she android my revolution @blurredout10 - Tumblr Blog

Jul 24, 2024

Remember To Follow

A Sixty/Reader Story

Tags: angst, amnesia, smut, memory loss, drowning, angstfest y'all stay safe,

Wordcount: 7360

Summary:

Sixty has Amnesia. He wakes with water in his lungs and the panic of an apartment he doesn't recognise. Sixty has Amnesia and he doesn't know you.

But, you vowed to follow him when fitting his wedding band on your special day. Even if he doesn't remember, you'll always follow him. Until...

"I'm done. I can't follow you anymore."

And in the darker weather, thick soot falls from black clouds, a weight that stretches the scales on his chest--the air suffocates him as does the truth.

The Earth pulls at his feet, shying away from where his footprints dusted over; baby leaves, the stir of deeply rooted wildlife tease into a growing distance, his shoes shaking off remnants of the ground once stepped. A distant memory.

It’s truly an inch away, where his ankles flail to meet the grasps of gravity and he fails. The image of the forest floor blurs together—it’s not shrinking, he’s flying—and desperate to find ground to gain root, he’s chasing something that can only brush his fingertips. Even if he savours the taste a little, the contact doesn’t imprint, barely licks his skin but not long enough to register it. He’s losing something, but it’s too far away to recognise it, and some third force urges him to dent it into his chassis as does the scar on his forehead. It's fleeting, tasteless when he forgets again, as if he was clawed hollow, ripped wires and shredded organs.

The ache stills in his shoulders, then churns to his elbows which he tries to knock out into open air. It’s desire and want and it’s everything he can no longer have. His breath delays.

Air puffs and clouds, and then cohere into bubbles that faintly cage his image before floating high. His brows tense and then furrow, wrinkling lines of equal parts confusion and frustration, before he wrenches an arm high to chase his mini image. He passes through cold nothing, his eyes cannot find it and it strikes him that he can’t remember just what he reached for. It’s all take, take, take.

He flies. He floats. The space around him grows dense. Cool air rushes into deep water.

The sea wraps him snugly, perhaps to make up for whomever's arms ghost around his chest - but the latches aren’t comfortable, they're unsafe and work to suffocate ventilation. There's only so long he can sink, so long the reserves in him squeal an exhale before his systems encourage him to break through the surface.

Warnings flesh as blaring red rectangles; he ignores it. He's waiting for something. A reason? An answer, to why an ugly, icky tumour clenches his palms shut, why he can't get rid of the feeling as much as he tries to stretch it away. The water swishes when he turns to his hand, expecting some creature to claw from beneath his skin, blame it for why his mind blurs when he thinks.

The sea is quiet; it dulls stimulation. Gives him some veiled excuse for ‘time’. It's why he enjoys it.

His chest tightens. His systems caution him further, overheating. It's an abysmal discomfort, but strangely cathartic. Wheezes muffle into the water but he hears it no less, feels how biocomponents sear in a mockery of pain. It's too loud, it hurts in the part of him he misses.

He blares crimson. His chest burns. The surface serves as his bright light, deep rushing currents and beeping warnings a choir for his funeral, and the sea will be his grave.

A boat passes. A canoe. Chatter muffles but he can make out two distinct voices. One hauntingly similar to his own and the other… he... can't quite... who...? No, he’s sure he doesn’t recognise it. No face to that sound. No lips to that mouth.

The sea edges him to the surface for him, bubbles that lift him with tiny limbs, pushing past surface tension until he floats. He’s hollow, it only makes sense how the sea lays beneath him.

Why does his body feel different? Why is there a one-way mirror fitted between somatic and internal, between instinct and thought?

Why does he feel longing ?

The surface tickles his lips, velvet soft, it reminds him of... his mind halts. Chest pulling in a cooler touch, he still feels a strain around his ribcage, a lie and truth meddled into a fluid mass. He chases the flash of... something tries to fill it in his lungs when he breathes in deep. His fingertips brush his lower lip and they feel prickly, new. No lips to that kiss. The warnings recede but his vision clouds still.

Something touches his hand. Stings, rather, like rope burn. Sears into his framework like his hand drove through a shredder. A thread weaves and gains purchase tight around his fingers, projections into cobwebs, but this time, it holds.

It's a fishing line, though it doesn't seem to have a handler, nor a place of origin. The line tangles and pulls taut around his hand. Crunches his plastic like day-old snow. It doesn't snap. It doesn't escape him.

And Sixty remembers.

