Connor, RK800 #313 248 317-51. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
cyberlife) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
meadowlarklogs2019-05-11 08:34 pm
cyberlife) wrote in meadowlarklogs2019-05-11 08:34 pm
Entry tags:
YOU'LL BEND DOWN AND TELL ME THAT YOU LOVE ME—
WHO: markus saviorexe and connor cyberlife.
WHERE: home sweet home, at the robopartment.
WHEN: october 21st, when the halloween festivities hit.
WHAT: connor's back, to markus' surprise.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: none, but will update if needed...
(on the evening of the new amsterdam halloween festivities, connor wakes with chest pain, finding himself buried beneath his bed linens. it’s brisk, the window’s cracked to air out the room’s disuse and accumulated dust, but the cold doesn’t bother him. he finds it refreshing, constricted and disoriented as he is, thankful for something that leads him to wonder why he went to sleep clothed.
rising groggily, breathless and half-strangled by his necktie, connor leans onto his knees on the edge of the mattress to centre himself and calibrate. breathes through the initial nausea before making an attempt to stand, fingers seeking comfort in the familiarity of combing hair out of its god awful mess. he doesn’t want to deal with it, would really rather lie back down, but if he was sick and sent off to bed then it’s probably for the best that they discuss it.)
Markus? (called into the space of the room, waiting for his reply and grieving the lack of one.
it’s dark, it’s empty, it’s lonely. is markus out? with his injury, when he’s supposed to be resting?
he shouldn’t be frustrated. he should be paying attention to his surroundings, accessing his implant (no messages sent to check in on him, no e-mails from work that beg his attention) with a knead of a fist at the sleep in an otherwise wide eye that searches the window as he approaches it to push it shut to save on air conditioning. but like all of the strange scenes he’s witnessed in his decidedly short existence, this one seems to stand starkest. there’s frost accumulating on the pane, ice, he notices, that a curious hand reaches out to touch, blunt nail raking a line through in shocked assessment — a sure sign of autumn. the scent on the air, the chill in it. his brain catches up with his senses and forces a short, gusted ”no”.
one bids three more come after it.)
No, no, no— (it’s happened again, too sharp to fail to notice this time. for how long has he been gone, then, if the date’s inspired a change in season?
connor can barely keep stride with himself, shoving out of his bedroom in a forceful lean to greet the wall beyond it with a hand, pushing off to retain the momentum that brings him into their main living area. markus, god, his throat’s tight with all potential routes his leader could’ve taken in his absence, practically choking on paranoia that’s convinced everything bad’s happened. what if he was stolen away, too? what if he doesn’t recognize a soul he knew before, all of his friends, all of their work? to be left on his own is a nightmare he’s entertained before, but to live it? to really live it?
there’s only one spot left for a frayed man to look, popular with his nostalgic partner. a lover of heights, of fresh air and time spent by himself, standing in reflection or simply doing the many things he does so well. their shared balcony, occupied by air supplies and deck chairs and the many memories they've made sitting outside together in surveil of the city.
it comes without warning, glass sliding door parting for a stricken face that appears just as suddenly as it’d gone. connor standing beneath the frame of the entrance to an apartment that’s felt far too big for one.)
Markus.
saviorexe and connor cyberlife.WHERE: home sweet home, at the robopartment.
WHEN: october 21st, when the halloween festivities hit.
WHAT: connor's back, to markus' surprise.
NOTES OR WARNINGS: none, but will update if needed...
(on the evening of the new amsterdam halloween festivities, connor wakes with chest pain, finding himself buried beneath his bed linens. it’s brisk, the window’s cracked to air out the room’s disuse and accumulated dust, but the cold doesn’t bother him. he finds it refreshing, constricted and disoriented as he is, thankful for something that leads him to wonder why he went to sleep clothed.
rising groggily, breathless and half-strangled by his necktie, connor leans onto his knees on the edge of the mattress to centre himself and calibrate. breathes through the initial nausea before making an attempt to stand, fingers seeking comfort in the familiarity of combing hair out of its god awful mess. he doesn’t want to deal with it, would really rather lie back down, but if he was sick and sent off to bed then it’s probably for the best that they discuss it.)
