Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gavin's been in AC for a few months now. He's been taking whatever jobs he could, building up a name for himself again. He'd honestly forgotten how tedious it was the first time, so used to having a reputation that starting from square one was honestly a little exhausting. He tries to stick with hacking jobs, it's what he does best after all, but beggars can't be choosers and he's had to get more hands-on than he'd honestly like.

Still, it puts money in his pocket and his name is being spread around certain circles. "The Golden Boy," the whispers say, "If you need anything done, he'll do it." Assassinations, hacking, theft, espionage, strategic dismantling of rival groups… if the price is good, he'll do it. People are starting to seek him out, now, instead of him having to beg for jobs.

It's tedious work, and Gavin, frankly, is tired of it.

He's tired in general.

Three days now he's been working away at a hacking gig for a job much bigger than the crew who hired him. Hacking into the personal database of one of the richest businessmen in the city who's known for dirty deals and less than legal actions.  

Three days now he's been surviving mainly on a diet consisting of way too many Red Bull, whatever leftovers he has in the fridge, and spite.

Three days now he's gone with maybe four hours of sleep total, split between falling asleep at his desk while waiting for a program to run, or a power nap waiting for his microwave to finish heating up his food, or passing out for about 45 minutes on his way to the bathroom.

And, right now? He's sitting on his fire escape, feet dangling from where he has his legs under the railing, a cigarette between his teeth. It got too warm inside and he was starting to feel a little ill because of it–and probably the lack of sleep and the four Red Bulls in his stomach–so he went for some fresh air.

The air is cool, refreshing on his bare arms, and he revels in it for a long moment before patting himself down for a lighter. It's not in his front pockets, or his back ones. Weird, he can swear he'd grabbed it when he grabbed the pack of cigarettes.

No, actually, he hadn't. It's sitting on the kitchen counter where he had put it down to fiddle with something on his computer and forgot to pick it back up.  

"Shit," he sighs to himself, smacking his forehead with his hand in frustration. "Damnit!"

While it'd be easy to duck back inside and grab it, Gavin honestly can't be bothered to do so. That requires him to get up, climb through the window, walk to the kitchen, climb back out the window, and get comfortable again. That's too much work and he's lazy.

He's resigned himself to just sitting and screwing around on his phone, and he's in the process of putting the unlit cigarette back into the pack when he hears someone call up from the alley below.

"What'cha doing?"

Gavin jumps, not expecting someone to talk to him, and peeks over the edge of the fire escape. Michael Jones, his across-the-hall neighbor and member of the notorious Fake AH Crew is staring up at him, hands shoved into his pockets. He's in plain clothes, lacking his leather jacket which typically means he's busy with crew work. Instead, he has on a brightly colored hoodie.

He smiles down at him and waves. "Hi, Michael," he chirps, swinging his legs slightly. "Just enjoying the air, I guess."

"On the fire escape?"

Gavin shrugs and lifts the cigarette between his fingers. "Was gonna have a cheeky smoke, but forgot a damn lighter."

Michael shakes his head, shoulders shaking in what Gavin assumes is laughter despite not being able to hear it. After a moment, he grins. "Fucking idiot. Go get one."

"Nah, can't be arsed to."

"Fucking lazy piece of shit. Hold on, I'm coming up."

Gavin watches in amusement as Michael jumps up to grab the ladder, crossing his arms across the railing and resting his chin on them. Michael makes quick work of the fire escape and soon is plopping himself down next to him, hand out expectantly.  

Gavin blinks at him and utters, "What?"

"Wot?" Michael mocks, wiggling his fingers. "Cough one up, asshole. Or I'm not sharing my lighter."

"Oh! Right." Gavin offers him the pack and Michael grabs one and puts it between his lips. He pulls a black lighter out that reads 'BITE ME' with vampire teeth on it and lights it with a flick of his thumb.

He takes a long drag and shoves the lighter back into his pocket, and Gavin clears his throat. "What?" Michael huffs and Gavin raises his eyebrow and gestures with his still unlit cig. "Fucking… c'mere."

Furrowing his eyebrows, Gavin obediently leans towards Michael, who roughly grabs his wrist and lifts it towards his mouth. Once Gavin has it in his lips, Michael leans forward and he has the split thought of, 'Is he going to bloody kiss me?' He can't help the way his face heats up at the idea.

He doesn't. Instead, Michael presses the lit end of his cigarette against Gavin's. Realizing what's happening, Gavin inhales as his lights and leans away with an embarrassed cough. "Well that was unnecessary," he gripes, refusing to look at Michael who laughs at him. "Bit gay, innit?"

Michael takes another drag, chuckling as he does so. "Shit, Gavin, with a reaction like that, I'd think you'd never done that before," he ribs jokingly, grinning at Gavin. Gavin flushes further, shoulders hiking up to his ears.

Instead of answering, Gavin takes a long inhale, exhaling smoke in a big plume in his direction. Michael laughs at him again, throwing his head back and cackling, and Gavin glares at him. "Sod off."

Michael leans back on one hand, cigarette held loosely in his other hand. He still has a huge grin on his face, though he thankfully drops the subject. Instead, they sit in silence for a few minutes. Gavin flicks ash over the edge of the fire escape, leaning on his arms again.

The longer they sit out there, the colder the air becomes. It slowly goes from a tolerable chill that felt nice at first to a noticeable bite, raising goosebumps on his arms. Gavin regrets not bringing a hoodie or anything but refuses to go get one.

"Didn't know you smoked," Michael says, breaking the silence. Gavin glances over at him, before he looks pointedly at the cigarette in his fingers. "Shut up, you know what I meant."

Gavin rolls his eyes. He does. "I try not to, it's a damn nasty habit," he replies, ignoring every other bad habit he has. Drugs, drinking, lack of sleep, overworking… the list goes on and on, and he very carefully doesn't mention a single one.

"I get it. Sometimes you just need one, though."

"Yeah," Gavin sighs, turning his head to look in Michael's direction. "It helps with stress."

"What do you have to be stressed about?" Michael asks incredulously, shaking his head in disbelief. "I barely see you leave your apartment!"

That's absolutely on purpose. If Gavin has to leave to do his job, he either leaves when he knows Michael isn't home or climbs down the fire escape. He doesn't need Michael asking questions, because that leads to figuring out answers, which leads to Michael finding out who he is.

"I'm stressed because of work, Michael!" He cries, keeping it vague. "They have me on insane overtime right now."

All Michael knows of his 'work' is that he's freelance and works remotely whenever he can. Which isn't a lie, per se, but it isn't close to the full truth. He can't afford to reveal more, not that he wants to, mind you, but God forbid Michael ever puts two-and-two together. Times like this, where Gavin can honestly trick himself into believing they're friends, would stop, for sure. If not worse.

"That's fair," Michael nods, scratching his cheek, his cigarette coming way too close to his hair for comfort. "God, I hate overtime. It should be illegal."

Gavin almost laughs at the absurdity of the statement. With their line of work, the idea of something being illegal is hilarious. He manages to keep a straight face though, and drops the butt of his cig to the ground below, watching embers explode outwards when it hits the ground.

Michael snuffs his out on the metal before carelessly tossing it forward.

"I can't wait to be done." He rubs his arms with his hands, trying in vain to warm up his frigid skin.  

"When do you think you will be?"

"Soon." He reaches for the pack and pulls out another, toying with it for a moment. "I hope," he adds.

"You can always bitch at me about it. I think I'm a fucking stellar listener."

Gavin hums, and accepts the lighter from Michael. He doesn't let his disappointment show as he lights up, handing it back so he can do the same. He thinks of how he can word things without giving too much away.

"Eh, it's just boring, tedious technical work. Bunch of idiots don't know what they're doing and made a right mess of their systems," he settles on, fighting a shiver that tries to crawl up his spine. "And now I get to be the lucky bastard to fix it."

"Sounds complicated," Michael exhales slowly, closing his eyes for a moment.

"It's absolutely boring," Gavin whines, shifting to lie next to Michael. The cold metal does nothing to warm him up, instead, it saps what little body heat he has. "But it pays the bills."

"Mm, yeah. Bet that makes it worth it."

"It does."

They lapse back into silence, only the sound of the city surrounding them. Someone lays on the horn for longer than needed, and in the distance, people are heatedly shouting at each other. Gavin wouldn't be surprised to hear gunshots sooner or later.

He stares up at the sky, cloud cover blocking the few stars that are usually visible.

He can't fight the next shiver that wracks his body, starting at the base of his spine and working its way up. Even his teeth chatter a bit, and Gavin grimaces at the sensation. When he glances at Michael to see if he noticed, he sees him watching him with a single eyebrow raised.

"Jesus, dude. Cold much?"

"It is cold."

"It's not that cold."

"It's like three degrees out!"

Michael kicks him in the shin. "Shut the fuck up. It's like, almost forty!"

"That's the same as I said you bloody mong!"

"No, it isn't! Three and forty are not the same thing."

Gavin shakes his head. "Michael, I'm using Celsius, Michael, the superior scale!"

"Are we water? No! It makes no sense to use Celsius."

"Humans are made up of around sixty percent water–"

"Shut up." Michael kicks him again, pushing himself up to point in Gavin's face. "Don't get all scientific on me."

Sitting up, too, Gavin opens his mouth to argue further, but another shiver steals his voice and he hunches in on himself, rubbing his upper arms. "Christ!"

"Go get a fucking jacket, Jesus," Michael gestures to his window.  

Gavin shakes his head. "I don't want to, it's too far away." Going inside meant seeing how far his program had gotten, and if it finished then he'd have to go back to work. He'd rather remain blissfully unaware.  

"You are such a lazy motherfucker," Michael grouses. "Won't go get a lighter, won't go get a jacket. All you do is bitch about it."

All Gavin can do is shrug with a sheepish grin, because he can't exactly refute that. He takes another drag of his cigarette, ignoring the constant shivering his body decided on doing.

Michael lifts his hand, plants it on the side of Gavin's head, and shoves. Gavin squawks in indignation, immediately retaliating by pushing Michael back, and ducks a swat at his head.  

"Get a fucking jacket!"

"No!" He huffs, pulling his knees to his chest and glaring like a petulant child. "Why do you care, anyway?"

Michael pauses, hand raised to push Gavin again presumably. After a moment he raises one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. He lifts his cigarette to his lips, and when he pulls it away, he says, "Because if you become a British popsicle, then who else am I supposed to insult? Little old Gertrude down the hall? Fuck that. She's not a little prick like you, it'd be mean."

"Your love for me is touching," Gavin bites sarcastically.

"What can I say? I'm a loving man."

Gavin snorts at that, throwing away the remains of his cigarette to wrap his arms around himself.  

"Fucking goddamn it, you're pathetic," Michael spits, with a hint of a laugh in his voice. Gavin hears him moving and watches him out of the corner of his eye. To his surprise Michael is unzipping his hoodie and shrugging it off his shoulders. He only has a graphic Legend of Zelda T-shirt underneath.

Gavin blinks and rears back when it's thrust into his face. "Michael?"

"Fucking take it," he shakes the clothing for emphasis. "I'm tired of watching you shiver like a fucking tiny dog." When Gavin does nothing but stare suspiciously, Michael rolls his eyes. His voice is quieter, and more sincere when he mutters, "It looks painful."

Gavin takes the hoodie slowly, holding it like it might bite him for a moment before throwing it on. It's warm from Michael, and it's about two sizes too big so it feels like he's drowning in it, but it's surprisingly soft inside and the warmth is comforting.  

Gavin zips it and tucks his head into the collar, smelling the scent of Michael's laundry detergent and smoke. He's silent for a long moment before he mumbles, "Thank you."

"Don't mention it," Michael waves it off and then glares at Gavin behind his glasses. "Seriously. Don't fucking mention it to anyone. If you ruin my tough guy reputation I'll have to kill you."

Gavin doesn't doubt that, though he laughs anyway, giggles squeaking out from underneath the hoodie. "Aw, the big bad Michael isn't so mean after all," he coos.

"I'm warning you, Gav," Michael threatens, a grin on his face. "I'll kill ya."

"Noted."

Gavin absolutely doesn't snuggle into the hoodie, his shivers abating, as he lays back down, one arm folded under his head. Michael copies him, and they talk at length about meaningless shit. They talk about what video games they like, finding out they both enjoy GTA and Minecraft. They talk about TV shows and complain about trash reality TV. They talk about the most recent book they've read.

Gavin's responses take longer and longer to be spoken as sudden exhaustion washes over him, his days of furiously working himself half to death finally catching up with him. He tries desperately to not fall asleep. He may find Michael fun and good company, but he doesn't really trust him at all. Not nearly enough to fall asleep around him.

His body, on the other hand, has other plans, and Gavin suddenly finds himself jolting awake, eyes snapping open and body lurching upright unsteadily. Panic thunders in his chest, last wisps of a nightmare he doesn't remember fading quickly, and it takes him a moment to figure out where the hell he is.

Glancing down at the hoodie he's basically swaddled in causes the memories to slam back into his brain and he jerks again in surprise. He can't believe he fell asleep. Not only that, but out on his fucking fire escape, with Michael beside him.

Michael, who is no longer there.  

Gavin looks around for a moment, confusion bleeding off him in waves, but the man is well and truly gone, the only thing remaining behind being the hoodie Gavin's wearing. Or, well, stole, he guesses.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and scowls at nothing, only to blink and pull his hands back out. His pack of cigarettes is in one of the pockets, a receipt in the other. He pulls both out, and when he realizes Michael's lighter is tucked into the pack of cigs, he can't help but smile.

His smile grows when he glances at the receipt and sees a note haphazardly scrawled on the back. 'You fell asleep. Tried to wake you but you were sleeping like a fucking baby. I want my jacket back you asshole -M'

He puts both back into the pockets and stretches, relishing in the way his back cracks. It's grown colder, and a glance at his phone shows it's well past two am now, meaning he fell asleep for at least an hour. Well, it's better than nothing, he supposes, though he'd rather not have fallen asleep outside. Oh well.

Gavin clambers to his feet and brushes himself off, humming to himself as he heads back inside. He climbs through the window, shutting and locking it behind him. A glance at his computer shows his program has finished and is awaiting input. Perfect.

He grabs a Red Bull, cracks it open, and sits in his chair. Cracking his fingers, he gets back to work.

Chapter Text

"You know the drill," Geoff glances at each of them in turn. "With these assholes looking for us, we're on a rotating watch."

A new group from out of town–calling themselves Chop Block–rolled into AC recently. They decided to try and get rid of their biggest competitors–the Fakes–right off the bat. They had the numbers on the Fakes, but they refused to give up any amount of territory. What the Fakes lacked in manpower, they made up for in sheer skill and experience.

The new group had hit two of Geoff's warehouses in quick succession, and they decided to head to one of their safehouses for the time being. Mostly because Geoff threatened to burn the city to the ground if anything happened to his penthouse, but also to make it seem like they were hiding, scared, instead of working on the retaliation of all retaliations.

They couldn't be too sure who might've watched them. Gavin is sure they have a hacker on their side, and if they're worth the dirt they stand on, they'd be keeping a careful eye on the cameras all around the city.

"I'll take first," Ray shrugs from his place at the dining room table.

"Guess I got second, then," Michael offers, and when no one jumps in to take it from him, he playfully scowls.

Geoff claps his hands together. "That was easier than it usually is, thank God. With that out of the way, I've had a long fucking day and I'm going the fuck to bed." He stands and wanders away from the table, calling over his shoulder, "We'll start planning tomorrow!"

When he disappears toward the bedrooms, Jeremy points accusingly at Gavin. "Why does Gav never have to take a shift? It's not like he sleeps anyway."

"Do you trust him to watch us?" Jack smirks, placing her head in one palm. "He'd get sucked into his computer shit and wouldn't notice if the house caught fire."

They ignore Gavin's offended, "Oi?!"

"Still! It's not fair!"

"Oh stop bitching, Lil' J," Michael throws a balled up napkin at him. "Gav's busy, anyway. Gotta dig up all the dirt on these guys. Shit'll take ten times longer if he's not working."

Gavin beams. "Thanks, boi!"

Michael grins back.

Ray glances up from his phone. "Hate to say it, but I agree with Michael. I'd rather Gavin not take a watch when he could be doing something useful. I don't wanna be stuck out here for three weeks."

Jeremy pauses with a thoughtful frown on his face. "Yeah," he gives in with a sigh, "you're right. Sorry, Gav. Keep doing your nerd shit while the rest of us do the real work."

Gavin, who was ready to accept his apology, glares at him. "Oh come off it, Lil' J," he huffs, "If it weren't for my 'nerd shit' you'd all be sitting here, thumbs up your arses, trying to figure out who these blokes are. Without me your plans are right shit."

