What becomes of the broken-hearted

The lab is empty.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Soft thrumming cuts through the darkness. The core of a living being, a nervous system of wires and hard drives and data and memories and feelings, whose storage is precarious—because the machines aren’t really off, they’re just sleeping. If they were turned off for real, the people inside them would be erased.

Tick. Tick. Tick

A decidedly—as in, placed there on purpose; a stylistic choice, or perhaps trying to preserve a remnant of an era that is no more, because time moves forward even if there is nothing to stop and experience its weathering—analog clock rests on top of books on top of desks and stacks of paper and files and maps and a toolkit that fixes none of the machines here, gathering static, static that creeps from its flat face to the surrounding black screens, picking up speed as the long arm spins, pulled as if by a magnetic force, or a not-so-purposeful hand. Pulled until time is relative and space is relative and meaning is relative and gravity’s meaning becomes relatively nothing. Fate, as some would call it.

Tick.

It’s all floating. The thing that pulls time forward is pulling everything onward and upwards. Up towards those blinding lights and beautiful swirling colours and the mess of data and feelings and memories.

Boom.

What slips through the portal is another broken machine, a record that’s been snapped in half and taped together and snapped again and glued together but not in quite the right shape. A mess of data and feelings and memories.

He assesses the situation. The coast should be clear for now. He’s left enough of a mess elsewhere to distract the entire headquarters if he needed it. Not that he needed it. This should be quick.

“Lyla, are you here?”

She appears in front of him. “Did you do something new with your hair, Spider-Thief?”

The mess of—(Oh for crying out loud, stop calling him that! He’s more of a mosaic, anyways.)—okay, the not mess, the totally well put together, has everything under control, vassal of order and perfection, walks around her and starts fiddling with a keyboard. “You can see that under my kaffiyeh?”

“Pssht, as if. You just look like the type to chop all your hair off in the middle of a mental breakdown.”

She’s right. He’s going to pretend she isn’t, even with the weightlessness of his new haircut. His hair isn’t important anymore, because none of him was ever important, and ever will be important again.

Asad manages to turn the monitor on. Nice, he’s still a whiz with a computer. Or Lyla turned it on for him. He doesn’t have to know that, though.

“What’cha doin’ here, anyways?”

“Is Miguel around?”

“You wouldn’t be here if he was.”

Asad doesn’t reply to that. He turns on the other monitors, mumbling. Damn it, Miguel, clean up your desktop once in awhile.

Lyla sits on Asad’s shoulder, swinging her feet. “Need some help?”

“Aren’t you going to alert Miguel of my whereabouts?” The eyes on his mask narrow.

“What he doesn’t know won’t kill him.”

There’s no reason to trust her, but there’s no reason not to trust her. Ugh, he doesn’t have time for this. That jerk could be back any second and—and it’d be really, really bad. “Okay,” he says, gesturing vaguely, “can you do the thing for me?”

“What thing?”

“The projecting other people’s private business to an audience of complete and total strangers thing. Minus the audience.”

“Mm, no can do. I’m not letting you see Miguel’s dark past.”

“That’s not—” He grumbles, pinching the bridge of his nose.

Lyla blinks innocently. Has he ever noticed how similar he is to Miguel? It’s adorable.  “Mad that I caught you, huh?”

“You haven’t caught me doing anything.” Not that it matters. Everyone always assumes he’s doing something bad, anyways.

“Then what?”

“May 7, 1999, Rockefeller Donation Center, New Baghdad, Earth-815135.”

“What’s that?”

“A date and location. I wanted to see if you had it somewhere in your archives.”

She pretends to think about it, even though she’d already made up her mind to help him. The guy could use a friend or two. Besides, she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t curious. “Well… fine. Have at it.”

The monitors blink to life.

“Everybody give a hand to the lovely couple!”

The music swells as the allegedly richest gangster in New Baghdad—allegedly because to admit it out loud means to indict him on crimes the courts cannot prove he committed and he will definitely take you out if you say otherwise—Wael Galal Salim, and his new wife, Yara Salim, strut out into the mess hall, decked out in glamour beyond anyone’s wildest dreams. The smoke machines go wild, as does the crowd. On the edges of the hall, sunglasses-wearing security guards stand armed and at the ready, communicating through walkie-talkies and finally giving the go ahead for the procession to make its way when they’ve made sure no weapons are aimed at Mr. Salim’s head. Once the main event starts, the clock picks up speed, until time and space and meaning become relative and Asad is made dizzy by the gravity of it all.