Markus? (called into the space of the room, waiting for his reply and grieving the lack of one.
it’s dark, it’s empty, it’s lonely. is markus out? with his injury, when he’s supposed to be resting?
he shouldn’t be frustrated. he should be paying attention to his surroundings, accessing his implant (no messages sent to check in on him, no e-mails from work that beg his attention) with a knead of a fist at the sleep in an otherwise wide eye that searches the window as he approaches it to push it shut to save on air conditioning. but like all of the strange scenes he’s witnessed in his decidedly short existence, this one seems to stand starkest. there’s frost accumulating on the pane, ice, he notices, that a curious hand reaches out to touch, blunt nail raking a line through in shocked assessment — a sure sign of autumn. the scent on the air, the chill in it. his brain catches up with his senses and forces a short, gusted ”no”.
one bids three more come after it.)
No, no, no— (it’s happened again, too sharp to fail to notice this time. for how long has he been gone, then, if the date’s inspired a change in season?
connor can barely keep stride with himself, shoving out of his bedroom in a forceful lean to greet the wall beyond it with a hand, pushing off to retain the momentum that brings him into their main living area. markus, god, his throat’s tight with all potential routes his leader could’ve taken in his absence, practically choking on paranoia that’s convinced everything bad’s happened. what if he was stolen away, too? what if he doesn’t recognize a soul he knew before, all of his friends, all of their work? to be left on his own is a nightmare he’s entertained before, but to live it? to really live it?
there’s only one spot left for a frayed man to look, popular with his nostalgic partner. a lover of heights, of fresh air and time spent by himself, standing in reflection or simply doing the many things he does so well. their shared balcony, occupied by air supplies and deck chairs and the many memories they've made sitting outside together in surveil of the city.
it comes without warning, glass sliding door parting for a stricken face that appears just as suddenly as it’d gone. connor standing beneath the frame of the entrance to an apartment that’s felt far too big for one.)
Markus.
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There’s an ease of grace to his motions, one that might belie a comfort to resigning himself to this kind of solitude. What else does an artist need, after all, other than time to reflect, mull over, or even criticize his own work? And there’s some truth to that — some kind of adaption to being the only one in this apartment that the crawl of time will grant any man; a resignation melded with Markus’ stubbornness that dictates that he moves on, takes the days as they come, and try to keep any cracks across his heart sewn together, until he can finally allow himself to unravel in some far-flung future.
Faint vibrations of encroaching footsteps make the legs of the easel faintly shudder. The sound of the glass door sliding open, sending surprise jolting along Markus’ spine, that very human dose of adrenaline making nerves tingle. A voice, so familiar that time seems to still for a second, before relentlessly careening forward when the android turns his head to see the man he’s been missing for a month and a half.
All of that composure, all of those careful days of acceptance and self-negotiation, telling himself that he would see him again, that time means nothing in the face of the connection they had formed together with desperate, determined hands— every single piece shatters and dissolves in this one moment, and he wonders if he’s dreaming. If his mind has the capacity to be this cruel to him; it has in the past.
He doesn’t even know he’s standing, but he is. The brush slips from his hand, the palette clatters at his feet, a few once-neat globs of paint now scattered to the ground. Markus’ eyes are searching, as if he expects the sight of Connor, disheveled, hair gone out of place, looking like he’s been thrown into a panic, might dissolve in an instant.]
Connor?
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... I'm sorry... it happened again, didn't it? (impossible to resist, apologetic even as he steps outside into colour he doesn't mind getting his shoes in.
he promised markus he'd never abandon him. that he'd always come back, no matter how lengthy the time separating them became. and markus reminded him that perhaps it was that will that brought him home once. maybe it was his will again, a foreign feeling of pride blooming until his shoulders have raised and the moment comes to a head. resisting an embrace now would be one of his worst regrets, closing the space to gather markus up in a tight wrap of arms that couldn't possibly be hallucination or dream.
the voice at his ear isn't either, hushed to respect the mood.) Are you alright?
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He’s not an illusion, the fever dream of a mind’s lingering desires. He’s real, he’s returned, and Markus lifts his own arms to bring Connor closer, if such a thing is even possible, fingers pressed against the other man’s shoulders.
Are you alright? he's asked, and how does Markus explain all that’s happened since Connor’s left? Or how indelible his melancholy had been in those slow days after he had realized that Connor was not coming back? How to explain the tiredness worn into his bones, so utterly unimportant now compared to this singular moment, with him standing right here? For all the trials that Markus’ might’ve faced in the interim, it’s swept away in that sort of impossible gladness, relief, and love that can only be inspired by an unexpected return, and an immediate want to anchor himself in his presence.