"Oooh," Michael whispers conspiringly to Ray and Jack, "Gavvy's pissed."

They snicker quietly while Jeremy slaps a palm against the table. "Bullshit! Our plans are fine!"

"Yeah, right! You're having a laugh! Deciding to brute-force your way through a highly secure building does not count as a plan, Jeremy!"

"It works!"

"No! It doesn't!"

"Yes, it does!"

"Children," Jack chides, shaking her head in amusement. Jeremy, who is half-raised from his seat, sheepishly sits back down, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's been a long few days for everyone. Calm down."

"I have 'nerd shit' to do," Gavin stands with a sneer and a toss of his head. "I'll be in the basement."

With that, he sweeps from the room, silently stalking across the living room to the stairs and taking them two at a time. He sits in his chair and boots up the computer with more force than necessary, then throws himself into his work.

An hour passes when he hears someone coming down the stairs. He hears Jeremy call out a tentative, "Gav?" and ignores him, fingers flying over his keyboard. When Jeremy comes to hover by his shoulder, Gavin sighs sharply through his nose and turns to look at him. "Still mad at me?" Jeremy gives a small, hopeful grin, and Gavin purses his lips. "Aw, man."

"If you've come down to make fun of my work, you can bugger right off." He turns back to his computer and begins typing again, each press of the keys pointed.

"Gav," Jeremy whines, draping himself over Gavin's shoulders. "I came to apologize." Gavin pauses for half a moment before he continues typing. "Come on, man! I'm sorry about what I said."

Gavin continues to ignore him, moving to a different window and typing in a quick command before going back to the first one.  

"Look, we both know what you do is impressive as hell," Jeremy continues, watching Gavin type away. "None of us can come close." Gavin still doesn't say anything, and Jeremy heaves a loud, impressive sigh. "I brought a peace offering?"

That gets Gavin's attention, and he gives Jeremy a curious look. Jeremy grins at him and waves a Red Bull in his face. Gavin takes it and smiles back. "All is forgiven, Lil' J," he says, nodding to show his appreciation.  

"Yes," Jeremy pumps a fist in the air, doing a stupid little dance for good measure.

Gavin laughs at him before turning back to the computer. "I really do have work to do, though," he hums apologetically. "I'd like to break into their systems tonight, and I need to finish coding this program."

"Of course, Gav. Best of luck with that."

Jeremy retreats, and Gavin bids him a good night before returning his focus to the task at hand.

Several hours and many Red Bulls later, Gavin is forced to sit back as his program gets ready to run its course. It's set up to bypass their firewalls and install an untraceable backdoor that he can get through later to start digging through their files. He rubs at his eyes with one hand as he starts the program before leaning back and cracking his back.

It pops loudly in the silent space, and he pushes himself away from the desk to stand up. He needs to piss, and to stretch. Sitting hunched over in front of a computer wreaks havoc on his spine and neck, not to mention one of his legs is completely asleep.

When the pins and needles fade, he gathers up some of the empty cans, if only to make room for more later, and dumps them in the trash can on his way to the stairs. He heads upstairs and does his business.

He has a few hours before he can do anything, so he finds himself in the kitchen. The time on the stove reading 3 am is his only light as he digs around the cupboards for something to eat, and he settles on a pack of strawberry Poptarts.

The silence of the house is unnerving to Gavin. There's a reason he prefers to be holed up in his office working odd hours when he can't sleep rather than haunt the rest of the Penthouse. The lack of noise from the usually unruly bunch always sets him on edge, nervous energy buzzing up his spine.

Add an unfamiliar house to the equation and Gavin's about as freaked out as he can be, sitting alone in the dark at the kitchen counter. He shovels the last few bites of his snack into his mouth and stands quickly, heading to the back porch.

He practically flings open the door and stumbles outside, shutting it quietly behind him. The air is freezing, his meager layers doing shit all to protect him from the winter chill, but he leans against the railing anyway and puts his head in his hands.

He takes a few deep breaths, his breath fogging up in a billowing cloud. When his heart rate returns to normal, he groans and shakes his head. Sometimes, he wonders what the hell is wrong with him. Occasionally, he has an idea. Most of the time, he doesn't.

It's quiet out there, but in a different way. Somehow, this silence is soothing, comforting in a way the stillness of the house isn't. It's the quietness of nature, dormant for the winter, sharp air promising snow. It's not the same as inside, where every minute sound is too loud, where the silence is too loud.

Gavin shudders, wrapping his arms around himself to conserve warmth. It's bloody freezing out there, but he doesn't want to brave going inside and looking for a jacket. Not yet, at least. Despite being cold, it's nice out there, and he hoists himself up to sit, perched precariously on the railing. He idly kicks his feet back and forth.

The door behind him opens and Gavin jumps, head snapping around to look behind him. Michael shoulders the door open, hands preoccupied carrying two steaming mugs. "Thought you might be out here," he grins as he kicks the door shut and wanders over to stand next to Gavin.

He offers one of the mugs and Gavin takes it with a grateful, "Thank you, boi." He wraps his hands around it, relishing in the warmth bleeding into his frigid fingers, and tucks it under his chin. He takes a sip and then splutters when he burns his tongue, causing Michael to laugh at him.

"Careful," he warns, too late, "It's hot."

"I had no idea," Gavin rolls his eyes, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Thought it'd be cold, you know, what with the steam and all."

"I can see how you'd think that," Michael grins at him, dimples on full display, and nudges him on the arm with his shoulder.  

They lapse into silence, both of them carefully sipping their drinks. Michael made Gavin tea, just the way he likes it, and he'd be lying if he said he doesn't find it endearing. When he's finished his mug, he sets it aside to rub his arms, trying to force some amount of heat into his limbs.  

"You think it'll snow?" He asks, looking up at the rolling clouds.  

Michael follows his gaze and hums thoughtfully. "Probably. They're calling for it."

"I'd like it if it did."

"I wouldn't. Then we gotta shovel the driveway, and driving'll be a bitch because no one knows how to drive in the fucking snow."

Gavin shakes his head and gestures to the yard. "But think of how pretty it'll look!"

It almost never snows back in England, not like it does in the States. At least, never more than a dusting here and there. He's only ever really seen a true snowfall in movies and television shows, never in person, and he's only been in America for a little less than a year. He's excited at the prospect of snow.

"Sure," Michael shrugs, "Until it starts to melt and becomes gray and brown shit-slush."

"Don't ruin this for me, Michael!"

"I'm just fucking telling you the truth!"

He knocks back the last little bit in his mug. He bends down to place it on the deck, and when he stands, he has a pack of cigarettes in his hand and a playful grin on his face. He makes a questioning little, "Eh?"

Gavin nods back with a grin and a stupid noise of his own.

After they've both lit their cigarettes, one of Gavin's hands under his thigh, Michael asks, "How's it going? You know, with that 'nerd shit'." He uses finger quotations badly, and Gavin laughs.  

"Slowly," he admits, inhaling and then exhaling with a sigh. "Whoever they have is better than I thought. They're careful."

"But not as good as you?"

"No one is as good as me, love," Gavin smirks with an air of cockiness. "The program is going now, but there'll be a few hours where I can't do anything." He could've stayed down there and pecked away at some other shit, but he'd only be tempted to watch his program run. And he knows the saying, 'a watched pot never boils.' It rings true for his programs as well.

"That's why you came out here." It's not phrased as a question, like it makes total sense to Michael. Gavin supposes it does.  

"Yeah."

He shivers as he inhales, the cold mixing with the smoke and burning his throat. His fingers are numb, his nose and lips raw, and the warmth from the tea has dissipated. Michael looks warm, at least, with his heavy leather jacket over a hoodie as opposed to Gavin's thin jumper and jeans. How is Michael always so prepared?

He probably looks at the temperature before going outside, unlike Gavin, who just goes for it. He huffs out a breath of amusement, flicking away ash and watching it float to the ground.

Michael must've been having similar thoughts because he leans over to tug Gavin's jumper. "Why are you always underdressed? Aren't you fucking cold? What is this shit?"

"It's too warm inside with anything heavier!" Gavin tries to defend himself, smacking Michael's hand away from his arm. "I'll start sweating and end up taking it off, anyway!"

"Why didn't you grab something, then? Fucking, I don't know, grab your jacket before you go out!"

"I didn't think of that, Michael." And then, resting his cheek in his palm, smoke lazily drifting upwards from his cigarette, he sighs. "Kinda regretting it now, though. It gets bloody cold here. Downright miserable."

Michael scoffs with a slow shake of his head, eyes crinkled in the corners as he tries and fails to frown at Gavin. "You're a fucking idiot," he grumbles, biting his cigarette to free up his hands.  

He pulls his jacket off his shoulders, and Gavin tries not to stare at him as he does so. He keeps his face forward, only daring to look out of the corner of his eye as Michael shakes out the piece of clothing. He's expecting it to be thrust into his face, like the first time the two of them shared cigarettes, but instead, Michael turns toward him.

Gavin tenses when Michael drapes the leather jacket over his shoulders, tucking it around him almost like a blanket. His mind screeches to a halt, and all he can do is stare down at the jacket, blinking owlishly. When he turns to give Michael a confused look, he sees him pointedly looking away, a scowl on his face and faint blush on his cheeks.

Gavin opens his mouth to say something but can't think of anything to say. Instead of gaping like a fish, he snaps his mouth shut and pulls the jacket tighter around him, keeping it closed with one hand.

He gives a faint, small, "Thanks," and Michael shugs a single shoulder in response.

"Don't get used to it, learn to bring your own coat next time, asshole." He angrily takes a pull of his cigarette, and when he exhales a plume of smoke, he glares at Gavin. "You still have my hoodie."

"Do I?" Gavin plays dumb, tilting his head and batting his eyelashes at him. "Can't say I remember that." He's lying, they both know it, and Michael socks him playfully in the arm. He knows exactly where the hoodie is, draped over his chair back at his apartment.  

He had planned to give it back, really, he did! But he hadn't seen Michael for days after that, and by the time he did pass him in the hall, it seemed too awkward. And by that point, he'd been wearing it pretty religiously and didn't want to give it back.

He doesn't say any of this, just gives Michael a smarmy smile, leaning over to get into his space. Michael puts his hand on Gavin's face and shoves him away, and Gavin almost falls, screeching and grabbing the railing with both hands. The jacket slips but stays on, thankfully.

He gasps dramatically and points at Michael. "Oh, you bastard, you almost killed me!"

"You're fine, aren't you?"

"I could've fallen!"

"You didn't. Plus, you're like a cat; you'd probably have landed on your feet. Somehow."

Gavin snuffs out his cigarette and flicks it at Michael. It's his turn to gasp, brushing ash off his sleeve. "Oh, you're fucking dead!" He lunges at Gavin, who dives off the railing and onto the grass, dancing away from the porch. He turns to see Michael clambering over, ignoring the stairs. "Get back here!"

"Michael, no, Michael!" Michael tries to grab him, but Gavin ducks out of the way and scurries out of range. He shoves his arms through the jacket to keep it in place as he runs, dodging and weaving to stay away from Michael. "I'm sorry!"

"No the fuck you aren't! Come here!"

Their voices are loud, but they're far enough out of the city that there are no neighbors to be worried about, and neither care about waking the others. Most of them will sleep through a bomb going off, and those who don't can deal with it.  

He gets chased from one end of the yard to the other, both laughing and yelling at each other. Michael nearly grabs him a couple of times, each time Gavin twists out of the way. Once, he trips and throws himself into it, landing on his hands and springing back to his feet in one movement. That makes Michael freeze and blink in awe before Gavin throws a handful of sticks and leaves at him, and the chase is back on.

Michael catches him off guard and pins him against the tree in the middle of the yard, Gavin on one side, Michael on the other. They're circling the tree, and then Michael changes directions and barrels into him, knocking both of them to the floor. Gavin squawks as they fall, arms windmilling desperately, yet in vain.  

His back hits the ground, and he coughs, Michael on top of him. He sits up and shoves Gavin's face into the dirt, laughing triumphantly. "Fucking got you," he crows, leaning back and smirking down at Gavin.

"You did. Now get off me, you donut," Gavin spits dirt out of his mouth and grimaces.  

Michael rolls off of him but lies down next to him, breathing steadily. His leg is still thrown over Gavin's. "You're a wiley bitch, did you know that?" He shakes his head and grins. "I thought you were done for when you tripped. What the fuck was that?"

"I just went with the momentum, it's not that hard. You just have to sort of, throw yourself into the fall, and then use that to keep you going forward." Gavin explains.

"It's easy for you, acrobatic freak. If I tried I'd eat shit and die. I'd hit the floor head first and snap my goddamn neck."

"Nah, Michael! It just takes practice!" Gavin sits up on his elbows and bobbles his head. "I'll show you how."

"Maybe when its not four in the fucking morning," Michael groans, throwing an arm over his face, "Sure."

"When this is all done and over with, then. Oh, Michael, you're gonna be so cool. Ray and Jeremy will be so jealous."

Michael barks out a laugh, "Yeah, they will be! I'm gonna be doing flips and shit all over–wait. Wasn't Jeremy some sort of gymnast as a teen?"

"Oh, right. Well, Ray will be jealous, at least."

Michael snorts, and Gavin lays back down. He watches the sky through the bare branches of the tree, clouds ominous and dark overhead. Even with the jacket, he's starting to get cold again, his fingers tingling in discomfort.  

Something cold and wet lands on his face, and he flinches, reaching up to wipe his cheek in confusion. He watches something white float down from the sky, followed by another and another, and it takes him a moment to realize what he's looking at.

He squeals in delight when he does. It's snowing! Well, flurrying, but same difference. "Michael, Michael, look!" He jostles his shoulder with one hand, pointing to the sky with the other.

Michael shifts his arm, and then blinks when he sees what has Gavin so excited. "Shit, dude! You got your wish!"  

The snow is quickly growing steadier; heavy, wet snowflakes drift down and land all around them. Each one that lands against his skin is a pinprick of ice, but Gavin can't bring himself to mind. Instead, as the snow starts falling for real, already beginning to stick to the brown blades of grass, he pulls himself to his feet.

"It's magical, Michael!"

He spreads his arms out and spins in a slow circle, Michael chuckling at his antics. The snow is sticking to his hair, melting when it hits his hands, and he sticks his tongue out and feels a couple of snowflakes land there.  

When he glances back to Michael, he sees him watching him, the snow dusting his eyelashes and curls with white. Gavin positively beams, cheeks flushed from the cold, and scurries over to Michael. "Isn't it lovely?" He asks as he bends down, hands on his knees.

"For now."

"You're no fun," Gavin pouts, straightening out and kicking the ground with one foot. "Gotta shit on my fun."

Michael cocks an eyebrow at him, eyes shining with mischief. "Fun? I'll show you fun." He gets to his feet and brushes himself off, stoops down, and gathers a handful of snow. Gavin isn't quick enough to move before Michael catches him in a headlock and smears the snow into his hair. "This fun for you?"

"Hey!" He tries to push Michael off, but he won't budge, and Gavin falls back on smacking him wherever he can reach. "Knock it off, you mong!"

Michael releases him, and Gavin stumbles away, shaking snow out of his hair. "You shitty little pisspot," he bitches, running his hands through his hair to try and put it back into some semblance of 'neat'.

"Hey! You asked for it," Michael bares his teeth in a smile, laughing at Gavin all the while. He wipes his eyes when he calms down, exhaling with a, "Woo, you should've seen your face! You looked so betrayed!"

Gavin crosses his arms and cocks a hip, glowering at him. He's not mad, really, but he's going to play it up anyway. "It wasn't funny."

"It totally was. God." Michael shakes his head, starting to laugh again, one hand on his knee as he doubles over in glee. "Fuck! Your hair is worse than normal!"

Gavin's hand flies up to his head, and he grimaces when he realizes his hair is sticking up in every conceivable direction. "Oh, come off it!" He cries as he once again tries to tame his unruly hair.

When Michael shows no signs of stopping his laughing, Gavin grabs the biggest handful of snow he can and dumps it over his head. His cackles turn into a shout of indignation, and his hands fly up and almost punch Gavin in the face. "You son of a bitch!"

"Not so funny now, eh?"

Michael takes a threatening step forward. "If I wasn't so goddamn cold," he growls, "I'd retaliate."

Gavin clicks his tongue, one hand on his hip. "Sounds like you're getting old, Mikey J," he teases.

"Shut the fuck up, Gavin. You have my jacket. So sorry," he waves his hands in emphasis, "For being fucking cold, dude."

"Sounds like an excuse," Gavin chirps, turning on his heel back toward the house. "I should check on my program."