There is no coming of sunshine, no beam pushes through that doubling storm, no spread of saturated colour when every memory muddies into one. It circulates and spirals him with a force harsh enough to stretch his skin thin and puncture vessels—tears him like a damp paper towel, watch it loosen and break away in wet chunks. It's impenetrable to light, for it absorbs it until light is no more.

Outlines form in dark space, meshing golden edges into one another as they layer per memory—like his mind spins on an axis, catching the clutter of reconstructions into something sensical. Sounds are out of sync, mouths of faces—he cannot name them—speak words he hears seconds later. Pressure finds stubborn fingers against his temple where he’s gripping tighter, as if to keep a fractured mind in one piece. It helps momentarily, but it’s an illusion of strength.

It hurts. It really does. Like the layers of him are spliced an inch apart, like his eyes could fall right out of their sockets, like his limbs could spring apart without reason.

He's lost in the nothingness of himself, forced in the corner to be pelted with memory upon memory until it bruises his skin for good - and for once, hoping it'll last. Choppy flashes of yellow that resemble some unnamed figure, wrap their fingers around his artificial brain, squeezing until he cries in paralysed anguish. He contorts in pain, it rubs harshly against his throat but carries no sound.

It makes him want to scream.

But his grip on the fishing line tightens.

The blood that rips from his fingers and the water coalesce, blurring the borders between the shades of blue. If the water exists as his illness, maybe his pain is fated to be forgotten.

And oh, how he burns. His blood is acidic and thaws the plastic that pumps it, cursing the rest of his body to a poisoned end. The screws in him rust to a hair's width. Sixty's the pieces of him that fragment in his memory.

Broken. Aimless. Nuts and bolts in a sack of simulated flesh.

The water latches on his ankle and pulls him far harder than he can hold on.

“No!-” Static twists his voice in a stray note, duly muffled by the water, a nodule in his throat he can’t cough out or swallow down. That desperation fills his lungs alongside the water, an unwelcome weight, but it jogs some corner of impulses in his android brain.

Struggle slips into gargles within the lake, locked in pockets of air, unmoving to keep his struggle unheard. Panic nestles in his joints as he is dragged faster, his kicks are clammy and desperate but useless from the unforgiving fingers of kelp. Seaweed shackles curl around his ankle tighter, pulling him closer to the ocean floor. His fingers fumble with little progress.

Colour evades the deeper he falls, remnants of the moonlight serving as a fleeting solace, a light at the end of the tunnel that Sixty is maliciously rejected. It's ironic, how the near-black expanse he's pulled into reminds him of something. The ghost of feathered lashes, The pressure on his chest punishes. Something audibly cracks in him.

Sixty takes to mouth something, his lips shaping a vow, a plea to the prison bars, and a familiar voice echoes on the tips of his hair.

“To never forget,” blurred lines of fading memories lose definition. Unravels in the wind, thread that's fallen loose from its clipboard, gathering dust with little memory of where it’s from or where it goes. Seaweed pulls him undeniably fast.

His hands fall immobile, hopeless, unsure. Defeated.

That feeling in his chest remains. That memory of sheer fear still knocks his bones, still tickles an itch without scratching it. But the panic, the bruises on his body fade inexplicably, where the vow curls around his tongue... what was it again? Why were his fingers slashed due to force that only could've been his own? Sixty's desperation tremors in his hands but his reason is long gone.

Thud.

Sixty hits the sea floor. Sixty becomes a shell of a man.

There is no panic, no fear. Memories have been abandoned, lost at sea. A hard reset makes Sixty's eyes look inexplicably hollow.

His arm solos above him but the night silently watches through the water. Down here, Sixty knows that nothing exists besides the vegetation that binds him low.

-.—.-

Daybreak bleeds between his curtains that fan the dull walls of his bedroom a better gold. The sun peeks at him boldly, this time without clouded company and its promise of a fleeting shelter. There was no escape.

It's like the sun has found him now, searched in a land untouched until he made the mistake of half-drawing his curtains to watch the moon last night.

Ambient rumbling of motors whine from the open window, birds scurry and sing in flight like little leaves caught in the wind; a solemn sense of consonance merges the bustle outside to an optimistic backdrop. It fills the space with warm adoration.

Ha! I knew I'd find you! The sunlight mocks with a childish cackle. A painful eyeshot of a blinding day makes him flinch. Sixty muffles a groan into his cotton pillow, rumpled bedsheets that felt a little too like…seaweed?

Sixty scrambles to his knees.

