort. His voice is gruff, clearly holding back laughter. He’s dressed in a dark shirt and an equally dark zip-up hoodie, holding a book on the shelf and eyeing Connor with a smile that’s more smug than welcoming.

Perhaps it might have seemed a little strange to see him waving his hand repeatedly, so Connor says, “Yes. I’m fine.”

“You’re welcome to get off the floor, you know. Whenever you like.”

“No,” is the first thing Connor says, because he doesn’t like the man’s tone, then he realizes he’s still on the floor. “I mean--my contact lenses were impairing my vision.” He gets up, dusting himself off.

“What, you can’t see or something?”

“My vision is not impaired-”

“That’s what you just said-“

“I’m sorry. What I meant was that they are augmented reality lenses.”

“Oh yeah. one of those new Cyberlife toys. Fancy,” the man says, clicking his tongue, a full smirk still in place. He places the book back on the shelf, taking another one before he quickly adds, “Looks like fun,” which by Connor’s interpretation meant, joke’s on you for buying those lenses.

This man is certainly getting on his nerves. Maybe it’s the condescending sound of his voice, or perhaps the frustrating smirk, or it could simply be that the man won’t let go of his embarrassing moment. “They happen to be a gift.”

“Birthday gift?” The man puts the book back on the shelf, then he turns towards Connor, putting both hands in his pockets.

Connor sees the scar on his nose, wondering for a moment how it got there. “I’m sorry, but it is none of your business.”

The man chuckles. “Geez, I’m just asking. Who knows? Maybe I wanted to say happy birthday.”

Connor has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Okay.”

“Wow. Touchy.”

“And you are very rude,” says Connor, shooting him a pointed look.

They gaze at each other for a moment, and Connor absolutely hates the smile on the man’s face. He’s thankful when he finally drops the smile, and the man rolls his eyes to the side, sighing. “All right. I’m - uh - sorry.” There’s so much reluctance in his apology that Connor almost wants to laugh, like the word sorry doesn’t exist in his language. “Should’ve helped you, I guess,” he continues.

Connor knows he has to pick his battles, and arguing with a stranger over an apology is not something he wants to do today, so all he says is, “Thank you. I can see how difficult that was for you.”

“Yeah. Probably worse than open heart surgery. Can I still take it back?”

That makes Connor chuckle for some reason, and he immediately regrets it, because suddenly the man dons his annoying grin again. “No, and if you don’t mind, I’ll be going now,” Connor says, walking through the aisle.

He swears he sees a frown on the man’s face as he passes.

If Connor were to pick a genre of books to read for the rest of his life, there’d be no hesitation. It would be science fiction. There’s a certain magic to them that Connor can’t get enough of, which is why he heads straight to that section of the bookstore.

Every time he enters that section of aisles formed by the dark, neatly lined wooden shelves just as tall as him, an excitement creeps up on him. What does he want to read about this time? Dystopian societies? Technologically advanced alien races? Knights and empires, but set in the space? The possibilities are endless, and that’s exactly why he loves science fiction.

He wonders sometimes, why people would choose to read books set in the current era, when there’s a whole world of imagination out there to discover.

As he walks through the aisles, observing the book covers, there’s a sense of wonder and a feeling of discovery that only he understands among his friends. They aren’t the type to read books, much less the type to read these kinds of books. He tried to get Markus to start reading books like these once, but he never had the same bravado about them that Connor did.

It was his personal hobby. Something for himself that he didn’t need to share with anyone.

On the second aisle, he finds the book he’s looking for, Cloudy with a 100% Chance of Rain , wedged between two other books he’s read before. There have been good things said about this book on all the reading communities he follows, and he’s been hoping to read it for a while. He takes it out, absorbing the cover design. It’s quite simple: a cartoon drawing of a child sitting on a hill, looking out over a rainy sky. Turning it over, he reads the summary at the back of the book, though he’s already read it before online. A simple dystopian story about the earth in the future, where the weather is nothing but rain for most of the year.

Halfway through the summary, someone from across the aisle pipes up, saying, “Science fiction, huh?”

It’s the same man from earlier, and Connor meets eyes with him. That’s two strikes for today: one for being rude, another for ruining the moment. Unforgivable. “May I ask why you’re following me around the store?”

“Hey,” he says, raising his hands before continuing. “Not a creep. Just passed by and saw you here.” He puts his arms down, crossing them and leaning his shoulder on the shelf, eyes fixed on Connor. That annoying smirk appears on his face again. “Besides, if you’re looking for good books, you’re in the wrong section.”

That would be the third strike.

How dare anyone insult the most imaginative genre of all time in his presence? “Excuse me, but science fiction is an excellent genre, if not one of the best.”

This man, whoever he thinks he is, has the nerve to cackle at that. He says, “Oh,” and somehow it’s the most annoying syllable Connor’s ever heard. The man walks up to the Connor’s side of the aisle, gesturing towards the books with his arms, disbelief in his face. “Science fiction? Science. Fiction,” he says like he were explaining the most obvious thing in the world.

“I don’t think saying the genre’s name repeatedly is making your point any clearer.” At this point, Connor’s had enough of this man. He takes his book and fixes the straps of his backpack on his chest. “I will be going now. I’ll be purchasing what I’m sure will be a wonderful book.”

He gets to the end of the aisle when he hears the man call out. “Hey! Okay, okay.”

Connor rolls his eyes, sighing as he prepares for what’s likely the man’s second apology for today. He turns around, a hand still holding onto one of his backpack straps. This better be good.

The man’s scratching his neck, looking incredibly uncomfortable with the situation, and Connor thinks he absolutely deserves it. “I’m - uh - sorry,” the man says with a voice much quieter than earlier.

“What’s that,” asks Connor, even though he heard exactly what the man said.

“I said ‘I’m sorry’.”

Connor maintains his flat expression, though he can’t deny how satisfying this is, so he tries to push further. “Can you say that a bit louder? I couldn't quite hear it.”

“Okay, now you’re just fucking with me.”

“Yes. As I should be, considering that you’ve already had to apologize twice today.”

There’s certainly a tinge of guilt in the man’s eyes - just a tiny bit. The tiniest bit. Most of his expression is discomfort, and the fun’s over for Connor, so he asks, “Why are you talking to me exactly?”

“Nothing! Just saw you over here and thought, ‘wow this guy’s wasting his time. Murder mystery’s where it’s at!’”

Connor raises his eyebrow. “I’m sorry, but detective stories do not appeal to me. They are quite dry,” he says, enjoying the absolutely aghast look on the man’s face. “And very predictable.”

“What? Predictable? Are you crazy? Shit’s the bomb! Way better than your sci-fi crap.”

“I highly doubt that given my experience with these kinds of books.”

“Oh yeah?” The man struts towards Connor, now with his arms crossed and a frown on his face. “How many mystery books have you read?”

Perhaps that wasn’t the best argument to try and make, because Connor has only ever read one murder mystery book in his entire life. Hank who forced him to read it. He tried. He really tried to like it, but it was the most boring experience of his life. Before he could answer, the man says, “Thought so.”

“And you also admit that you’ve never read a single sci-fi book.”

“You know what? We’re settling this. I’m buying you the best book you’ll ever fucking read and you’re gonna like it.”

“I - What?”

The man starts walking out of the aisle, beckoning him with his hand. “Come with me.”

This is not how Connor expected the conversation to go, but he’s intrigued, if not simply because of how persistent the man is that he should like books about murder. Did this man have some sort of history with science fiction? Is he part of some murder mystery cult? “Why would I want to come with you?” he asks.

The man stops, turning towards Connor and saying, “Because I’m going to teach you the wonders of Murder and Mystery.”

“That is a very strange thing to say to a stranger.”

“_Phck_. Fine. I’m Gavin. Gavin Reed. See? Not a stranger anymore.”

Just then, Connor’s lenses act up, indicating that they have registered the name “Gavin Reed” into their databases. For a few seconds, there’s a blue box around Gavin’s face, labeled with his name.

Connor doesn’t completely trust Gavin yet, so he says, “Well, I won’t be telling you my name.”

“Yeah, yeah, doesn’t matter. Come on. Mystery section.” Gavin gestures towards the other side of the bookstore, saying, “You coming or what?”. Connor doesn’t budge, so he adds, “Look, think of it as a birthday gift. Whenever that is,” before briskly walking towards the other side of the bookstore.