"Look who's making excuses now." Michael falls in step with him, hands shoved into his armpits. They walk silently back to the house, where Michael collects their forgotten mugs. He kicks snow off his shoes and threatens to dump snow down Gavin's shirt if he doesn't do the same before heading inside.

The heat is absolutely divine, and although it makes his hands and cheeks burn something fierce, he revels in it. He follows Michael into the kitchen, eyeing the time–4:47 AM–as Michael washes the mugs and sets them to dry.

True to his word, Gavin heads back to the basement, Michael following him down. A quick check to make sure everything is still going alright–and it is, even if it says it still has two and a half hours left–and a glance over everything else he has open proves nothing turned catastrophic while he was faffing about outside.

Pleased, they head back upstairs to kill more time. Gavin plops himself on the couch and toes off his shoes as Michael makes a quick check of the house, curling up and turning on the TV. He flicks through the channels, looking for something to watch that wasn't infomercials or some shitty movie, and eventually settles on Match Game.  

Michael joins him soon after, collapsing on the other side of the couch. They aimlessly watch the old show, making the odd comment or joke and laughing at the antics on the screen. Michael at one point asks, "You ever think about the fact that they're all probably dead?"

Gavin shakes his head. "Surely one or two of them must still be kicking! The show isn't that old!"

"It's like, at least forty years old, Gav."

"Yeah? So they'd be, what, in their eighties?"

"At the very least. And who knows what drugs and shit they were taking. It's Hollywood, in the 70's." Gavin hates to admit it, but it's a sound argument.

As they watch, the lack of sleep from the last couple of days and their playing around in the backyard starts to catch up to Gavin. Much to his surprise and chagrin, he suddenly feels exhausted. It weighs heavy on his shoulders, dragging his eyelids down until one blink lasts seconds, dragging his mind kicking and screaming toward sleep.

He tries to fight it, stubbornly staring at the screen with aching eyes, but it's a fight he cannot win. Eventually, he blinks and doesn't open his eyes again.

Awareness comes back to him in fits and spurts. The first thing he's aware of is the fact that he's warm. Comfortably so. The second is the fact he's now lying down, head pillowed on something just as warm as he is. The third is the feeling of someone's hand resting on his shoulder.

Gavin groans and cracks open his eyes. It's light out, the early morning sun streaming through the windows, and the TV is now playing CSI: Miami. He blinks, rubbing his eyes with one hand as he yawns, and he hears Michael chuckle above him.

He notices he's laying with his head in Michael's lap. Gavin freezes, his brain playing catch-up with itself, trying to put two and two together. When the realization clicks that he's been asleep on Michael for God knows how long, he shoots upward off of the couch with a panicked jumble of words and a red face. He manages to eek out, "Shit, fuck–sorry!"

"Dude, it's fine," Michael tells him, an adorable smile on his face, as he lounges back against the couch, one arm thrown behind him, the other lying limply where it was dislodged from Gavin's shoulder. "Sleep well?"

Gavin shakes his head desperately, face burning and surely an interesting shade of red. "No–I mean yes–I mean–" He cuts himself off by covering his face with both of his hands and sitting back down. "Why didn't you wake me?"

Michael laughs a little. "I tried." When Gavin peeks at him from between his fingers, he clarifies, "You sleep like you're dead. I could've thrown you, and you would've kept sleeping like a baby." He then starts to make dramatic fake snores, and Gavin scoffs. He knows for a fact he doesn't snore like that.

'Why didn't you, then?' Gavin wants to ask. 'Why did you let me use you as a damn pillow?' He doesn't, instead, he forces himself to take a deep breath and holds it for a few moments before he exhales, slowly, feeling his heartbeat return to a normal speed.  

Finally, he drops his hands and blurts, "How long was I out?"

"Hmm? Oh, I dunno, four or five hours? Something like that. You know, that's the longest I've ever seen you sleep."

"Four or five… Shit! I have so much to do!" He doesn't have time to waste by sleeping, let alone continuing to sit there on his ass, and he goes to leap off the couch. Michael's hand on his shoulder keeps him in place and he shoots him a frenzied look.

"Gav, it's fine. No one's gonna fault you for, y'know, sleeping. And," he raises his voice slightly when Gavin opens his mouth to argue, "Ray already checked your computer. Everything's fine. Take a second before you freak out, fucking Christ." He shakes his head. "It's too early for freaking out."

Gavin scrubs his hands through his hair with an agitated noise. He hates sleeping when he has shit to do, all it does is waste time he could be using for more important things, and it rarely leaves him feeling rested. Oddly enough, though, he does. He feels more rested than he has in a long time, and if he dreamed at all, he doesn't remember a lick of it.

That scares him. That apparently, he trusts Michael enough to fall asleep on him twice now, once quite literally. It's a weird feeling, not all that unwelcoming, but strange enough to be unsettling. He's not used to trusting people, it's only ever been him and Dan, and no one else. Someone else worming past his walls freaks him out a lot.

"Anyway," Michael continues, oblivious to Gavin's internal turmoil, "Geoff's up and cooking breakfast, and he's sure as fuck not going to let you disappear downstairs before eating something."

Gavin shoves his thoughts into the corner of his mind, where he puts everything he doesn't want to think about and schools his features. He takes another deep breath and settles back onto the couch properly. "Well, if Geoffry's cooking," he muses, "Guess work can wait a tick."

He doesn't miss the fact that he's still bundled up in Michael's leather jacket. This one he knows he'll have to give back, eventually, but for now he enjoys the weight of it on his shoulders, the phantom warmth he can pretend to feel.  

Ray passes by moments later and gives Gavin a nod. "Oh, good. You're awake. I was starting to think you died or something," he jokes as he takes one of the armchairs.

"Not yet," Gavin grins. Ray grins back.

"Good. You know…" He starts cryptically, giving Michael a knowing look. "You two lovebirds looked quite cozy there. Michael even fell asleep on the job. Can you believe that shit, Gav?"

"Shut your fucking mouth, Ray," Michael growls, as Gavin's face burns. A glance at him shows his face is just as red as Gavin's feels. Interesting.

"Oh, good, you fucks are awake. Breakfast is ready!" Geoff calls from the kitchen, banging a spoon against a pot with a clatter of noise. "Someone go wake Jeremy, will you? And find Jack, while you're at it."

Gavin scrambles off the couch, announcing, "I'll do it!" as he scurries down the hall.

Chapter Text

They fall onto the couch, giggling like a pair of fools. Their empty beer bottles clink together when they bump into each other, causing another round of giggling that has Michael gasping for breath.

God. God. The heist had gone amazing. Shit, the things they're capable of now! No more small prizes; they can take whatever they want from anyone in the city. It was all thanks to Gavin's hard work, of course it was, when was it never? Michael can scarcely think of a time without his boi, everything back then seemed so drab and lifeless.

No one had gotten shot, no one even got hurt, and they came away with more gold than any of them could have even imagined. It's safely stored away to be dealt with at a later date when they weren't riding high off the adrenaline and sheer excitement of a successful heist.  

He and Gavin had gone back to Michael's apartment to celebrate, where they currently found themselves three beers deep each. They had started in the kitchen but moved to the couch to be more comfortable. Gavin ended up half-sprawled atop of him when they collapsed in a giggling mess over some stupid joke Michael had made, and he can't say he minds.

Fuck, Gavin was amazing out there. Cool, confident, exactly in his element. Michael never tires of watching Gavin on the job, how he seemingly becomes a different person entirely, painted in careful strokes of gold, screaming danger and beauty all at once. Something precious, to be envied over, and yet undoubtedly savage. He, somehow, is the most bloodthirsty of the crew, and Michael loves it.  

He loves Gavin.

It's too early in their relationship to say it, but he wants to. God, does he want to. He wants to scream it from the rooftops for everyone to hear. "I love Gavin Free!" Every day, watching Gavin and his idiosyncrasies, his stupid theoreticals and bumbling words, his ruthless efficiency and master-class computer skills, his ability to switch like a light, makes it harder not to tell him.

Still, Michael runs a loving hand down Gavin's leg, clad in black jeans that accentuate his long, toned legs and his ass in all the right ways. He grins at him like he's the love of his life, all dopey and stupid, eyes soft and smile softer still, and by God, Gavin might very well be.

Gavin leans back against him and practically purrs in content, eyes half open and staring at him lazily. He has a matching smile on his face, just as dopey and love-struck as Michael's feels, and he leans in to kiss him.

Michael responds eagerly, bringing one hand up to cup Gavin's jaw. It's slow, languid, their mouths moving against each other exploringly, like they have all the time in the world. And, to Michael at least, they do.

He takes his time committing how Gavin's lips feel to his memory. How they're just as soft as he always expected, how they move against his, how, when Gavin deepens the kiss suddenly, his tongue feels in Michael's mouth. He maps the planes of his face as his hand brushes against it before settling against the back of his head, fingers tangled in bleach-blonde hair that, despite the mistreatment, still is as soft and full as possible.

Gavin shifts without breaking the kiss, throwing his legs over Michael's to straddle him, a comforting weight on his lap. Michael drops his empty beer bottle to hold Gavin's hip with his other hand, rubbing his thumb against exposed skin where his shirt has ridden up slightly.  

Gavin doesn't seem to have the same foresight because he throws his arms across Michael's shoulders with his bottle still in hand. It presses uncomfortably against his back, but Michael loathes the idea of breaking the kiss to mention it.

The kiss turns a touch more heated, something slightly more desperate on Gavin's end, and Michael just tightens his grip on Gavin's hip. Gavin moans into his mouth, eyes sliding shut, and fuck, Michael can just eat the sound up like a starved man.

Gavin breaks it first, allowing Michael scarcely a moment to catch his breath before Gavin's trailing wet kisses across his jaw. "Gavin," he breathes as Gavin's mouth trails downward, teeth nipping gently at the skin of his throat. He can't say he isn't enjoying it.

Gavin moves his hands to slide up the front of Michael's shirt, bottle discarded somewhere, caressing his stomach with deft hands. When he starts to suck a hickey against the hollow of Michael's throat, tongue lathing against the skin there, Michael throws his head back with a groan.  

"Gavin," he tries again, a bit more forcibly. Gavin pauses for just a moment before going right back to his ministrations, hands sliding up to rest against his chest. Michael heaves in a shaking breath, feeling the subtle shift of Gavin's hips.

He can't ignore the way that this feels forced, somehow. Like… like Gavin wasn't one hundred percent into it. It feels mechanical, in a way.

Gavin grinds down against him, and Michael moans.

Fuck, if they continue like this…

Well, Michael isn't going to let that happen.  

He regretfully puts his hands on Gavin's shoulders and pushes him back gently, with another breathless, "Gav," and this time, Gavin stops.

When he pulls back, hands limp at his sides, he looks honest-to-God confused, eyebrows screwed up and face set in a little frown that doesn't look good on him. "Michael?" His voice shakes, just the barest hint, and that sets alarm bells off in Michael's head.  

"Hey, wait, just a second, 'kay?" He asks, struggling to get his thoughts in order. He needs to figure out how to phrase this delicately. Unfortunately, delicate wasn't Michael's strong suit.

But, in the year he's known Gavin, he's come to learn that the man is flighty in the best of times, and tends to disappear in the worst. Never when they needed him, but enough that it was a worrying habit.

Gavin sits back on his haunches, practically curling in on himself as he watches Michael with wary eyes. "Okay," he sounds off, confusion and some emotion Michael can't quite name blending into a strange tone. It doesn't sit well with him.

"Not that I'm not enjoying this," he starts, tentatively, choosing his words carefully. He rubs Gavin's shoulders in what he hopes is a soothing manner. "But… are you?"

Gavin tilts his head, shoulders hiking up the barest amount, and in a small, quiet voice so unfitting of him, says, "Why wouldn't I be?"

Okay, okay, Michael isn't crazy. That isn't the enthusiasm of someone who was excited to fuck. That seems almost resigned, in a way.

"I don't know, it just seems…" he trails off, trying to put thoughts into words. He shrugs, almost uselessly, and frowns at Gavin. "It seems like you're doing this because you… have to?"

That has Gavin stilling, almost guilty, and his eyes drift away to stare behind Michael at the wall. His grin is easy when it comes, as is the laugh, but Michael can tell when it isn't real. "What are you talking about, silly boy?"  

When he leans in to kiss Michael again, he stops him with firm pressure on his shoulders, turning his head to the side. "Gavin, stop. What's going on?"

"Nothing's going on," Gavin answers, too quickly. "Can't two boyfriends have a celebratory shag?"

"They can," Michael agrees, wary, "When they're both into it."

Gavin turns his eyes back to Michael, something sharp behind their green depths. Like a wall somewhere closed, and he's no longer looking at Gavin but his persona, grin stretched wide on his golden lips, eyes narrowed almost dangerously.  

Michael doesn't like being on this end of things. It's disconcerting.  

"I'm into it." His voice is loose, accent heavy, yet so forced it makes Michael reel. "You're into it. What's the problem, love?"

"Are you?" Michael fires back immediately. "Because to me, it seems you aren't."

Gavin rolls his eyes with a pointed scoff. Michael frowns harder at him. "You're watching too many bloody dramas." He brings his hands back up to Michael's chest as he speaks, pressing his palms against Michael's pecs.  

"I think there's something you aren't telling me, Gavin."

"I have nothing to tell, Michael."

"Bullshit, stop lying to me. Why aren't you into this? Why are you forcing yourself to do this?"

Wrong thing to say.

Gavin instantly pulls back like he was burned, hands to his chest, and the look of pure hurt on his face shatters Michael's heart. "Shit, way to ruin the mood, Michael," he spits, climbing off of him, shaking his head violently as he does.

"Gavin," Michael tries, reaching out to his boyfriend, who stalks to the kitchen. He stands after a moment and follows. "Gav, talk to me."

"No, you know what, Michael?" Gavin snatches his keys off the counter, in a move much more violent than it needs to be. "Fuck you."

"What?" He croaks, shaking his head in befuddlement. "Gavin, wait, what's going on?"

"I'm leaving, that's what's happening."

He storms to the door, and Michael hurries behind him. "Wait, Gavin, wait!" He cries, reaching out to grab his arm.  

Gavin pauses and turns to look at him, one eyebrow arched up toward his hairline. "Yes, Michael?" His voice is deceptively light, airy in a way that sets Michael on edge.

"I just-" Michael flounders, at a loss, confused beyond belief. "We need to–"

"What do you want from me?"

To talk to him. To help him figure out what the hell happened. To explain where and why the breakdown happened. "Stay?" He settles on, hopefully, and flinches when Gavin's expression hardens.

"What for? You clearly don't want sex." Gavin pulls his arm out of Michael's grip forcibly, hugging it to himself. "What's there to stay for?"

So much, too much. To talk, to figure things out, to fix whatever is happening. "I just want you to stay, okay? We can sit down and–"

"I'll pass."

Gavin turns away from him and wrenches the door open. Michael reaches for him again, but his hands brush air as he darts out of his apartment, the door slamming behind him. It takes his brain a long moment to catch up to what just happened–Gavin left. Gavin left?–before he forces his frozen body to move.

He lurches to the door and swings it open, seeing Gavin's back as he flees down the stairs and not to his apartment like Michael would have assumed. He tries to call out, but nothing leaves his throat, and he turns and stumbles back inside.  

"What the fuck, what the fuck," his whisper quickly morphs into a confused yell, and he kicks the nearest object: a side table which clatters to the ground with a thud. "What the fuck just happened?"

He fists his hands into his hair and growls in frustration. He doesn't understand what just happened in the fucking slightest. Something went wrong and Michael doesn't know what or why.  

His eyes catch on something carelessly flung onto the counter, next to where Gavin's keys had been. It's his jacket, one that Michael had bought him, tired of giving up his own. Black with neon pink highlights that catch the light and almost glow. His phone is sitting innocently on top.

Michael curses aloud again, kicking a chair this time. "Shit, fuck!"

It's positively pouring outside, the rain coming down in nearly solid sheets, instantly soaking anyone who stands out in it for ten seconds. God, if Gavin fucked off without his jacket, he's gonna be soaked to the bone, and despite his claims of never getting sick, Michael didn't trust him not to catch his fucking death out there.

Still cursing up a storm under his breath, he grabs the jacket and Gavin's phone in one hand, his phone and keys in the other. He quickly throws on the closest coat he can find, his leather jacket, before rushing out the door. He barely even bothers locking it behind him in his rush, taking the stairs three at a time. He nearly eats shit twice.

He gets to the garage in record time, out of breath, scanning the area for any sign of Gavin sulking away down here. He doesn't see hide nor hair of his boyfriend and he runs to his car, hoping he at least took the car he's traded his shitty van for, and didn't wander out on foot.

Or, worse, his mind supplies as he gets to their parking spaces, his fucking bike. Which is missing, the parking space empty. Fuck!