As the night wanes, so does a young Asad, who couldn’t be bothered to wear a stuffy suit and came dressed in a casual pair of slacks and a plain white button-up. He’s out of place among both the formally and the traditionally dressed. ‘Who cares?’ he thinks. He’s the life of the party until he’s not, and then no one notices him when he’s gone. They only see what he wants them to see.

While everyone is busy dancing and scouting the next happy couple, he’s stolen at least a couple beers even though he’s definitely not old enough to be drinking, but he’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in New Baghdad who cares.

“Asad, what do you think you’re doing?”

Unfortunately for him, the one person in New Baghdad who cares about underage drinking has found him.

“C’mon Gwen, it’s just for tonight.”

“That stuff rots your brain you know,” she says, snatching the bottle out of his hand.

“Yeah? Even if half my brain was rotten, I’d still be smarter than you.”

Gweneira flips him off before turning around to find the trash. She, as if through karma, bumps into her dad and stepmom, who glare at her. “Young lady, what do you think you’re doing? You’re too young for beer.”

“What—it’s not mine! It’s Asad’s!”

Yara raises a brow. “So why is it in your hand?”

“I was going to throw it out.”

“Come now, Gweneira,” Mr. Salim says, patting her on the head, “this fine young man needs to develop a taste for it sooner or later, why not start now?”

“Because—”

“Because he’s going to dance with us!” Yusef Salim, Mr. Salim’s precious baby brother, throws an arm around Asad’s shoulders and drags him away, his protests going unheard. He gets thrown into the centre of the dabke with men of varying heights, weights, and ages, and though he’s never danced like this, the drums pound his head and his heart and his head and his heart and he can’t feel a single thing but energy and time and feelings and memories.

Not a mosaic.

A mess. 

Of data and feelings and memories.

Joy and love and community and belonging and concepts, just concepts, they’re all nothing but fake and meaningless concepts haphazardly thrown together and he can’t tell if he’s dancing with Yusef and George and Mohammed and Wahid or if he’s stuck in the middle of an empty lab surrounded by flashing lights and data and feelings and memories.

Gweneira joins him. She’s not supposed to, but against her dad’s wishes she wore converse and a pair of leggings under her sparkly gangster princess gown because she knew she wanted to dance with Asad, never mind what everyone else will think. So they stomp their feet and jump and kick and pull the long hand of the clock faster and faster and faster until they can’t keep up and the crowd and the men and the faces and gravity stop existing and they float onwards and upwards through space that doesn’t exist and they become data. That’s all that’s left of them. Data on a computer that will be erased the minute it’s turned off. Because that’s what they were worth.

Asad pauses the projection on a specific frame.

He pulls off his mask.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

They’re holding hands. Smiling bigger and laughing louder than ever. They didn’t know this would be the last time they smiled and laughed like this. If they’d known, maybe they would’ve enjoyed it more. But they didn’t. And they can’t.

“Well isn’t that sweet?” Lyla floats on over, touching the younger Asad’s face. “You were adorable, what happened?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

“Lyla, please—” He can’t stop his voice from wavering. “Please play that again.”

“What do I get out of it?”

Tick.

“Please, just one more time.”

“I don’t think that’s a good—”

Boom.

Asad smashes the analog clock and scatters everything it rested on to the ground. “Lyla! Play it again, dammit!”

Lyla fizzles. The similarities aren’t cute anymore. “Maybe you should look up, ‘cause I already did.”

He turns around and there it is. Mr. Salim and his wife walking into the mess hall. The lights, the smoke, the fanfare. All that music, all those people, the drinks and the food and the drums and the singing and dancing and everyone’s ridiculously long and played out speeches and feelings and memories and Gwen chiding him and—Lyla taps him on the shoulder—Gwen dancing with him and—“Hey, hello?”—Gwen telling him he’s the best thing that ever happened to her and—“Asad, you should turn around.”—Asad slams his fists into the keyboard, forcing the projection to stop at the moment his heart breaks.

“What!? What the hell do you want?”

Lyla, wide-eyed, points behind him.

A second set of eyes reflects off the monitors, capturing his gaze. That’s when he sees it, the shadow engulfing him. He whirls around but not before Miguel slams his back against the monitor. Where the hell was his Spider Sense?

He laughs nervously. “Is that any way to greet your nemesis?”