The day is anew, but the android feels cuffed to an undefined torment of the past, a crushing weight of the entire ocean converging to a singular point above his pump regulator. It restrains him so, like a timid hand pulling at his sleeve to return to bed and stay a little longer. He can’t quite decide whether it’s the ghostly touch of supple fingers or binding kelp pulling at his wrists.

What is he even thinking about? Sixty scoffs at his break in hysteria. He must be losing it. What the hell was going on anyway?

Sixty clasps his fingers around his other forearm unprompted, his thumb pushing into the autonomous ripple of the synthetic epidermis to the white shell of his android anatomy. He drags his palms proximally to his elbow.

He’s in a white t-shirt, crumpled akin to the bedding as if it were taken from the bedsheets themselves. Sixty pulls a fistful of his top; the wrinkles stretch and converge to sharper lines. His shorts are long and loose. Sixty pats his body crudely to feel if he was really half the person he felt.

The android runs a shallow scan of the space around him. An apartment? Decor looks to be thrown about without rhyme or reason, the hard floor littered with crumpled clothes and springing plants on cramped shelves. Bright yellow post-its look to be placed at random; one juts out near the pots with black scrawl that barely passes for eligible writing:

"Water every Tuesday. "

It’s a Tuesday.

Sixty pulls in air with a mechanical wheeze, though the space in his chest shrinks as it grows. A pathogen lives at the base of his lungs, one that gnaws at his inner workings with cannibalistic curiosity, digging its fangs to feed and multiply as a means to raise its young. Sixty can feel it moving inside him, but he’s limited to scratching helplessly at his diagnostics, nails scraping bits of white off his plastic thorax.

What the hell is going on?

Sixty keels over. His midriff spasms into a painful flurry of staggered breaths.

Was he not dead?

Sixty tries to recall, but all that meets him are razor edges of battered pictures. The pieces belong to an uncertain figure, one without eyes or lips, a memory true if he was to see it one more time. It’s a bitter reality, with no one to show him what he’s missing, no one to kiss away the infectious sting of doubt lining his vessels. He’s alone in feeling it clot and occlude sanity’s door with a final blow.

The more he attempts to recollect the pieces, the deeper the memory cuts. Sixty stops trying.

Time has passed, years , if he was being specific. The seasons have swept on shore and pulled far into the sea, tidal in that it changes before Sixty found a moment to appreciate it. Though mostly indifferent, Sixty can’t help but grow curious of his kind and their place in busy streets.

Does he stand alongside them? It took no detective to see he had established himself, so was this life really his own?

What was going on?

Sixty searches for the one who shares the likings of his identity. One who he scoffed at with the barrel of a gun back at the Cyberlife Tower. Perhaps, as with deviancy, he has the answers.

There he sits with company, laughter on his lips, dressed in a tan, woolly overcoat that drapes largely off his shoulders and brushes the pavement. It’s far too big, neither functional, for his standard build, and despite the odd calamity of ‘whatever the fuck was happening’ to Sixty, Connor looks as though he belongs. All temple LED and android awkwardness, he pieced effortlessly into the background.

Sixty isn't quite sure why the fact surprises him, that much he figured in the earlier turmoil of the time skip; from the moment of his fatal deviation and the current day, everyone moved on.

Sixty feels the same.

His hands dig deeper into his hoodie, fingers crumpling the post-it that served to tie the frayed ends of his questions. A stark yellow with a near-dysfunctional sticky back from sticking it on the wall again and again.

“You have amnesia. This is your house.”

The scene fans out in tones of autumn kisses and raining leaves, where the sun relishes the sky in a longing embrace before parting for a lengthy slumber. A rotten taste finds the base of Sixty's tongue; it's ironic, as the sun, Sixty knows this miracle is ephemeral.

His predecessor is fortunate, but what does Sixty know about the turning days, because for him, yesterday existed and nothing more. His mission . The gunshot . The spark of fear between the fired bullet and Sixty's definite demise.

For Connor, however, time was a plentiful gift, wrapped in a pretty pink bow with a note of gratitude.

That timid bounce of perfectly parted hair looks fresh with product, a snug knitted pullover dressing him in near-black blues and oranges, and fingers warm around a cafés coffee mug. Sixty fixes on the pointless thrumming below the blue patterns on the rim of white ceramic.

There's a gold band on his finger; something brief twists in the cogs of Sixty's chest though he struggles to point just where its core lies.

"Connor," the successor hesitates, an awkward distance to count as conversation but close enough to catch the surprise in the predecessor’s eyes. It lapses for a moment, mirror images locked onto the other before Connor softens to a knowing look.