Would Connor really refuse a free book? Of course not.

Gavin leads him to the section he was browsing earlier. Connor wants to say that this was absolutely unnecessary, that they don’t know each other, and that Gavin doesn’t have to buy him anything.

But when Gavin starts talking about the books, he doesn’t stop. He picks out book after book on the shelf, showing Connor the covers and then flipping them over to read the summaries in a voice he thinks makes it sound thrilling. Connor stands there, wholly confused about the whole situation. As Gavin picks up the fourth book, he starts speaking, fully focused on the book and not really looking at Connor, “Yeah, so this one here’s about a husband and wife that both get murdered, and their daughter has to figure out what happened-“

“Gavin-“

“See? No detectives. It’s fuckin' awesome. Seriously,-“

“Gavin...”

“-you take your pick. There’re so many types - it’s crazy. This shit’s real world too, but if you’re into the whole-“

“Gavin!”

Gavin finally looks up, a surprised look on his face. “What?” he asks, putting back the book on the shelf. His hand reaches over and is about to grab another one, but Connor gestures to stop him.

“This isn’t necessary. You don’t have to buy me a book.”

“Nah, it’s cool. Anything to help out a deprived soul like you.”

The idea of a free book is temping. However, Connor still does not like getting free gifts, especially from a stranger he just met who doesn’t even know his name, so he thinks of an alternative.

“I will read your book if you read mine.”

“Uh...you...want me...to read...sci-fi?” The words flow out of Gavin’s mouth like they’re from a foreign language. “Can't lie. That’s just against my principles.”

“If you really want me to read your book, which you clearly do, then you’ll agree.” Even though he doesn’t want to admit it, Gavin’s gotten him interested in the genre simply because he hasn’t really explored anything beyond science fiction. He thought murder mystery meant detective stories, but he was clearly very wrong. “What do you say?”

Gavin thinks it over for a bit, then he says, “Fine. But we gotta read it together, because I wanna tell you how shit your book is in person.”

“I know a coffee shop we can go to. That way, I can tell you how wrong you are in person as well,” says Connor with a smile. Gavin glares at him at first, but then he takes a book on the shelf and agrees.

The coffee shop sits at the far end of the street, in a quiet little corner where there aren’t too many cars passing by. Connor already hears the water running down the shop’s fountain as they enter through the glass door. He loves this place. He loves the way the sunlight flows in through the windows, loves the way piano music gently permeates the room, loves the way the baristas know what he’s going to have before he even reaches the counter. Every one of them greets him as he walks through the tables. “Hi, Connor!”, “Great to have you back!”, “Hey!”, they all say. Gavin’s trails right behind him, observing the scene.

The best greeting he gets is from the cashier on duty, who says, “Connor! It’s free drink day for you. The usual?” She’s already taking a cup from below the counter.

“Why is it free?”

“It’s your birthday, silly! You told me last week.”

“Oh. Thank you for remembering.”

“No worries,” she says, writing Connor’s name on the cup, along with a smiley and a happy birthday. She punches in the order and hands the cup over to the other barista. He tells him, “Extra special for you today. What do you want? Whipped cream on top?”

“You can surprise me.”

The cashier pipes up. “And what can I get for your friend?”

Connor immediately answers, “We’re not-“

“Yeah, not friends. We’re best friends, actually. Known him since high school,” says Gavin confidently, interrupting Connor.

Connor, aghast, stares at Gavin. The cashier looks back-and-forth between them.

Gavin winks at the cashier. “Connor’s my main man.”

Connor frantically looks back at the cashier and corrects Gavin. “Please don’t listen to him. He’s only learned my name two minutes ago,” he says, side-eyeing Gavin.

The cashier looks confused for a few seconds, but she recovers with a smile, asking for what Gavin wants. He places his order and they sit down by one of the booths with couches beside a glass window. It’s bright and lovely outside, the kind of day when Connor enjoys reading the most.

“So, mister coffee shop celebrity, it’s actually your birthday today.”

“I’m sorry?”

“I’d ask you if ‘you come here often,’ but you might think I’m flirting with you.”

“That would certainly be an undesirable prospect.”

“Ouch.” Gavin feigns an offended look. “Happy birthday, I guess.” He puts his book on the table and slides it towards Connor. “Reading time.”

“Why are you so insistent on having me read this book?”

“Because! When Gavin Reed hears someone dissing his favorite genre, he fuckin’ does something about it.”

“I could say the same about myself.” Connor picks up his own book and slides it towards Gavin.

“Ugh, I really have to read this crap? Just looking at the cover makes me wanna barf.” Gavin takes the book, inspecting the front and the back part.

“Well, it’s only fair that you read my book, and if you do vomit, please have the courtesy to keep the book clean. It’s quite important.”

There’s that faux offended look on Gavin’s face again. “More important than me?”

“Yes.”

Gavin says “Oh,” again in the way only he can make it annoying, then he smiles, as he does. “You know, you look all innocent and cute, but that’s petty, you know that?”

Connor returns a slight smile. “I happen to be generally kind to other people. In your case, I’m simply returning the favor.”

“Hmm. Those baristas think you’re all rainbows and smiles and the sun shines out of your ass, but I know better.”

“Congratulations. Would you like a medal?”

“You know what? I’m not liking ‘Connor’ for you. Too nice and sweet.”

“And what would you prefer to call me?”

“How about ‘dipshit’?”

Connor rolls his eyes. He puts the book down on the table and stares at Gavin. “I’m not sure what I expected, but that is very mature of you.”

“Hey, don’t look at me like that. Call me whatever you want, but you’re ‘dipshit’ from now on.”

“I will be calling you Gavin, because I appear to be the only adult in this table.”

“Ha!” Gavin bursts out laughing. “That’s funny. Keep telling yourself that.”

At that moment, one of the baristas arrives at the table with drinks on a serving plate. He puts down both their coffees on the table, gives them a smile and an "Enjoy your drink," before walking back to the counter.

Connor looks at his drink to observe whatever it is that they put in, but Gavin snaps his fingers and says, “Hey, reading time. Chop chop.”

They begin reading their respective books while taking sips of their drinks in between. Connor ordered his usual latte with whipped cream on top and, as a surprise, chocolate shavings sprinkled over it. Gavin got a hot brewed coffee, black. It’s fitting, Connor thinks, even in the short time they've known each other. He can’t imagine Gavin having any other kind of coffee.

When Connor opens the book, his lenses flood his vision with information about the book. It shows him the summary, biographical data about the author, and a bunch of other recommended books based on it. He waves it off with his hand.

Gavin pipes up from behind his book. “A fly or something?”

“No. It’s my lenses. They are providing me information about the book. I have to swipe to remove the notification.”

Gavin sneers. “That’s weird. Just imagine people on the street waving their hands around everywhere. Creepy.”

“This is the future, Gavin. You should embrace it.”

Shrugging, Gavin adds, “Not a future I wanna be part of.” He returns to his book.

They begin reading, and it’s actually peaceful enough to read with Gavin. Connor had assumed that Gavin would complain every few pages. Perhaps something along the lines of, “This is the most boring shit ever. You call this a fuckin' novel? It's a deadass encyclopedia is what it is.” Instead, every now and then, Connor would hear him grunting or chuckling to himself. Whenever he would look up, Gavin is either grinning or frowning.

He certainly has to read that book. If Gavin ended up liking it, he’ll absolutely love it.

At some point, he takes the coin out of his pocket and starts playing with it. There’s one trick he likes to do, where he twirls the coin and moves it along the spaces between his fingers from left to right on his hand. This particular trick helps him focus while he reads, and it’s pretty much muscle memory to him now.

Gavin notices what he’s doing, glancing at his hand every now and then. “Where’d you learn how to do that?” he asks.

“I taught myself,” Connor says, smiling.

“Can you do other tricks?”

Connor, always happy to demonstrate this to people, shows Gavin a few tricks. He shows one where he flicks the coin with his thumb in one hand then catches it in the other. Gavin looks impressed and jealous at the same time, but he says, “Hm. Doesn’t look that hard.”

“Oh?” says Connor with a skeptical look. “I would love to see you do it then.”