Michael climbs into the car and throws Gavin's jacket into the passenger seat, backing out and peeling away before the aircon has even kicked on. He's out on the road in seconds, nearly side-swiping someone and he lays on the horn and yells, "Get the fuck out of the way!"

He can think of a handful of places to look, and barring those, he can try calling the others. He'd prefer to keep them out of their business, but if he can't find Gavin, he'd have no choice.

He drives around the city, checking the few bars Gavin frequents, the warehouse they like to bum around in, the alley across the city they set shit on fire in. All of them leave him empty handed, and he gets increasingly worried Gavin up and left the city entirely.

Shit. What is he going to tell Geoff if Gavin has fucked off properly? 'Yeah, sorry, boss, your Golden Boy is MIA because we got in a fight. No, I don't know where he went. No, he doesn't have his phone.' Yeah fucking right. Geoff would kill him, and if not Geoff, Jack definitely would.  

It was her who had taken him aside when they first started dating and warned him to be fucking careful. He hadn't, and now he's fucked up.  

He can only think of one last place to look before he gives up and calls someone. The bay. He remembers Gavin had mentioned it, once, how he liked to go there to clear his thoughts when they got too loud. How, at night, it was peaceful watching the boats enter and leave the harbor. Though this night is anything but peaceful, Michael can at least check.

His car screeches to a halt when he notices the only other vehicle in the parking lot. Gavin's bike sits riderless in one of the spots, helmet hanging off one handlebar. Michael throws his car in park, uncaring about how he's sideways across three spots, and he grabs Gavin's phone and throws himself out into the rain.

He doesn't take the jacket, thinking it better if Gavin has something dry to put on, and the rain that instantly drenches Michael wouldn't allow that to happen.

His steps are too loud as he makes his way across the parking lot and onto the sand, one hand raised to protect his glasses from the onslaught. He searches up and down the beach almost desperately until he sees a small, dark shape huddled on the sand to his left.

He makes his way over, very carefully not running despite his want to. The last thing Michael wants to do is to scare Gavin and cause him to take off again.  

As he approaches, Michael calls out a relieved, "Thank God, Gav," and watches his boi flinch.  

He thankfully doesn't move, and Michael sits down next to him in the wet sand. Not close enough to be touching, but close enough their shoulders could touch if either of them leaned.  

He takes in how Gavin's holding himself, legs pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around them, face pressed against his knees. He looks like a mess, and with his hair plastered to his head, clothing soaked through, and shivering against the slight chill, Michael can guess he feels like it, too.  

Gavin doesn't pick his head up, doesn't even turn to look at Michael. He seems to curl in on himself further, his fingers digging into his calves. His shoulders are shaking, whether from cold or emotion, Michael couldn't even begin to guess. His breathing is audible even over the driving rain and the pounding of waves on the shore. Short, quick gasps that sound like they hurt.

"Hey," he murmurs, breaking the tense silence between them. "You forgot your jacket."

Gavin heaves a sharp laugh, hysteric and not right, and shakes his head, pressing it further into his knees. He doesn't reply otherwise, his grip tightening impossibly until his knuckles turn white.

Michael swallows heavily and swipes wet curls out of his face.  

When Gavin speaks, his voice is thick, like he's talking around a stone in his throat. "You should go, you're going to get wet."

"A bit late for that, Gavin," Michael frowns, stretching his legs out before him in the sand. He'd been soaked the second he stepped out of his car. Sitting out here for a little bit will hardly change that.

Gavin makes a strangled noise, a tangled mess somewhere between a whine, a huff, and a sob. Michael moves to wrap his arms around Gavin's shoulders and pull him into an embrace.

Gavin goes easily, practically falling into Michael's arms. He untwists himself to clutch desperately at Michael, shaking something fierce. His fingers twist into the fabric of his jacket and cling as he presses as close as he physically can.  

Michael can feel how heavy he's breathing, quick short gasps that cause his shoulders to heave. "Hey, hey, come here," he soothes, tightening his hug and crushing Gavin against him.  

He swallows again as he realizes what this is, his heart tearing in half.

He knows Gavin suffers from panic attacks. Hell, the man had told him himself that he did. But he's never borne witness to one. Gavin always slipped away to deal with them on his own. And when he came back, he was all smiles and jokes, as if nothing had happened.

One half of him is furious at himself for causing this. The other is simply worried out of his mind.

"Hey, I want you to breathe with me, okay?" He tries to keep his voice light, to not let the gravity of the situation through, knowing it won't help. Gavin gives a shaking, jerky nod against his chest.

Michael breathes as slowly as he can, drawing in air, holding it for a moment, and then exhaling. He repeats the motions over and over, despite Gavin's breathing barely changing.  

Fuck, it sounds like he's choking, each stuttered breath accompanied by a small, frightenedly panicked noise. Can someone die from a panic attack? Surely not, but Michael blows things up for a living; he's not a doctor. He doesn't fucking know.

He continues his exaggerated breathing patiently. In, hold, out, again and again, and as seconds tick by into minutes, he feels Gavin take in a sharp inhale and follow his lead. Slowly but surely, his breaths deepen, the noises and gasping stop, replaced by the sound of rain.

Michael rubs a hand in circles across Gavin's shoulders, humming slightly in encouragement when Gavin's breath catches again, something suspiciously close to a sob escaping his throat.

Finally, Gavin's grip loosens from his death grip on Michael's jacket, and he pulls away ever so slightly, his movements stilted and sheepish. "Sorry," he croaks, voice shuddering even on the one, simple word.

"Don't be sorry," Michael sighs, continuing to rub Gavin's back. "You okay?"

"No," Gavin shakes his head, and when he pulls away, his frown is heavy, his eyes huge and guilty. "I've gone and bollocks it all up!" Makeup runs in streams down his face, smeared and ruined from the rain.

"What? No, you haven't," Michael jumps to his defense, face clouding over with confusion.  

Gavin won't look at him, staring resolutely at the ground as he shakes his head again. "I have! I've gone and ruined everything! Freaked myself out and had a bloody panic attack about it like a damn fool!"

Michael shifts his hands to grip Gavin's shoulders. "Look at me," he says, seriously, and Gavin slowly meets his gaze. "You didn't ruin anything. You're not an idiot. Well, you are, but not about this." He tries to add a little humor. To his relief, it works, and Gavin snorts out a laugh.

Michael gives him a small smile. "I'm serious. Nothing is ruined. We moved too fast, you got scared." He shrugs. "It happens."

Gavin adverts his eyes and scoffs, something twisted and bitter in his voice, "Yeah, but I started it. Downright pathetic, if you ask me."

Michael puts a hand on his chin to tilt his head up to force him to look at him again. "If I changed my mind, would you have blamed me?"

"No," his answer is immediate, sincere, "I wouldn't."

"Okay," Michael nods, voice slow. "So, what's the difference? Help me out, I'm lost here."

"It's different because…" Gavin trails off with a frustrated groan, covering his face with his hands. Michael stays quiet, waiting for him to continue. "It just is."

"How?"

Gavin throws his hands in the air, nearly clocking Michael in the jaw. "Because! It just is! I don't fucking know!"  Gavin's hands land atop his head and he takes fistfuls of hair into his grip before he pulls in agitation. "When you're bloody seeing someone and they want to have sex, you do it. It's just something you do, yeah? If you don't, it makes you a–a bad partner and shit. It means you don't really care for them."

He meets Michael's eye with a frenzied kind of desperation in his. "And I care about you, Michael. I really do, and I don't want to fuck this up. If it means shagging, we'll shag, what I want doesn't matter."

Michael takes a second to process the bombshell Gavin just dropped. When he does, righteous fury bleeds into his veins. "Who told you that?" He demands, perhaps harsher than he should. "Who the fuck told you that bullshit?"

Gavin shrugs glumly, hands restless in his hair. "I don't know, damn near everyone?"

Michael emphatically shakes his head. "You need to knock that shit right out of your head. It's fucking bullshit, hear me? It's not right." He inhales through his nose and attempts to reel in his anger. "What you want matters just as much as what I want. There's more to a relationship than fucking each other. Shit, Gav, there are happy relationships where people don't fuck each other at all."

Gavin goes silent in thought, eyebrows low over his eyes.  

Michael continues, "If you don't want to do something, anything, you just say, and we stop. No questions, no problems. But you gotta communicate with me when you're uncomfortable, I'm not a mind reader."

His grip turns gentle, and he cups Gavin's face in his palm. His voice is soft, tender, when he says, "We can't do this every single time one of us freaks out."

Gavin sighs and lets his hands drop, one hand resting on Michael's wrist. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right." He leans into Michael's touch, his eyes slipping closed.

"You scared the shit outta me, running off like that," Michael shaking his head slowly, lifting one hand to run through his curls.

"Sorry."

"I almost had to call Geoff."

That causes Gavin to giggle, small little squeaks paired with shaking shoulders. "God, can you imagine? He'd be so minged off!" Gavin's eyes open again and meet Michael's, mirth dancing in them.

"Fuck, he'd tear me a new one, that's for sure," Michael snorts, grinning at Gavin. He shudders dramatically, eyes never leaving Gavin's face.

It's Gavin who moves in and tentatively whispers, "Can I kiss you?" Michael wordlessly nods, and Gavin closes the distance, his lips pressing against Michael's. He's shocked at how cold Gavin's are, and he suddenly remembers its fucking pouring, but he can't bring himself to move, yet.

It isn't until Gavin starts to shiver again, hands curled in the front of Michael's shirt, that he breaks the kiss. Gavin ducks his head and presses it against Michael's collar bone, breathless when he says, "Shit, I'm bloody cold."

"Yeah, I bet. Sitting out in the rain will do that. Let's get you to the car."

"That'd be lovely."

He helps Gavin stand, knowing he doesn't need it but wanting to anyway, and leads him to the chrome Adder parked like an asshole.

As they approach, Michael remembers something and pauses with an, "Oh!" Gavin gives him a curious look as he digs around in his pocket before pulling Gav's phone out. "Here, I brought this."

"Ah, Michael, you bloody brilliant bastard," Gavin throws his hands out in a gimme, gimme gesture and snags it from him as he laughs. "A damn lifesaver you are, I cannot believe I forgot it!"

"You'd forget your fucking head if it wasn't attached to your body," Michael grumbles, slinging his arm around Gavin's shouder and pulling him into his side. He kisses his temple.

Gavin laughs, bright and full, a massive smile on his face. "No, I wouldn't! Be pretty hard to survive without a head, yeah?"

"Oh, so it's just everything else you forget?"

"Just the unimportant stuff!"

"Unimportant… like, oh I don't know, your phone?" Michael smirks as Gavin elbows him lightly in the ribs. "Or a jacket? Those seem pretty important to me."

Gavin huffs good-naturedly, squirming out of his grip when they make it to the car. It's still running, and it's honestly a goddamn fucking miracle that no one stole it. But when Gavin wrenches the door open and practically throws himself inside, it's warm and dry, and the Brit throws his hands in front of one of the vents to thaw his icy-cold appendages.  

Michael only smiles at him and shuts the door before walking around to the driver's side and getting in. Gavin now has his jacket on, and he's huddled down into the fabric, feet on the seat, hands still outstretched to take advantage of the heat.

"Michael," Gavin pipes up when Michael shuts his door and fiddles with the heat to turn it up a little more. "What're we going to do about my bike, Michael? It's still raining!"

"Maybe you should've thought about that before riding it all the way out here?"

Gavin tosses him a sour look, eyebrows furrowed and lips twisted in a dramatic frown, but there isn't a hint of even annoyance in his eye, and Michael can see the corners of his lips twitching with silent laughter.  

He plants his hand on Gavin's head and ruffles his hair, to which Gavin squawks and unsuccessfully attempts to bat his hand away with fumbling slaps. "We'll grab it later, when it stops raining," he decides. Then, as an afterthought, adds, "If it's still here, of course."

"It better be. I spent a lot of time and money on it."

"Well," Michael grins, just shy of feral, "If it does get stolen, we just hafta hunt down the fucker and kill them!"

Gavin's expression matches his, a fire in his gaze. "You're right! The sorry bastard won't see it coming!" Gavin leans back in the seat and closes his eyes. "I think, for every mile they drive, we take a tooth–no, a finger. That seems fair, yeah? Send each to a loved one with an apology from the bloke and all that."

"Jesus, Gav." Michael snickers, shaking his head. "Remind me to never get on your bad side."

"You could never, Michael!"

Gavin, never wearing a seatbelt no matter how many times he gets told to, turns and begins to rifle through the center compartment, while Michael turns the car around and peels onto the road. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Gavin makes a triumphant noise and pulls out a pack of cigarettes.

Gavin makes a noise that can only be considered a question to those who know him. Michael answers with a noise of his own, one hand leaving the steering wheel to accept the already-lit cig from his boyfriend.

The drive from the bay to their apartment building isn't a long one, per se, but Michael takes the long way home regardless, driving aimlessly around the city. Gavin fiddles with the radio, finding a station they can both agree on after a few light-hearted arguments. Smoke and loud singing pour from the cracked windows, interspersed with bouts of laughter and stupid comments.

Later, when the rain has stopped and the quarter moon shines weak and watery through the clouds, they head back to the bay. Gavin's bike is gone. He looks equal parts miffed and excited, phone in hand as he pulls up a tracking app. "Oh, eight miles," he hums, rattling off a set of directions that Michael instantly complies to. "I think we should leave their middle fingers, don't you? Seems right. One last 'screw you' to the world before we kill 'em."

Michael throws his head back and cackles.

Chapter Text

His life has been job after endless job. Days, minutes, seconds bleeding into one another until he can't remember whether something happened yesterday or two weeks ago. Ever since…

Well, ever since the end, since everyone went to go do their own things, leaving Achievement City behind, leaving him behind without so much as a backwards glance.  

There were questions in the beginning, the fall of the Fake Ah Crew was common knowledge. People wanted to know what happened. They wanted to know who betrayed who, who got killed, was it a power grab that failed? Or was there misplaced trust?

What happened to the most famous crew, arguably, in the entire country?

What happened to the self-proclaimed Team Nice Dynamite? Did tempers explode? Or did one try to kill the other? Was there fire? Blood in teeth? Was it messy? Did it hurt?

Gavin stays quiet on the countless jobs he's taken since, only speaking when necessary. He's in his Golden Boy mindset more often than not. He finds it hard, these days, to turn it off. Why should he? He trusts the different crews and groups he works with about as much as he trusts himself not to drive off the tallest bridge in the state if given half the chance.

Which is to say, not very much.

He throws himself into work, barely giving himself enough time to rest. If he's not on-site somewhere, he's holed up in his shitty, lonely apartment with three other jobs he's tearing through.

And when his work starts to fail him, when jobs slow down every so often, he falls back on vices he once thought he'd left behind.

He goes on days-long benders, He drinks so much he passes out, he gets so high on every kind of drug he can get his pretty fingers on–which is a lot, mind you–that he forgets his name. He wakes up in dirty alleys and in strangers' beds or in a public toilet at the city park, shirt missing and a knife sticking out of his gut, with no memories of how he got to where he found himself.

He barely eats, only when the starvation makes his vision blur and his head swirl, and he nearly falls over when he stands for two seconds to grab a file. He doesn't sleep; the only rest he gets is when his body fails on him, and he inevitably crashes, losing days as his mind and body recover. Always in crisis mode. Always too close to death for comfort. Or, maybe, not close enough. He hasn't quite made his mind up yet.

Sometimes, though.

Sometimes, he has a moment to breathe, a few weeks where nothing happens and no one needs anything from him, where the jobs aren't coming, and he can't stomach the thought of more drugs poisoning his bloodstream. These are always his worst.

He feels off-kilter. Unfocused. Untethered. Wrong in his own mind and skin. Where the silence of his apartment is too loud and the cacophony of thoughts in his brain too quiet. Where, sometimes, he wants nothing more than to bite at his limbs like a fox caught in a trap.

That's the thing. He is caught in a trap of his own making.

He refuses to move on. He won't face the future, but he can't dwell on the past, either. And so he's stuck in the now, which stretches endlessly forward and back, never changing, never moving. The same motions and the same faces, in the same city. Alone.

At first, when…

When everyone left, when Michael left, he thought about flying back to England. Nothing is keeping him in AC any longer, so why stay? But something about the idea frightened him, and he couldn't help but worry. Dan had moved on, joined his own crew, had a new alias. Sure, they still talked occasionally, and he would ask Gavin for input for things, or Gavin would request a favor, but they weren't close like they'd once been.

What if Dan didn't want him anymore? Didn't need him anymore? He'd moved on, become his own person. He had new friends and allies. What could he want with a washed-up criminal who's had his life shattered to pieces twice now?

