#ryanfreewood

There was nothing that made Gavin Free more anxious than anything dealing with immigration.

And yet, here he was. Twenty-five years old, sitting alone in the badly lit waiting room of an immigration office, having received an urgent call just hours earlier that he was to come down here. It'd been a long time since he'd felt anxiety like this, the last time probably having to be when he was back in school. Actually, the way he felt now was strikingly similar to how he'd constantly felt in high school, and it was a feeling he thought he'd left behind when he'd graduated.

He had no bloody idea what this was about. None whatsoever. All he'd gotten was a call, an urgent notice, and a ride here from Burnie, who'd offered to accompany him in. It was that unknown thing, that reason he couldn't seem to find, that was making him nervous. He'd done everything right—he had his visa, he and Burnie had recently submitted it to be renewed, and he hadn't been in any trouble with the law—which was something he was constantly careful of. Nothing was wrong, and no matter how many times he wracked his mind for some mistake, some sort of error, he always came back without rhyme or reason. And that was the most terrifying part of this.

There was no way a trip to the immigration office could be good. They didn't tell people to come to this place immediately to give them a pat on the back and encourage them to someday become a fine citizen of the United States. No, they called people down here for bad things. Gavin had never actually seen the inside of an immigration office before and honestly, it looked about as bleak as his thoughts. The whole process of getting his visa in the first place had been done over the internet, through lawyers, and by phone. He'd never actually had to meet with one of these agents in their own offices, nor had he ever wanted to.

He didn't need to be told it to know—the only people who saw the insides of this place were either the idiot agents themselves or people who were in trouble. Unfortunately, that shoved Gavin into the second group. Even if he couldn't think of a single goddamn reason he could be in any trouble, the fact of the matter was that he was here now, meaning that it didn't matter if he could think of one. He was here and already done with whatever he'd done to land him here, so there was no point in bothering to go over the details and be stuck wondering. All he had to do was wait now, and if there was one thing Gavin hated more than not knowing what he was here for, it was waiting to find out.

The seconds ticked by, slowly becoming minutes, and Gavin sat and watched the clock through it all, counting each tick. There was nothing else to do, leaving him staring up at the clock on the wall and waiting, waiting, hating every single moment of it.

He was alone in the grey room. The only other person was the receptionist, who hadn't even bothered to ask his name and had immediately just ordered him to sit down. Waiting itself was excruciating. Waiting alone and having no idea what he was waiting for was one of the worst things he'd ever experienced. With each second that passed, he found himself wishing more and more that he'd taken Burnie up on his offer to come with him. He'd wanted at least a bit of dignity left once he was through with whatever here, so he'd refused any help—a mistake he now saw as naïve and bloody stupid.

To make matters worse, he was getting no phone reception up here, so he couldn't text Burnie or anyone else or even busy himself with answering emails and checking his schedule, throwing him into a figurative hell on earth. It was the last bit on top of everything else—being rushed here, having no idea what was going on, being forced to sit and wait on some grey-faced immigration agent, being here alone, and, to top it all off, not being able to do anything to keep himself distracted. A figurative hell on earth, and Gavin had half a mind to just walk out of the building and let them come to him on his time.

He wouldn't though. Not because it was morally wrong or because he needed to know. He was just almost completely sure that that was actually illegal in some twisted way, and really, giving them more reason to dislike him wasn't currently on the top of his list of things Gavin Free should do in the case of apparently having immigration customs breathing down his neck. So he decided to just stay put and sit still. If he couldn't get ahead and get on these people's good side, then at least he could stop himself from getting on their bad side.

"Gavin Free."

All-too-eager, Gavin looked to see exactly what he'd expected—an aging grey-faced immigration agent who looked as if he had the worst job in the world. Wordless, he got up and followed him through the door, the walk down the hallway to his office feeling like the longest thing in the world. It was then that he realized it, finally coming to the conclusion he'd been verging on in the waiting room—he still couldn't place what he'd done wrong, but he knew right now that he'd be leaving this building with a for-whatever-reason revoked visa and a one way ticket back to England.

