Archive of Our Own

"So," Lawrence hums conversationally, taking a quick sip of his Caramel Ribbon Crunch Frappuccino that he keeps his fingers curled around - why in the world someone would choose a cold drink in the dead of winter, Adam will never understand.

Personally, Adam's keeping his frozen, barely cooperative, wind-chapped hands wrapped firmly around his small hot chocolate (he wouldn't let Lawrence buy him anything else, despite the fact that he offered). His toes are still numb in his fuzzy socks in his weathered off-brand Docs, so he is going to sit here until he thaws enough for his body to function properly and his hot chocolate cools enough to drink, thank you very much.

After a moment, it does occur to him that it's his turn to contribute to the conversation. "So," he says in a bit of a sigh, but Lawrence doesn't seem put off.

"How are you doing?" Lawrence asks, a soft sort of smile on his face as he regards the man in front of him, though Adam notes the way the skin beneath his eyes has darkened with lost sleep and the dulled edge of exhaustion in his eyes themselves. "I know we haven't seen each other for a minute - I wanted to give you time to adjust, and I, um, well... I, uh, wasn't sure if you'd... want to see me, y'know?"

Oh, hell. At risk of exposing the softer side of his heart, Adam shakes his head and offers a roll of his shoulders, a shrug of practiced nonchalance. After all, to say that he hadn't thought about Lawrence since their discharge from the hospital would be a lie. In fact, "No, it's okay, Lawrence. Of course I want to see you." A pause to try a sip of his drink, a soft son of a bitch upon burning his tongue. Then, "I missed you, actually."

The wash of relief that pours through Lawrence is obvious, the slope of his shoulders going slack and a whisper-soft huff of soothed breath leaving his lips. "I missed you too," he murmurs, and there is this thing about the way he looks at Adam that makes his heart ache - gentle but not I-think-you're-fragile gentle, unguarded, the kind of quiet concern that comes from understanding someone so deeply, all overlaid by a soft haze of unspoken gratitude.

His gaze is always so sincere, honest. It makes Adam duck his head again, unsure if he likes feeling this seen. Thankfully, the other man continues before Adam can think about it too hard. "I hope life's been treating you well."

Adam really, really does not mean to snort, he doesn't, it's mostly on reflex, but he does it anyway and immediately feels kind of bad about it. "Sorry," he mumbles embarrassedly, "I didn't - I'm sorry. That wasn't on purpose."

Lawrence blinks at him for a minute, brows raised just a little bit in surprise, but then he smiles again - this time it's one corner of his mouth tugged up into what Adam has half a mind to describe as a crooked, commiserating half smirk. It's not arrogant or mocking, instead quite the opposite. To Adam, this expression very clearly says you too, huh?

(Quietly, Adam recognizes that he sees no pity in Lawrence's expression, nor does he see it in his eyes. Thank God - he'd never make it.)

"I take it that things have been difficult for you, too," Lawrence says simply, lifting a hand from his cup to scratch at the back of his neck. When Adam chances another glance at the man across from him, he finds Lawrence with his gaze cast down at the table, staring but not really seeing. Adam is very familiar with that vacant look - lights on but no one's home. It's what he usually sees when he looks at himself in the mirror, after all.

"I... yeah. It's been - yeah." Any thoughts Adam had about trying to lie his way out of honest soul-baring leave his head in an instant. Maybe there's something about the way Lawrence mirrors him here, dancing around the specifics of a topic because there is no way it will end up coming out cleanly.

It's the kind of conversation that scrapes the roof of the mouth, cuts the teeth and freezes the blood. At risk of sounding like the very bastard who brought them together, it is, metaphorically of course, like pulling teeth. Splitting ribs. Whatever. "Difficult's definitely a word." Not unkindly, Adam brings up a hand to run over his face. He's tired. So, so tired.

Lawrence lifts his head and keeps it up to look on Adam, a soft frown pulling his lips taut in a thin line. It's not a tense breath, but the brief pause between them is definitely charged with something - something like not knowing how to proceed. The most fleeting hint of hesitance, a slight tremble in Lawrence's fingers where they tap against his cup. Finally, slow and so, so careful, he reaches out and folds a somehow warm palm over the back of one of Adam's, steady.