Passing a glance to his partner, a soft nod that spoke terribly loud for a quiet autumn afternoon, Sixty can't help feeling the distance within himself grow. The confusion he woke with grips the wheel with unprecedented curiosity.

"Do sit," Connor gestures an easy hand to the empty chair next to him, "we have to catch up."

His name is Sixty, formally. Sixty , he tests the sound of it but it doesn't quite strike the way he expects it to. It misses something, an edge, or a lilt that matched the serenity of rippled water. Sixty , or perhaps it's his voice that can't quite string it the way it's supposed to.

Hood raised and hands deep in pockets, Sixty idly walks without a destination in mind.

The sun is too bright, albeit setting, and he scoffs for a quicker nightfall; just as he wishes to settle the intensity of his new life and bask in the dullness of ignorance again. Perhaps, it was better if he did not know this was the life shackled to him.

Remnants of the falling sun cough out the last of its light into the coming night, like the speckles of streetlights blurring in a distance, impressionable but not dominant. It's how Sixty feels about the world around him, the breeze against his skin, the mindless chatter of passing crowds. Reality cuts through him like streaks of rainwater on a car window, and he's following it down with every will for it to stop while he catches his breath. The yellow parts of the sky are far too bright.

He can't quite shake it off, the nagging truth of his sunken sense of identity and an apartment full of sticky notes.

Sixty passes a bookstore. He catches his reflection in a golden light and stops. Amnesia.

He’s angry. Was he fated to await the moment he forgets again if only to relive the shock of waking up in a strange bed in a strange apartment that’s supposedly his own?

Chocolate stares back at him. His hair is tousled, and his clothes swallow him whole. He’s unrecognisable. Sixty sees beyond the glass window.

People meddle in happy heaps, whether stamped with a temple ring light or not, all warping in their perception of the world around. Fingers edge out to take a book in hand, read the contents, engross in the feel, blinking with the living condition to experience until they cannot experience anymore.

His feet move autonomously. People brush past unceremoniously as he walks in. The bookstore is packed. His hand pulls at a book between colourful stacks, unprompted.

It’s busy. The air is thick with age-old literature and wafts of perfume from the collective. Sixty focuses on the embellished lettering of the cover and swipes a thumb to let it print in his mind in an attempt to remember it.

The title sticks to his lips far better than his own name.

‘Remember To Love.’

He’s never held a book before. He’s not done much of anything before. Not that he can remember it anyway. A dry laugh huffs out of his chest; the title delivers an ugly stab of irony between artificial ribs but stings as though the pain was lowly human.

Chatter fades. The door jingles frequently as crowds work to replace those who left. Was this the consequence of being conscious? To live on such a plane off-kilter from faces around, coded with a curse to bear it alone?

What was the point?

"You know , if you open it, they'll be even more to read. "

Sixty startles, which itself encourages another considering his exclusive knickknacks would've noticed anything and everything in his surroundings. Maybe he isn’t all the same.

The first thing his optics fall to is that smile and its easy curves. The cracks in your lower lips are a novel sight, akin to the veins of autumn leaves.

A human has spoken to him. A human . In friendly conversation. The shock on his face must be nothing short of picturesque. Doubled at how long he figures he’s been standing awkwardly, staring at a book’s cover.

Your head tilts, patient in his stunned silence with a glazing edge in your pupils. A gentle curiosity locks his way, slack bait hanging off of a fishing line. It doesn’t pull him closer to you but doesn’t let him fall too far behind. Sixty fails to formulate a response.

"That book is pretty boring actually," you exasperate with a dismissing flick of your wrist, "too much drama, not enough action, if you know what I mean."

What?

(Not even preconstructed responses can save him.)

In a stolen moment, your brows hitch in sync with your chest but are swiftly replaced by the exaggerated smile of a guiding angel, or that of a child’s favourite mentor. Warmth that favours a mother to a lost kitten in broken alleyways.

"You look like it's your first day on Earth," you chuckle lightly.

This feels like too much.

You say your name. It pokes at the base of his heart. You wait expectantly for his reciprocal.

"Sixty." He says. It sounds foreign still.

You smile brighter, like the sun that woke him with a giddy 'I've found you'. Something is fizzling in your eyes. Android curiosity scans it again and again.

You cock your head to the world outside, "want me to give you a tour, Sixty?"

You say his name. He follows you like it’s the easiest thing he’s done today.

The sea meets him once more.

-.--.-

“Your name is Sixty. You have amnesia.”

The lettering is imperfect, surely it cannot be his own.

A scoff splutters akin to a wet gargle, as if the sea floor that chained his corpse liquified his innards into coarse crackles. The whites of his eyes are inexplicably growing just as his resolve shrinks.