As deft as he is with words, they’ll not do. Markus is a creature of emotion, and emotion exhibited by action. The hug is only allowed to linger for two seconds more before he pulls back just enough to grace Connor with a kiss, lips pressed against the other in an answer provided by a renewed pulsating blue glow — a deep connection of shared emotion that he had missed so much.
He had missed him so much.]
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how strange, to be missed so terribly — only months ago he thought he'd die alone and was eager to if it meant fulfilling a directive. and the one he has to thank for it is holding him like he'd wait another year, a decade, longer. his friend, his confidant, his partner, his leader. so connor squeezes at his side, drags comfort into his skin, and deepens what's been started with a tilt of head and a part of lips, projecting all of his best and brightest emotions while bathing in the cool blue light of their chests.
can he resist the smile that threatens to interrupt such a sweet brush of mouths? never, when the mood sinks in and all he's left with a realization: it may have felt like a single night, but his body — his heart, his flesh, the beautiful coil of satisfaction in his gut — remembers every second its been away.)
I love you. (connor says it without hesitation when they part, all the while rubbing life into markus' back with round strokes of palm.
he could stay here all night. hell, all autumn and winter standing forehead to forehead with him. the cold can't reach him when he's recycling his breaths in his lungs and sharing in the pleasant heat of their connection. it may worry him later, his pre-disposition to being stolen away from markus' bedside, but right now they're as untouchable as their reunion.)
You know that.
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Yet with him present, two halves now standing complete on their apartment balcony, the ground might once more become solid beneath his feet.
Connor pulls away and is left with Markus’ exhale of breath, almost sorry to put any amount of space between them. The declaration is one that draws up a wetness around his eyes, even if a smile cracks across his features, impossible not to feel happy in his adoration for the other android.]
I do. And I love you — and I missed you almost as much.
[More than words can ever do justice to. Rapturously affected as he is, Markus wonders if even the empathy bond can match the depth of how much he wanted him back.
A hand had slid up to smooth fingers through brown hair during their kiss, but both now retreat to rest at Connor’s sides, uncaring of the flecks of paint still residing on his fingertips. The ministrations at his back eases a calm into his muscles.]
You said you’d always come back, and you did, but I— I didn’t know if you were safe, Connor. I had nothing to run on but faith.
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I'm sorry, (whispered again beneath his breath, forehead to forehead.
god, he is. it comes through by way of blue bond, guilt he knows he shouldn't feel for the time he's been away but impossible to smother entirely when it comes hand-in-hand with myriad other emotions that make him feel like he could cry with markus. they've always taken on too much responsibility for actions beyond their attempts at remediation. still, it's far too easy to forget and lose himself in the brush of palms up his sides, feeling each fingertip pressing colour into the fine fabric of his shirt.
wherever he was, he's sure closing his eyes and daydreaming about the intimacy of markus' embraces is what got him through to the other side of things. the strength of those memories brought him home to him, how else could he have mustered up enough willpower?)
It must've been difficult to wait for me all this time... it means everything to me that you did, Markus...
(another stroke beneath an eye he feels he's taken for granted, mismatched and beautiful, the man behind it a work of art who built himself up into this — a unique individual with more humanity than the people born of flesh and blood in the streets below. connor's lucky enough to be allowed to embrace him, kiss him again in a way that lingers and grows deep even as he walks markus back into the high rail of their balcony. on a breath all he can murmur are his 'thank you's', tight throat trying and failing to deter him from their proper greeting.
all while dutifully protecting him from the cold and a fall with a warm arm held like a supporting bar across his back.)
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Of course I waited. A month and a half is nothing.
[Just a flash in the pan compared to the breadth of his patience, his loyalty, to this other man. In this, time meant nothing. It would simply have to bend around Markus, the man uncompromising.
Behind them, the canvas scents of oil pants and the red pigment still shimmers wet-bright. It’s all completely forgotten, the shared space propped up against railing acting as their own little island. He wants to lean into every touch, commit every brush of fingertips at his face to memory, even as the wetness around his eyes makes way for simple gladness. A hand presses against the small of Connor’s back, hitching him up closer as the buildings in the distance frames them both.]
So don't be sorry. I’d wait years. Decades. Longer. [As long as he could still function, was still alive and ever pushing forward.] Though you already have a lot to catch up on now, I can’t even imagine the laundry list of items you’d have to sit through you were gone for that long.
[May that never have to be the case, his fingers pressing in just a little tighter at the thought.]