And those eyes, so emotional and intense... Adam has to duck his head again. He can't look. He just can't. It's too much.

It is so strange, feeling so incredibly raw and exposed when this is far from the most vulnerable they've seen each other - there's nothing that will bring out your most primal self than adrenaline-spiked life-or-death experiences and traumatic injuries. Being certain you're minutes or mere seconds from death will do that to a person.

They've seen each other reduced to nothing but sobs and screams and I don't want to die, please don't let me die, please don't leave me, and yet Adam can hardly bring himself to meet the subtle but no less strong glint of plain worry in Lawrence's eyes. As it is, he's struggled to breathe since Lawrence touched his hand; he missed the feeling so much more than he thought was possible, and while it's a bit of a jolt where Lawrence's skin meets his, there's also a great wave of relief that sweeps through him at how safe it feels. How calming.

When there's no looming threat of almost certain death, Adam finds that facing the only other person who was there and who understands is a different kind of intimacy altogether.

Following a beat more of charged silence, Lawrence clears his throat and murmurs, "If you wanted to talk about it, I wouldn't mind listening." His voice is kept purposely low, barely above a whisper, but it's just loud enough for Adam to hear and no one else. A hushed sigh, a light squeeze to Adam's hand before he carries on. "You don't have to say anything if you don't want to, of course, it's just... I know how hard it is to - to talk to people about it."

Neither of them have to say anything for them to know what it refers to.

"It can be... y'know, isolating."

Adam snorts again good-naturedly and nods with a quick dip of his head. Yes, it is hard. There's no easy way to bring up how he feels like his ears are always buzzing and ringing with the choking silence that haunts his rundown apartment, and how it makes him want to rip his hair out, in a plain conversation.

Nobody wants to hear about how he talks to himself constantly to fill that silence just so he doesn't lose it (if he's laying still and quiet in the dark, it almost feels like he never left that horrible room). It's embarrassing to have someone over - not that there's been much of that - and have to hear them ask why he's taken the closet door off its hinges (and the bathroom door, and the bedroom door) because how do you explain "I want to make sure there's nowhere for someone to hide without my notice so I can't be snatched up again" without sounding like a child afraid of the dark?

That's not even touching the fact that Adam can barely summon the courage to step foot outside, most days. He gets so scared, freezes up while his chest hiccups with suddenly stuttering breaths that he has to fight to force into his aching lungs. He's always looking over his shoulder (haha) for however long he has to be outside, frenzied pulse thumping in the hollow of his throat, heart beat tripping over itself in his mild (okay, major) panic at being in an environment he can't control.

Right now, there's the addition of the frigid temperature seeping into his skin to make his shoulder ache something fierce; inwardly it makes him wonder if maybe Lawrence's leg also hurts in this typical, but nonetheless frustrating, winter chill.

This time, when Adam brings his head up, he keeps it up. Quiet, almost silent, he finally gives a response: "Sometimes I feel like I'm losing my mind, Lawrence. It just - God, it just never stops."

Almost imperceptibly, Lawrence tilts his head to the side in consideration. Maybe Adam's been awake too long; the first thought that pops into his head is he looks like a puppy. Still, he listens for whatever Lawrence has to say, which, perhaps unsurprisingly, ends up being, "What never stops, Adam?"

"Everything," Adam blurts without much thought, though it's not as if it's untrue. He works his hand out from under Lawrence's around his cup, gesturing loosely about his general area with a huff. "My floorboards creak so fucking loud at night and it always makes my heart beat funny. I almost fucked my shoulder up tearing down my closet and bathroom doors 'cause I wanted to be sure no one else could creep up on me." He has to take a breath; it'll do neither of them any good if he faints in public. "In... that room, when I was alone, I started hearin' things that weren't really there. Seeing things that weren't really there, Lawrence, and it hasn't gotten any better."

Another pause to take a breath, if only to battle the encroaching dizziness, if only to try and smooth that worried crease out of Lawrence's brow. Suddenly sheepish, Adam clears his throat as heat climbs his neck. "Y'know what else? I can't even fucking sleep anymore. I can be beyond exhausted and it won't make a difference. I mean, shit, Lawrence, at this point 'm pretty sure I've been up for at least a day. Maybe a day 'nd a half."