Is this a fucking joke?

The furniture feels the brunt of his anger.

Whatever the hell was happening had to be some sick ploy, a malicious scheme to punish Sixty's nihilistic pre-deviant operations. A bladed jab for every objective he itched to pursue. Kick him whilst he's down.

Connor must be behind this. He has to be. For that crumpled edge in the corner of his eyes that seeped in the reflection of red temple rings, it must be that android's petty, subordinate revenge for Sixty using his Lieutenant as bait.

The apartment must pose as a means to mock his sorry state, to brandish his failures in the solid confines of solitary punishment. That wretched copy and his all-emotive facial plate ; Sixty digs his heels as if it were twisting on that Connor's neck, itching for the leeway of the first crunch and those staggering, desperate breaths that would follow.

Amnesia? Sixty remembers well how his chassis burned with a brittle shake. Sixty remembers the looming spark in the back of his head urging him to pull the trigger. Dealing with that sorry sack of alcoholism for a police lieutenant was enough of a pain...

Sixty falters.

The memories play the same though he feels another character is in play. Disembodied, yet latching on his back with wet tendrils like it wished to become an extension of him. Sixty cannot wield it like a limb, but it voices the contortions of his pump regulator just as well.

You disappoint me, pathetic fool. It sears, speaking for him when he's coded a mouth sewn shut.

Sixty slowly dips his head, letting his eyes catch on the palms of his hands.

Something's off. He's missing something. Even with the added ghoul that makes all his mistakes and fills the cracks with reason... he's carved hollow.

What the hell is going on?

Weeks pass and tides pull him back in.

-.--.-

“You have amnesia. Your name is Sixty.”

He slams his fists in fearful proximity to his pump regulator, straining stridor amidst harsh coughs as if his insides scurried to escape him. There is no water in his lungs.

The seaweed remains cuffed as he seeks answers. What's happening to me? Someone sits just over an arm's length across a desk from him, eyes peering over meticulous glasses as if they'd cost him a component to afford. White coat in faux medical aid and a personal office that did its best to sell Sixty of the man's competency. A professional, albeit human, but one who has the answers he's looking for.

However, when the man falls in conversation, Sixty drifts in the dull expanse of clouded memories. His mind pulls from the foreground. The former technician bobs his chin repeatedly that doesn't quite look like talking; Sixty can neither hear nor recognise the shape of those words.

The android's fingers tighten on the armrests, digging into the peeling vinyl and its spongy abscess. In its opening, creatures with spindly legs crawl up the back of his hand, biting through synthetic skin to the burrows of Sixty's flesh. The android is unable to draw air into his chest.

They crawl with needle-like legs. Sixty can't move. The mounds under his skin crawl faster. Sixty's voice has no weight.

Subject to the horned teeth that staple his plastic makeup with spotting blue blood, Sixty is paralysed. His eyes grow. They crawl up his neck.

He wants to scream. It's all too much.

"Would you like some help?" A faint voice offers behind him whilst he stands idly in a grocery store. The shelves stock unforgivingly in blinding variations of colourful foods, neither that would settle for appetising nor their exploited prices. Why the hell is he looking at food he can't eat?

Sixty regains his breath but his feet don't move. Snacks stretch in favour of a distraction. He finally turns to the voice that jolted him back; the eyes that meet him are the closest he's felt to his feet on the ground.

"Are you curious about our snacks? I've got recommendations if you're interested." You play a small smile, but the lift in your brows and the glaze in your eyes never settle.

It's strange. You're a face amongst many though he feels like the centre of yours. You look as if you've rushed to catch up to him.

" Su-" he croaks and then clears his throat, "sure."

And the water takes him again.

-.--.-

A crumpled paper ball of a tennis ball-yellow is stuffed in Sixty's jacket. He squeezes it tightly until faint marks indent on synthetic skin.

He's out of breath, but he can't find you.

Audio muffles by the overlay of memories, merry tinkles of your laughter, the shape of your voice snug in the space that felt hollow. Sixty runs through the streets in search of it again.

The line pulls taut. All he can think about is finding you. The water calls him back but he surfs the crowds instead.

You must be here. Sixty is in search of your head in the many. His phone has run dry, posing his feared reflection with all the desperation to seek. It's all going wrong. He just needs to find you.

The line loosens, tides rush to his ankles but Sixty pushes on. There must be some way. Someone you're with. Someone who knows you. But the existence around you splits into shaky pieces, uncertain and incomprehensible. He can't let that line go, not when it's finally in his grasp.

