#okay i think jeremy’s a winter/fall kid but he’s older than michael and they’re in the same year

[sea-jello]

i was thinking about how old jeremy and michael would have been when they met and realised they could have be fifteen during the events of bmc depending on their birthday

so i’m asking for birthday hcs now what month do you think they were born in jeremy seems like a winter or fall kinda guy and michael seems like a spring kid maybe march or april

[enigmog]

Scars

Apparently I’m on a roll this week. Definitely not avoiding studying I swear. This time I’m being mean to Gavin, enjoy!

cw: violence

The vagabond is covered in scars, everyone knows this. A man in his line of work has his fair share of stories written across his skin. But what about Gavin Free? The Fake AH Crew’s sweet little golden boy.

Never seen out of long sleeved shirts and skinny jeans

You’d think for an English kid in sunny Los Santos he’d be wearing as little clothing as possible right? The hot summers and mild winters of the West Coast more akin to Southern France than miserable old England. And yet...

And yet.

The others begin to realise he never removes a single item of his get up around them. Not even rolling his sleeves up. Whereas Michael will throw off his jacket or Geoff will pull off his tie and loose the top few buttons of his shirt; Gavin remains fully dressed and immaculate at all times. Odd. But they all have their quirks.

He’s not in combat much.

He’s adequate with a gun sure, good with a knife, fucking terrible at hand to hand. When he does get injured it’s usually minor. The rest of his crew increasing their efforts tenfold as soon as someone even thinks of touching their golden boy, of making him bleed. He’s more at risk from himself than others. Every injury is "just a scrape," "just a nick," "just bloody shot myself in the foot!" Nothing major. Nothing that requires medical attention, honest.

He always refuses to be seen by Caleb. Refuses to let Jack look him over. Ryan quietly sidles up to him one day. Cautious, suspicious, Gavin can tell. He refuses Ryan’s help too. He can patch himself up, he’s been doing it long enough.

"What do you mean by that?"

And Gavin pauses for a second, face stricken, before the golden boy facade repositions over his features, self assured grin back in place. "I’m clumsy, was even clumsier as a kid. I'm used to it"

Ryan doesn’t buy it for a second. But Ryan leaves. Ryan ruminates. Ryan waits.

Then comes the day Gavin feared. The day the crew see. The day they know.

It’s a heist gone wrong. The LSPD getting the drop on them as they leave the bank the fakes are robbing. They’ve blocked in the getaway cars and Jack has been forced to retreat. It’s times like this, when all their muscle is on the ground, that they miss having a permanent sniper. Geoff radios for B-team to pick them up, turning back into the bank and hurrying for a back door.

“We get out of here, we split. Stay in pairs and keep each other safe. Regroup three blocks from here by the impound. B-team is gonna pick us up there. I’m meeting Jack the next street over. Go!”

There’s a reason Geoff is their leader, when Ramsey is in charge everyone acts without question or retort. Gavin included. Team Nice Dynamite separate from the others and take off running. Their path the most direct, Gavin isn’t exactly the best at climbing over walls or jumping roofs.

Which is how the LSPD catch up to them. Cut off both ends of the street they’re on and launch tear gas. Gavin can’t breathe, can’t see. He needs to find Michael and get out. Before the LSPD close in and ensnare them.

He splutters his way blindly into an alley, lungs burning. Gasping in lungfuls of cleaner city air, poisoned only by pollution and human leavings instead of military grade mist. Stumbles forward, hands outstretched and eyes streaming. Flails straight into a wall. Dead end.

Shit.

He turns around, dropping his empty pistol, not like he’d be able to aim straight if he did have bullets, the effects of the tear gas still clouding his sight. Instead he pulls a knife and waits.

Out of the toxic cloud comes three LSPD officers, clothed in breathing apparatus and wielding weapons of their own.

They'll try to take him alive. Try. The golden boy would be so useful to them, all those pretty secrets he could spill. But a dead golden boy is still a victory. Still a head cut from the snake that has ruled the city for so long

Gavin lunges forward, knife going for a throat, plunging it deep as his eyes are already on his next target. A gun butt hits the back of his head and he drops forward, lights flashing behind his eyes as he goes to his knees. Then he's up again. Whirling round as he pulls a fresh knife, stabbing for anything he can reach. Crotch will do, plenty of blood vessels around there. A shot goes off and pain sears through his abdomen and Gavin stumbles. Another shot and his left leg gives way beneath him. Sharp hot pain shooting up from his shin. He screams, clutching at the wound and willing himself not to throw up, even as he can taste acrid bile rising at the back of his throat.

The last officer looms over him, his gas mask making him appear emotionless. And in that moment Gavin understands the fear others have of the vagabond. Then there's a spray of blood and the officer drops. Michael sprinting to Gavin’s side, red faced and snarling.

"You alright boi?"

He shakes his head, unable to speak. If he speaks he’ll throw up. If he speaks he'll scream again. Michael looks him over, rage dropping from his features as they cloud over with fear instead. "We're getting you to Caleb."