Blinking at him owlishly, Lawrence takes hold of one of Adam's hands and closes his palm around it once more, bringing them both back down to rest atop the table. For a moment his mouth just opens and closes in shock, but eventually he manages to choke out an incredulous, "Adam, you've - you've been awake for a day and a half?"

"I can't sleep," Adam repeats weakly, unsure of what else he could say but hating how small and splintered his voice sounds all the same. "It doesn't matter what I try. Meds, edibles, smoking, fuckin' counting sheep - it's all useless. I can't get myself to relax when I'm alone 'nd I'm always alone, so... it's not worth it, y'know? I've gotten too many noise complaints 'cause I usually wake up screaming if I do fall asleep. My landlord's already on my ass. It's easier to stay awake."

The furrow in Lawrence's brow only deepens as he again gets caught in the wordless loop of opening and closing his mouth, but there's an edge to his gaze that Adam recognizes from that night. He's thinking about what he wants to say and he's thinking hard, going over every possible option with very careful, very thorough consideration.

He seems to make a decision and he meets Adam's eyes with a quiet sigh, something softening the lines of his face as he says, "Adam... I... you must know that that's not good for you."

"Well, duh," Adam snorts, this time maybe a tad unkind in the way of sarcasm, "but what else can I do?" A laugh rises in the back of his throat and sputters from his lips, but it's not happy. It's more akin to a breathless, sharp bark of sound. In response, Lawrence squeezes his hand again, a grounding pressure that keeps Adam moored to the present.

It gives him enough strength to keep going, at least; if Lawrence is willing to listen, he can force down the inherent mortification of spilling his guts. "It doesn't matter anyway. I'm being evicted."

"What?" comes Lawrence's reply in a rush of breath, and Adam is pretty sure he's going to give himself a headache if his eyebrows get any closer together. "Adam, do you have somewhere to stay when that happens?"

"Nope." Adam pops the p. "But 'm sure I'll figure something out." Tentatively, he squeezes Lawrence's hand this time. "Eventually."

"...I'm sure you could, but, hey, I have room. You could, y'know... stay with me. If you want."

"I, uh... that's not why I told you about it, dude. I appreciate it, really, but I can't just show up 'nd force Alison and Diana to put up with me."

Lawrence is quiet for a good moment, fingers flexing where they're touching Adam's, and for a split second Adam watches this lost, desperate twitch of emotion flicker across his features before it's gone. It makes something in his chest feel loose and achy, that brief blip of please listen to me, please, just hear me out.

It doesn't get any better when his lips finally part again and Adam watches his throat bob as he swallows. Their hands are clammy, now. "You won't have to worry about that," he says at last, and there's that look again - this time accompanied by a noticeably shaky sigh, which makes Adam's heart clench with a pang for reasons he doesn't understand. "Alison and I... we're getting a divorce. It'll be finalized pretty soon here, actually; I, uh, I've got an apartment now, with an extra bedroom I don't use."

Oh. That's why he looks so much like a man lost at sea. "Jesus Christ, Lawrence, I'm sorry," Adam mutters without much thought, but just as it was before, it's not as though the sentiment isn't true. "That's - fuck, man. I'm sorry."

With a small smile, Lawrence waves him off with his free hand, voice stumbling as he tries to push through. "Don't be sorry. We'd been discussing a separation before... that night anyway. It was going to happen regardless; it's okay."

For what feels like the hundredth time in the past few minutes, Adam ends up averting his eyes when Lawrence's gaze begins to feel too heavy to bear, exhaling hard through his nose as he does so. "Still."

"It's better this way, believe me." Lawrence clears his throat again. It must be a tic of his. "It's better for Diana. She's been through enough; she doesn't..."

Adam squeezes again, harder this time.

"...She doesn't need to see her mother and I like that," the other man continues, squeezing back and beginning to rub circles into Adam's bony knuckles with the pad of his thumb absentmindedly - at least, Adam thinks it's absentminded. If it isn't, well... it's not like it isn't nice. Either way, he can allow himself to enjoy it while it lasts. "But as your friend, Adam, I'm asking you to come stay with me, okay? I wouldn't be asking you if I didn't mean it."

God, what does Adam even say to that? "I... listen, Larry, it's not - y'know that you can't take that decision back, right? I'm - I'm a fucking mess, man. A disaster. Just so you know."