It was a natural conclusion to come to, given what the facts were. He'd been called here on 'urgent notice'. He was forced to meet with an agent in person. He hadn't heard anything on his visa, which he'd recently submitted for renewal. He was being kicked out of the country, leaving the one word Gavin feared stinging on his lips and biting at the tip of his tongue.

"You're deporting me."

He said it as soon as the agent closed the door to his office, a tiny, badly lit room with a desk covered in papers and an uncomfortable looking chair Gavin didn't even bother to sit in, even though the agent pointed him towards it. He shook his head, standing against the door as the agent sat behind his disorganized desk.

He sighed heavily, as if he'd been through this hundreds of times already today. Gavin didn't doubt that he had. "Mr. Free—"

"You're. Deporting. Me." Each word sounded horrible on his lips as he hissed them out, cursed words he'd never thought he'd have to say. He'd never imagined himself here, in this office, having to say these words. He'd never thought he'd have to grasp desperately for a reason, a reason the life he'd built for himself was being forcibly ended. And yet, here he was, just seconds away from being told that yes, he was being deported. He'd walked in this office free and completely legal and he'd leave an outsider, someone who was here but wasn't supposed to be.

The agent just slowly nodded, looking everywhere but at him, as if he didn't want to even face him, "Mr. Free, please understand—"

"This is bullshit."

"Mr. Free—"

"If you're going to deport me, at least have the bloody decency to use my full name!" He was yelling now, his voice high and strained, echoing in the tiny office. He threw every bit of himself into it, forcing all of his rage to come out right here and now.

This wasn't fair. He'd worked for this. He'd worked to get himself here and he'd worked to stay here and now, all with a single visit, a single walk to an immigration agent's office, it was all over. Everything he'd done, everything he'd worked for—it was all gone. He'd built a life for himself. He had a job he'd dreamed of having when he was younger and relationships he'd never been able to build back in England. Everything was perfect—his job, the people he'd gotten to know, the people he considered family now—and with just a single visit, that was all ripped away from him. It wasn't fair.

Nothing about this was fair. He had everything. And now he had nothing. He didn't know why and frankly, he didn't really care. Whatever reason it was, he was still being deported. Nothing would change that. No amount of arguing or fighting or yelling would change that. None of that mattered so, despite being angry to the point that he could hear his own accented voice echoing off the walls, he wouldn't bother with that.

"It's not fair."

He sounded vaguely like a child arguing with a parent. He was completely aware of such and he made no attempt to act more maturely, fighting to keep the controlled, calm demeanor he usually had. His hands at his sides had curled into fists, his nails digging so far into his skin that he swore he could feel blood beading at his fingernails. None of this was fair and that bothered Gavin, who hardly ever let anything matter enough to bother him. This was different, though. This was his entire life being taken away from him, the control he had exerted over his life being torn away from him and placed into the hands of an aging immigration agent.

He didn't have any control now. That was all long gone. He wasn't allowed to stay here, here where he'd finally found home, meaning he'd have to go back to England, back to living with his parents in a state of constant depression and loneliness. He'd been raised in the UK, but it'd never been home to him. Even when he'd been an adult he'd always been between filming jobs, being flown from one place to another, staying in a different and unfamiliar hotel every night in a different and unfamiliar place, as if he'd needed anything to accentuate his lack of a real home.

This was his home. Here, in Texas—this was his home. Burnie had worked to get him here and he'd gone through months of constant anxiety and depression while waiting, waiting to find out if he'd be able get approved for a visa. This was where he'd always wanted to be. Even as a teenager, all Gavin had ever wanted to do was work for the people who'd made Red Vs. Blue and film in slow motion. And now—now he had that. He couldn't imagine a better job than working at RoosterTeeth. He couldn't imagine living anywhere else than in the studio apartment at the Ramsey house. The people he worked with and saw on a daily basis—those people were more his family than anyone else had ever been. He had friends, close friends, family. And he was happy. Really, truly, actually happy. It was all he'd ever wanted.

But now it was being forced away from him and it was all so far out of his control that Gavin couldn't even grasp for the edge of it and try to regain ground. His entire life rested in the hands of the agent behind the desk, the man currently at a loss for words as his eyes scanned a file. His, Gavin presumed. He'd fought for this happiness and he'd finally gained it and had been able to enjoy it and now it was just—all gone.