"NO!" He can’t, not Caleb, they'll see, they'll know. He throws up and then babbles, pleadingly, "please Michael don't, I’m fine, it doesn't hurt that bad, Michael please I can patch myself up, don't take me to Caleb, please!"

Michael picks him up, cradling Gavin to his chest ignoring his frantic begging. “It’s alright, I got you boi.” The pain of being moved, even gently, makes him want to throw up all over again. Combined with the anxiety of what was to come, his brain checks out and he falls into darkness. The distant sound of Michael calling for the others to get to him fading out.

He wakes up in a hospital cot, wires running from his chest to a monitor beside him, tube up his nose, bandages across his stomach and a cast on his leg. His shirt and jeans have been removed.

They've seen.

They know.

He immediately tries to get up. Tries to get out of bed and leave. Go anywhere. Maybe catch a plane and just fucking flee. Adios Los Santos!

Then there's gentle hands restraining his shoulders, a soft "hey, you're okay i got you," and gentle brown eyes peering into his own.

It’s not okay. It'll never be okay. He’s a mess, covered in scars. Pretty golden boy face with a marred body. Old lines and neat little circles. Too numerous for others to count. There’s 23 knife wounds and 15 separate cigarette burns. He knows, he counted. That’s not including wounds that have faded or wounds from working in America. These scars are older, the pain running deeper. Gavin tries to hide as much of himself under the bed sheet as he can. He doesn’t want Michael to see. But Michael’s looking at his face, looking at him with pity in his eyes and no, no! This isn't right. He’s the golden boy, he’s one of the fakes, he’s untouchable and terrifying and powerful. He doesn’t want pity. Especially not from those he cares about.

"What happened Gav?"

He laughs at that. Maybe it’s shock or painkillers or something else. But he throws his head back and laughs hysterically."What do you think happened?!"

The others come in when they hear him. They all look at him with pity. They've all seen. They all know.

And it all comes out as everything falls apart.

"Kids are cruel. They get worse when they turn into teenagers. It started as shoving and name calling, escalated all the way to torture on camera. I was nothing in high school. Nothing. Nobody would dare come near for fear of the same treatment, I twagged most of my lessons because they told me to. Teachers asked questions but I couldn’t tell anyone, they said they’d kill me if I told anyone and I believed them, still do. I left school and worked in a shop. Dan worked there too. But they never left me alone. Just kept coming back. Same old taunts but always new ideas on how to inflict pain. I just wanted them to stop... Then one day they jumped me as I was leaving, it was... different this time. They weren't just doing it to hurt, I think- I think they were going to kill me. Had had enough of playing with me and decided to end it. End me." His voice stayed flat, emotionless, watching for their reactions.

He can see the tension in his crew, the tight set of Geoff’s jaw, the tilt of Jack’s head as she listens, the coldness of Ryan’s gaze that held hot fury beneath, Jeremy’s straight back and Michael’s balled fists. They'd seen now. It was best they knew everything.

"I'd be dead if it weren't for Dan.  He saved my life by ending theirs. It was the first time I'd seen dead bodies... I kind of hoped it’d be the last back then," he snorts bitterly. "We started working together. Outside of work work. I'd already been pick-pocketing and pulling credit card fraud and shit, Dan was muscle for some local drug dealer since, y’know, shop work doesn't exactly pay much. So we started working together. Formed SMG. I’d known Burnie since high school and he... showed interest in us. Dan didn't want to go but said I should. I didn't want to leave without him. In the end he made the choice for me by joining the army. Liberty City was safer than trying to go it alone. I was never really safe without Dan until I joined the Roosters. And then you went off to Los Santos and formed the Fakes, Geoff, and here we are. Here I am."

He can't look at them, can't look at himself either. Can't let them see how much this hurts him. Can't let them know the pain it’s causing him to recount all this.

"Here you are. And I'm so glad you are." His eyes snap to Geoff, disbelieving.

"You don’t think I’m weak?"

"Gavin, why the fuck would we think that? You took fucking beatings for years! And you’re still here! How does that make you weak?!" Michael’s voice, relatively quiet despite the anger clearly bubbling, makes him feel better. More normal.

"Burnie knows. He uh- a gang got hold of me when we were still part of the Roosters. He bloody kacked himself when he saw the- the mess I was in. Thought the other gang had done it all," he shrugs, "they barely added any new marks."

He flinches at Jack’s sudden intake of breath, doesn't want to see her pity. But when she envelops him in a tight hug, and suddenly the others are joining too, cautiously, very aware of his injuries, it feels almost nice. Feels like he can finally breathe. He doesn’t realise he’s crying until Jack wipes the tears away, telling him it’s okay to cry, that he's okay now, he’s safe.

In an odd way, he’s glad they’ve seen. Glad they know. Caleb comes in and doses him up with more painkillers. His world becomes clouds and softness as the others leave, Michael staying to watch over him, their hands laced together. Gavin lets himself drift off. He’s safe. He has his crew.

Yes he’s breakable.

But maybe it's not so bad that family knows that.