Gavin does a double take, and then he says, “Uh, nah, you’d just get jealous when you see me do it like it’s nothing.”

“No. I insist. I’d really like to see it.” Connor smiles wryly as he passes the coin to Gavin, fully expecting him to fail since it took him weeks to master this trick.

Gavin sets up the trick with the coin on one hand and the other hand ready to catch, but he’s beginning to look nervous. Still, he says, “Watch me get this right the first time.”

“I can’t wait.”

Gavin takes a breath. He flicks the coin.

And it lands on the table instead.

“Fuck! Okay, that one doesn’t count. Your coin’s too fuckin’ big.”

“The size actually helps you do the trick though.”

“Shut up. I’m gonna try again.”

Gavin tries it again and fails a second time (“Shit!”), and when he tries a third time, he’s still unsuccessful. “Okay that was a fluke. I’m not even really trying yet.”

“Of course you aren’t. I’m sure this will be very easy for you once you really try it. Would you like to do it again?” Connor says, trying to hold back his laughter. It’s not Gavin’s failure that makes him laugh, it’s the fact that he can’t accept it.

“Screw you too.” Gavin sets up the trick again, his face full of frustration. He flicks the coin with his thumb.

And it flies into his face.

“Fuck!”

This time, Connor doesn’t hold back his laughter, saying, “Very impressive, Gavin.”

“Okay, fuck you. This coin’s just too big, okay?”

Connor’s still laughing, and Gavin’s brows furrow even more. “Stop laughing!” It’s a few seconds of Gavin stewing in his anger and Connor laughing before he lightly throws the coin towards Connor’s side of the table. He catches it.

“New rule: no more coin tricks on the table.”

“Of course, Gavin,” says Connor, traces of laughter still in his voice. Gavin rolls his eyes.

They continue reading, and as Connor reads over the next hour, he finds himself getting lost in the book, almost forgetting about his latte. The whipped cream’s melted into a sad white puddle, and the coffee tastes like bitter bean water instead of espresso. Still, the book’s actually more interesting than Connor thought it would be. It certainly wasn’t the usual detective story at least, since there were no actual detectives involved. Maybe they were both wrong about each other’s genres.

Connor takes a look at his drink again, and it’s a horrid excuse for a latte at this point. He takes a break, putting the book down on the table to finish his drink. Gavin’s still reading, his head on the table on top of his arm and his face hidden by the book. It’s almost funny seeing him so engrossed.

“Okay. Fuck me and fuck this book,” Gavin says, sitting up straight and holding the book out on the table.

“I thought you were enjoying it.”

“No, it’s - ugh - okay. Fine. You got me. I like it. That’s why I’m fucked.”

“What is wrong with liking the book?”

“I wanted to hate-read, okay? I wanted to fuckin’ complain about how stupid it is, but I can’t even have that.” Gavin slams the book closed. “This is BS.”

Connor chuckles at the absurdity of it. It’s certainly rare to find someone so annoyed about liking something.

“Okay, dipshit. Tell me you like my book.” Gavin puts a fountain pen down on the table. Connor hasn’t noticed it, but he’s been holding it in his hand this whole time.

“You’ll be happy to know I’m liking it as well.”

“Ha! See? And there you were doubting the one and only Gavin Reed.”

“Gavin, I’m not sure if anyone has told you this, but it’s certainly not ‘cool’ to refer to yourself-“

“Shh. No opinions about me on this table.”

Connor smiles, as he’s been doing often today. “All right. May I ask where you got that fountain pen then?”

“Oh. This.” For a moment, his expression flattens, and Connor doesn’t know if it’s sadness or thoughtfulness. “Got it from my soulmate,” Gavin says, picking up the pen and playing with it.

Connor’s stomach sinks at the sound of the word soulmate. How lucky Gavin must have been to have a soulmate. How lucky other people in the world have that for themselves, but, as Connor tells himself, this is his life now.

Not someone else’s.

“That’s very sweet of your soulmate. Why do you have it out? Are you going to write something?”

“What? No. I use it to underline books.”

Suddenly, Connor puts two and two together, and his life flashes before his eyes. “I’m sorry?”

“Yeah, I underline sentences I like.”

“On my book?!” Connor loses his composure for the first time in weeks.

“What?” Gavin says, as if he doesn’t know he’s just committed a mortal sin. He even has the audacity to take a sip of his black coffee. “Fuck, this coffee’s cold now.”

“Gavin, please focus. You were underlining my book!”

“Calm down.” Gavin shakes his pen with his fingers, grinning. “In my defense, I thought we were trading.”

“This is not right!”

“Jesus, dipshit. If you want it back, I’ll give it back. It’s just a few lines for god’s sakes.”

“But, Gavin, the book is no longer pristine. It will be distracting to read.”

“Okay, let me put it this way. Now you know which lines I liked. How’s that for personalization?”

It’s a lost cause. Gavin clearly doesn’t understand the horrid crime he’s just laid upon the book. Connor puts his book on the table, closing it, then takes a large gulp of his drink. When he’s done, he crosses his arms, leans back on the couch, and glares out the window.

“Okay, seriously? Look who’s being mature.”

Connor doesn’t respond.

“Come on, dipshit.”

Connor stays silent.

“The silent treatment? What are we, twelve?” Gavin huffs and sighs, then he says, “Okay, look, I’m sorry. I’ll buy you a new one.”

And there’s a pang of guilt in Connor’s chest. Perhaps he’s slightly overreacting, but each book is special to him and he doesn’t like having any of them looking used. The same goes for all of his things. Everything good as new, as he’d say.

“No, it’s all right.” Connor finally faces Gavin again.

“Hallelujah. We good?”

“Yes, I apologize. I was just shocked. Perhaps I will enjoy seeing which lines were significant to you.”

“That’s more like it,” Gavin says with a grin. The smirk on his face is indeed annoying, but Connor’s starting to get used to it. “Okay. I think that’s enough reading for today. Meet you here tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I’ll be a tourist here all week next week. Thought I could read with you again.”

There’s really nothing for Connor to do, since he’d taken a vacation for the rest of the next week - his first one in a year. He’s forgotten how to take a vacation, if he were being honest. And perhaps, even with the book desecration, reading with someone else for once is actually fun, so he agrees and says, “Okay. I will see you here tomorrow.”

When Gavin leaves, Connor realizes he’s finally made a reading buddy.

There’s a certain charm to Connor’s reading sessions with Gavin. For the first two days, he goes to the coffee shop only because he has nothing better to do. Certainly, there’s nothing worse than a wasted vacation, as he would tell himself, so this is his alternative to sitting in front of his laptop all day or lying in bed reading to himself.

At least he has a reason to get out of the house. Gavin’s first observation when Connor tells him he works from home is, “The fuck? You some kind of house gremlin? Is that why you let me drag you to this cafe every day?” Connor doesn’t respond to that, only adding that he’s a programmer.

“Goddamn. If you’re gonna be a hermit, at least do something exciting.”

Connor laughs, because even if he’s happy to have his job, the world outside the internet and his home does sometimes seem appealing (but only sometimes).

Gavin tells him about his job as a freelance music producer for small time artists. People can sing, play instruments, and write songs, but not everyone knows how to clean up, digitize, mix, or add effects to them. Connor asks him what all of those things mean, and Gavin says, “Okay - simple terms. They pass me the raw recordings and I turn them into actual tracks - stuff you’d hear in an album.” Connor finds it fascinating, so he asks more about it until Gavin’s talked his ear off.

It’s moments like this that make Connor look forward to their reading sessions, and so he insists on setting a schedule for it at exactly 10:00 AM until evening every day for the rest of the week. “Christ, who the fuck wakes before 10 AM?” Gavin retorts.

Connor understands his style of slightly self-deprecating but mostly annoyed humor at this point, so he simply says, “You are very funny.” He surprises himself because he actually means it. Gavin, on the other hand, surprises him by saying, “I’m actually serious, dipshit. I get up at like friggin 11.” Somehow, Connor finds that even funnier.

At some point they start talking about music, and Gavin unearths a deep secret that Connor keeps from all his friends.

“You’re kidding me.”

“No, I’m unfortunately not.”

“Knights...of the black death? We’re talking about the same band here right? Dirty guitar, gritty vocals, loud screaming and growling?”