"Please understand that—"

The crash of nearly every paper on the agent's desk resounded throughout the entire building, shaking the floor beneath his feet as Gavin threw just about everything he could reach on the desk to the ground, the pushed-off papers spreading on the floor, making an even larger mess as the agent just stared, wide-eyed with his mouth agape, not saying a word as Gavin stormed out of the office, making sure to slam the office door behind him as he left.

…

"Let's do a Rage Quit together."

Michael looked at him over his laptop, raising a questioning eyebrow.

"I don't have any recording equipment here," He told Gavin, looking back down at his screen. Gavin wouldn't let up, though.

"Geoff and I've got a whole recording station in the living room at home. Could swing by there and pick it up."

"No."

"Why?" Gavin, persistant and relentless as always. No surprises there.

"My neighbors would complain and I'd be kicked out of my apartment," Which was why he never took his work home with him. Thin walls meant anyone could hear everything he'd say. Michael Jones had gotten famous for screaming at video games. It wasn't a talent he wanted to show off in the thin-walled apartment complex. At work, it was a different story.

"But Michael—"

Michael looked at him over the top of his glasses, his eyes narrowing at him, "If you start whining at me I'll take that bottle of whisky away and you can go dry for the rest of the night."

That got him to shut up at least. It was a start. A start to what, exactly, Michael didn't really know. Gavin was—acting strangely. It wasn't the annoying talking or whining that was strange. Those were normal and still continued to ebb at Michael's thin nerves. It was the fact that Gavin had called him to pick him up from inner city Austin near a bunch of bullshit corporate and government buildings without even telling him why and had insisted on coming back to Michael's apartment. He didn't exactly have any objections—Gavin usually spent the weekend here, anyways, crashing at his place when Michael was too exhausted or drunk to drive him home after going to a party or a bar, and even stayed some weekdays, too—but that wasn't the point.

The point was that something was going on. Michael wasn't stupid. He could be rash and blunt, but he wasn't stupid. Gavin was obvious, locking up whenever Michael tried to ask him about what the hell had happened earlier, and was currently drowning himself in alcohol, most likely to forget whatever had happened, and that alone made Michael curious. He knew Gavin and he knew Gavin well. Gavin was the type of complete idiot who, really, had the whole complete idiot thing on for a show. Not a lot of things usually bothered Gavin because he found ways to walk away from it or prevent it from getting to the point that it actually bothered him. So seeing him like this, obviously upset over something, was strange.

Maybe even—worrying? He did care about Gavin. For Christ's sake, Gavin was his best friend. So yeah, he was worried, and ready to admit that. But he did know Gavin. And that meant he also knew that when he actually was bothered about something, he didn't talk about it. He kept it hidden and inside so he wouldn't have to deal with it and so that others wouldn't have to deal with it. That was what he was currently doing right now, drinking to forget and drinking to get to the point that he wouldn't have to think about it. Michael let him. Because he knew Gavin. And he knew that if he got Gavin drunk enough, the idiot would really tell him anything.

Gavin leaned his head back, resting it against the arm of the couch and closing his eyes, "I wasn't whining."

"'But Michael!'" He mocked Gavin's accent, drawing a childish scowl from him as he put on the high voice and cockney accent. "Does that sound like whining to you, Gavin? Because it sure does to me."

There was a pause and Michael took the short moment to go back to writing the email to Burnie and Matt about an idea he'd had for a new RT Life. All too soon, Gavin was back at it, "We could go back to the office. It's only eight. No one would mind."

This was useless. Michael shut his laptop, pushing it away from him as he did, sighing and rubbing the bridge of his nose. He had no idea why Gavin was so persistent and why he wanted to record a Rage Quit so much, but then again, Gavin could be completely and utterly unpredictable, so Michael had learned over time that he couldn't be surprised if he didn't expect a lot from Gavin.