Yeah, that works.

It's enough to see the faintest hint of a smile playing on Lawrence's lips at his usage of that particular nickname. It's a quiet reassurance, the kind that says it's okay, we're in this together.

"Well, hey," Lawrence finally responds after a moment, a real, honest-to-God smile spreading across his face, crooked and sunny. It's a good look for him. "You have to remember that I'm quite the mess myself. It kind of comes with the territory."

It's a light-hearted statement, brightly accented by that warm smile, but Adam can sense the nerves lying underneath, a wholly familiar writhing cradled within the lights of his eyes. He's smiling, tenderhearted and kind, but there's vulnerability to be found there, a metaphorical baring of the heart.

And Lawrence is looking at him like that. Adam can feel how the muscles of his face pull and tug with a similar, timidly hopeful expression, his hand trembling now where it's held in Lawrence's. He wants to say something, anything, but he can't summon the strength required for speech, instead folding his lower lip between his teeth to mask its quiver. He can't tell whether he's reassured by feeling so remarkably understood or terrified by it, but he figures there's worse people to be seen by than Lawrence Gordon.

His thoughts are quickly interrupted by a near silent murmur of "Please, Adam," and it's then that Adam knows there's no way he's saying no.

"Okay," he murmurs back, very resolutely ignoring it when he sends a tear rolling down his cheek as he blinks, because this honest vulnerability is already mortifying enough - he doesn't need to draw attention to the fact that he's crying and, thankfully, neither does Lawrence. Adam can't say "I'm okay" or "thank you", so he just nods and squeezes Lawrence's hand one more time. He's never been good with words.

It only takes a squeeze back for Adam to know he's heard.

-

The face Lawrence makes upon stepping foot into his apartment for the first time is, frankly, one of the funniest looks Adam has ever seen on another person's face. His mouth twists into something between a smile and a shocked but impressively subtle wince, brows knit in a heavy line of abject horror that raises a bit when he chances a look up and finds several patches of water damage decorating the ceiling.

Adam doesn't mind at all - he knew this place was a shithole when he moved in, and he'd hated it here more than anything even before Jigsaw - but it is hilarious to watch someone as professional and polite as Lawrence Gordon try and fail completely to mask his disbelief when keeping a straight face is literally one of his job requirements, and one he usually performs well.

So, when Lawrence offers a small, marginally more collected kind of smile and a drawn out "Um, it's... I've seen... worse?", a slight lilt of questioning at the end there, Adam cannot and does not even try to stop himself from throwing his head back and just cackling.

Though startled, Adam watches the way Lawrence's tight, nervous smile melts into something much more genuine, a glow of mildly confused amusement. "It's okay," Adam offers once he's caught his breath enough to do so, still grinning so wide it kind of hurts. "You can say it's shitty, man. I know."

When Adam meets Lawrence's eyes, he's pleased to notice that the man no longer looks like he's squirming on the inside.

"It's... unfortunate, yes." Damn, Adam had really hoped he'd get to hear Lawrence swear. It's fine, though - unfortunate itself being used, not the least of which Adam would use to describe this apartment, is still pretty humorous, especially because Lawrence is still trying really hard to keep his phrasing kind.

But it doesn't help that the mental image of Lawrence blurting out something like this place fucking sucks pops into his head immediately upon thinking about it, because in seconds, Adam's practically doubled over in wheezing laughter for seemingly no reason. Fuck, his stomach hurts.

"Are you okay?" Apparently Lawrence can't keep his laughter contained either. "Your face is really red."

Adam waves him off and wipes an actual tear from his eye (how long has it been since he's really laughed?), still chuckling just a little bit. "'m fine," he reassures the other man, shaking his head as the last fits of giggles leave him. "Just... you're funny, Larry. You don't have t'worry about making it sound nice - believe me, I hate it here too. You won't hurt my feelings any."

Lawrence just blinks, parts his lips, and gently utters, "I thought you were joking when you said you went to sleep in a shithole."

Immediately Lawrence's eyes widen and he brings a hand up to cover his mouth, brows so high in surprise they almost blend into his hair, and he gives a muffled, embarrassed "Oh my God, I didn't mean to say that, I'm so sorry." He looks like he wants a hole to open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole, that's how mortified he seems to be. It punches this loud bark of laughter from Adam's chest because 1) that was fucking hilarious, and 2) he did get to hear Lawrence swear.