And so he hadn't. He'd stayed in AC, while everyone else buggered off to different corners of the country, keeping as far away from the others as physically possible.

The only one he still keeps in contact with is Fiona. She always was a top-notch informant, and she continues to prove her skills whenever she sends him an update on his once-friends.  

'Geoff and Jack settled down, they're talking about adopting a child. Jeremy became a youth boxing instructor, Ray works at Gamestop, Matt is the head IT guy at RTHQ or whatever business it was. Trevor and Alfredo are still up to no good in Los Santos. Lindsay's doing fine, they work at a local cat rescue part-time, now.

'Oh, Gavin, I'm so sorry. Michael's getting married next month.'

That hurt. More than anything. More than Geoff's initial announcement of, "I'm fucking done with this bullshit, I'm leaving." More than Jack following him wherever he went. More than Ray deciding to leave soon after, taking Jeremy and Matt in tow. More than Fiona announcing she got another job in a different state, and she and Lindsay would be leaving, too. More than Trevor, unable to keep up with the pressure of a fracturing crew, dissolved it completely.

It hurt more than the night Michael left, back to some hick town in bumfuck New Jersey, without Gavin.

And, Lord, he thought he knew what pain felt like then. As Michael ripped the ring from his finger, ripping apart Gavin's heart in the process, and threw it into the gutter, bloody knuckles matching up with the bloody nose Gavin was sporting, four long marks across his cheek pairing with the blood under Gavin's nails.

He was wrong.

He was fucking wrong.

Hearing Michael was getting married to some broad ripped up whatever scraps of Gavin remained, burning them to ash. When he'd flown out and witnessed it, those ashes were spat upon and buried.

He's bitter these days. Underneath the ever-present exhaustion and the constant need to be doing something, a white-hot rage simmers, refusing to be doused. He's beyond angry with Michael, of course he is, but he's absolutely furious at himself more.

How could he have been so foolish?

He can't help but dwell on that while working, letting his anger and pain fuel him, spur him into productivity that would make even the most money-hungry CEO's pause, never stopping, never resting.

Like a machine. He's less of a man, now, he thinks, and more something other. Always working, fingers flying across keys and the near mechanical motions of aim, pull the trigger, move on without bothering to check if they're alive. Always moving, heroin burning in his veins from a sketchy needle, alcohol pouring down his throat, the feeling of skin-on-skin, no emotion, just primal instinct.

Though, there are moments, too, where he's sad. Where the anger simmers low and the freezing depression locks his limbs.

Where he can do nothing but lie in a miserable heap on his couch, heart aching, longing for his friends, his family. These moments come in the in-between, where he isn't working and he isn't on a bender, where he feels his most vulnerable. When the silence presses in like a vice and his thoughts turn over bittersweet memories, analyzing each one for where he may have gone wrong, how he may have caused it all to fall apart.

He stresses himself out so badly, sometimes, he throws himself into panic attacks that he can't force himself to recover from and can only ride it out, wanting nothing more than for everything to end.

It's these days where he chain smokes, unable to get himself to function but needing something to do with his hands. He has no free skin left on his thighs or arms, anyway. They're ripped and cut to shit, more scabs and scars than skin.

And so he took up smoking, just another bad habit in a sea of them, and the least destructive in the long run. At least, it was the least likely to cause him to suddenly drop dead.

He's desperate for a cigarette or ten at the moment, a box in his back pocket, another on the counter. But he's tearing apart the room like a terror, speaking to himself in frenzied, frustrated words, ripping pillows from the couch and swiping papers carelessly to the floor.  

"Come on, come on," he hisses, ripping open drawers and digging through them with both hands. "I've got to have something." The sheets of his bed are ripped off and thrown to the corner, his dresser nearly overturned. Not even the bathroom is safe from his rage. He slams his hands against his temples and nearly screams, "Are you bloody having a laugh?"

You mean to tell him that he doesn't have a single lighter or pack of matches anywhere in the apartment? How stupid can he possibly be?

Gavin angrily scrubs his hands through his hair, longer than he ever used to keep it, unkempt, unbleached, nails scratching unkindly at his scalp.  

He whirls on the closet and rips the door open, grabbing random jackets and jeans and patting down the pockets, all of which come up empty. He's nearly at his wit's end when his hands close around familiar, brown leather, and he freezes.

He takes a deep breath and slowly pulls it out, much gentler than he'd touched anything else in the apartment.

It's Michael's jacket, or actually, it was. Once upon a time. Now it's a reminder of everything Gavin lost, the snarling wolf on the back now mocking where it used to feel comforting. The heft is familiar, though, and a chord of nostalgia urges him to put it on.

He isn't strong enough to resist the temptation, so he gives in. One arm after the other, pulling it close. It hangs wrong on him in all the same ways, the arms just a touch too short, baggy around his shoulders, loose when he zips it up.

His heart pangs, and he can't stop himself from bringing the collar up to his nose. It doesn't smell like Michael anymore, and Gavin knew it wouldn't, but he's able to deceive himself into pretending it does. Smoke, and his specific brand of cologne, and the earthy, unforgettable scent that was all Michael.

Gavin swallows against a sudden lump in his throat and shakes his head. He's looking for something, he shouldn't be getting distracted by stupid memories that mean nothing now.  

He's lying; they still mean everything to him, and he still loves Michael, even if he won't admit it to himself.

He shoves his hands in the pockets, and he feels two things. The first is something small, smooth, and metallic, and he pulls his hand back like it burns him. Michael's wedding band, the one he'd thrown away. Gavin had kept it, even after all this time. He could never bring himself to throw it away, even if looking at it hurt so much it felt he was bleeding internally.  

He still wears his—a matching silver band—even when the sight of it sometimes makes nausea and rage burn in his gut.

The second item is slightly larger, a square cut of cardboard with a rough strip on the lower end. Bingo.

He suddenly doesn't want to stay in his apartment. It feels too chaotic, too stuffy, a reminder of how bad his mental state has become. So he grabs his keys, heads down to the car park, and hops on his bike.

The ride is silent, with nothing but the roar of the engine and the sound of traffic as he weaves recklessly through cars. He wears his helmet, as his brain becoming paste on the asphalt sounds like an awful way to die, in his opinion. He may not quite care, not anymore, but he still has standards.

The drive takes little over two hours before he's off the main roads and on the winding dirt paths that are considered as a 'road' out in the mountains. His destination is near, he knows the way by heart. Could probably drive them blindfolded, really.  

He parks his bike outside of a small cabin, several miles from the nearest neighbor. He'd bought the cabin years ago, back when… when he and Michael first started dating. When he wanted somewhere for the two of them to go that was outside the city. Somewhere peaceful, scenic.

Towering trees surround the building, densely packed and old, with gnarled, twisted bark running up their trunks. The one struck by lightning years before Gavin ever bought the cabin still stands, split in two, green leaves lush and bright.

That's where he heads when he climbs off his motorcycle, dropping the helmet carelessly to the dirt. His footsteps are silent on the earth, padded with dirt and pine needles. He reaches out one hand to brush against the tree, fingers combing over the childish markings carved into its flesh. A crude stick of dynamite, a smiley face, the letters 'TND', several dicks, and he pauses over a heart, the words 'Gavin + Michael' within.

He remembers being the one to carve that, remembers the silly argument that occurred.  

"Why is your name first?"

"Alphabetically, Michael! G comes before M!"

"This isn't a fucking movie poster!"

"Well I carved the shitting thing, if you have a problem, carve something yourself you knobend."

He had handed over the knife, and Michael took it and chose a spot unmarred by their previous shit attempts of marking the tree. His tongue stuck out of his mouth as he focused, and Gavin couldn't help but watch him with a lovestruck smile on his face.

After a few minutes, Michael leaned back, squinted at his work, and then nodded proudly. "There, much better."

He'd carved the word 'Mavin' surrounded by stars and hearts, and Gavin couldn't help the full-body laugh at the sheer silliness of it. "Mavin? Really?"

"What do you want me to write? Gavichael? That sounds fucking stupid."

He'd handed the knife back over, but Gavin grabbed his hand and pulled him in for a kiss–

He shakes his head, shoving the memory back into the recesses of his mind. He doesn't want to think about it, doesn't want to think about him. He doesn't know why he came out here; it's nothing but bitter memories now. But he has, and so he's going to ignore it like he does everything else.

He reaches up to the lowest branch of the tree, just above his head, and tests it. Just as sturdy as ever. He uses the trunk as leverage, pulling himself up and pushing off with his feet, swinging up onto the limb and crouching to catch his balance.

He climbs up two more branches before settling, one leg hanging down, the other braced against the limb, his back flush against the trunk of the tree. He lets his leg swing slightly with the breeze and stares out into the valley. Bird song erupts around him, now that he's stopped moving, the creatures of the forest deciding he isn't a threat and going about their lives.

He watches a small, yellow bird flutter from branch to branch just ahead of him and wonders how it must feel to be a bird. No stress, no drama, no drugs or guns or people to leave you. Just the freedom to go where it wants. Just focused on finding its next meal. He wonders how the wind feels in its wings and how easy it is to fly.

He isn't jealous of the Goldfinch, but he does envy the simplicity of its life.

He and Michael used to sit in this very tree, drinking and laughing, making out, or just talking about heavy shit that didn't feel right to talk about anywhere else. Long nights, leaning against rough bark, and quiet voices nearly swallowed up by the chirping from the crickets below.

He misses it.

He misses Michael.

No matter how much he pretends not to, how much he lies to himself and doesn't think about certain things, he does. And it makes him sad. It makes him angry.

Because Michael went off and got married to some blonde girl, one he suspects Michael barely knows. And she's pretty, she's really pretty. Not a scar or blemish marring her perfect face, conservative makeup, well endowed. She's everything a man could want, it's no wonder Michael fell for her.

She's everything Gavin isn't. Unbroken, untouched, no scars or trauma buried deep down, no blood on her hands, no unspeakable sins. She probably drives a fucking Ford, not a suped-up motorcycle or a sports car that costs more than a house. She probably never has shot another person, ruthlessly and without mercy. Has never felt the life leaving someone as she plunges the knife into their chest and twists.

She looks like she's a doll, and while she probably knows someone—maybe a friend, maybe an uncle—who is an addict, she's never felt the bliss and pain and longing for a drug stronger than an Advil in her life.

Gavin doesn't even know her name.

Just that she has Michael's last name now.

He had never taken it, it hadn't quite felt right at the time. He regrets it now, just another sign that he never quite belonged to Michael. More proof that things were always destined to be ruined in a fiery explosion, even if they'd been blind to it at the time.

Gavin pulls out his pack of cigarettes and puts one between his teeth, his jaw clenched painfully tight. He fishes the pack of matches from his pocket, and with his hands shaking in the anger that begs to be let out and the grief he refuses to allow the spotlight, he nearly drops it. When he gets it open and rips a match out, he tries to light it.

It doesn't catch. He tries again. And again. And again, frustration bleeding into his movements, and when the match snaps in his fingers, he huffs. He drops it and pulls out another, and another, none of them lighting, all of them splintering in his fingers.

He lets out a wordless scream, the cigarette falling to the forest floor. A flock of birds nearby startles and takes to the air. His breaths come in fuzzy gasps, anger and longing and depression mingling into a cocktail of emotions he's not equipped to deal with. He's shaking, violently, and it only serves to frustrate him further because it's been months. It's been eight fucking months, and he isn't over him.

Michael got married again. Michael punched him, left him, threw everything they had away with his ring, and Gavin still isn't over him.

He lets out another scream, reeling his arm back and throwing the pack of matches out into the trees. He screams until his throat goes raw, until his voice is hoarse, until he has no more breath left. Then he slams his head back against the trunk and digs the palms of his hands into his eyes.

He hates Michael. He does. But he can't bring himself to get over him. He yearns for the days when they were happy together. At the top of the world, the city bowed at their feet. Blood and fire and gold.

Gavin doesn't cry. He can count on one hand the number of times he's truly cried since he was fifteen. This is a fact of life. Birds fly, the sun shines, rain falls, and Gavin Free doesn't cry.

His eyes burn, and his breath catches in his throat. He, for once, doesn't try to fight it. His next exhale bursts from his chest in a bitter sob. He curls in on himself, hands covering his face, and weeps.  

He doesn't know how long he sits there, sobbing every ounce of pain, and rage, and longing from his body. It hurts; each hitch of breath feels like knives in his lungs, and each wail carves valleys into his heart.

He cries until he has no more tears left, until he can take a shuddering breath and it doesn't constrict his throat. A headache pounds behind his eyes, and he feels drained in a way he's not used to. Listless and exhausted, emotions subdued. And then he drops his hands and looks up.

The Goldfinch sits above him, head cocked as it watches him curiously. He wants to be mad, he wants to yell at it until it flees. 'What are you looking at?' he wants to shout at it, but he can't bring himself to. So he just watches it stare at him before it warbles a few notes, drops from the branch, and flies off.

He watches it leave until its golden body disappears between the trees. It has the right idea: why stick around when it has the freedom to go anywhere?

The thought strikes him, then. He can't stay here. He can't stay in AC. There's nothing here for him, not anymore. He can go anywhere, he can go home, back to England. He can throw a dart at a map and head to wherever it lands, starting over again.  

But he cannot stay in Achievement City any longer.

He drops from the tree, gets back to his bike, and drives back to the city he once called his own. As soon as he's in his apartment, he packs his essentials, leaving behind anything he doesn't strictly need. He packs his computers, some of his clothes, his weapons, and all the cash he has stashed around. Anything else he can replace. Anything else he doesn't need.

He pulls out his phone and dials a number he hasn't called in over a year. He hopes it connects, that it hasn't been changed.

When a voice picks up on the other end, Gavin can't help the relieved smile. "Hey, B. I'm coming back to England. Pick me up?"

Chapter Text

Michael knows that Gavin's going to be there. If all the others were there, obviously the Golden Boy would come back, too.

He isn't prepared to see him again. That much is obvious when Michael slams the meeting room door open, the words, "Let's get this shit over with as quick as possible," dying on his tongue and tasting like charcoal.

Because Gavin is there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, and looking like he'd rather be anywhere in the world but in that room.  

He's as gussied up as Michael remembers, though his color-scheme has gone dark. A slick, black button-up, the top three buttons undone and showing off bare chest, tight, black jeans, heavy-looking black boots, and his golden sunglasses on his face. He has no less than four golden necklaces across his throat, a large golden watch on one wrist, three golden piercings in one ear, none in the other. Golden rings adorn many of his fingers, and Michael doesn't miss— can't miss—the silver one that stands out in stark contrast. His hair is perfectly bleached, styled in its typical lackadaisical fashion, and golden makeup stains his face.

He looks like shit underneath of it all. His cheeks are gaunt, his hair longer than Michael's ever seen it, one lens of his sunglasses is cracked, and new scars pepper the skin of his chest and where he has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Some of them are in suspiciously neat rows. Some, in the crook of his elbows, along his veins, are small pinpricks.

Gavin doesn't so much as turn his head toward him, face pointed at the opposite wall, lips curled down in a tight frown.

"Fucking finally," Geoff rubs his temples where he's sitting at the head of the table. "All of you fucks are here. You're late, by the way," he turns tired eyes towards Michael and pointedly glances at the table.

"Yeah, well, I didn't wanna fucking be here," he spits, stomping over and hooking the furthest available chair from where Gavin's lurking, throwing himself into it and glaring at nothing. He's sat between Ray and Fiona, the former giving him an awkward smile.

Everyone looks older than he remembers, though some look better than others. Lindsay and Fiona, for example, are practically glowing. Geoff, on the other hand, looks more exhausted than he ever did.

Gavin, always the most put-together of them all, somehow looks the worst. Like the past couple of years have been nothing but unkind to him.  

"The fuck you think happened to him?" He whispers to Fiona, nodding in Gavin's direction as Geoff drones on about the reason they were all there. He didn't give a shit, he knew why. Someone had a vendetta, and it was either they all worked together one last time or they all got killed one by one.

Fiona just narrows her eyes at him and hisses, "Oh, go fuck yourself, Michael," and Michael blinks in shock.

Damn, he knows he hasn't talked to any of these people in years, but did it really call for that amount of hostility?

He rolls his eyes and slumps back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. He can't help but keep glancing over at Gavin, again and again, wondering what the fuck happened to the man. He half listens to Geoff as he starts laying down the groundwork for his plan, knowing most of this information is useless to him, anyway.

He doesn't know why he cares. He doesn't. It's just a morbid sort of curiosity, like seeing roadkill. He tries to convince himself of this.

Gavin catches him staring and honest-to-God sneers at him, lip curled to show a flash of white teeth, shoulders tense, half posed to strike. He looks like a coiled-up snake or a big cat about to pounce, dangerous and deadly ebbing from his very core.