"You've been drinking and I'm about to start. That's not a good idea," For the first time, he gave Gavin his full attention, and what he saw surprised him—Gavin wasn't returning his gaze, his eyes downcast and his mouth set into a disappointed frown. That was odd—he'd really just assumed Gavin was in the mood to fuck with Michael while doing a video with him and that was why he was so intent on recording something. Unfortunately, that didn't appear to be the actual case. He couldn't quite remember a time Gavin actually looked so disappointed. "We'll do it tomorrow, Gav. We can go in early together before anyone gets there and record it. There's a new expansion out for that Surgeon Simulator game, anyways. People would probably love to see us do that."

That at least made Gavin stop frowning as much and he actually met Michael's eyes, holding his stare for a long moment before speaking again, "I want to yell, too. Like you do."

"—What?"

If he didn't expect any specific reaction out of Gavin, then he couldn't be disappointed. He'd accepted long ago that Gavin Free was unpredictable and didn't usually fit to people's molds of him. That being said, Gavin was still Gavin. However unpredictable he might be, Gavin was still the absolute little shit who was Michael's best friend and after two years of being around him, he knew Gavin. Gavin was excitable and energetic and it took a lot to actually fully piss him off. Even when he was pissed, Gavin didn't yell or scream like Michael did. All he usually did was stomp off and come back once he was calmer. His anger seemed to be more on that annoyance and irritation side of things, while Michael's was more furious.

Then there was the fact that Gavin didn't even like yelling. He thought it was funny as hell when Michael did it, but that was about as far as it went. He hardly ever yelled himself, the closest he ever got to it being his voice getting high-pitched and rising in volume when something started to push at his limits. So it was beyond him that Gavin would actually want to scream at something like Michael did during his signature series and it only further shoved his assumption that something was actually wrong with Gavin and the fucking idiot was being his usual self and not saying anything about it.

Gavin was like that, and taking into account every single other thing he didn't like about Gavin—the fact that he was too easy going, when he intentionally made Michael angry, his usual disregard for other people's feelings, the way he talked so badly about himself, among a lot of other things—that was perhaps the worst thing about him and it drove Michael up a fucking wall. Gavin was one of those people who constantly kept up a front that everything was alright. He didn't let anyone in, always building a wall between himself and other people, and hid it away so that all people would see was the British idiot who enjoyed messing with other people more than anything else.

"What's going on?" He came right out and asked it. He'd known Gavin long enough. Gavin would evade the question as much as he possibly could and would turn it around or accuse Michael of something. If he didn't come straight out and ask it, Gavin would do what he was best at and steer the conversation away from himself so he could avoid it.

Gavin held his stare, lying to his face, "Nothing."

"Bullshit."

"I said it was nothing!"

He had to keep this up. Gavin was fidgeting, playing with the band of his watch in what Michael had learned was one of his nervous impulses. He stood abruptly, facing Gavin, his voice raising to a near-yell, "It's not nothing, so stop feeding me shit and tell me what's going on."

"Michael—"

There was that high pitched whine Gavin always put on to annoy him or get him to stop pressing him for information. The sound of it sent sparks of irritation flying up Michael's spine, making actual anger start to prick at him. It was times like this that made him legitimately angry at Gavin—none of that fake anger he acted out in videos or recordings. Actual, real anger at how goddamn stupid he could be when Michael was right here, willing to listen to whatever he had to say, and Gavin still didn't trust him, his best friend with whatever was bothering him. He hated when Gavin did this, when he tried to keep it all in and hide it, when he thought he could deal with it on his own when in reality, he obviously couldn't and it was affecting him.

"Tell me," He forced himself to level his voice and try to stay calm. Gavin was still sitting on the couch, his forgotten about glass of alcohol still in his hand. His green eyes were wide as he stared up at Michael, the one thing Michael could be grateful for being that he actually had Gavin's full attention. For a moment, Michael actually thought he had him. He watched him, green eyes wide open, his mouth slightly agape, as if he were about to say something, about to confess what was actually going on and admit, for once, that it wasn't actually nothing. The room went silent, the only sound being Gavin's quick, almost panicked breathing and then—

"It's nothing."