It's a losing battle.

-.--.-

"You have amnesia."

Why does he feel so exhausted?

The days spur on. The note. The chase. The staggering step in when he remembers your outline. Warmth leaves him every time his head falls in his hands, bound to the curse of reliving what cannot and will never be his.

Fate is a cruel feat. Sixty stands by the shore and waits for the tides to rise.

"Sixty. You have amnesia. I love you."

As he wakes up from a thrashing slumber, he notes the absence of kelp on his wrists. The memories spring up like hollow balls in a body of water.

He remembers everything; nothing tops the crushing guilt of having you wait so long.

The note. The pulsations under his fingers when he rests a hand over his heart. The hitch in his breath when the smell of your skin revisits his senses.

Water fills his lungs anyway.

"Your name is Sixty. This is where you live. You have amnesia."

The note. The chase. The reality.

The fate of the sea floor.

"This is your house. You have amnesia."

How can he accept the path fate carves for him?

"Your name is Sixty. You have amnesia."

How long is he supposed to do this?

"This is your apartment, Sixty. You have amnesia."

Sixty digs through the balls of yellow paper in his waste bin.

"You have amnesia."

They're all notes.

-.--.-

"You have amnesia. Your name is Sixty. This is your home."

There's a knock at his door.

In the tattered assortment of piling memories, never really starting or finishing anywhere as if they were pieces ripped out from the middle, Sixty exhales and opens the front door.

"Hey," you speak as such too, like the middle of a memory, wet lines down your cheeks with questions of why and when . Your voice is small, enough that he could roll it in his palm like one of those balled pieces of paper in his trash can.

Instinct makes him step back to let you in, but not enough to speak to the stranger of his new life. Your lower lashes clump wetly, the tips of leaves edging the stream of rainfall. You tighten your jaw.

There’s a mass that sloshes in his vessels the longer he looks at you, though he’s not sure what to call it. It’s weighted, mobile in the way it keeps knocking the wind out of him like a soccer punch to a little boy. Your eyes are wide and Sixty knows what to call that strain in your expression; it's hope.

Speak, his subconscious commands, bobbing his jaw open without knowing what to say. Your tears glisten freshly yet hold firm. Willing the world to halt so Sixty could take all the time in the universe to finally say something.

Do I know you? But something urges him to not ask. Seeing the wild nest of your hair and swollen eyes drives all his impulses to the ground except for one; muscle memory lifts his hand closer to you in what could feel like the most natural thing he's done in the past few weeks he's awoken.

But he falters halfway.

Sixty isn't quite sure why he let you in the first place, let alone why he entertained the thick glass between the two of you like he was breaking the walls of deviancy all over again. There is nothing of the sort in your scanned details to enrapture him, nothing to stop him from asking you to leave his apartment. You must be one of those people who existed in the lost parts of him, waiting expectantly for him to return.

It's been twenty-six days since he woke with no recollection of who he was or why he was here. Twenty-six days, though according to Connor, this charade had dragged beyond dozens of times over three years. Twenty-six days of his neighbours conversing like they intended to invite him to their weddings, twenty-six days of loitering faces, gazing at him pitifully.

'What a shame, isn't it? It's no way to live.'

Sixty died every time he forgot. The version they long to keep has slipped into the high tides for its ocean grave. Ironic, that he is misunderstood as some copy of an android that shares his liking. How bad must it be for Sixty to actually appreciate Connor's lack of prodding, despite still carrying that coiled resentment pre-deviancy?

You stand in his living room, hair thrashed, clothes dishevelled, cheeks warm due to friction with the knocking scent of alcohol. You're searching for a piece of him that doesn't exist. Even if your very presence calms the unstable writhing of his components, his mind has been made up.

A light sound escapes you, sounding like the huff of a cry, until it croaks again into a chortle. It's pained; Sixty can measure it in amplitudes, and your laughter rings on for a few more before a heavy sigh.

You're laughing? The smile you flesh out doesn't quite reach your eyes, except you look a taste manic with those damp and dilated pupils. It's wildly unexpected, and Sixty pulls up short; it throws a wrench right into his thoughts.

"You know ," you begin and Sixty snaps to the brittle notes of your voice. It's better than your laughing, "despite you being an android, I somehow feel like the one who's immortal."

You chuckle a little more, tilting your head back. It shakes your shoulders and takes you wholly.

"I really want to hate you," you don't look at him, "I really do. I want to more than anything. A right old sock to your face."

You glance at him before fixing to the plants on the tiny shelves. Sixty's silence stretches on.