Michael scowls back, pointedly turning away from him and focusing back on Geoff.

Finally, the plans get to where he comes in.

"We're going to need teams. In the past, I'd let you bastards figure it out, but since I don't trust you guys not to immediately start arguing, I took the liberty of pairing you off myself." Geoff stares at each of them in turn, and there's a murmured agreement that fills the room. "Lindsay, Alfredo, Trevor. You three are team 'A'; you'll be taking the front entrance. Fiona, Jeremy and I are team 'B', we'll take the western entrance. Matt, you'll be our eyes and ears. Watch the comms and cameras from here. Jack, Ray, you're our getaway drivers and snipers."

As Geoff lists names, a sinking feeling grows in Michael's stomach. Oh no. God, no, anything but–

"Gavin, Michael, you two have arguably the most difficult part. You're to take the back entrance and sneak through the compound, taking down the security systems and finding where the Corpirate is hiding. You're to take him alive if you can and bring him to me. Anyone else is free game."

There's a long, dizzying beat of silence before Michael shakes his head. "Fuck no," he starts to say, but Gavin speaks over him, voice quiet but forceful, full of venom and teeth.

"Absolutely not, Ramsey," he spits, shifting forward to lean menacingly toward him. Somehow, it works. Maybe it's the fact none of them have seen him in years, maybe it's the fact that something clearly went very wrong, but much like their first meeting, everyone shifts warily, hands resting on weapons. "I'll do it alone."

"Like fuck you will," Michael instantly fires back, unable to help himself. Ray elbows him in the side with a shake of his head, but Michael barrels on. "You think any of us trust you not to fuck us over? You think any of us trust each other? Go fuck yourself, Gavin!"

"Michael," Geoff sighs, folding his hands in front of his face.

Michael ignores him. "We're all in the same boat here, don't think you get to pull a fast one over on us."

Gavin throws his head back and laughs, and it sounds so odd, harsh and mean in a way it never used to be, and when he grins at Michael, it's more akin to a dog baring its teeth. A warning. "You really are still a damn fool, Jones," he shakes his head slowly. "If I wanted you all dead, you'd have been dead long before I stepped foot into this room."

"Yeah fucking right. You think yourself so high and mighty," Michael slams his hands on the table and stands, chair clattering to the floor. He ignores the warnings the others call to him, proper liquid anger burning hot through his veins. "News flash, asshole, you're just as mortal as the rest of us sons of bitches."

"1585 Silvas Way, Greensville, New Jersey." Gavin's voice is smooth, yet sharp, like ice. Michael flares his nostrils. "That's your address, innit? A nice two-story, white picket fence. Your neighbors are just lovely. What are their names again?"

"Don't you fucking dare," Michael growls, seconds from leaping over the table and strangling the life out of the man.

"Oh, I remember! The Doyles and the Carrs, right? And the Carrs just had their first baby, a little girl. She's such a doll. And didn't the Doyles just retire?" Gavin's grin turns pointed, daring Michael to try something. "It'd be a right shame if something were to happen to them, don't you agree?"

"Michael. Michael, I think you should sit down," Jeremy pleads from their spot next to Ray.

"Dude, just calm down. Like you said, we're all in the same boat." Ray eyes both of them cautiously.

"Get his ass, Gav!" Fiona shouts.  

"Fifi, not helping!" Lindsay puts her hand on Fiona's shoulder.

"Good!"

Geoff has just sat back in his chair silently, one hand over his mouth, his eyes pinched at the corners with stress. Jack is rubbing her forehead with two fingers. Matt mirrors Jack, shaking his head slowly.

Trevor and Alfredo watch on with glee.

"I'd hate to make an orphan out of that baby girl," Gavin continues, voice disturbingly calm, little emotion in it. "But I will."

"I'll fucking kill you," Michael roars, throwing one knee onto the table in preparation to leap over it. He pushes off, arms outstretched, and reaches for Gavin. The bastard ducks under his arms, grabs one with both of his hands, and twists his body to throw Michael to the ground, where he lands heavily on his back. "Fuck!" He wheezes, wind knocked out of him, and pushes himself up to sit.

He freezes when he hears the tell-tale click of a gun cocking, and feels cold metal press against the back of his head. Everyone else has grown silent, a tense blanket over the room. "Don't think for one second, Jones," Gavin's voice is low, right by his ear, and Michael can't help the shiver that runs up his spine, "That you will ever lay another hand on me like that."

Michael heaves in angry breaths, but he knows when a fight is set up for him to fail, so he does nothing but stew in silence. He hears the gun being uncocked, feels it draw away from his head, and finally braves looking behind him.

Gavin is standing again, one hand on his hip, the other hanging limp at his side, gun held lazily in his grip. "I do it alone," he tells Geoff, "Or you do it without me."

"No." Everyone's heads whip to Geoff, who stares impassively back at Gavin. "We do this in teams. We cannot afford someone going AWOL. And if you leave, you die. Either by my hand or the Corpirate's. But you will die."

Gavin is quiet for a moment, chin lifted defiantly, and Michael notices what looks like a knife scar on the underside. His expression screams, 'I'll take my chances.' He's calling Geoff's bluff, and after a silent stare-down, Geoff deflates.

He sighs. "Listen, I need you. We need you. You have the technical skills and hacking ability we all lack–sorry, Matt."

"No offense taken," Matt mumbles.

"None of us can break into the Corpirate's compound without you. You are the cornerstone of this whole operation. Without you, we have nothing."

Gavin continues to stay silent. He doesn't move for a long moment, and Michael holds his breath for some reason, eager to hear his response. He isn't sure why, but a big part of him hopes Gavin will stay.

"Fine. I'll agree to your terms," Gavin says at last, tucking his pistol back into the holster hidden under his shirt. Then, he turns on his heel and marches from the room.  

Michael explodes the second the door clicks shut. "What the fuck was that? What the hell is his problem?"

"Hey, you started it!" Trevor gapes at him in disbelief. "You tried to jump him."

"He didn't have to pull a gun on me, the fuck!"

"I don't know, man, you kind of deserved it," Alfredo shrugs. "I'd have done the same thing."

"No, seriously, what the fuck is his problem. None of us want to be here. Why does he gotta be so pissy about it?" Michael stands up and brushes himself off, as if he didn't just get his ass handed to him by Gavin of all people.

Fiona shakes her head. "You really don't get it, do you?"

"Get what? That he's being a little bitch about this?"

"You're unbelievable." She stands and follows Gavin out of the room, Lindsay on her heels. They give him a sad smile before pulling the door shut behind them.  

"Well, this is going great," Jack finally utters, hands covering her face. "It's been an hour, and guns are already being pulled on each other."

"Best idea you've ever had, Geoff. Seriously, bringing a bunch of people who kind of hate each other together after years of no contact? Absolutely mind-blowing," Ray shakes his head, sharing a look with Jeremy and Matt. "What could go wrong?"

"I don't want to fucking hear it," Geoff snaps, glaring at Michael. He raises one finger to point at him, and Michael glares right back. "You! I expect you to fucking behave."

"Me? I didn't do anything! I didn't start shit!"

"I don't care!" Geoff yells, voice cracking, "I don't give two shits about who started it! I don't fucking want to die, and I expect all of you sorry motherfuckers to work together so none of us do!"

Michael throws his hands in the air with a wordless shout and storms from the room, ignoring the muttering behind him. Fuck them, fuck all of them. Fuck Gavin, in particular. He can go choke on a bullet, what the fuck is his problem?

Sure, Michael didn't expect open arms and warm smiles, not after the disaster that was the last time they saw each other. But never in his wildest dreams did he expect such open hostility from a man he once was lovingly married to. He, not once, ever imagined Gavin would pull a gun on him.

Gavin has changed. They all have. But, unlike him and the others, it clearly wasn't for the better. No, he's so much worse, and Michael finds himself equal parts pissed off and confused. Worried, too, but like hell will he admit that to anyone, not even himself, so he buries the worry under years of unhealed hurt and anger.

Each subsequent meeting goes like this:

They're forced to work together to figure out the best course of action. It's up to Michael and Gavin to plan their part, when and how they'll be getting in, approximately how long it'll take for them to find the Corpirate's office, hack the building to take down security and allow the others to enter, and track down the man. Figure out how they're going to subdue him. Not kill him, Geoff wants that pleasure personally, but to capture him alive without either of them getting shot.

Gavin's in his old office most of the time. Doesn't venture out much unless it's for group meetings or to gather shit from the kitchen when he thinks no one else is around. It means Michael has to seek him out to get their part done, and he hates it.

Gavin mostly ignores him, and when they do talk, it's a toss-up of whether Gavin responds in short, clipped sentences or with sharp insults that dig into Michael's chest and cut. And, feeling insulted and hurt, Michael will fire back, until the two of them are screaming at each other, red-faced and more than pissed off.

Michael storms out of the office with a headache and his heart thundering in his chest every single time.

Gavin disappears for hours without contact every single time.

Gavin refers to everyone by their last name or aliases only. The only one who isn't is Fiona, and Michael wonders what makes her so special and then decides he doesn't care. Two can play at this game, and he takes to referring to Gavin as Golden Boy whenever he can. Especially to his face. He relishes in the stormy fury that burns in his eye, the way his face twists in rage when Michael uses the moniker cruelly.

Sometimes, they fight physically. Sometimes, Michael throws the first punch, knuckles cracking sharply against cheekbones, skin splitting on skin. Usually, oddly, it's Gavin who jumps into action first, a war cry on his lips, and his rings hurt, slicing through flesh, drawing blood and rage, and Michael always retaliates.  

He almost breaks Gavin's nose. Gavin pins him to the floor and smashes his face against the carpet. Michael dislocates Gavin's shoulder. Gavin comes too close to stabbing him through the eye with a pen. Bloody teeth, split knuckles, bruises, and cuts, and scrapes.

Gavin's on a hair trigger, and everyone can tell. Michael can tell. He knows what it's like to have a bubbling, burning rage simmering just under the surface, waiting for even the smallest excuse to blow up, to let the hurt and pain and blinding rage take over. He used to be like that, he isn't so much anymore. He's just tired and hurt.

Sometimes, after, they can look at each other, and the hate fades slightly, and Michael almost makes a joke. Gavin almost smiles. Cracks in the armor where Michael can see the old Gavin, where nostalgia and loneliness start to choke him. He misses Gavin, he really does. The old Gavin, who giggled and squealed and babbled on about nothing and everything. The old Gavin, with his issues and problems, who held everyone else, held Michael with higher regard than himself. The old Gavin, who used to curl up against Michael's side and play with his hair and smiled broadly from ear to ear when he kissed him.

They walk away from each other to lick their wounds, a wall between them only broken by mean hits and crueler words. A wall neither is willing to breach.

Time and time again.

As the days bleed into weeks, as plans get solidified and ordinance ordered and everyone falls back into a sense of familiarity, Michael watches Gavin.

He occasionally catches the man laughing at a dry joke Ray makes or at Geoff's antics. He still avoids the others, mostly, but he's opened up just a little. He hangs around the kitchen while Jack cooks or follows Fiona and Lindsay into the living room when they have some downtime, and once or twice, Michael finds Gavin hovering around Matt and Jeremy, helping them.

He's opening up to everyone. Slowly. He still lashes out at them, but it's less often. Less volatile.

To everyone except Michael.

He can't lie and say it doesn't hurt. It stings; it cuts. Like a wound that never healed and is now festering and infected, raw and angry, poisoning him.

He misses the days when the two of them would bask in each other's presence, not needing to talk, just knowing the other was there was enough. He misses the easy conversations and casual touches, the jokes only the two of them shared. He misses the affection and love that used to be so forthcoming.

They still argue. They still fight. Gavin is the instigator, more often than not, going from cold and quiet to a bundle of rage in seconds, shaking with his teeth bared and something broken and dark and angry in his eyes. And Michael, unable to stay away from him, unable to say no, takes the bait. Every. Single. Time. Drawn into each other's orbit, on the verge of colliding and exploding in a ball of fire and pain and hatred.

Michael truly and honestly hates it.

Geoff pulls him aside one morning, after hearing another shouting match that made the rest of the penthouse fall silent. Jack slips by them down the hall, giving Michael an unreadable look before entering Gavin's office. "You need to fix whatever," he gestures between Michael and Gavin's office, "this is."

Michael can only scoff, eyes rolling bitterly. 'What if I don't want to?' He wants to say. 'What if I don't want to fix this?' But he'd be lying straight through his teeth if he did because he does want to fix it. Despite how it may look, despite his pain and unmended wounds, he doesn't enjoy this. Any of it. He doesn't like arguing with Gavin. He doesn't like the cutting insults or the blood on his knuckles. He doesn't like seeing Gavin so mad all of the time.

He respects Geoff too much to lie, and so he doesn't. His expression falls, and he can see the pity in Geoff's eyes when he croaks, "I don't know how."

Geoff sighs, and it's a long, exhausted noise through his nose. He claps one hand on Michael's shoulder and tells him with no room for argument, "Figure it out." And then, he gives Michael a small, genuine smile. "I got the easy job." He stares past Michael, and he follows his gaze to Gavin's door, which is cracked open. "Jack has to deal with him."

If Michael is quiet, he can just make out the cadence of her voice, a low murmur. He can't make out any words, but he can hear the absence of any reply from Gavin.

Michael shakes his head. "We're all kinds of fucked up, aren't we, Geoff?"

"Eh, it's to be expected."

Jack leaves the room and gives them a tight smile and a subtle shake of her head. She closes the door and meets Geoff's eye, who nods and wanders off.

"How'd it go?" Michael asks, cringing when he sounds more like a hopeful child than the nonchalance he was aiming for.

"Will you join me in the kitchen?" She says in place of an answer, and the true meaning of her words ring in his ears. Not here.

He follows her into the kitchen as she goes about making a cup of coffee. "You haven't spoken to him in a while, have you?" She asks as the coffee is brewing, turning to look at him as she leans against the counter.

"Not since…" he clears his throat and crosses his arms, "Not since we broke up. Why?"

She shakes her head slowly, something sad about it. "Apparently, the only person he kept in contact with when we all… parted ways was Fiona. She told me a little about what went on with him, but she wasn't very forthcoming with details."

Michael frowns, silent, and she continues. Her fingers tap against the counter absentmindedly as she speaks. "He was fine, at first, upset obviously, and Fiona kept him updated about our lives. But something happened and sent him over the deep end, and according to her, he had a full-on mental breakdown. Apparently, he fell hard back into drugs and worked himself half to death before he disappeared back to England and didn't speak with her again."

Michael is quiet for a moment, mulling over the words, before he snaps his head up to stare at her. "What?" His voice cracks on the word, but he can't find it in himself to care. Because, truly, what? "What happened?"

Jack shrugs. "I don't know. She didn't tell me, and when I tried to press she told me to, and I quote, 'Go ask Michael about it, maybe shove a loaded shotgun up his ass when you do.'"

Michael reels back in confusion, mouth open but no words able to be spoken. He just stares at Jack, imploring her for something.

"I thought maybe you knew, but judging by your reaction, I think you're just as clueless as the rest of us."

He shakes his head, a touch desperately, and swallows heavily. "No, I-I haven't seen him, let alone spoken to him since…"

Gavin had shoved him, angry in a way Michael hadn't really seen from the man and never directed at him. Pure, unbridled rage was painted across his features, his voice shaking and quiet when he hissed, "Then go , leave, like all of the others."

"What is your fucking problem, Gavin?" Michael had shouted, instinctively pushing him back, instantly regretting the action when he stumbled and fell, barely catching himself before he cracked his skull open on the concrete. "What is wrong with you? Are you really doing this?"

"Yes, Michael, I am! Because you're going to-to waltz off without a second thought!" He shook his head, and his laugh was bitter, hysterical. "You really are just a damn bastard, aren't you? Ate up your fill, and now you're tossing away the scraps. And I'm a fool  for not realizing sooner."

"You're so fucking stupid, Gavin," Michael had spat, not meaning the words to come out that way, but they had, and he saw the way Gavin had stiffened, how his shoulders drew back. "You really fucking are. All you do is run off and hide, and you're going to blame me  for–"

And Gavin had lunged at him then, a wild-animal strength in his body. Michael had grabbed his arms and Gavin had thrashed, screaming himself raw, "Fuck you! Fuck you, Michael! Don't talk to me like you don't take your issues out on everyone around you! Like you don't blow up the worst time just so you can laugh about it later!"

And Michael had punched him, on reflex, one he immediately regretted as Gavin's face snapped backward, his nose instantly gushing with blood. In his shock, Gavin managed to rip one of his arms from Michael's one-handed grip and slapped him, nails digging into the meat of his cheek and ripping through his skin.