"That's more like it," he says, gently (as gently as one can, anyway) clapping Lawrence's shoulder. "That was a good one."

"You're not... upset? Because that was kind of out of line, really, and I didn't mean -"

"Lawrence, it's okay. Promise." A brief, good-natured smirk. Then, "You should cuss more. Is that unbecoming of a doctor?"

"I mean, it's definitely not recommended," Lawrence hums, and finally, the tense slope of his shoulders slackens, a heavy breath he hadn't known he was holding slipping out and virtually deflating him as it goes. "Definitely not proper bedside manner, I can tell you that. But..."

He shrugs, his smile morphing into something a tad more mischievous. "What happens in the break room stays in the break room. Or, you know, my office after a fiscal review."

Adam just barely represses the urge to make an inappropriate joke or two and instead simply grins back. "That's, uh - that's the thing where someone is, like, responsible for going over costs 'nd shit, right? And revenue?"

(You learn a ton of random shit when you're a kid going through a lot and books are the only thing that make you feel like you can escape for a while. Why and where he'd picked up this tidbit of information, though, Adam isn't sure.)

"Yeah," Lawrence says with a sigh, sounding so very tired. It makes Adam snicker, he can't help it. "God, it's always such a pain in the ass. Dr. Hayes is very talented when it comes to leadership, and of course he's talented when it comes to medicine as well, but he lets his 'Chief Medical Officer' position get to his head sometimes." He gives another sigh, this time heavier, if it were possible. "I mean, nobody's excited when it comes time for the review, but I'd really appreciate it if I wasn't spoken to as if I don't know what 'budget' means."

"Sounds rough."

"It can be, but the work we do and the interns we teach makes it all worth it." A brief pause, a twitch of the corner of his mouth. "Usually."

Huh. Hearing Lawrence bitch about work is kind of... comforting, in a way. Like, here is someone who makes a decent amount of money, has held a career for over five years, and who was, up until recently, living the good ol' American dream (in name, at least), but he still has aspects of his job that frustrate or annoy him. Adam doesn't know how to explain that verbally in a way that makes sense, so he doesn't try, but he does nod in acknowledgment.

Before he can say anything, though, Lawrence plants his hands on his hips and gives a sweeping once-over about the makeshift living room, then glances at the lumpy couch where he'd set the moving boxes on the cushions. "Alright. Enough about me," he announces, "where do you want to start?"

So they get to work boxing up what few belongings Adam wants to take with him (which, admittedly, isn't all that much), and when they get to the kitchen and open up the cabinets, Lawrence looks so fucking sad that Adam physically cannot bear to meet his eyes for even a second. It's a hot flush of shame, embarrassment, indignation (even though he knows Lawrence isn't judging nor pitying him), and plain self-consciousness.

Adam won't deny that he hasn't gone grocery shopping for about a week or two and, sure, most of his dishes are either tupperware containers or paper plates, but at least he's got something, damn it. He knows Lawrence isn't and wouldn't look down on him based on his living situation, but... Adam can't help it. It makes him feel unbalanced.

But Lawrence doesn't say a word about it, and that means more to Adam than the other man will ever know.

(Lawrence also doesn't ask why he has about half of a full silverware set, but Adam explains anyway.

"Oh, that's my crowning achievement," he tells Lawrence over his shoulder as he folds up one of his three blankets, hissing out a hushed goddamn it when he drops a corner and has to start over. "Stole 'em from my parents when they kicked me out - specifically only half - just to inconvenience them. 's what they get for being so shitty to me and my brothers."

He'll apologize for it later, both because he knew a little bit about Adam's dysfunctional childhood and because he wasn't sure that it was something he was allowed to laugh at, but in that moment, Lawrence bursts out laughing. "Serves them right," he manages to wheeze out eventually, and Adam just grins.)

The bedroom is a pretty quiet affair - at least, at first.

That changes when Adam feels around under the bed to make sure he's not forgetting anything and he pulls out his camera.

Instantly the thing feels like a hunk of hot lead in his hands, and honestly, Adam is impressed that he doesn't just drop the damn thing. He fumbles with it for a good moment or two, though, and it ends up tossed onto the mattress because his hands aren't the only things shaking.