Miguel doesn’t respond. He’s not even looking at Asad. Huh. Usually Miguel is easy to rile up. He’s never been the most level-headed guy… this silence is foreboding. A shiver claws its way up Asad’s back. Oh great, now his Spider Sense is working. “Miguel…?”

Letting him go, Miguel stands, eyes fixed. Asad slowly moves away from the computer and turns to see what Miguel is looking at.

It’s him and Gwen.

Having the time of their lives.

“Is that you?” Miguel asks, only half paying attention. “Your hair’s a lot longer here.” He’s completely mesmerised by the faces in front of him, enamoured with how different Asad looks. The only thing that’s the same is the scar, but after seeing what he did of Asad’s past, Miguel knows where it probably comes from. He reaches out, brushing an uncharacteristically gentle hand across the screen.

Asad swallows. Well shit. He didn’t have a chance to put his mask back on—as if by karma, a punishment for taking it off in the first place. What’d he even take it off for? Just so he wouldn’t get his mask wet as he cried? “Yeah. Uncle Ben liked it long.”

That takes Miguel out of his thoughts—that Asad looks genuinely happy and free. How old is he in this projection? He looks barely older than Gabriella was when she—and he puts his hand on his hip, nodding his head. Things between him and Asad don’t need to be awkward, but somehow they steered in that direction anyways. “Mm. Yeah. Well, short—short hair suits you too.”

“Thanks,” he says flatly.

A beat passes.

Miguel clears his throat. “Lyla. Lyla?”

She appears at his side. “I thought no one would break the ice. What’s up?”

“Play it again.”

“What?” Asad and Lyla say in unison.

Asad steps forward. “You—You don’t have to do that. What gives you the right—”

“I have plenty right when you’re using my computer.” Miguel inhales sharply. “Uh, sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.” Ugh. Every single time . It’s like he can’t talk to Asad any other way. Like a human being. Like an equal. The moment Asad is near, his thoughts become so loud. “Lyla, just play it.”

Asad can’t stay and watch this, but his escape is cut short by Miguel’s vice grip on his arm, holding him in place. He could shift into a snake or a bird or something frustratingly un-catchable if he wanted to, leave Miguel to eat his dust, crying out in animalistic dissatisfaction as one does when they’ve been left starving for human interaction. But Asad doesn’t want to. Why doesn’t he want to? Even when Miguel can’t respect the power of his no, let him decide when and how he opens up, why doesn’t he want to break Miguel the way Miguel broke him? He can’t bring himself to make a sound, and is forced to stand there and watch the happiest moment of his life with the man who created one of the unhappiest moments of his life.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Mr. Salim and his new wife walk into the mess hall. The announcer goes wild on the mic. Music starts playing. The happy couple dance for the first time. Why is time going so slow? Speed up, please. There’s a bruise spreading like cancer on his arm. It hurts. Everything hurts. Miguel won’t understand this data and these memories and Asad’s feelings. Let him go, please let him go, he can’t stand being here. He can’t stand being around Miguel. Don’t look at him. It never existed. None of it existed. Turn it off. Delete it all. 

The minute hand stops—the clock was smashed into a million pieces, it wasn’t turning anyways, or was it? (Is he going crazy, hearing things that aren’t there? He always did hear ticking when Uncle Ben was near.)—Miguel pauses it on the same frame Asad was so happy and so angry and so sad to see. A new emotion emerges. Heartbreak, or is it fear? What’s the difference? Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. Not at his face. He doesn’t want to see the scorn and the judgement on Miguel’s face.

“What kind of dance was that?” Miguel lets go. Except for the electrical thrumming, it’s silent. Did he ruin his chance again? Why can’t he do one thing right? Why can’t Asad just do what he’s told—no, he has to ignore that thought. He is not that man. He’s better than this. “You don’t—” He pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. He is not that man. Miguel corrects himself. “You don’t have to tell me. If you don’t want to.”

Asad searches Miguel’s eyes for a hint of malice. There’s something there, something he doesn’t have a word for, and the explanation finds its way out of his mouth. “It’s called dabke.” How much information is too much? Miguel doesn’t have a right to know any of this, yet Asad offers it up freely, out of a sense of pride. Or maybe he’s recognized Miguel trying to reach out to him. He would’ve killed to have Miguel recognize him when he reached out, but that was then. And this is now. “It doesn’t seem like it, but when you’re standing next to those drums, your entire body becomes one with them.” Every strike feels like you too are being struck.

Miguel nods. “It looks… fun.”

“It was.”