Michael did fully push him away then, and this time, when Gavin fell, his head bounced against the curb, and he lay in a heap, eyes burning with hatred, tears streaming down his face. Michael had barely contained his rage, leaning over to bellow, "You fucking cocksucker! You're a fucking piece of shit!" He had ripped the ring off his finger. "I hate you, you hear me? I hate you, Gavin Free, and I hope you rot  here, alone."

He threw it at Gavin and watched as it bounced off his shoulder to land with the gutter trash, his shoulders heaving. "We're fucking done. Stay here, and stay the fuck away from me, or I will kill you and use your intestines as fucking streamers."

Michael shakes his head, hand coming up to rub the side of his face, feeling the barely-there scars razed down his cheek. He hadn't spoken to Gavin since he royally fucked up. They both had, but Michael is more to blame than Gavin ever could be. He'd started it, he'd thrown the first nasty words, the first punch, had threatened Gavin before he disappeared in the same way he mocked him for.

"Fuck, I'm such a fucking asshole," he groans, covering his face with both of his hands. There hasn't been a day that went by where he didn't regret his actions, and he always wonders what might have happened had things gone differently. But then, when he had a chance to make things up, he went and did the same thing, over and over again.

Fuck!

"Not that I disagree," Jack hums, as the coffee maker finishes. "But you really do have to figure things out. You two working together is instrumental to this job, and we're running out of time." He hears her turn around, hears the clink of a mug against the counter. "But barring that, you need to fix this for you two."

Something is set in front of him, and he drops his hands to see a steaming mug sitting innocently on the counter where he's leaning. Jack gives him a sad smile. "He's going to end up killing himself, and you're going to follow along."

That makes something nauseating churn in his gut. Sure, he's seen the signs, noticed the scars and the blase words Gavin uses, but he didn't want to think about it, and so he'd ignored it like he did everything else. And Jack is right, as she often is, because, even now, wherever Gavin goes, Michael will follow.

God forbid Gavin gets himself killed because Michael will be right behind him.

"I have to talk to him."

"Yes, you do. But give him some space. Your argument earlier has him all riled up." He doesn't miss the hidden meaning in her words. Riled up. Meaning that Gavin is more likely to stab Michael than listen, at least in that current moment. "Lindsay, Trevor, and Alfredo could use some help."

She's giving him a chance to distract himself, and he gratefully accepts the offer, grabbing the mug of coffee and wandering away to find the three.

He spends most of the day around them, giving pointers on their part of the plan, what weapons would work best, which explosives would actually work, and what would only end up bringing half the building down on them. It's easy, reminiscent of the days before.  

When dinner comes and goes and no one has seen hide nor hair of Gavin, except the few times someone went in to check on him, Michael decides he's given the man enough time to calm down.

He goes to Gavin's office, actually knocks on the door for once instead of just barging in unannounced, and waits for a response. He gets one, a strained sigh and a, "Come in," filtering through the door. Michael does, and Gavin starts speaking before he even looks up. "This is the third time you've come to check on me, Pattillo, I'm getting kind of–"

He looks up, sees who it is, and his face shutters over. "Oh."

"We need to talk."

Gavin turns back to his work, fingers tapping pointedly against the keyboard. He doesn't respond, doesn't bother even glancing at him, even as he shuts the door and approaches. He has his hands held in front of him in a non-threatening manner, like he's approaching a cornered animal.

He thinks he might as well be, by the way Gavin stiffens when he rounds the desk.

"Gavin, we need to talk."

Gavin shakes his head, watching from the corner of his eye, though he continues to type. "No, we don't. I have shit to do–"

"Goddamn it! Will you just fucking listen to me?" He doesn't mean to yell, honestly, but it comes out as one anyway. Gavin, these days, just pushes every button he has.

Gavin, honest to God, bristles, shoulders squaring, head snapping up, fingers curling into fists. He looks two seconds from starting a fight, and that's the last thing Michael wants right now.

"Just, please," he lowers his voice, and it sounds just as tired, just as defeated as he feels. "Can you listen to what I have to say?"

Gavin glares at him, eyes narrowed, mouth pinched in a tert frown. But he makes no other movement and says nothing, and Michael hopes it's a sign he's listening.

"Look," he starts, rubbing his face with both hands. "We've both done and said shit, stupid shit, that neither of us mean. I'm… Gavin, I'm tired of fighting you. We're supposed to be a team, and we can't do that if we're constantly at each other's throat."

Gavin says nothing.  

Michael continues. "We-we can't be throwing around insults and punches. We're a team, like it or not, so we gotta work together. It… aren't you tired of it? Doesn't it ever get exhausting, fighting me every time we're in the same room?" He sighs, shaking his head slowly. "It is for me. I don't like fighting with you, especially not like," he gestures between them, "This."

Gavin stands sharply, and Michael prepares himself for a fist to come flying at his face. It doesn't, and he forces himself to relax from the defensive pose he instinctively fell into.

Gavin has his hands braced on his desk, fingers curled slightly, and his chest rises and falls sharply. Still, not a word is spoken, and Michael chances speaking once more.

"I want to make this work. I want to be able to work with you. I want… we can be friends again. Right?" His voice is tiny when he asks, "Can't we just be friends?"

At that, Gavin laughs, and it's rough, harsh, followed by a shake of his head. "Friends," he says, and it sounds like it's something bitter and disgusting in his mouth. Gavin laughs again, though it's more of a disgusted scoff than anything.  

"Yeah, friends."

"I heard you got married," Gavin sniffs at Michael, abruptly changing the topic out of nowhere. He's pointedly looking away from Michael, head down and eyes boring holes into the floor. He's closed off, arms tight to his body, legs squared for a fight. His hands are shuffling around papers with a lot more force than necessary.

Michael's confused at Gavin's body language. He thought Gavin would be over the moon about this. It'd be exactly what he wanted! Sure, Michael and he never made up, but this is the chance to. Michael's trying to make up. He's trying to extend an olive branch.

He's even more confused at the stark change of topic. What does him getting married have to do with anything? Confusion bleeds into anger, and he slams a hand on the desk despite himself. "The fuck did you just say?" It comes out as more of a growl than he meant, and he tries to backtrack, but his words die when Gavin's head whips around to face him.

Gavin sneers, all teeth, dolled up in make-up and gold, hair freshly bleached and quoiffed to perfection. "You got married, to some broad. Three summers ago."

"So? Who cares?" Michael doesn't see what the issue is. They broke up, he tried to move on. He found he couldn't. The marriage fizzled and died in less than a year, it meant nothing.

"You're unbelievable," Gavin shakes his head, face twisted in clear disgust. He whirls on Michael and prods him in the chest. "You are a right fucking cunt."

"Ex-fucking-scuse me? I'm sorry!" Michael knocks Gavin's hand away and gets close to his face. His voice drops from yelling to a low, dangerous timbre, but Gavin doesn't even flinch. "I moved on. We were done, and I moved on."

"Well, good for you." If Michael's voice is fire, bright and burning, Gavin's is ice. Cold, calculating, cutting. "Did you forget, Jones? That we're married?"

"Were. Were married."

"No, husband, are. Legally. You didn't sign divorce papers, did you?"

Michael shoves Gavin away, who instantly straightens up, shoulders tense, one hand balled into a fist. "No, we broke up. It was finished. I threw away the ring–"

Gavin explodes.  

He swipes papers off the table in Michael's direction. "I know you got rid of it! You threw it at me and left. Not one call, not one letter, you didn't even tell me you were getting bloody hitched!" Michael blinks stupidly at the sheer anger rolling off the man in near palpable waves. "You fucked off to some… some hick town, after breaking things off–breaking my heart. You left me here, while you got your fucking happy ending. Sorry for not being happy for my husband who married someone else."

Michael opens his mouth to retort, but his brain can't come up with any words. He wants to scream, shout back vile things he didn't mean. He wants to apologize, explain that the marriage was loveless and barely lasted a year. He wants to tell Gavin to get fucked. He wants to kiss him.

Instead, he just stands in a silent, seething mixture of emotions. Gavin huffs a humorless laugh. He shoves past Michael and hisses as he walks by, "I never got rid of my ring. I'm faithful to the man I married."

Then, when he gets to the door, he hesitates and half turns back to Michael. He can't see Gavin's face, but he hears the waver in his voice when he says, "Oh, by the way, your vows? They were lovely. Exactly what you said to me, remember?"

Michael reels. What? What? How can he–no. No. There is no way he can know that. He croaks out, "Gavin–" but the door slams shut hard enough that the room shudders, and by the time Michael stumbles to the door, Gavin is gone.

Ray is watching from the end of the hall, frozen in place. He has his DS in one hand, the quiet battle music from Pokemon HeartGold happily droning on, unaware of what just happened.  Michael glares at him, and he raises his hands. "I'm guessing it didn't go well?"

"Shut the fuck up, Ray."

"Hey, I want no part of this. Leave me out of it." He turns around and heads toward the living room, though he jerks his thumb toward the ceiling. "He's probably going to the roof if you want to follow him."

Michael slams the office door shut and stalks over to the desk, uncaring about stepping on the probably important papers scattered across the floor. He collapses heavily into Gavin's chair and leans forward, head in his hands.

"What the fuck."

His mind reels. How the fuck does Gavin know what vows Michael used? He isn't surprised that Gavin knows he got married, that isn't the part that shocks him. It's the fact that Gavin has intimate knowledge of his wedding, which he shouldn't.

He remembers what Jack said that Fiona told her. About something setting Gavin off, about his breakdown, how Fiona said, 'Go ask Michael–'

He jolts upright. Oh shit. Oh fuck.

Gavin was there at his wedding, wasn't he? He must've heard about it and shown up, and then Michael, who was too lazy to come up with new vows, just recycled the ones he said to Gavin. He hadn't expected anyone to know; he hadn't expected anyone who knew him to be there, so he hadn't seen the issue then.

He sees it now.

He has truly and royally fucked everything up, hasn't he? He's the biggest fucking piece of shit in the world. It's because of him that Gavin's like this.

And Michael needs to fix it or die trying.

He jumps out of the chair, slipping on a paper and catching himself on the desk. He pushes off and runs to the door, throwing it open and tearing into the hall. He nearly slams into Jeremy who jumps out of his way with, "Jesus! Watch out, fuck!" and ignores him.  

He hopes Gavin is on the roof. He desperately begs whatever higher powers may be listening that he isn't about to do something stupid.

Michael makes it to the stairs leading to the roof in record time and runs up them two at a time. The door leading out to the roof slams open, and he catches his breath, heaving in great lungfuls of bitter, cool air.

Gavin's sitting on the edge of the roof, knees drawn up to his chest, smoke curling around his head. He's tucked into a heavy jacket. It's black, just like the rest of his wardrobe. Michael hasn't seen him wear a lick a color aside from his golden embellishments since they came back. Does he even have anything else now? Or is that something else Michael took from him?

"Gav," Michael's voice is just loud enough that it carries across the space despite the sound of traffic below. Gavin's shoulders hunch.

He carefully picks his way across the roof before sitting next to the other man, a foot of space between them. He watches Gavin, who has his face turned away, as he lifts a cigarette to his lips with a shaking hand and inhales. Wordlessly, he slides the pack toward Michael, and his mind flashes back to the first time they smoked together, all those years ago on the fire escape.  

How Gavin had stolen his hoodie.

How Michael never really tried to get it back.

He sighs, sadly, and pulls out a single cigarette and lights it, exhaling smoke through his nose. They're both silent, and it stretches thick between them, with tension and hurt and unsaid words.  

Michael breaks it first, halfway through his cigarette. "Gav, I… I'm a fucking asshole, aren't I?"

Gavin doesn't look at him, not quite, but his head turns just enough to show he's listening. "Yeah, you are." His voice is so quiet that Michael has to strain to hear it.

He expects to feel a flash of rage, but instead, he feels only resignation. He takes a long drag and tries to get his thoughts in some semblance of order. When he exhales, the one thought he didn't want to bring up slips out anyway. "You were at my wedding?"

Gavin laughs, and it's lacking any animosity, instead, it just sounds broken and tired. "I was. It was…" He scuffs his shoe against the edge of the building.  

"You can say it. It was a shitty shotgun wedding."

Gavin shakes his head, and his eyes slide over to Michael. "It was lovely. And it hurt, hearing you tell her all of those things. It made me so unbelievably angry, Michael—" He doesn't miss the use of Michael and not Jones— "And I don't know why."

Michael knows he doesn't have an excuse, not really. He was hurt, and angry, and scared, and he latched onto the first person who showed him an ounce of kindness where he moved to. There wasn't love, not really, just mutual infatuation and his need for an escape.

Gavin continues before Michael can speak. "You're right. We broke up, I shouldn't have been mad at you for moving on. But I was–I am." He drops the butt of his cigarette to the ground below, and they both watch it slowly descend before it grows too small to see.

"I shouldn't have left like I did."

Gavin grins at him, something just shy of unhinged. "But you did. All we were doing was fighting each other, and then you punched me." His eyes zero in on the faint scars on Michael's cheek. "And then you left. And I didn't. Funny thing, that is, innit?"

"What's funny about it? We hurt each other and continue to hurt each other. I don't see a fucking thing that's funny."

"You were always on my case about running away from my problems. And yet, in the end, you ran away, and I didn't. Flipped the script there, yeah?"

Michael slowly shakes his head, a little lost. "I didn't run away, it was…" He trails off, realizing that was exactly what he did. When things weren't working out, when shit hit the fan, he fucked off and Gavin didn't. His eyebrows furrow in thought.

Gavin turns and rises from the ledge, and Michael half-turns to watch him. He expects Gavin to leave, that their conversation is over, just a moment of civility, a temporary truce before the fighting begins anew. Instead, he spins toward Michael on his heel, something unreadable on his face.

Gavin leans down and grabs Michael by the shirt to pull him in close. He drops his cigarette. Their noses are nearly touching, and Michael raises his hands to shove Gavin away on instinct but hesitates. "I hate you so much, sometimes," Gavin's voice is barely a whisper, ghosting across Michael's face. He watches as Gavin's eyes dart down to his lips, then back up to meet his.  

Gavin pulls him in for a kiss, and Michael reciprocates. It's not nice; it's all teeth, desperation and anger fueling the movement of their lips, but it's the first time Michael has kissed someone he loved in so long that it's nearly perfect.

When Gavin pulls away, both of them gasping for breath, he won't meet Michael's eye. What he says next steals Michael's breath away for an entirely different reason. "I hate you, but I can't stop loving you."

Michael grasps Gavin's shoulders to keep him in place. "Gav…" He flounders for a moment, trying to put his thoughts into some sense of coherence. That there hasn't been a single day that went by where he didn't regret what happened. That he never once forgot about him. That he never once stopped loving him. "I–fuck. I'm sorry," is all he can manage, his voice resoundingly earnest.

Gavin wraps his hands around Michael's wrists, not pushing or pulling, simply holding on. "I want you to answer one thing for me, Michael."

"What?"

Gavin's grip tightens slightly. His voice shakes when he asks, "Why did you leave me?"

Michael blinks at him stupidly, mind churning. Why did he leave? Because the crew broke up, because there was no reason to stay, because he couldn't stay in AC and pretend nothing had changed. But–no, that isn't what Gavin's asking, is it? He isn't asking why Michael left, he's asking why Michael left him.

"I–" He starts, eyes narrowed in thought. "I didn't want to," he admits, for the first time. To Gavin, and to himself.  

Gavin scoffs in disbelief, trying to pull away, and Michael shakes his shoulders a little to get his attention back. "I didn't want to," he repeats, a touch desperately. "I fucking wanted you to come with me, you asshole."

Gavin freezes, halfway to pushing Michael's hands off of him. His eyes are huge, his mouth parted slightly, and all he does for a long moment is stare at Michael. Michael can practically see the gears turning in his head. When he utters, "What?" it's a high-pitched squeak.

"What don't you understand? I wanted you to come to Jersey with me! And you didn't fucking want to! You seemed so upset at the thought of leaving that I thought you didn't want to leave with me! And it pissed me off."

Gavin continues to stare dumbfoundedly at him, not blinking, his eyes searching Michael's face. He hasn't moved since Michael started talking, but he moves now, pushing his hands off his shoulders and wrapping his arms around himself.

"There…" Gavin shakes his head violently, taking a step away from Michael, who rises. "No, there wasn't–you never said–There was never a we!"

"Of course there was a 'we', there was always a 'we'!" Michael throws his hands up in the air.  

"No! No, there bloody well wasn't!"

They're both yelling now, but it isn't the angry yelling of before. Confusion makes their words loud, as if screaming would help make things make sense.

"Gavin, of fucking course I wanted you to come with me! Why the fuck wouldn't I?"