Lawrence must hear how his breath hitches in his throat, as only a beat of tense silence later, he turns away from Adam's dresser and murmurs, "Adam?", his voice soft and wreathed in concern - it only intensifies when Lawrence moves to face him fully and he finds Adam kneeling beside his bed, face chalk-white and narrow frame wracked with an insistent kind of tremor as he stares absently at the off-coloured carpet beneath him.

Adam doesn't - can't - respond, his tongue feeling glued to the roof of his mouth as he thinks don't panic don't panic don't panic.

Admittedly, Adam had all but forgotten about his once-beloved Nikon after he'd placed it in an old shoebox and shoved it under his bed (so he didn't have to look at it anymore).

Around a month after being discharged from the hospital, he'd decided he was sick of being cooped up in the stuffy stillness of his apartment - what better way to remedy that than to walk around the city for a while and look for nice things to take pictures of? Not people, of course, as his brush with Jigsaw had pretty much soured his interest in photos of others (even if he'd ask first), but it was May and he knew that there were tulips and daffodils and lilacs in bloom at the park.

Sure, flower photos may be considered cliché and perhaps even tacky, but Adam's never cared much about that. He's not immune to the natural beauty of flowers and he's never seen a point in pretending that he is.

He'd happened across a nice, full peony bush, and while he'd never really felt either way about them personally, they were his grandma's favourite (she used to grow these absolutely beautiful light yellow ones, a variation adorably named 'Sunny Girl') and so he's always had a well of fondness for them. The ones in the park were pink, almost sort of peachy, but they were peonies and he figured that if nothing else, it'd be a nice picture to have.

Then the flash went off and Adam's world tilted violently on its axis.

Thank God he'd been wearing his camera strap, because he's certain that if he hadn't been, the way he dropped it in his sudden mindless panic would surely have resulted in the thing shattering into pieces against the pavement. His chest felt tight and his mouth went dry and his stomach churned as the pleasantly sunny spring day rapidly morphed into the power-outage-black quiet of his apartment that night and he just... froze.

It was as if the freshly-cut green grass beneath his feet had tendrils that wrapped around him tight and kept him rooted to the spot - and he was too afraid to even try to move, afraid to breathe, afraid to blink lest he open his eyes to find that he never actually left that rusty chasm of a torture chamber.

The resulting panic attack was ugly and messy and Adam ended up crouched inside some little hole-in-the-wall's bathroom, pulsing head in his trembling hands as he pulled his own hair and bit his lip bloody. Nobody spoke to him when he'd eventually gathered himself enough to stumble out, legs as shaky as a newborn fawn walking for the first time, his face splotchy and cheeks wet. He was honestly pretty grateful for it. There were definitely stares, but those were much easier to bear than well-meaning and concerned but stressful questions.

That night, he gathered his darkroom chemicals into individual, clearly labeled containers and either diluted them with plenty of water until they were safe to flush down the drain or brought them to the closest Waste & Recycling Center to be disposed of properly the next day. He tried to remind himself when he'd falter that he didn't need them taking up space anymore if he couldn't use them.

It was beyond devastating, for a pretty wide plethora of reasons, and once everything was said and done, Adam had carefully tucked his camera into a cloth-lined shoebox and hid it under his bed. He knows he could've gotten a good amount of money for it if he decided to sell, but... he couldn't. He just couldn't.

He'd saved up for over a year for that camera. It was his baby, his most prized possession, the first nice thing he'd bought for himself after being kicked out. Even if he couldn't use it, there was no way he could bring himself to part with it. Not even now, when he can hardly look at it.

(Part of him is incredibly resentful that he can't just force himself through the panic and reclaim his one true passion. The last time he felt this passionate about something, he was 100% positive that he was going into school to become a vet, and that had died out in much the same way - tears, a deep-down ache that was so sharp he wasn't sure it'd ever go away (it hasn't), frustration, and the feeling of suddenly being set adrift at sea with no lifeboat.

Jigsaw has already taken so much from him. He shouldn't get to take photography from him, too.

However, that other part of him - the small, scared, severely traumatized part of him - tells Adam that knowingly putting himself through panic attacks just to take his favourite hobby back isn't worth it. It breaks his heart, but he can't do it. He just isn't ready, and there's a chance that he might never be ready. He has to make his peace with that; there's no other option.