Two words, and they made Michael want to scream every insult in his colorful vocabulary at him. He didn't know what else to do, what else to say, so he just went over the facts again in his head, desperately trying to keep himself even and grounded in the face of Gavin's obvious denial. He'd gotten a call from Gavin to come pick him up, his directions making Michael wind up in the part of Austin where multiple government buildings were located. Gavin was at a park and had been quiet almost the entire ride back to Michael's apartment, only commenting once to ask if he could stay the night. His quietness had been the first indicator, strange when put up next to his constant talking and ridiculous questions that usually kept Michael entertained in the car with him.

They'd arrived back here, Gavin had promptly started drinking, not giving any sort of an explanation. Michael had given him an odd look and accepted it, since there wasn't anything Gavin wouldn't tell him if he was drunk enough. And then there was what had set him off, bringing the two of them to this point—Gavin had insisted on doing Rage Quit with Michael and when he'd finally agreed to do it in the morning, had told Michael that he wanted to scream and yell in the recording, something that was both uncharacteristic for him, as well as the most worrying thing that had happened, since Gavin was by-nature not an angry person.

"It's not nothing!" He'd run out of things to say, so they were back at this, winding up back at the 'it's nothing!', 'it's not nothing!' part of the argument. He wasn't getting anywhere with this, but he wasn't about to give up on it. "I can't—"

There was a ground shaking shatter that cut him off as Gavin stood, glaring at Michael in a way he'd never seen before. The glass previously in his hand fell to the ground, shattering into thousands of pieces, making a mess of liquid and tiny sharp pieces of glass on the floor. Gavin jumped at the impact, leaping back at the noise and straight onto the bulk of the damage, his right foot going straight into a pile of glass shards accompanied by a puddle of whiskey. Michael just watched in shock, watching Gavin yell out in pain, a string of curses he rarely heard from his mouth echoing throughout the apartment.

Goddammit.

God fucking dammit.

He cared about Gavin a lot, but right about now he fucking hated him with every fiber of his being. He could almost hear his neighbors calling management to complain about the drunk British man yelling curses at the top of his lungs. The mess was too much, scattered over the whole floor, all Gavin's fault and all because he wouldn't just fucking say what was bothering him. There was never quite a moment like this before, a moment in which Michael was completely and wholly consumed by the want to lunge forward and punch his coworker and best friend in the fucking face.

He might've, too, if it hadn't been for the expression on Gavin's face, the way he was doubled over, his face red and his breathing heavy, his eyes clenched shut with was the pain stemming from the foot he still had in the glass, which was only adding to the mess by spewing blood.

That wasn't what stopped him, though. It was the way Gavin looked up at him, the strangled cry of what could only be a plea for help falling from his slightly parted lips, his eyes watering. It was the way it didn't seem to be just the pain or just the glass in his foot that was causing this. And above all, it was what he said, his voice quiet and strained, and so utterly filled with emotion that it left Michael's mind blank and at the same time, swirling with thousands upon thousands of words.

"I'm being deported, Michael."

--

"Deported—?"

Michael repeated the word back to him and it sounded as if he were trying to sound out a completely foreign word, struggling to make it sound right.

"Deported. Yeah."

Gavin breathed out each word, his hands in fists and his teeth clenching as pain continued to shoot through him, up through his foot, where he had shards of glass stuck in his skin, traveling up his spine and shaking him at the core. He struggled to still stand, trying desperately to keep himself upright without his legs buckling under him and without yelling out even more in pain.

Every bit of anger fell from Michael's face, all the irritation going from him as soon as Gavin finally told him what was going on. What was left in the wake of his fury was pure undulated shock, his voice quiet and disbelieving, his brown eyes huge as Gavin watched him try to wrap his mind around him. A second ago, he'd been ready to no doubt throw Gavin out of his bloody ass for accidentally making such a huge mess and tell him that if he was going to act like that, then he might as well get out. That had been just a second, a single moment ago, and in the time span of a single beat of conversation, that anger had been completely drained from him by four words from Gavin's mouth.

"How—why—?"