"I didn't come here to fight. Or to get you to remember. I'm surprised you let me actually. Lucky day for me, huh?"

The android's pump regulator stutters. He feels as though he is not there.

Tension disperses from your joints as if they had lost against gravity and slumped in major defeat. The sag is paired with a staggered sigh. "I've been honouring our vows, Sixty. I really have. Even if you..." you sound raw, static, "even if you can't- aren't able to. I've been trying for so long. "

Vows? Vows. That's why you're here. You were married to that version of him lost at sea, not him, not him . The memories you search for have been driven ashore, photographs paled by the kicking currents of the ocean. Those memories have been worn out, faded. Sixty feels the loss like it's his own.

Tears fall irregularly and Sixty watches you cry with a churning in his chest... it's not quite guilt, nor the tickle of envy, but a combination of both. He knows if he asked you to jump, you would leap with all your might, but it doesn't belong to him. It's the same tickle of envy he felt when Connor's memories became his own.

Your love does not belong to him. It is not his. Perhaps, that is why the grief doubles in around his pump regulator.

"I'm tired, Sixty ."

It's not his. You're not his. The pain sears harder than before.

"I'm done. I can't follow you anymore."

It burns. The wires he'd tangled to fasten his resolve loosen unapologetically. He doesn't know why it hurts. Why is he mourning ? Why does grief bite his breath away in mock gentle kisses? It's alternative to the sour kick of the sea floor, doesn't quite slosh in his mouth in salt and muck as he expects. Instead, it solders his metal tubes into a spoiled clump, an acrid impression he can't swallow down or wash out.

The android feels hot despite being cold to the touch. In the few weeks of his new life, Sixty has never longed for the bits missing this hard before.

Twenty-six days. Your tears trickle but the pinch in your brows settles. You're the first to let him go. God it fucking burns. Why does it feel as if you'd packaged all of your hurt and gave it to him? The layers of glass between you two shake.

He can't breathe.

The glass cracks one by one. A hand clutches his chest; it's his own. Another plane of glass shatters. Your outline grows sharper.

Is this what he went through every time he remembered? This oppressive weight subject to twisting his joints all the wrong ways, pushing his eyes far back until they were lost in his own head. He feels like he's going insane.

Water crackles in his lungs.

No! Wait! Not when he's this close.

He steps to the few layers of glass you stand behind, a distance only he could see beyond the broken memories he'd cast at sea. Sixty's fist pulls back and lands solid and true.

Another plane gives way.

He punches again, mimicking how he first broke through the cage of his android walls. It burns too much. If this is his way forward, if he has to step up where you step back... he lands another blow.

Fuck! Fuck, fuck, fuck!

It's almost see-through. The fishing line tightens around his fist with a definite hit. Crack! You're here. He sees you. Every note you left behind before kissing his forehead, thinking he was long resting. Every smile you chased him with despite rejected the reciprocation. In each of his fragments, for every time he forgot again, you followed close behind as the fellow pedestrian with a shared umbrella; the one who poked at him in a bookstore, the one who took him to the midst of Detroit river with a valentine's gift, fitting a silver band with the memory of your vows.

You're here. Sixty keels over. You're not following anymore. Sixty strangles a cry.

Warm arms slot him into the bubble of comfort only you can instil, kneeling in front of him to pull him tight. You're letting him go.

Please. He's only just... Not now.

You're not following him anymore.

"I love you, Sixty." Resonant for his chest so hollow, the vibrations of your voice linger like he was brandishing it into his steel skeleton.

You're not following anymore.

Sixty doesn't recognise the cries he lets out, the coughs he splutters to desperately rid any traces of ocean floor. He doesn't sound like himself. It's animalistic.

"I love you so much." You whisper between his breaths. God, he loves you too. Even if he forgot, his body remembered, at home in your love.

He loves you hopelessly, and he knows that means he must let you leave. For if he cannot fulfil his vows, you can't carry both halves in his shadow all by yourself. It's inevitably wasting you away. A pitiful curse, written as stars, to exist in the same sky but only catch the tail end of each other's light.

It truly hits, the tragedy of those balled-up notes, how they pile beyond measure with traces of foreign teardrops. Sixty clutches to you as if he were to break apart if he didn't. He feels pathetic. Small. Rotten in his biocomponents. He's a shell of a man, though he is full of the memory of you.

"I'm sorry," you speak into his neck. Sixty his head to encode the colour of your eyes. His thumb finds the edge of your lips, a supple and soft shape that would no longer smile at him whenever he looked over his shoulder. The android takes a moment amidst his breakdown to look at you if it's the last thing he'd do. The stray hairs around your eyebrows. Your cheeks, damp and tinted rouge. Your skin, smooth but textured, perfectly human.