It still hurts.)

"Hey." There's Lawrence's voice, soft in volume and gentle in tone, to break Adam out of his trance of thought. When he lifts his head, he finds that Lawrence has settled on the edge of his mattress, ankles crossed and hands clasped in his lap. His eyes are nothing but kind as he regards Adam where he's still huddled shakily on the floor, and he reaches forward slowly to lift the now-empty shoebox out of his lap, settling it somewhere behind him on the bed before turning back to give Adam his full attention once more. "Adam, are you okay?"

Adam stares back listlessly, lifting a hand to scratch at the heated skin of the back of his neck. "I - I can't use it anymore," he blurts out in a near whisper, now running that hand over his face. "It's - I just... the flash went off, 'nd all I could think of was..."

Wordlessly, Lawrence offers Adam one of his hands, and he takes it without a second thought - the gesture feels too much like a beacon of light amidst a violent storm for him not to. When he stumbles a little (he's still trembling), Lawrence catches him with a careful palm secured around his elbow, and when Adam finally manages to sit down beside him, Lawrence's other arm curls around his back and holds him there with a steady, reassuring pressure.

They sit like that together for a good minute or two, just comfortable silence and grounding touch, until Lawrence finally breaks it by speaking.

"It's okay," he murmurs, falling into their familiar song and dance of offered comfort and knowing not to look directly at Adam. "There's things I can't do anymore, either. I can't use parking garages, and sometimes when I get a call from a number I don't recognize, I panic. Full-on coughing, screaming, sobbing panic attack. It's okay."

"It's not fair," Adam mumbles, slumping into Lawrence's side as he allows his eyes to slip shut. "It's all I have, Lawrence. I'm not... good at much else. Photography is - it's what I do. That's my thing." He swallows hard. It hurts. "I don't have anything else."

He can't say it, but the words sitting on the tip of his tongue, festering and painful: My dad told me that photography was a waste of time and I can't bear the thought that he'd feel justified knowing I can't do it anymore.

Lawrence's cheek finds the top of Adam's head, and that's where they remain, quiet and tucked into each other, until Adam is ready to finish packing.

Whenever he happens to look at Lawrence after that and the man looks back, he gets a small but genuine smile.

It's the only reason Adam finds the strength to lift his head again.

-

The first thought Adam has upon stepping foot into Lawrence's apartment for the first time is I could never afford this shit.

Three bedroom apartments had always felt like an unreachable luxury to him, someone who lived from paycheck-to-meager-paycheck and almost always struggled to have enough food to get him through the week while still being able to pay rent. His old shithole apartment, that's what Adam could afford with the money he'd manage to scrape together via numerous shitty part-time retail jobs and his P.I. work. This?

This is something he'd never be able to afford on his own and he knows it. It's just another factor to highlight the difference between he and Lawrence's day-to-day lives - one that should make him feel like he's encroaching upon territory he doesn't belong in, but... Adam doesn't feel out of place. Lawrence does nothing to make him feel out of place.

He goes back and forth about his feelings on it depending on the day, but for the most part, Adam doesn't feel like some pitiful charity case.

After all, Lawrence didn't have to open up his home to him. He didn't have to offer him a place to stay, or help him pack his things, or help him set up his new bedroom the way he's doing now. He could have heard "I'm being evicted" and responded with something like "Damn that's rough, good luck though", words Adam has heard countless times before for multiple reasons.

Lawrence doesn't have to care given all they've been through, but he does anyway and Adam mostly finds himself feeling grateful for that.

The bedroom is open, spacious, bright, by far the nicest place Adam had stayed at since leaving his parents' house at seventeen (has it really been ten years since then?). He feels like he has so much more room to breathe. The walls are this light, pastel sunny yellow, something that just a month ago would've annoyed him to no end (Adam's never really been one for softer colours) but now proves to soothe the frantically beating thing in his chest.

There's a sort of relief to be found in the way the early afternoon sunlight catches against the paint when Adam props the window open; the cool spring air is crisp and sharp on his tongue when he sticks his head out and takes as deep a breath as his lungs can handle. It's the little things like this that actually makes him appreciate being alive.