“Would you ever do it again?”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Asad shrugs. “Next time I’m invited to a wedding… or crash one.” He throws a mischievous glance at Miguel, who is somewhere between disbelief and disapproval. “I’m kidding.”

“No you’re not.”

“...No I’m not.”

“What about at your own wedding?” Miguel asks quietly. Asad doesn’t seem to notice him step closer.

He does, but he’s pretending he didn’t. “That’s not in the cards for a bad guy like me.” 

A bad guy… Miguel mumbles something at that, turning away. 

Asad shouldn’t ask, but he wants to. At the risk of hurting himself more, because he’s a glutton for punishment or something of the sort—never mind how he thinks Miguel’s always been right about him—he leans in. “What was that?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” He types something on the keyboard.

No, Miguel, you don’t get to run away from this. “C’mon, say it. I wanna hear what new horrible thing you’ve come up with to say about me.” Yet another piece of data to add to his corrupted hard drive.

How could you? What are you doing? Why are you like this? You’re just like him. You’re just like him. You’re. Just. Like. Him. Miguel’s thoughts are so loud. He reels on Asad. “You’re not—!” Shock. Not again. Asad’s backed away, again. He looks small, again. He’s afraid, again. Why does Asad make him do this all the time? “You’re not—” He inhales sharply, and lets it out just as sharply. “Just look at the screen.”

Tick. Tick. Tick.

Asad swallows his heart and looks.

Miguel, without so many age lines and bags under his eyes, sits on a workbench in what looks like a shed, shoulders pulled tight. Screwdriver in one hand, ammeter in the other, he fiddles with a pile of scrap. Lights flicker above him. 

“I’m an engineer and geneticist, I can change the very fabric of human DNA,” he mutters to himself. “But nooo, that’s not cool enough for the kids these days. Chemistry sets aren’t good birthday gifts, Gabriel says. I’ll show you a good birthday gift, you shocker.”

One might mistake this for a bygone era, until Lyla blips into existence, regarding his work with a skeptical look. “You’re still here?”

“Shaddup, Lyla.”

“How long have you been working on that… fine piece of… stuff, boss?”

“I’m almost done.” Just as he says that, the screwdriver slips and cracks the left side. “Oh for shock’s sake!” He throws it at the wall. It breaks into a bunch of tiny pieces.

“Look, an improvement!”

Even though he can’t physically interact with Lyla, he swipes at her.

“So testy today!” She fizzes as he walks through her, picking up the pieces of his failed creation. “Here’s a suggestion—instead of being your usual shut-in self, maybe you should go outside and try to enjoy the party your brother and sister-in-law worked so hard on planning for your daughter.”

Miguel has a retort for this, but he doesn’t have a chance to use it. The shed door opens to a goggled face, which the figure lifts to reveal friendly brown eyes. “Hey dude, just saying, only lame nerds stay in their shed during a party.”

“Ha ha, very funny, Gabe.” Miguel tosses his creation in the trash.

Gabriel sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. “You used to have more of a sense of humour.” Oh right, Miguel’s weird change in demeanour is a touchy subject. “Sorry. Uh—” He clears his throat. Things are always so awkward with Miguel. “Gabriella misses you.”

“Yeah I’m—I’m coming.”

His backyard is covered in floating lights and paper flower lanterns. In the centre is a giant soccer trophy, with a golden Gabriella holding a soccer ball and posing triumphantly. There sure are a lot of flowers. Even the drinking cups look like trophies, with their heads scalped, of course. And who could forget the balloon soccer goal, equipped with a score-keeping robot? What’s that stage doing over there? Oh yeah. This… this is definitely Dana’s taste.

He weaves through people who haven’t bothered to notice him yet, searching for the most important guest, but he doesn’t have to look for very long because she barrels right into him. “Dad! You’re finally here!”

“Hey kid.” Miguel smiles softly and picks her up. “Having fun?”

“I will once you give me my gift.”

Miguel sucks in a breath. “Yeah, about that…”

“I picked out the best song and had Aunt Dana set up a stage and—”

“Woah, woah, woah. What are you talking about?”

“It’s for my gift.”

“Your uncle didn’t say anything about a stage.”

“C’mon dad,” Gabriella says, rolling her eyes, “did you think Uncle Gabe would tell you what I actually wanted?”

Miguel is going to kill his brother. “No I guess not, because that would ruin the surprise.”

She squirms out of his grasp. “Let’s go!” Grabbing his hand, she drags him to the stage. He does not like where this is going, but he forces himself to look like he knows what’s about to happen.