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trying to press closer nets him a hand on the back, feeling a sting now as it all settles and sinks in.)
How did I— ("become worthy of you?" "find you?" "manage to win your affections?" connor doesn't like any of the options his mind supplies and so he repeats himself, nose brushing markus' with a downward cast of dark eyes. his appreciativeness is known, there's no need to ) I really love you. I missed you and didn't even know it... I can't have it happen again.
There's no preventative measure for it and, so far, it's a mystery I can't solve. Not yet... but that guesswork can wait. (a rare thing for a man so intent on working himself to the bone to say, focus on their affairs and not on duty. he couldn't care less about the job he was trying to hold down, what it means for him to have lost so much time, what he'll do next, the questions he should be demanding to hear. he's with family and that's all anyone has in the end; he watches markus intently.
a sidelong glance at the canvas they've forgotten and its paints strewn across the balcony, admiring it — his grip never falters once during his mind's meanderings. hands stay firmly rooted at markus' sides where they've sunk and bracketed sides that might as well be melting his palms. they ought to head inside. lounge, take one another in fully. reminisce.)
I want to talk about you, Markus. Sit with me?
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Yet for some reason, his determined spirit, his want for it not to happen again, is enough. Having him here right now is more than Markus could ever ask for, enough to smooth over the ragged edges of any weary soul, and his reply to is press his lips briefly against Connor’s forehead, planting a kiss there that allows affection and gratitude to lace through it. They may always have uncertainty, there might always be the fear that it’ll happen again, but now is the time for a reunion — he lets that be known in their connection, something so filling that it sweeps aside anything related to doubt.
Pulling back, he’s nothing but gentle smiles, hands releasing from Connor’s side just so one can grasp again at his hand, acceding to the request and guiding them back into the living room.]
Come on.
[The couch is an easy walk away, and he sinks into it, making certain that the space between them is minimal when Connor follows suit. He isn’t letting go of that hand, looking at him fondly the whole time, like something gone missing now returned — because he’s exactly that.
Talk about him, though? Markus’ mental and physical state is the last thing on his mind. His whole world has a single focal point now, and he’s looking at it.]
You’re all right? [The rapture of meeting again still hovers around them, but Markus can allow himself more practical questions focused on the other android’s person.] Nothing damaged, nothing changed?
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looking at him, refusing to shy from eye contact that only breaks for the occasional once-over and thoughtful glance to the side as he thinks, connor wedges nearer and breathes out momentary amusement. markus is awfully stubborn. just one reason of a great many why he cares for him as desperately as he does.
he only relinquishes the discussions that don't matter, making him feel as though he's the only thing in the moment that does.)
I'm alright; I'm home. I don't feel any different, either. Whatever they did or didn't do left no trace, though I haven't checked too thoroughly. (he'll take care of that later and maybe enlist markus' help, bare himself to a mirror and feel if anything's added or missing — someone to give his back an examination would be greatly appreciated, when he can't see it very well himself.)
You, though... the last time I saw you you were injured. Healing, but unable to move much...
(he leans in to chase the ghost of that memory away, hoping another day like that never comes to haunt them, fingers adjusting their grip over and beneath markus'.)
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But Markus himself has changed in the time that his boyfriend’s been missing; physically, at least, he’s far more functional than how Connor would remember him, able to lean forward without so much as a grimace, able to walk and stand without experiencing that dull pain where a bullet once lay embedded in flesh. Somehow, the subject has looped around to him again (they’re both stubborn in their own brand of ways, and push-pull until someone compromises just a little), and the android nods.]
As good as new now.
[Which is laughable in its own right. As good as “new”, when Markus has undergone so much since the label ever really applied, when resolution, dignity, and exhaustion is enough to warp a man into a completely different shape altogether.
Still, his free hand lifts up the hem of his shirt, revealing a scar across his lower torso. The skin is still raised — still a fresh one, indicative of being less than a few months old — and there’s discoloration to its odd, spindly shape, a lighter tone compared to the rest.]
It isn’t very flattering, but it doesn’t hurt anymore. I can function properly now, so no need for you to fuss over me any longer. It's my turn to do that for you.
i missed your 1000 edits desperately
a month and a half has passed. proof lies beneath connor's fingertips. they disentangle from markus' to join scar tissue, thumbing featherlight at the wound that caused his partner so much grief.) I can't promise that I won't fuss a little, but I won't stop you from doing the same. I... like it when you take care of me. The fact that you want to is humbling, I think it always will be...