“We’re on the same page. My favorite song of theirs is, ‘Eyes’ where they sing about the topic of clawing one's eyes out in full depth.” Connor says it like it’s the most matter-of-fact thing in the world.

Gavin’s jaw slacks, and he blinks for a few moments. “Damn. That’s actually kinda cool. I mean - that's too dark even for me.”

“Then what kind of songs do you listen to?”

“I’m more into classic 70’s rock, you know? Old people crap, but it’s my jam.”

“I do not judge you for that.”

“Yeah. Just wish I could produce more music like that. People only like electro now. It’s boring.”

Connor talks about why he likes hard rock and heavy metal. It’s full of energy, emotion, and sometimes it’s just relaxing to listen to it when he’s frustrated. Gavin looks at him with the same wonder as someone seeing an airplane or a rainbow for the first time. Eventually, Connor brings out his earbuds, shares it with him, and takes him through his entire playlist while describing the meaning and history behind every single song.

“You know, you’re not so bad. You look like a sad, uptight prick but you’re actually kinda cool.”

“And you are exactly how you seem to be, Gavin.”

“Is that an insult?”

“You may take it however you like,” Connor says, winking. Gavin laughs at him and tells him how stupid he looks when he winks.

It’s not so bad getting to know Gavin. When he gets past the annoying grin and the frustrating demeanor, Connor finds him better than tolerable. Even enjoyable to be with.

They buy each other a new book when they finish with the first ones they bought, and they keep reading together. On the fourth day, when the sun sets and the city lights turn on, Gavin asks him if he wants to go home yet. He agrees.

“Cool. Want me to walk you home? Or am I still too stranger-y?”

“‘Stranger-y’ is not a word.”

“First off, I know it’s not. Second, who cares? Third, You know what? I take back the offer.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What an unfortunate loss for me. I wonder how I'll get home now without you to walk me there ?”

“Seriously, dipshit.”

Connor chuckles. “We can walk home together, but I advise you not to try and kill me.”

“Hey, I could say the same about you. For all I know this is how you rope people in. Charm them to walking you home then you claw out their eyes--like your favorite song.”

Connor winks at him again, and it makes him laugh. “I assure you I have no plans to murder you tonight.”

“Mhm. We’ll see about that.”

Connor loves the city at night, when the street lights turn on and the sidewalk is bathed in white lights from the storefronts or neon colors from the bars. With Gavin beside him or trailing slightly after him, he watches all sorts of strangers walking along the busy street. Most of them are coming home from work. Others are just about to go to their night shifts.

Sometimes, Connor makes stories in his head about the people he sees. They’ll catch his eye for a fleeting moment, and he’ll imagine the kind of life they have. Maybe this stranger brushing past him wearing a suit and tie happens to be a big shot manager at some large corporation. Or perhaps he’ll see a woman wearing a pencil skirt and a blazer, and he’ll wonder about how busy her job is as a CEO.

There’s a story behind every one of them, a whole life lived, a whole book about each person. Even though he knows how boring the minutiae of every day life is for most people, he sometimes wishes he could pick up a book about someone and read it. It would be amazing, reading about the small details that make up a life, the ups and downs and the hurts and the euphoria.

He turns a corner and waits for a moment for Gavin to catch up. Gavin passes through a lit part of the sidewalk, and under the bright street lamp, Connor notices his scar again.

There’s a story behind that, a chapter behind that scar.

And there’s a whole book somewhere not on this earth written about this man.

Gavin catches up to him, panting slightly and asking, “How much more walking?”

“Are you getting tired? The apartment is not too far away.”

“You just walk so fuckin’ fast. This ain’t right for a human.”

“Perhaps I’m not a human then,” says Connor behind a smile. He waits for Gavin to catch his breath, and then he walks even more briskly.

“Fuckin’ dipshit. Wait up!”

Connor just laughs.

It’s ten minutes later when they reach the entrance to Connor’s apartment complex.

“Did you want to come in? I have some tea. It’ll help with your fatigue.”

“I am not fuckin’ ‘fatigued’. It’s your walking that’s not normal.” Gavin says.

“Exercising once in a while will be beneficial for you.”

“Hey, I go to the gym!”

“Your strained breathing says otherwise.”

Gavin glowers at him, about to say something, but instead he chooses to catch his breath while Connor opens the door. They enter the hallway, and Gavin closes the door behind him, asking, “Okay. For the love of god, tell me you’re on the first floor.”

“Don’t worry. It’s only six flights of stairs.” Connor says with a wink.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

They finally reach the door to Connor’s apartment after what Gavin says felt like three hours of walking and going upstairs (it was 15 minutes according to Connor’s watch). Connor turns on the lights he uses at night time, the ones with soft yellow hues to make the room feel more serene. Gavin crashes down on the couch in front of the piano, his eyes closed, lying down with his head on the arm of the couch.

Immediately, Connor says, “Your shoes.”

“What?”

“Please don’t put them on the couch.”

Gavin rolls his eyes and takes off his shoes, placing them neatly under the coffee table as Connor goes to the kitchen to make some tea. From the living room, Gavin calls out, “Can I have coffee instead?” Connor responds with a firm no, because it’s nighttime. In response, he hears a loud grunt.

In any other house, Gavin would be an awful guest, but Connor doesn’t often have guests in his apartment, so his standards are low. He’s mostly happy there’s someone else here.

He comes back to the living room with two cups of peppermint tea, and Gavin looks dead tired with his eyes closed. Connor puts the tea cups on top of coasters on the coffee table then pats away Gavin’s legs. Gavin puts them down onto the floor, putting him in an awkward half-sitting and half-lying position. Connor takes a sip of his tea.

Gavin looks like he’s falling asleep.

“You would be more comfortable if you sit properly. Have some tea.”

Gavin sounds utterly tired and monotonous as he says, “No, this sofa’s great. I love it. Greatest invention known to man.”

Connor chuckles, trying to figure out how to get Gavin to stop being so...himself. He takes a particularly loud sip of his tea.

“Stop that.”

Another loud sip.

“Stop.”

And another loud sip.

“Fucking hell. Can a guy just rest for a bit?”

Connor laughs at Gavin being so himself. “Your tea is getting cold. I assure you it will help. Peppermint is excellent for boosting your energy.”

Finally, Gavin sits up. “Jesus. You sound like my soulmate.” He takes the cup of tea and smells it, looking like he’s just smelled week-old food.

“Your soulmate?” Connor asks.

Gavin takes a sip and winces in pain. “Holy shit this is hot. How the fuck do you drink this just like that?”

“I’m used to it,” Connor says as Gavin blows air onto his cup. He takes another, much more careful sip, still wincing a little bit.

“Yeah, my soulmate used to love this shit.” Gavin takes another sip. “He had a whole kitchen cabinet just for tea. Do you even know how many kinds of tea there are? It’s ridiculous. He made me try this weird blooming flower tea crap once and I fuckin’ died. It tasted like...”

“Like?”

“Like a fuckin’ flower.”

Half-laughing, Connor says, “That is generally what flower tea would taste like.” What could Gavin have told his soulmate to stop obsessing over tea?

“Yeah, no shit. I don’t get it. I’m more of a coffee and energy drinks kinda guy.” Gavin gulps down the rest of his tea and puts the cup on the coffee table. Connor wants to tell him to use the coaster, but Gavin leans his head back on the couch and closes his eyes. In a softer voice, he adds, “My soulmate was weird.”

Was.

Connor's never been hit by anything before, least of all a brick, but this must be what it feels like. What happened to Gavin soulmate? It takes less than a second for the air in the room to shift, and suddenly Connor's mind is blank, unable to conjure any words. Should he ask? Should he not?

“Yeah, yeah. I know what you’re thinking,” Gavin says.

“Oh...I-“

“Nah, it’s okay,” says Gavin. His voice is sullen, marred with an unmistakable gloom that Connor’s never heard from him before. There’s no annoying grin this time, no furrowed brow, and no mocking voice, just a straight face with eyes closed.

He’s just sad.

Connor wants him to say, I know what you’re thinking but you’re wrong. But Gavin’s just resting there, more expressionless than he’s ever been. It’s almost unnatural, out of character. This is not the Gavin that Connor’s gotten to know so far.