"I don't fucking know!" Gavin raises his hands to rake them through his hair, turning the artistically styled mess into a true one. "Maybe because you always–you never–" Gavin throws his head back and wordlessly shouts in frustration.

"What made you think I didn't want your stupid fucking ass to come with me?"

"You never said that! It was always 'I'm going to leave' and 'I don't want to be here', and 'I, I, I'," When Gavin drops his hands, he drags them down his face. "You never once said you wanted me to come with you."

"I thought it was pretty fucking obvious, Gavin!"

"Well it damn well wasn't!" His voice is high-pitched, a frenzy of emotion.

Michael had always assumed he made his intentions clear. He wouldn't have told Gavin his plans otherwise. He thought just the act of having those conversations with him showed that he wanted Gavin to go with him, and when Gavin seemed pretty fucking adamant about not leaving, he assumed Gavin didn't want to go with him.

He never once stopped to think Gavin was so upset because he thought Michael was gleefully telling him all these plans, just to leave him behind and fuck off on his own.

It makes sense in hindsight. Why both of them felt betrayed, why both of them hurt each other so badly. Why Gavin was so angry, why Michael fought back. Why it never really felt like he could properly move on with his life, every thought always leading back to Gavin.

They both thought completely different things, words meaning one thing to Gavin and something completely different to Michael.  

As the realization hits, Michael can't help the laugh that escapes. "Are you fucking telling me," he cries, hands landing atop his curls, "That all of this was because of a fucking miscommunication?"

Neither of them realized that the other wanted him to stay by his side. Neither of them ever fucking asked. Neither of them realized that there always could've been a 'we'. They were both so blinded by their hurt that they never stopped to talk about it, never clarified anything.

"Oh my God," Gavin groans, and he sinks to the ground. "Oh my fucking God! You've got to be shitting me! You've got to be having a laugh!"

"We're both so fucking stupid, Gavin." Michael drops to his knees in front of Gavin, one hand falling to his side, the other covering his eyes.  

It's Gavin's turn to laugh, high and dizzy, like he can't believe a word of anything that was just said. "We are! We're both big dumb idiots, Michael. I can't believe this."

They let it all sink in. How fucking stupid they were, how by not having a ten minute conversation screwed them over so prefectly. How they had become complacent with silently communicating their needs that when they needed to actually talk, they hadn't.

How it festered and rotted for years until they were forced back together, and all the pain and anger and hatred finally bubbled over like an infected wound, poisoning them with pus and rage.

"Gavin," Michael says slowly, and Gavin glances up at him, looking like his whole world shattered in front of him. Michael feels the same way. "Gav, I am so fucking sorry."

"I'm sorry, Michael. For–well, for all of it." And he means it, Michael can tell. He always can tell, even after all of this time.

He holds out a hand. "Team Nice Dynamite?"

Gavin grins, and it's the kindest expression he's had on his face since all of this shit started. He takes Michael's hand and clutches it like a lifeline. "Team Nice Dynamite."

"Come here," Michael pulls him, and Gavin goes easily, slotting into his arms like a missing puzzle piece. Gavin's arms wrap around him, warm and tight, and he presses his face into Michael's collarbone. Tears burn in his eyes, and he blinks to try and dispel them. "I'm so sorry."

Gavin shakes his head, his shoulders shaking. "I'm sorry too. I hurt you. I scarred your face. I was so angry, and it was for no reason."

"If I was in your position, I'd have probably gutted me. All things considered, a few wicked scars is nothing."

Gavin giggles, and it's wet, and when Gavin clutches desperately at the back of Michael's shirt, fists twisting into the fabric, Michael holds him tighter. Fuck, he missed this. He missed Gavin.

When Gavin genuinely sobs, his breath hitching, Michael can't help laughing a little, though his comes out just as watery. "We're a pair of dumbasses, aren't we?"

Gavin sniffs and pulls back, tears streaming down his face. Michael expects he looks much the same, he can feel his own tears burning lines down his cheeks. "We are," he agrees quietly.  

Michael gives him a wobbly smile and raises a hand to cup Gavin's cheek. "I missed you."  

Gavin's face crumples, and he heaves another harsh sob, leaning into Michael's touch. It's Michael who moves in for a kiss, and it tastes like anguish, the salt of their tears mingling with the ache in their chests. It's a slow thing, nearly hesitant, neither of them quite sure of their footing now. But it's soft, sweet, and healing in a way that they both desperately need.

When they pull away, he rests his forehead against Gavin's. The air is clear between them, the anger gone for the most part, leaving behind only a mutual understanding that they were both stupid. He rubs a thumb across Gavin's cheek, wiping away the tear tracks, and Gavin's eyes slide closed.

A cold gust of wind carves straight through Michael's skin, and he shivers before he can help it. Fuck, where did that come from? It hadn't been this cold when he first got up here, had it? The cold stings where it cools the tears on his face, and he reaches up his free hand to wipe them away.

Another blast of frigid air, more unforgiving than the last, has him cursing under his breath. Gavin cracks open his eyes to watch him as he pulls away and rubs his arms. "Shit, it's fucking cold."

"Where's your jacket, you sausage?" Gavin grins, and it's crooked, teasing.

"Didn't think to grab one," he huffs, goosebumps prickling across his skin. "Shit, my balls are gonna freeze off, fuck."

"Well, we can't have that, can we?" Gavin reaches up to unbutton his coat, pulling it off. He stands as he does so and drapes the coat over Michael's shoulders in a surprisingly tender move. He's clad in nothing but the thin long-sleeve shirt he had on earlier.

His hand lingers on Michael's shoulder as he wraps the fabric around him, blazingly warm from Gavin. Michael realizes that the coat is, no, was one of his. One he'd left behind when he left, and it sends a sharp ache through his chest.

Gavin's hand trails off as he wanders back over to the edge of the roof. Michael follows him with his gaze and watches as he leans against the chest-high ledge, crossing one leg over the other. He, too, stands and follows him over. When he slides up next to him, he raises his arm to pull Gavin against his side, tucking the coat around both of them.

At his curious look, Michael clears his throat. "No point in either of us being cold," he mutters, and Gavin smiles and looks back out over the city.

Despite the time of night, the streets are busy. They always are. Tiny, ant-like dots that are people hurry about, from street to street. The cars look like toys as they fight the ever-present traffic. In the distance, neon lights flash and pulse. Above them, only a few stars are twinkling, those bright enough to cut through the light pollution of the city.  

They stand in silence, just enjoying the company they lacked for years.  

When the door behind them screeches open with the sound of metal on metal, they both turn their heads to see who it is.

Jeremy is looking at their phone, and they call out, "Gavin, Geoff needs to–" Their voice stops when they look up, confusion filtering over their face before it's replaced by sheer joy and relief. "Oh thank fucking God," they grin. "You fucking made up. About time, you guys."

"Shut up, Lil' J." They say it at the same time, and Jeremy heaves a loud laugh.

"No, no, I don't think I will. Do you know who Geoff made clean up your messes? Me! Glad that's over with." They shake their head. "But, seriously, guys. Congratulations. I was tired of watching you two mope around in between trying to kill each other."

"You said something about Geoff?" Gavin prompts.

"Oh yeah! He wants to ask you about something, I dunno. He just sent me up here to get you. But you're clearly busy, so I'll…" They jerk their thumb behind them and retreat. The door slams shut.

"Best be getting inside, then," Gavin sighs.

"Mmm, I think we can spare a few minutes." Michael tightens his grip on Gavin's waist, causing the man to giggle as he's forced more firmly against his side.

"Michael!"

"It's been years, Gav. Let us have this."

Gavin rolls his eyes but doesn't move. Instead, he settles, head against Michael's shoulder.  

Eventually, though, they do need to go inside. Gavin pulls himself away from Michael but grabs his wrist and tugs him to the door. He follows, shifting his hand to tangle his fingers with Gavin's.

When they enter the penthouse, Jack is the first person they see. She looks at their intertwined hands, then at Michael's face, and gives them a knowing smirk. "Took you long enough."

"Yeah, well, we talked things through," Michael nods in her direction.

"Good. Geoff's in the meeting room."

When they enter, Geoff is bent over several maps, scribbling furiously on a piece of paper. He looks up when they enter, and his relieved grin that follows is so Geoff that Michael almost laughs. "Glad as dicks you two figured your shit out. When Jeremy came bursting in here yelling that you two were cuddling up on the roof, well, I didn't quite believe them!"

His blue eyes stare pointedly at their hands. "Seems they were right, though. Great! Congrats! Wish you two did this sooner, would've saved me a whole fuckton of headaches."

"Sorry we didn't make up soon enough for you, boss," Gavin grouses, pulling Michael to the table. "You wanted to talk?"

"Yell, well, it's a moot point now. I was going to offer to change around who went where, but it seems that won't be much of a problem now."

Michael grimaces. "No, I think… I think we're okay."

"Good! Great! Excellent! Can you maybe start working on your part now? Instead of trying to fucking kill each other?"

"Of course!" Gavin chirps, though not without a hint of a bite to it. He lets go of Michael's hand to gather several papers from the table. "Should be easy enough, on top of all the other shit you have us doing."

"Shove it, Gavin. I don't want to fucking hear it."

Gavin gives him one of his patented smarmy faces and retreats out of swatting range. He bumps his shoulder against Michael's. "Guess we gotta get to work, yeah?"

"Right. That might be fucking helpful, I guess," he hums, following Gavin out of the room.

"Michael, wait!" Geoff calls, and he pauses to look behind him. Geoff gestures to his lips and then gives Michael a shit-eating grin. "The gold suits you!"

Michael flushes, flips Geoff off with a, "Fuck you," and stomps out of the meeting room.

Chapter Text

Gavin hears the door open, the muffled sounds from inside growing momentarily louder. He can hear Jeremy's excited yelling, Lindsay egging them on, and then a round of cheers before the sounds are muted again as the door shuts.

He turns his head with a soft smile, already knowing who's walking up behind him. Michael approaches, placing a hand on his lower back, and steps up right beside him. Gavin leans into his side and tilts his head to lean against his shoulder.  

"Hi, Michael."

Michael chuckles, arm raising to wrap around Gavin's waist. "Hi, Gav."

He sets aside the red solo cup in his hand to cup Gavin's jaw and properly kiss him, mouth soft and tasting like alcohol, but only a little. Gavin expects his tastes much the same. It's a slow, easy thing, and when they pull away from each other, all they can do is smile.

"Why are you out here? Everyone came all this way to see you," Michael asks him, voice quiet, trying not to break the peace of the evening air.

Insects chirp, and the last trills of birdsong dance from the woods behind the house. The sky has turned all kinds of brilliant oranges and pinks.  

Gavin shrugs and turns his smile out to the yard. "Just needed some air, I think. It's nice out here."

Michael sighs, but it's one of contentment, and his thumb rubs circles into Gavin's shoulder. "It is," he agrees. "We picked a fucking great house."

Gavin laughs, head knocking back against Michael's shoulder. "We did. Best decision we've ever made, I think."

"I wouldn't say that." Gavin looks up at Michael, who watches a flock of birds take flight, the light catching his eyes and burning a dazzling amber. "I still think my best idea was marrying you."

Gavin's face softens with adoration. "Yeah, yeah, that was pretty top," he breathes. Despite… despite everything that happened following the marriage, he doesn't regret one bit of it. If he could go back and change things, the only thing he'd change would be having gone with Michael that fateful day. Not letting his fear and anger control him.

But he can't, and it happened, and they're better for it.

"You wanna come inside? I don't think they're going to hold off on the cake for much longer. Jeremy's getting…" Michael grimaces as Jeremy's voice rises in volume despite the closed door, "Well, you know how they get when they get drunk. Linds is totally enabling them, too."

Gavin huffs out a laugh and shakes his head fondly. "Let them start the cake, I don't mind."

"You're the birthday boi," Michael squeezes his shoulder, "And yet, you'd rather be out here on your big day?"

"Guess in my old age, parties aren't quite my thing anymore."

It's kind of true. Sure, everyone who showed up are his friends instead of a sea full of stranger's faces, and the fun is relegated to mostly harmless drinking and whatever video games they have going instead of copious amounts of drugs and someone getting beat up, but it had gotten stuffy and overwhelming and he needed to escape for a bit.

He isn't quite ready to go inside yet. Being out on the back porch with Michael is nice. It's all he could ask for, really.

"I get it, they're all…" Michael hums as he tries to think of what to say. "They're all a lot."

"Yet, we love them."

"You love them, maybe. I tolerate them for the most part." Michael breaks off into giggles when Gavin elbows him lightly in the side. "Okay, okay! I love the fuckers too!"

They lapse into silence, watching the sky grow steadily darker. The birds have gone quiet, their songs replaced by a chorus of insects and frogs, and Gavin sees a bat flutter over the trees.

After a few minutes, Michael jostles him, and Gavin looks at him with a, "Hm?"

"I got you something."

"Aw, Michael," he coos, smiling. "My lovely little Michael."

He steps away, taking his warmth with him, and raises a hand. "Stay."

Gavin rolls his eyes. "I'm not a dog, Michael."

"Just, stay. I'll be back. And close your eyes."

He heads inside, and Gavin leans on the balcony, crossing his arms and closing his eyes obediently. A small breeze kicks up and tousles his hair, pressing against his cheeks. It's a warm breeze, but it makes him shiver regardless.

The door opens and closes, and he's alone for a moment.  

He can't help but think of how he got there. How he went from a wreck of a man—a kid, really, a whole twenty three years old—who killed and stole for a living, who took drugs and drank himself into oblivion, who shot first and asked questions later, who barely slept and worked himself half to death, into a man in a loving marriage, with a wonderful husband, and friends who loved him, and a beautiful house on a grand piece of land. The journey was long and arduous, and it almost killed him many times over. And yet, he wouldn't change a single thing.

He imagines what he'd say to himself, all those years ago, overconfident yet terrified out of his mind every single day. Things get better, they really do; you just have to hold on and keep living. The twenty-three-year-old him would've laughed in his face, surely. Wouldn't have believed him. He still, sometimes, can't believe it himself. He sometimes wonders if one morning he'll wake up, back in his shitty apartment in AC, or even back in England, and this would've all been a dream.

But no, he knows it's not. As Michael comes back to the porch and shoves something into Gavin's hands, and his eyes slide open and see the giddy, excited grin, the love in his eyes, Gavin doesn't think he could dream up a life this great.

He looks down at the box in his hands, wrapped cleanly in dark blue paper, a crisp white bow tied expertly on top. Gavin can't help his grin as he carefully pulls the bow, as he rips the tape on the side, and pulls out another box. He takes the lid off and then gasps, hands hovering over the object inside.

"Michael," he breathes, slowly lowering his hand to pull the fabric out. It's a black denim jacket, heavy in his hand, and when it unfolds, he can see golden embroidery adorning the collar and the cuff of the sleeves, golden buttons glinting in the last of the sunset.

"Turn it around," Michael sounds like an excited child, hands shoved in his pockets yet bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Gavin gasps when he does. On the back, in shimmering gold, is a bird. It's frozen in mid-flight, wings outstretched, feathers spread. A knife sits in its claws, held aloft, at the ready. Each detail of the feathers has been painstakingly added, and the knife is chipped, and it takes Gavin a long moment to realize the knife is Michael's.

"I…" He doesn't know what to say. He's at a loss for words. Nothing he could say would be enough, would convey how he feels. So, he pitches forward and wraps Michael in a crushing hug, hiding his face in his shoulder.

Michael's arms instantly wrap around him, and he laughs, his chest rumbling. "I'll take it you like it then?"

Gavin nods, whispering, "Thank you."

"Put it on, I wanna see how it looks!"

Gavin giggles and pulls away, his grin so large it hurts his face. But it's genuine, and when he slides the jacket onto his shoulders and gives a gaudy spin, Michael cheers. "Yeah! Fuck! You look amazing!"

"Michael I… This is beautiful. Thank you!" Gavin can't stop admiring how it looks, the gold embroidery catching the dying rays of sunlight and glittering, the black deep and flattering. He grabs Michael's shirt and reels him in for a kiss. "Thank you," he breathes against his lips and kisses him again.

Michael deepens it, grabbing Gavin's back and pulling him flush to his chest. They don't hear the door open, but they do hear Jeremy, Fiona, and Lindsay's hoots and hollers and Jack's sharp wolf whistle that follows.  

Gavin doesn't care. Let them watch.

He hears Geoff start herding the group away from the door with a laugh and, "Give the lovebirds some space, shit!"

Gavin breaks the kiss to lay his head against Michael's collarbone, and Michael's head comes to rest on his. "I love you," he tells him, earnestly, as they rock to an unheard rhythm.

"I love you, too. Happy birthday, Gavin."