"Oh, fuck," For once, Gavin didn't mean to evade the conversation. He hissed out the curse from under his breath, leaning his entire wait on the arm of the couch and worked at finally moving himself from the scattered pile of glass on the floor and into a sitting position. He let out another cry in pain, gagging at the sight of the blood, his blood, on the floor, dreading looking at the damage he'd done to himself when he'd jumped back in surprise at the glass breaking against the floor.

"Holy shit—" Michael had finally torn his eyes from Gavin, looking instead at the injury he'd given himself from pure carelessness. "Hang on—just. Hang on. I'll get you something."

"Your floor—"

"Shut up. I don't give a flying fuck about my floor. Sit still."

So Gavin did just that, sitting still and doing whatever Michael told him to do until his bleeding foot was taken care of, the entire world seeming to move around him in a blur. It'd been like that since he'd stormed out of immigration office, slow moving and still moving too fast for him to catch up and understand it all. He'd thought it'd be fine, that he'd talk to Burnie in the morning and ask him what to do and not tell anyone before then, but things were never easy with Michael. Michael had demanded to know what was wrong, an argument got heated, and now Michael knew and there were a million shards of glass on the floor.

The gentle buzz of alcohol dulled the pain at least, warming his cheeks and providing at least a bit of solace from his swarming thoughts, letting him finally breathe for the first time since Michael picked him up. For the first time in a long time, he allowed himself to just not think as the world blurred and moved fast around him.

"There has to be a way to get out of this," Michael was saying, pacing back and forth in front of Gavin, their previous argument completely abandoned. Gavin almost wished they could go back to arguing about Rage Quit, or really, anything other than this. He didn't want to think about it. He didn't even want to deal with it right now. He just wanted to leave it until morning. Burnie would know what to do about it. Burnie always knew what to do and would figure out a way to get Gavin to stay.

"There has to be."

Gavin sighed, watching Michael as he continued to pace, "Like what?" If he couldn't figure a way out of it on his own, then how could Michael? He didn't even know why Michael cared so much. When Gavin had confessed he was getting deported, everything had drained out of Michael's face, all the anger leaving and being replaced by pure shock. He'd never seen Michael look so shocked, so confused, and ever—distraught.

Michael stopped, fixing Gavin with a long stare, "I don't—I don't know." A second later, he was pacing again, Gavin's eyes following him as he paced back and forth, back and forth. "What if—isn't there a way to contest it?"

"Don't know," Gavin's voice was monotonous, but he wasn't disinterested. There was no way Michael could come up with something Gavin hadn't. He'd gone over everything multiple times, trying to think of a reason, even though he previously hadn't really cared for one. If he had a reason, at least he could figure out whether or not it was a legitimate reason for being deported, but over and over again, he came up with nothing. He hadn't broken the law. He hadn't been arrested. He hadn't messed up in resubmitting his visa. He'd gotten it in on time and had figured that just like every other time, it'd be renewed without much of an issue. It could be a screw up on the immigration agency's part, but even that seemed unlikely. After all, it was a government-run agency. They had to have checked everything over at least twice.

He wasn't stupid. He might've been buzzed, but he wasn't stupid. His thoughts were dulled to a manageable amount, but he could still think just as clearly as ever. He knew they wanted him out as soon as possible and even if there was a mistake or an illegitimate reason, contesting that would take time, effort, and money, and would cause a lot of people to get involved that he hadn't necessarily wanted to get involved in the first place—lawyers, the Ramseys, the rest of the company, their HR department—and in the midst of all that time, effort, and money, his time would more likely than not run out and land him on the first one-way flight back to England.

It really seemed like there was nothing to do in this situation. It felt like he was out of options, that there hadn't even been an option to begin with. He might as well go home and pack up all his shit and have Geoff drive him to the airport first thing in the morning. That was essentially what he was waiting for, anyways. He was hopeless and optionless, leaving him watching Michael struggle to grasp onto a way, a reason, a solution to an equation Gavin had already tried multiple times.

"What if we called that guy—the agent you told me about—and asked him why you're getting deported?" It was obvious Michael was just throwing any suggestions out. Gavin didn't know why he cared or why he was trying to find that solution Gavin had tried so hard to solve, but at least it was something. He hadn't thought Michael or anyone else would really give that much of a shit about what was going on. Sure—they were his coworkers. He knew they'd be disappointed, but he hadn't expected this. Michael was refusing to give up on this, refusing to just accept it and take it as it was.