Gavin opens his eyes, staring at the ceiling for a few moments.

“Yeah...I’m uh - I’m a widower.”

Connor puts down his cup, holding it above his lap, because there’s a bitter taste in his mouth now and he can’t drink anymore. He wants to say it’s okay, but he knows it’s not okay. He wants to say I’m sorry for your loss, but it’s not enough. The yellow lights in the room don’t seem so bright anymore, and the room feels a little too big. The marble walls look far away. Gavin looks far away.

He looks down at the cup on his lap and sees the dull gray string on his finger, no longer the dazzling red it used to be, if he could even remember what it used to look like. His eyes trace it to the edge of the room where it disappears into nothingness like it has for the past year.

And he feels like he’s sinking into the couch, a pull in his chest he doesn’t know what to do about.

Here’s a chapter in Gavin’s life - one of the most painful ones, and he’s reading it now.

“I suppose...we have that in common,” Connor says, still looking down at his finger.

Gavin raises his head, eyes fixed on him as he says, “Sorry. That sucks.”

“Yes. It’s...not a good feeling.”

“Trust me. I know,” says Gavin. Connor returns his gaze, and his eyes look more tired than they’ve ever looked. Gavin shakes his head, as if to clear something out of his head. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I didn’t wanna be a downer. I didn’t know,” he continues.

“No, it’s perfectly fine.” Connor finishes the rest of his tea, putting both his cup and Gavin’s cup on the coasters. “Gavin, may I ask a question?”

“Shoot.”

“How long were you and your soulmate together?”

“Wow, dipshit. Didn’t know it was sad boy hours.”

“Oh. You don’t have to discuss it if you don’t want to.”

“‘S fine.” Gavin leans forward on the couch, staring at the piano on the other side of the room and clasping his fingers on his lap. “We met when I was, god I don’t know, 21? We were together for like five years. Lost him two years ago. Car accident.”

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thanks.” Gavin smiles at him, perhaps half-heartedly, and the room doesn’t look as dark as it was a few seconds ago.

“Okay. Your turn. Be a sad boy, let’s go,” Gavin says, gesturing for Connor to continue. He deliberates for a moment about how he would explain his story, but Gavin interrupts him. “Hey, no thinking about it. Come on. Just let it out.”

Connor laughs silently, and he tells Gavin, “I never met my soulmate.”

“What? You’re serious?”

“Yes. My string turned gray on my birthday last year. I’m...managing.”

Gavin gazes right at Connor, sitting up straight with shock on his face. “On your fuckin’ birthday? Shit, if I were you I’d just forget about having birthdays.”

“Indeed, but I have accepted it.”

Gavin scratches the back of his neck, looking unsure about what he’s about to say. “Did - uh - did you feel it? You know...when things went south?”

A memory flashes in Connor’s mind. It’s his birthday celebration with his friends at some fancy restaurant. There’s laughter all around him. Markus proposes a toast, and while everyone raises their glasses high up into the air, he falls to the ground.

Gavin continues, “‘Cause I felt it - getting hit by a car. It was shit.”

“Oh. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. My friends wanted to take me to the hospital until I noticed my string had turned gray.”

“Huh. So that’s how it works. We get to feel their last moments like...like it’s poetic or some shit.”

“I’m not sure who made these rules, but I would like to file a complaint.”

That makes Gavin burst into laughter, and Connor doesn’t know why, but he ends up laughing too. It feels completely inappropriate: them talking about the worst chapters of their lives so far and finding humor in it. It’s absurd, but somehow, it’s enlightening, knowing that they can still laugh despite everything else.

Connor realizes maybe he’s laughing because he’s moved on. A new chapter. New beginnings.

A new life waiting for him as he turns the page.

He wonders whether Gavin is on a new chapter as well.

They talk for a long time after about their soulmates, their lives, their jobs, and their families. “What are your other hobbies?” asks Connor at some point, and Gavin tells him he doesn’t really have that many hobbies aside from reading and producing music. However, he does mention he knows how to do a few tricks on a skateboard. Connor envisions Gavin as a teenager, tripping over a skateboard and getting angry at his friends for laughing at him when he doesn’t get the trick right.

He also learns Gavin got into murder mystery because of his soulmate, and they’d laugh about stupid sci-fi books together. “Now it makes sense why you hate the genre so much,” Connor tells him. They both laugh.

It’s more laughter than Connor has ever heard in this room, and he feels alive. He hasn’t had a guest in a long time, but he’s glad Gavin walked him home tonight.

Gavin asks about the piano in the room, and Connor tells him that he’s been playing the piano since he was a child. There’s a song request, of course, but he ignores it for now, telling Gavin that he’s not in the mood to play.

“Ah, fine, but you only have two days left to play for me. I’ll be out of the city by then.”

There’s a tinge of sadness in Connor’s chest, but he waves it off. He’s made a friend. It’s 2040. They’ll always have a way to talk.

It’s midnight by the time Gavin’s eyes start getting heavy, and Connor feels it too. They exchange goodbyes, agreeing to see each other at the coffee shop again the next day.

When Connor goes to bed that night, his mind runs through the events of the past week. Tripping at the bookstore, getting annoyed at Gavin for being so rude, buying each other books, reading with him at the coffee shop, and then finding out they had something much more painful in common.

And he asks himself, what are the odds? That out of the billions of people in the world, the millions of people in the country, the hundreds of bookstores in the area, he’d trip inside this particular door in this particular bookstore and meet a man who’ll make him feel less alone.

Gavin Reed.

When he falls asleep, the last thing he thinks about is how curious he still is about that scar on Gavin’s nose.

Connor’s last day with Gavin starts the same way as every other day the past week. It’s almost a routine at this point, him waking up at 7 AM, taking a bath and getting dressed, then going to the coffee shop to read, talk, or whatever he and Gavin think of doing. It’s boring when Connor thinks about it. No trips to anywhere in Detroit, no showing Gavin around and enjoying what the city has to offer.

It’s boring, but boring’s good. Connor likes boring.

It’s funny how plans change. He wanted to spend his vacation reading a single novel at the coffee shop then studying programming books for the rest of the week. Now, he’s read three novels, except for the one he actually intended to read. Gavin has taken ownership of that book, but Connor still wants to read it.

And maybe the underlines wouldn’t be so bad. For once, he’ll actually see someone else’s thoughts on a book he reads.

He’s walking towards the coffee shop at his usual time of 9:45 AM when a notification pops up. It’s a text from Kara.

Kara: How’s your vacation been?

Connor: It’s been all right. I have been reading for most of it.

Kara: Oh, Connor. I thought you’d do something fun.

Connor: It’s been quite enjoyable actually. I’ve been reading with someone I met at the bookstore.

Kara: New friend? I’m so happy to hear that. Who are they?

Connor: His name is Gavin. I believe he’s here on vacation. We’ve been reading together for the whole week now actually.

Kara: That sounds…nice. So I guess you’re getting along?

Connor: Yes. It seems we share a few things in common.

Kara: Like what?

Connor doesn’t get to reply, because he arrives at the coffee shop and sees Gavin. Normally, Gavin wouldn’t arrive until 11 AM, but right now he’s ordering his usual at the counter. When Connor opens the doors, the entrance bells ring, and Gavin turns around to greet him, “Hey, dipshit.” As he does.

Connor simply smiles and says, “You are on time for once.”

He expects a, “Screw you” or a “Just be glad I’m even here.” Instead, Gavin surprises him with a sincere smile, not mocking and not condescending. It’s just a smile as he says, “Well, yeah. Wanted to make the most out of today.”

“What you mean is you wanted to spend more time with me.”

“Uh, so what? Who cares?”

If Connor isn’t mistaking it, Gavin’s ears have gone slightly red. “Gavin, there’s nothing wrong with that.”

“Whatever.”

The cashier stares at both of them, grinning, before taking a cup and writing Connor’s name on it. Once he finishes ordering, they sit down at their usual booth. The sun shines up high today, and the light through the window paints the booth a bright yellow.

“Hey, uh, I got you something,” Gavin says, taking something out of his bag. It’s a tiny little red box with a green ribbon around it. Gavin puts it on the table.

“Is it Christmas already?” Connor chuckles as he takes the box from the table.