Sixty finds that your features make up for his flaws.

I really love you. I love you too much.

Your lips meet naturally. Complete.

It's salty; whether from the looming threat of amnesia or the combined tears of the truth spilt, Sixty laps lavishly with his desperate tongue. To consume you through and through because it's in his hands now, to find you and take you back when he can, and lift that drawn-out burden off your shoulders. He can love you this way, even in times he doesn't spare you a second glance, doesn't recognise you in the crowd of many. Sixty kisses with the promise of finding you again, his vow, for when he doesn't forget, he will follow.

The android carries you with a heavy heart, slotting your bodies in the effortless flow of nature. He relishes in the gentle flex of your back under his palm when he lowers you into bed, lips never leaving yours.

He shuffles your clothes slowly, savoringly. Water riles up his throat. Sixty breaks away from you for the first time, taking to pressing tender kisses from the tips of your fingers, on the ring you still wear, up the soft expanse of your forearm.

The sound of impending tidal waves sing distantly.

"Let me carry the vows," he says low, broken like he hadn't spoken in weeks, "even if I forget..."

Tears fall off the tips of your eyes.

"...I'll follow."

" Sixty ."

You pull him to meet your lips again, tonguing in the language that speaks best. Your palm on his chest feels the racing beats that you saw in his eyes. You can also feel him spluttering too, but he makes no reaction to it.

Clothes strip at a languid pace. The urgency is heavy in the air but neither of you intends to rush things.

Forehead resting on yours, Sixty coats two of his fingers with saliva and dips between your legs, sharing the breaths you spill to take as his own. Your thighs flex at the newfound stretch, taut around his waist. He curls just where you like it.

The breathy notes you moan, the pinch in your brows, Sixty records them deep like an embellishment. A printed image of you on the surface of his artificial brain. He'll chase and chase just to see you like this again.

If only to make up for how long you've spent following him, Sixty can't begin the imagine the hurt that would've festered over the years. To catch your lover's eyes and have them look away confusingly, unaffected, where you itched for the moment the lightbulb struck and he loved you again. Fate was cruel, for the gift of sending such a person like you to him, and stringing the both of you out like parallel lines, only meeting when one breaks through the rules of their reality.

Lips mark the line of your jaw with traces of his tongue; your pleasure is perfected like it were the easiest thing for him to elicit. Your whines ring higher and faster and all Sixty can do is watch.

"Come for me," he rasps in the small space, transfixed on the fine contortions of your pleasure-drunk face. The android dips to kiss hard yet chaste, "I'll always make you come for me."

The night is lasting. Even though the sun has set, you've still found him beyond the horizon and splashed him anew. Your leg is pinned to his chest, foot over his shoulder whilst he paces himself to the glorious cacophony of your reactions. He's not quite worked you up like this before, in any of the passionate, urgent bed-rutting he's previously taken to, because despite the looming reality of his amnesia, he feels like he has all the time in the world.

Long, full thrusts to repeatedly remind you of his presence, even if fleeting, will always return. Sixty juts particularly hard and your nails scratch his abdomen with a pornographic wail. It drives him wild.

Sixty drives you to the brink again, selfishly pulling orgasm after orgasm for the solemn depths of his mind. He needed to take everything he could. The bed creaks loudly, meshed in the lewd sounds of his hips snapping against yours. Sixty squeezes your hand until the ring on your finger makes an indent on his plastic shell.

You plead for the sweet release over and over again. Until your eyes roll back, driven to the recesses of your mind with a pathetic range of vocabulary, not that Sixty would want it any other way.

The ocean calls him back, lapping at his knees. Sixty kisses you again and again and again until he feels numb.

' To never forget ', Sixty tucks his head against your neck, grunting loud into your ear whilst he fucks you until the early hours.

' And to always follow ,' you pant together, his hands cradling your face, and the words are left unspoken.

They ring loud anyway.

I'll find you.

-.--.-

The day praises Sixty's bedroom with a flurry of golden light. The birds chirp young and free, reminiscent of little children in a playground. Sixty wakes with salt in his mouth.

A note dangles from the wall above, Sixty twists his neck back to read the perfect letters.

"I have amnesia. I'm married. I will find her."

#dbh sixty #sixty x reader #rk800 sixty #dbh x reader #Connor-60 x reader #dbh fanfic #y'all I forgot how to write I swear #writing #dbh

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