Once they’re up on stage, a team of robots dressed in traditional clothing skitter onto the bleachers, and before Miguel can put the pieces together, they start playing a gentle song. His favourite song, or so he’s told. Before he ventured outside his universe, he’d never heard it before.

Gabriella offers her hand. “Dance with me, dad.”

Miguel glances out to the crowd. They’re all looking at him. He swallows, and takes Gabriella’s hand. They’re waiting. They’re shaking. Their images are shaking. This isn’t about them. Their faces drop focus. It’s about her. As he and Gabriella sway back and forth, playful footwork played out slowly, Miguel begins to sing and sway and smile and tears up. It’s all for this. All that he’s done. Everything he’s given up. For her. For himself. Happiness. Short-lived. It’s amazing how quiet the memory is, when his thoughts are so incredibly loud. This is his fault. He did this. He hurt her. He hurt them all. He cups her face at the end and apologises for taking so long. She shakes her head. All she wanted was him. He wipes her tears. He wipes her tearful face on the monitor. “[Happy birthday, Gabriella.]” “[I’m sorry, Gabriella.]” It’s his favourite song. It’s been his favourite since then.

The projection stops.

Gabriella smiles up at him.

Miguel smiles at the picture. It’s short-lived.

He takes a shuddering breath. “You’re not—” This is all his fault, and the worst part is, he doesn’t know how to fix it. He couldn’t fix it then, and if he can’t fix it this time, then nothing’s changed. He’ll break it all. He’ll break himself. He can’t do this again. “—a bad guy. You’re not bad, Asad. I—”

Tick. Tick.

“What…?”

He blinks back the stinging emotion. He can barely meet Asad’s eyes.

Tick.

“I was wrong.”

Silence.

They’re illuminated by the two images, side by side. Asad stares. Stares at the man who hurt him so badly he couldn’t put himself back together again, who showed everyone he’s not a person, just a broken machine, a record that’s been snapped in half and taped together and snapped again and glued together but not in quite the right shape—a mess of data and feelings and memories. He’s not sure where to store this precarious information. 

Miguel’s purposeful hand puts the monitors to sleep, bathing them in darkness, their features highlighted by little more than the emanating light, proving these machines are alive with functioning nervous systems, wires and hard drives and data and memories and feelings. Proving they’re alive with data, and memories, and feelings. He should shut them down. He should erase it all. This shouldn’t be happening. This shouldn’t exist. He shouldn’t exist. Stop, stop, stop. Go back.

Any moment now, the bomb will go off.

Miguel is so much closer than Asad remembers him being.

Why isn’t it going off?

His hand traces along Asad’s face, tilting his head up.

Go off.

“And I guess what I was really trying to ask was—”

Go off.

His eyes glow in the darkness.

Go off, please.

“Would you ever consider dancing with me?”

Static gathers on his skin. How long have time and space and meaning been relative? Asad leans into the touch, eyes never leaving Miguel’s. How long? As long as they’ve stood like this, he realises.

“Teach me.”

Miguel takes his hand, kissing the side of it, and holds it up. The other slips onto Asad’s waist, and Miguel begins to sway him. Away from the computer, away from the thrumming wires, away from the data and memories and feelings and towards the centre of the room, where it’s darkest, where it’s quietest, except for Miguel’s humming. Asad presses his face into Miguel’s shoulder and thinks of a different song, a song that Buddy showed him, that he can’t get out of his head, that he’s been hearing more and more around Miguel, more than the ticking, more than the bomb ready to go off. A song he can never get to the end of, because he doesn’t want to hear how he’s fated to be loveless and alone forever.

But that’s not how the song ends.

And maybe that’s the real reason he can’t get to the end.

Joy and love and community and belonging are supposed to be nothing more than concepts, and they were, when Asad was watching his projected memories. Nothing is really real when it’s playing on a screen. Yet in Miguel’s arms—the warmth of his body and the heat in his hands and his breath tickling Asad’s hair, his pounding heart, the way their hips move around each other and the building suffocation, because that’s what’s happening to him, he’s suffocating because of the something he doesn’t have a word for that he’d seen in Miguel’s eyes before—they aren’t just concepts, they’re ideals, they’re hopes, they’re tangible things Asad wants. He wants to mean something. He wants to be important. He wants love. He wants a home.

He wants—

Miguel twirls him and presses against his back.

He wants—

Miguel’s lips tickle his ear, whispering the words deeply.