"Didn't get his number," Gavin just shrugged it off with another sigh, waiting for Michael's next suggestion. Unfortunately, whatever he said was nothing Gavin hadn't already thought of, nothing he'd already lingered on and had dismissed once he found the problem with. For Michael's sake, he almost wished he had stuck around to hear the reasoning behind his deportation, just so that Michael could at least have a bit of closure and so he would stop pacing back and forth and racking his head for a reason and a loophole.

"This is fucking bullshit!" Michael threw his hands into the air and Gavin flinched as he screaming each word into the thin-walled apartment, his face red and his body tense with anger and frustration. One thing about Michael was that he always threw his everything into it, pushing all his anger into his voice and using it to channel his fury into something. He'd get so worked up sometimes that it actually made Gavin laugh, but not now, not when that was actual, real anger, making Michael so frustrated that he was yelling, having apparently stopped caring who heard what. "This is bullshit, Gavin! They can't do this to you! They can't just—they can't suddenly call you up and tell you that you need to leave the fucking country! They can't do that! You have a job! You've done nothing wrong—you're actually fucking happy and you're my best fucking friend and I'm not going to let this happen, Gavin. I'm not."

He was watching Michael more intently now, hanging onto his every word and movement as Michael paced and ranted and yelled everything into the quiet apartment. Michael didn't want him to leave. Gavin could see that. And he was willing to fight for him. That was actually—comforting. It was good to know that someone besides Burnie would protest and help figure out what was going on and how to stop it. It wouldn't be enough, though. Gavin knew that it usually didn't take very long for someone to get deported. He had maybe three weeks. Even with their power on the internet and standing in the community, that wasn't enough bloody time. It wasn't enough time to gather people and resources and it wasn't enough time to make a big deal out of things and it wasn't enough time to get his probably rejected visa back to being valid. If they were going to do anything, they were going to have to do it quick, and there was nothing quick enough that would actually be possible and legal.

Michael went on, his voice getting louder and louder, pacing faster across the living room he'd just cleaned up, "Come on, there's got to be something. What the fuck do people usually do to stay here? Citizenship would take too long. Getting another visa would, too. Passport? You could stay for ninety days? No, then you couldn't fucking legally work here. You can't stay illegally, either, since we work for a goddamn internet company. Come on, there's got to be something. Other people have got to have had this problem. What do they—"

Gavin's head snapped up, his eyes going wide, "Oh my god."

Michael stopped in front of him and turned to him, raising an eyebrow, "What? You got something?"

"We're such idiots, Michael."

They were. It'd been right in front of him all along. A solution too simple, too obvious, too completely possible that Gavin had just overlooked it. There was no way it couldn't work, and he'd been too much of a dumbass to have not seen it. It'd take some more planning, probably a change in living arrangements, and a bit of acting, but it was nothing he couldn't easily pull off. Plus, it'd leave him coming out on top of things and in a better position than he had been beforehand.

"What? What is it?" Michael stepped towards him, clearly more confused than ever. Gavin didn't respond at first, going over it again. There had to be an issue somewhere. It'd recently become legal. They were already best friends. It was completely believable. It wouldn't take too long. There had to be a downside somewhere, a loophole. It was too perfect to be true.

But there wasn't. No matter how hard he thought or what he went over, reworking the problem again and again in his head, it always worked out to the same infallible solution. As long as Michael would agree, as long as he could convince him to go along with this—it would work. It would actually bloody work. And if it worked, he could stay here. He wouldn't be deported. He wouldn't be shipped back to England. He could stay here. This was the only actual home he'd ever had and the people at RoosterTeeth were the only actual family he'd ever had. This was where he belonged, right here in Austin. As Michael had said, he was actually happy for once. He didn't want that all to be ripped away by the hands of some immigration agent who'd barely bothered to learn anything past his last name.

So he leaned forward, barely breathing, "Michael, what are you willing to do to keep me here?"

Michael shook his head and answered immediately, without missing even a beat, "Anything, Gav.