(connor's touch flattens down on a track across his abdomen, sweeping up to squeeze at his side.
being absent for the rest doesn't sit well with him, but he'd be a fool to internalize something beyond his control. learning to let go of self-doubt and harsh judgments — both of himself and others — is a lesson markus taught him and is still, accepting that he can't change the past and can only push forward with him into the future is difficult but slowly making an impact. as he'll notice when speaking to north over the next couple of days, kara elsewhere (even if she's lacking the memory).
he'll apologize, he'll meet resistance, but he doesn't have to wait around and lament until others feel like forgiving him. that's on them.)
You've lived time I haven't, aware of your surroundings and what was happening in them. Real-time, emotionally and physically. I don't have stories to tell, but you do. I'd like to hear them. When you feel up to it, of course.
they missed you too
Connor had been at his side then, too, so harried and panicked, his fingers trying desperately to keep him from bleeding out. He still remembers the timbre of his voice, the anxiety in his eyes, the haggard sound of his Markus’ own breath intermingling with uncertain reassurances that everything was going to be all right.
Here now, more than a month later, Connor touches that same spot, now healed in the shape of a raised fissure. The barely-there sensation is an endlessly welcome one, having been so deprived of it. Markus raises his own hand to cover his partner’s own.]
What I have to tell you is... not insubstantial. It’s affected all of the Displaced recently, and we’re still trying to understand what it means for us. What it means for the changes made to this world.
[A gentle squeeze of his hand, leaning forward into that touch.]
But that can wait until after. You’ve just returned; do we really want to talk shop so soon? [He smiles, and through the weariness piques a warmth, a want.]
Let me take care of you, if that’s what you like so much, Connor.
i'll never leave this thread alone
(he remembers pushing down to keep the blood inside of markus' body, red, redder than he's ever seen — bodies hold so much more than one can truly understand without watching it bubble up and spill and soak into the sheets of a mattress. he won't forget it, the tacky mess it made. how it smeared and tainted everything he touched.
it's gone but sometimes he can still feel it between his fingers and the deep lines in his palms.
markus was dreadfully calm, then, too. his voice shook with effort, but — like now — he comforted him throughout, even dying as he was. he's doing it again now, tired though willing cultivate an overwhelming feeling of safety. it's working. connor's never known relief like it, at home with his head bowed closer to markus' shoulder to admire their hands folding together.)
The pool seems like a lifetime ago. I guess we've always processed the days here differently than the others.
i am still here
Still, it’s gratitude that supersedes that mark of pensiveness, refusing to make room in his mind and heart for anything other than Connor. With the other’s head bowed down close to his shoulder, Markus disentangles their hands only so he can wrap his arms around the other android, keeping him close.
An idle observation trails through his mind — he’s warm. Two human bodies pressed near, and he’s warm and comforting, with calm easing up between them. Markus’ chest shakes with a chuckle.]
Yes. [A lifetime ago. Time passes in uneven intervals for androids, or androids-turned-human. Markus barely has more than ten years to his name, younger than most of the Displaced by a wide margin, but there are times when he feels so much older around the edges.] And because so much as happened since then. But I still remember it clearly, you know. I still remember the look on your face when you said you liked me.
A pair of confessions that could've gone a little more gracefully at the time. [But he sounds fond, regardless.]
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they balance well because of it. connor's not sure he's ever been happier, despite missing the past. looking forward to the future is just as important — he's learning to do that, the way markus is learning to let go.)
You're always a sight for sore eyes, Markus, I just never imagined it happening then. I must've sounded a little winded. (for good reason. markus always manages to steal the breath from him, whether he's trying to or not, often just by watching him quietly, stewing in his admiration. although it was such a short time ago, every problem seemed somewhat smaller.
now it's life and death.)
... We were just two people having a good time, no discrimination, no duties to perform, no difficult choices. Wherever we end up, here or back in Detroit, I'll remember that.
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[It might have been graceless, not ever in the way Markus envisioned it to be, but now framed by the aid of retrospection, it had been perfect.
Connor would feel the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly against the fabric of his shirt.]
It was nice, wasn't it? To forget about our troubles for a while, even if the moment was fleeting. There doesn't seem to be enough of that. Maybe eventually it'll become more of a habit than a rarity. Either here or in Detroit.
[A goal that feels so far away, but there to light the path, regardless.]