He wants—

Miguel’s arm grips his middle. Asad can feel every motion in his hips.

He wants—

Miguel twirls him again. Now both his hands have claimed Asad’s waist.

He’s danced bachata in different bodies, with different people, feeling different things because he never danced it like he meant it. He never knew it was supposed to feel like this. They’re closer than they’ve ever been. The words Miguel sings are of devotion, a promise for faithfulness, an oath to always be there to save the love of his life, no matter where in the world she is. Begging her to believe him.

Asad glances up at him, questioning, confused, completely out of his element. Drowning. If only Miguel had the answer, but he doesn’t, and even if he did, he’s not sure either of them are ready to hear it.

He slows their dance, so Asad can really feel his movements, the friction between them, static dancing on his skin, talons digging into Asad’s back, Asad’s nails digging into his scalp and the back of his neck. It hurts, it hurts in bad ways, in good ways. It hurts to be here, knowing what they’ve done to each other, but he has to fix it. He has to try.

“Miguel—”

His name, tenderly breathed out. What it’s doing to him—He should let go. He should give Asad the room to escape. He should prove he’s safe. He can’t. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want Asad to leave. Miguel’s grip tightens. Asad gasps. That little noise deafens Miguel. He wants Asad to stay. He wants Asad to believe in him. He wants Asad to see the good in him. Please see the good in him. Please let him fix this.

He wants—

[Let me be good to you.]

Miguel kisses Asad like he needs him to breathe. He shouldn’t, but he can’t stop himself from claiming Asad’s lips over and over and over, devouring the words from his tongue and the air from his lungs and him, devouring him again and again. He’s losing himself to this mess of data and memories and feelings, one broken machine infecting another, and Asad is letting him, perfectly content to let the virus in, to break more with Miguel.

“Asad.” He says the name like he’s never tasted anything sweeter, sending shivers down Asad’s back; his Spider Sense, but this isn’t danger in a dangerous sense, it’s danger in an alarms blaring, he can never come back from this, he should probably realise where he is and what he’s doing and stop himself from going too far sense. Whatever too far means, in this context.

Asad presses his hands flat against Miguel’s chest and pushes. Immediately, Miguel pulls back. “What—” His pupils are black holes. “Sorry, I didn’t—I shouldn’t have—”

“Wait, Miguel. Stop—Stop talking.” Asad swallows. He’s nauseous with how much he wishes Miguel hadn’t listened to him and just kept going, but that’s the difference between someone who’s good and someone who’s—Miguel told him he’s not a bad person, so why did he think like that? Good people don’t—Well, he doesn’t really know what a good person does and doesn’t think. “Give me a minute.” Give him a minute to convince himself he’s not a bad person for wanting this to happen.

“Okay.”

Silence.

The ticking.

When did the ticking stop?

Silence is such a harsh word. It makes it sound like there’s something lying in wait for him at the end, pain, or more hurt, or a confession that Miguel didn’t really mean it, or he’s changed his mind and decided Asad is a bad person. That’s not what it feels like, though. It feels warm. It feels safe. It feels right, and when’s the last time Asad felt right? There’s gotta be another word for the feeling of sharing data, memories, and feelings, and not wanting to disappear afterwards. A word for the tentative taping together of their shattered pieces. A word for solidifying the things that should disappear once the system has been turned off.

Maybe… this is what they call peace.

And instead of a mess, he’s become—

“I need to go.”

“Why?”

“Because I might want to stay.”

“Then stay.”

“I can’t.”

“...Do you really want to go?”

“No, I don’t.”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want… I—I—” I want to stay with you. “I can’t.”

“[Just this once.]”

“[Make me stay.]”

“[I can’t.] I want you to want to stay.”

He’s not a mess.

He’s not a broken machine infected with a terminal virus, or a shattered record put together with tape and glue, or data, memories, and feelings hanging on by a wire. He’s not a broken analog clock, whose arms are bent and go too fast or too slow. He’s not a collection of concepts. He’s not gravity, or relativity. He’s not a bad person. He’s not even a mosaic.

“I don’t want to regret this.”

“You won’t.”

He’s just one man.

Asad holds Miguel’s face. Stares into the eyes of the man who broke him. Sees the reflection of the man he broke. Even after this long, the world around them hasn’t fallen apart. The bomb hasn’t dropped. They’re still standing, and maybe it’s not fate or canon or meaningful at all.

It never had to be anything.

“Fine. I’ll stay.”