“Ah, shut up, Connor.” There’s absolutely no bite in his words as he says that. Connor stares at him, surprised. “What?” asks Gavin.

“I...believe that’s the first time you’ve called me by my actual name.”

“What, you want me to keep calling you dipshit?”

“No. I was simply pointing it out.” Connor smiles at him, then proceeds to unwrap the gift. When he takes the lid off the box, a bright, shiny coin stares back at him, illuminated by the sunlight from the window. It’s an antique, because he sees the date on the coin: 1950. “Gavin...I can’t take this.”

“Why not?”

“This - this is really expensive.”

“Yeah, so it’d be pretty fuckin’ rude if you didn’t take it, right?”“I’m sorry. You really didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.” Gavin puts on that sincere smile Connor hasn’t gotten used to yet. “Just take it, okay?”

“Okay,” says Connor, a slight smile forming on his lips. Even if all he can think about is the trouble Gavin had to go through to buy this, he still feels something warm in his chest.

He tries out the new coin as Gavin watches, doing a few tricks with it and trying to get used to how it feels on his hand. “It’s beautiful, Gavin. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Gavin smiles, and it surprises Connor even more than the gift. No sarcasm, snark, or condescension. Just a sincere, you’re welcome coming from him. It feels almost like Connor’s revealed a new side of this man, and he excuses himself for feeling a little fuzzy inside.

Connor asks Gavin for his book - the first one he bought - since he’d already finished the last one. Gavin tells him he won’t give it back until he promises not to give him the cold shoulder again. Connor simply agrees and gives another science fiction book to Gavin in return.

“Huh, ‘Fahrenheit 451’. That’s it? That’s the title? What’s this about?”

“Read the summary for yourself.”

“Touchy.”

“If I were anything but touchy, I’m certain you’ll think I’ve been replaced by someone else.”

They both laugh after that. It’s an unusual characteristic of their friendship that they’d rarely ever admit anything nice about each other. Even if Connor did want to say he finds Gavin’s laugh infectious, just because of how loud it is, it doesn’t feel right.

And that’s okay.

A moment later, one of the baristas arrives with their drinks.

“Drinks for the lovely couple,” he says as he puts down Connor’s iced latte on the table.

“No!” says Connor a little too loudly. “I mean--we’re not-“

“Yeah, no. This dipshit over here wouldn’t be caught dead with me,” Gavin says, smiling as he puts his hands behind his head and leans back on the couch. That earns another flat stare from Connor.

The barista stands there, looking back-and-forth between them, confused. For a moment, no one moves, until the barista says, “Oops. Sorry about that.” He smiles brightly, then he puts down Gavin’s drink on the table.

“It’s all right. Thank you, Chris,” Connor says.

“Always great to have you both here.” Chris smiles at him before walking away, serving plate held high up in the air.

Connor opens the book. It’s worse than he thought. Gavin hadn’t just been underlining. He’d been writing on the margins, encircling words, and underlining entire paragraphs.

“Gavin...this book hasn’t just been underlined. You’ve vandalized it.”

“Hey, you promised not to get mad. No take-backs.”

“I’m not mad. I’m just amazed.”

“That I’m so thoughtful about my reading?”

Gavin winks.

Connor feels a blip in his chest. It’s probably because his book’s been ruined. That’s probably it.

They both start reading, each taking sips of their coffee as they do so. The coffee shop is quiet today, with only the soft jazz music playing on the speakers and the sounds of the fountain outside in the garden floating through to Connor’s ears.

It lets him focus, even through Gavin’s random burps and frustrated grunts as he reads his book. Every now and then, Connor’s interest is piqued by Gavin’s underlines. He finds a pattern in them, inferring that Gavin likes dramatic sentences and paragraphs.

Who would’ve thought that Gavin’s one for emotional scenes? Connor certainly wouldn’t have.

In the middle of the book, there’s a poem that Gavin underlined and encircled. He’d also written a note beside it, so it catches Connor’s eyes.

How happy is the blameless vestal’s lot.

The world forgetting, by the world forgot.

Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind.

Each pray’r accepted, and each wish resigned.

Beside it, Gavin wrote, I wish.

Connor looks up towards Gavin, who’s completely absorbed in his own book. He knows what it means; he knows that particular quote. It’s about the beauty of forgetting, the innocence of having no memories. No pain, no sorrow. The eternal sunshine of a spotless mind.

He observes Gavin, his face pointed as he reads, an eyebrow raised, and the scar on his nose ever present. A marker of a memory that won’t be forgotten.

And he wonders whether Gavin’s really moved on. How painful is it really to lose someone you were supposed to spend the rest of your life with?

Someone you’ve seen, met, embraced, made plans, and traveled around the world with. There’s a forlorn melancholy hidden behind Gavin’s condescending smile, an ever present wish that things could be different.

And perhaps it’s selfish of him, but Connor wonders if he would’ve met Gavin if his soulmate were still alive.

He looks back down on the book, reading the poem again. He takes out a pen from his bag and encircles the I wish. He writes:

I hope you find it.

He doesn’t know what he wants Gavin to find. Peace? Solace? Some kind of beauty in the world that sparks something within him, finally letting him move on? His eyes search Gavin’s face again.

Gavin smiles. It’s sincere.

Perhaps that’s what he wants Gavin to find: a life that would make him smile more often.

They read together in peace for the rest of the day. When the sun sets, the lights in the garden turn on, painting it with cozy blues and whites. Connor asks, “Gavin, would you like to go to the garden?”

“Aw, come on, I’m at the good part of the book.”

“Let’s go to the fountain. I’d like to show it to you before you leave.”

Gavin rolls his eyes before agreeing. They leave their bags on the booth, asking the cashier to watch out for it. As they open the glass doors to the small garden, Connor smells the refreshing aroma of the greenery. It’s a small, circular walled garden, with plants and ferns growing on the edges, some of them climbing up the wall. It’s peaceful here. The white, brick walkway around the fountain reflects the lights all over the space, tinting the garden and their faces with a calming blue.

“Didn’t think this city had any plants at all.”

“You would be correct, except for this garden and the parks.”

“It’s...pretty at night.”

They sit on the fountain’s ledge. Gavin takes a deep breath and remarks on how weird it is to have fresh air in the city. Connor notices the fountain pen with him, another thing that piques his curiosity.

“May I ask you a question?”

“You just did.”

“What’s the story behind your fountain pen?”

“Ah.”

Connor waits for him to say more. Gavin quiets, only looking down at the pen, playing with it in his hands. His face, blue lights and shadows all over, changes to something akin to searching. Connor doesn’t know if it’s the trick of the light, but he swears he sees Gavin’s eyes well up.

Gavin takes a deep breath. “Okay, I lied. This isn’t from my soulmate.”

“Then where is it from?”

“I bought it at an antique store,” says Gavin, still looking down at his hands, shifting the pen around. “So I told you my soulmate was weird, right?”

Connor hums in response.

“Yeah, he was super into calligraphy. I didn’t get it. I mean, it’s just letters on a page. It’s friggin’ 2040. Just do that on a computer.”

“I love calligraphy too. It’s an art form.”

Gavin chuckles, not for joy as Connor hears it. “That’s exactly what he told me. Anyway, when he...you know, bit it, I kind of...sold all his stuff.”

“What?” asks Connor in surprise.

“I’m having a moment here? Don’t get touchy.”

“Okay. I apologize.” Connor relaxes himself, clasping his hands on top of his thighs, eagerly paying attention.

“Yeah, it wasn’t a good time. I just couldn’t look at that shit anymore, so I sold it all.” Gavin grips the pen in one hand as he says, “After a while, I realized I fucked up really bad. I had nothing to remember him by, so I bought this crap from an antique store.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Thanks. I just pretend it’s from him. Sometimes I try out calligraphy with it but I suck, so there’s that.”

There’s a tug in Connor’s chest, a want to make this all go away. He wishes they could be in a science fiction world, a utopian society where they could wave their problems away. For now, all he can do is help somehow. “I could teach you calligraphy if you want to learn it.”

“You know what? I’ll take you up on that if we see each other again,” Gavin says, finally looking up at him. He smiles.

That sincere smile, another expression to add to Connor’s catalogue of Gavin’s facial expressions. For once, Connor doesn’t smile back, because there’s a weight on his chest. Hearing Gavin say he’s leaving is being told play time is over, that it’s back to the real world. Mundane. Boring. Normal.

Still, it’s nice to see him smile.

Gavin puts the pen on the fountain, placing his hands beside him and looks up, taking a deep breath. “Stars look pretty tonight.”

“Are you getting sentimental?”

“You know, you can be a prick sometimes. Heh. Maybe I’ll call you that too,” Gavin laughs at himself, looking overhead.

“I will stick with Gavin.” Connor looks up too, observing the sky. There are a few noticeable white dots on the sky, but most of them are covered by clouds, and the rest are faded whites.

“You know what really sucks though, is light pollution. I can’t see shit in the sky with all the lights here.”

“I happen to enjoy the city lights. They are calming, in a way. It brings the city to life.”

Gavin doesn’t respond, simply looking around the sky, as if he were counting the stars. Connor joins him too, counting a total of five. The rest are faded lights too blurry to see or hidden behind clouds. They sit in silence for a long while. Gavin closes his eyes, taking big breaths. Connor wants to ask about that scar on his nose, but Gavin’s obviously having a moment, so he puts it off for another day.

Perhaps through messages.

A while later, Gavin opens his eyes, saying, “I gotta go now. It’s been great hanging out with you.”

“The same to you.”

They stand up to leave. It’s the end of a week, of a vacation, and of a great time with a new friend. “You promise to stay in touch?” Connor asks as they pack up their items and books.

“Aw, the prick misses me already.”

“Not a chance.”

“Yeah, don’t worry about it. I’ll text you.”

“That would be great.”

Gavin packs up his items, and he leaves first, saying he has to pack up his things at the hotel as soon as possible. Connor says goodbye while organizing his bag. As he leaves for the door, he looks at the table to check that he hadn’t left anything. When he looks at the garden, he finds Gavin’s fountain pen on the ledge.

He rushes to grab it, but when he goes outside, Gavin’s gone.

Connor: You left your fountain pen at the garden.

Gavin: oh fuck me

Connor: I’d rather not, Gavin.

Gavin has changed your name to fuckin prick.

Gavin: shut up how can i get it

Connor: I won’t give it to you if you don’t change my name back.

Gavin has changed your name to Conner.

Connor: ...close enough. I’m on my way to my apartment. Do you remember the way?

Gavin: yea be there in a bit

Connor: For future reference, my name is spelled Connor.

Gavin has changed your name to screw you konner.

Connor arrives at the apartment and turns the night time lights on. Once again, the room is wrapped in a soft yellow hue as he organizes his things. There’s a laptop on the coffee table he turns on, thinking he could still study a little bit of programming in the hours before he has to go to bed. It feels like his vacation is over, and he’s simply waiting for Gavin to get his fountain pen.

He sits down on the couch, looking over the pen in his hand. It’s an old pen with a black body, a golden tip, and a tastefully designed pattern on the cover. He hasn’t held a pen in a while, but perhaps he still remembers the strokes he learned. It had been a hobby he took up the past year, when he was looking for something to bury himself in.

He takes out a few papers from the stack inside his bedroom and gets to work on the desk beside the couch. Perhaps Gavin might take offense at him using the pen, but he might as well give him a parting gift. After a few moments, he eventually he comes up with a short phrase.

After a bit of initial awkwardness, he gets a feel for the pen, so he discards his first draft and gets to work on another one. He lines one stroke after another, a black river coating and drying on the white surface. It’s nothing too fancy, and he uses simple, basic forms of the alphabet.

He takes a final look at it when he’s done, a slight smile on his lips.

To a life of smiles.

From: Dipshit prick

There’s a knock on his door, and when Connor opens it, Gavin immediately says, “Fuck, I’m an idiot.”

“No, it’s all right. I have your pen right here,” Connor says, gesturing towards the table.

Gavin enters the apartment, moving towards the desk as Connor closes the door. “Hey, what’s this?”

“Calligraphy. I made it for you as a gift.”

Gavin takes the paper and leans over the desk, examining it under the light. For a moment, he simply observes it, as if he were studying the calligraphy. A tension builds up inside Connor, because he’s wondering if Gavin doesn’t like it, but soon enough, Gavin stands up and takes the paper with him along with the pen. “It’s...nice. Thanks.” He says it as if he wanted to tell Connor something else, but he doesn’t continue.

“Would you like some tea before you go?”

“Uh, sure. Just...no flowers okay? Had enough of that for a fuckin’ lifetime.”

Connor smiles at him. He goes to the kitchen while Gavin sits down on the sofa. Reminiscent of the scene from last time at his house, Gavin calls out, “Hey dipshit, what’s on your laptop?”

“Pornography,” Connor responds calmly.

“Ha. Very funny. You’re too vanilla for that.”

Connor comes back with two cups of breakfast tea, finding Gavin sitting on the sofa with the calligraphy and the pen on his lap. Connor gives him a cup of tea, and he blows on the cup before taking a sip. He’s about to put it down on the coffee table when Connor says, “Gavin. Please use the coaster.”

Gavin obeys and puts the cup on the coaster. That was easier than Connor thought it would be.

“Where will you go now?” Connor asks, taking a large sip of his tea and holding it down by his lap.

“New York, actually. I’ll be touring the country for the next...I dunno, three months?”

“That sounds exciting.”

“Yeah...just some soul searching...” Gavin says, trailing off as he looks down, playing with the pen and staring at the paper.

“Something wrong?”

“No. I’m...I’m good.”

“You don’t sound all right, Gavin.” Connor puts his tea cup on a coaster on top of the table, gazing at him.

“Okay. I don’t wanna be sentimental or some shit like that, but I just wanted to say-“ Gavin looks up at Connor, “-that I really had fun this week.”

Connor returns a smile, almost laughing at how allergic Gavin seems to be towards saying something nice and sincere. “I did too.” Gavin doesn’t respond, still looking at the paper. His eyes look over it, and Connor can tell he’s reading the words over and over again. He’s slowly getting concerned he’s written something wrong, and he may have offended him. “Gavin?”

“Dipsh-“ Gavin stops, taking a breath. “Connor, do I...do I not smile a lot?”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“Come on. You’ve known me for a week. What do you think of me?”

Connor pauses for a moment to deliberate, not really knowing what the right answer is. Hesitantly, he says, “I think you’re fun to hang out with.”

“No, not that shit. Honest opinion. What do you think of me?”

“I...”

Gavin looks up at him, an expectant expression on his face. “Come on. Spit it out.”

Connor’s still not sure of what to say, so he mums a “Hmm”, and sits up straight, clasping his hands on his lap. He stares at the paper in Gavin’s lap, and the pen he’s stopped playing with gripped tightly in his hand.

“I think...” Connor pauses, considering whether should say what he wants to say. Gavin’s asking him to be honest, so he says it anyway, “You’re lonely.”

“Geez. Thanks? I guess?”

“Gavin, there’s nothing wrong with admitting to being lonely.”

“No, it’s just - How could you tell?”

Connor decides to just go for it. “You stayed with me for a week, and you never talk about anyone else in your life. You asked me, a stranger, to read books with you, and you never seem to go anywhere else after our reading sessions.”

Gavin looks down on the paper again, and he places the pen on top of it, sighing. “I’m pretty, uh, transparent. I guess.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“I wish I could help you.”

“Just talk to me when you can, okay?”

“I will,” Connor says, trying his best to muster a comforting smile.

Gavin really is leaving now. He’s gotten his pen and his parting gift. There’s nothing left for him to do but walk out the door and move on with his life. Connor plays the scenes of the upcoming week in his head. Boring. Mundane.

Normal.

And it doesn’t feel right anymore. He wants Gavin to be there, to read with him at night at the coffee shop or listen to music with him or laugh with him at his apartment.

“I’m going to miss you, Gavin.”

“I’m gonna miss you too, dipshit.”

They both laugh. Connor already misses this.

“Hey...you still owe me a song. On the piano.”

“I’m not-“

“I ain’t leaving ‘til you play me a song.”

“Then perhaps you’ll stay if I don’t?”

“Not a chance, prick. Play me a song.”

Connor smiles. It’s bittersweet. He walks over to the piano bench, sitting on the other half of the bench, tapping the empty space with his hand.

Gavin walks over and sits down beside him. They’ve never sat this close to each other before, but, surprisingly, Connor doesn’t mind it. He even welcomes it.

Connor shakes away the tension in his hands, and begins to play the song he’s become fond of playing so many times in his life. The one he used to play for his mother. And now, he’s playing it for Gavin. His fingers start on the keys, pressing on each one and sounding out the notes in deliberation. He has an audience tonight.

The song is hopeful, and filled with longing, and maybe this is the right song to play for Gavin right now.

So he feels the song, feels the notes, feels the keys on his fingers with each press. His hand dances around, gentler this time, toning down the piece so it feels like a lullaby. As he plays, he thinks that he wants to see Gavin smile that sincere smile after the song. Maybe he won’t, because the song isn’t happy.

Then something happens that Connor doesn’t expect. Gavin leans his head on Connor’s shoulder, a little bit to the back so as to not obstruct his arms. It’s warm, and there’s a pull in Connor’s chest he can’t explain, something he’s never felt before. A longing, like the way he feels whenever he plays this song, but stronger.

Connor stops playing.

“No. Keep playing,” Gavin says, placing an arm around Connor’s back, his hand on Connor’s other shoulder.

Connor continues playing. He asks, “What are you feeling right now?”

“Happy.”

That makes Connor smile, and the pull strengthens, almost as if this weren’t close enough.

The song reaches the climax, and he does it gracefully this time, shifting between two notes as he moves down the scale. He plays the last chords like a whisper from the piano. And he feels the song. A feeling of wanting to be far away, far from the city lights and far from the mundane.

Somewhere beautiful. Like the sea.

The last chord plays, and he sits still for a while, basking in the moment. They’re there, wrapped in soft yellow lights and a warmth Connor wants to keep feeling. Beside him, he can hear Gavin’s breaths, warming the skin under his shirt.

Gavin removes his head from Connor’s shoulder, still staying close.

“Look at me,” he says.

Connor looks beside him, meeting eyes with Gavin, and for the first time he sees what color his eyes are. Gray. Like the ones on the picture he keeps in his wallet. And slowly, very slowly, the hand on Connor’s other shoulder moves towards his neck, guiding him closer and closer and closer.

And they’re locked in a kiss.

The first Connor’s ever had, one that he’d resigned himself to never have. He loses himself in the heat of Gavin’s lips pressing against his. There’s another kiss, and he closes his eyes, feeling Gavin’s breaths on him, the softness of his lips, the taste of a life he once dreamed of. Slow and steady. Tender and safe. Gavin guides him, taking the lead as they move upon each other.

Connor wants to be closer, as if this weren’t enough. As if there were more. There had to be more.

It’s warm in a way Connor’s imaginations never dreamed of, the blood rushing to his head, and in the moment, he thinks no longer of the thoughts that used to string together in his mind--of loneliness, of sorrow, of never being held in the way Gavin holds him now, with his hands on Connor’s cheeks and his neck, pulling him as close as close can be.

Another kiss, and another. Until they’re locked in an embrace. Another kiss, and another. Both their eyes are closed, with Connor’s arms around Gavin and Gavin’s around him, breaths on each other’s skin, sharing the heat of their bodies, as if nothing else in the world existed but Gavin and this moment. More, Connor thinks, and he wonders if he’s being selfish, to want Gavin so badly he wishes he wouldn’t ever leave. That he’d stay here in this room forever.

And Connor thinks of being somewhere else, somewhere beautiful, but he tells himself, I’m already here. I’m home.

It feels like a really long time before they stop.

But it's sudden the way Gavin pulls away. The cold air of the room rushes between them. Connor almost doesn’t realize it until all the warmth has dissipated.

“Gavin…?” asks Connor. Gavin’s looking down on the piano keys. There’s a melancholy in his eyes that wasn’t there a minute ago. Something’s changed.

“Gavin, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” Gavin says. It’s almost a whisper, the words caught in his throat.

Still lost in the moment, Connor doesn’t process what Gavin’s saying, so he asks, “What?”

“Sorry. I just--fuck. This was a mistake. I’m sorry,” Gavin says, more desperately this time.

“What’s wrong? Why are you apologizing?”

“I...I can’t do this. I’m sorry. We can’t do this.”

Suddenly the room feels cold - too cold, and the yellow lights feel more alien than they’ve ever been. No longer comfortable, no longer a signal of a cozy night. The pull in Connor’s chest is gone, replaced by a sinking weight.

“Gavin...”

Too many things happen too fast. Gavin stands up, stomping towards the paper and the pen he’s left on the sofa, his back behind Connor as he picks it up.

“Gavin, where are you going?” Connor asks, just as desperate as Gavin’s frenzied apology.

It’s almost manic the way Gavin talks as he picks up his things, “Connor, this is my fault. My life’s a mess. I’m a mess. This shit’s a mess. You don’t need this. Sorry, I-“

“Stop apologizing. Please. I don’t understand.”

When Gavin turns towards him, Connor sees his eyes welling up, a scared look on his face.

“I shouldn’t have done that.”

“No, don’t say that. Please don’t say that.“

“I have to go.”

“Gavin, you can stay. Just for the night. Let’s talk about it. I want to-“

Gavin strides towards the doorway. Connor stands up quickly, following him as he exits the apartment. Gavin opens the door.

“Gavin!” Connor finally shouts when Gavin reaches the hallway outside.

“What?!” Gavin shouts back, looking down on the floor, his teary-eyed face lit dimly by the hallway light.

“Please, I want you to stay for the night. Please,” and Connor doesn’t know what else to say, as if that word is the only thing his mind knows. “Please.”

“Connor, I’m fucked up. You don’t want this. I’m just a shithead who can’t get over someone who’s--who’s been fucking dead for years.” Gavin looks up at him, his face a mess, his scar all scrunched up, his eyes red and wet with tears. “I don’t wanna drag you into that,” Gavin says, his voice utterly breaking. At the sight of him, Connor’s eyes start welling up as well, because he wants to make it go away. He wants to erase that sadness and make him smile and-

“Don’t follow me. Just...stay here and play the piano or read or...I don’t know.” Gavin walks away, faster than Connor’s ever seen him walk, angrier and more desperate than he’s ever been. “Fuck!” he shouts from somewhere far in the hallway.

And Connor stands there, peeking through the doorway. He wants to run after him, but he’s frozen in place, stuck between obeying and taking a chance.

It doesn’t matter. Gavin’s already gone.

That night, he goes to sleep with tears in his eyes and a crushing weight on his chest he can’t get rid of.

When Connor wakes up in the morning, the weight hasn’t gone away. It’s cold. It’s raining outside, the clouds barring the usual sunny day.

Today, he doesn’t go to the coffee shop. He doesn’t go outside. He doesn’t make breakfast. He doesn’t dress up.

He stays in bed instead, lying on his side, his arms in front of him as if searching for a body to embrace. The light shining through the window feels like an assault on his eyes, so he puts a pillow over his head to escape the brightness and drown himself in his thoughts.

And Connor thinks about his own soulmate, the one he’d never met, the one he once thought would be beside him during moments like this, telling him, It’s okay. You’ll be fine, as they wrap arms around each other. Instead, he has this--a world of passersby like Gavin who’ll walk into his life and leave soon after, never staying, always leaving right after they turn a corner or choosing a different path once they reach the next crossroad in their lives.

And perhaps, that really is the life he’ll be resigned to.

It’s okay. I’ll be fine.

It’s not the same when he tells himself that.

He gets up and takes a deep breath, trying to shake away the thoughts. The book is still on his nightstand, and he decides to drown himself in that instead. Cloudy with a 100% chance of rain, and he thinks about the irony of reading it while it’s cloudy outside. He’s almost done, and after a few minutes, he sees Gavin’s last note on the page.

Okay, dipshit. You got me. I fuckin’ liked it. I liked it a lot. Damn you.

Gavin can’t just be a passerby in his life, not with everything that happened. Not with the laughter and the coffee shop and the reading sessions and the kisses. Not with the scar he never got to ask about. Not when he feels lonelier now than he’s ever felt. So he sends a text, saying, “I’m sorry about last night. Please, I would like it if we talked.”

He waits and waits.

Gavin never replies.