"Hope having a roommate won't bother you too much," Adam hums once he pulls away from the window, grinning crookedly back at Lawrence when he turns to find the man watching him with this gentle kind of smile on his face. "I don't really take up too much space, so..."

Lawrence's smile falters ever so slightly at that corners when he hears that, twitching like he's struggling to maintain it but so subtle that Adam doesn't think he'd have noticed if he wasn't right in front of him. "What? No," he murmurs, setting the box in his hands down on the bed before moving to fold Adam's favourite throw blanket. "I don't mind at all."

Adam snorts.

"Really, I mean it. It's, um... it gets lonely around here, y'know? Turns out living alone... it's hard. Especially after... everything."

As Lawrence places the folded throw down at the end of the bed, Adam kind of winces at himself because of course Lawrence feels lonely. Up until recently, he'd been married for several years with a typically energetic young daughter running around - he hasn't lived alone for a long, long time. Add that to the intense trauma of their mutual Jigsaw encounter and the way it can make you feel like something terrible will happen to you if you're alone for even an hour, let alone all the time...

Yeah, it's no wonder he'd been so enthusiastic to have Adam move in.

(Privately, Adam likes to think it has more to do with Lawrence caring about him. He knows Lawrence does care, of course, but... it feels nice to be wanted. To have someone who wants him around.)

Almost as if he were reading his mind, Lawrence clears his throat and, a bit shyly, adds, "Plus, I mean, it's you. It's not as though we're strangers - and I like to consider you my friend, if that's okay."

If that's okay. Why does that make Adam's heart do a weird flip in his chest? It almost makes it sound like Lawrence thinks he doesn't deserve that kind of connection, doesn't deserve to be thought of positively. Maybe they should talk about that one of these days; that's the impression Adam got while they were still stuck in the hospital, too.

He's long since forgiven Lawrence (mostly) for what happened in the bathroom. Whether or not the man can forgive himself is the question.

"Yeah," Adam agrees when he realizes he's been quiet a beat too long, gently lifting the shoebox that contains his camera up onto the dresser so that it'll be out of the way, but also easily accessible and easy to find. "Yeah, Larry, we're friends. And... and yeah, having you for a roommate is way better than someone I don't know. Other people, they don't really feel... safe, y'know? Not anymore."

Adam ducks his head - he can't look Lawrence in the eye for what he says next. "But you make me feel safe, and, y'know... I appreciate it, so. Thank you, for that."

Lawrence's resulting grin is so bright when Adam picks his head back up that he nearly averts his eyes again just to slow the strange wash of summery heat that passes over him, but he settles instead on grinning back because it's nice, this easy companionship.

It's nice being understood - both the sentiment, and not having his issues with eye contact commented on. Adam is so used to being accused of disrespect or being yelled at because "It can't be that difficult to at least look like you're paying attention" or being reprimanded for being rude that whenever someone doesn't do those things, he feels like it's only a matter of time until they find something else to hound him about.

He's just kind of come to accept that it would always be that way. Again, however, as he has done countless times before, Lawrence proves that he isn't hindered by such things in the way that he doesn't bring it up, as well as the fact that when he noticed the lack of eye contact for the first time and Adam had sheepishly explained that sometimes it was too hard for him. Lawrence had just nodded and said, "That's okay. You don't have to be looking at me for me to know you're listening, or for me to know you're talking to me."

It's the most considerate anyone who isn't his brothers has been. No raised voices, no huffs of poorly-concealed exasperation, no sighs of derision or impatient hands taking hold of his chin to forcibly lift his head up. Just "It's okay that you can't always do that." It sets something warm alight in the pit of Adam's belly.

Maybe being seen doesn't have to be all that terrifying.

"I'm glad," Lawrence says at last, reaching up to scratch at the back of his neck. "You make me feel safe, too. Honestly, I feel... you know, secure, when you're around. I feel better when I can be certain you're safe. Is - is that too weird?"

Adam laughs, soft and not unkind. "If it is, then I'm weird too. I like being able t'see you, 'cause that way I know you're okay. I don't have to wonder if he's - y'know, if he's got you again."

Lawrence's wide grin melts into something smaller, a tender kind of smile, but no less genuine. Adam thinks about the things that bind them together and the experiences from which their bond was forged.

Nobody will ever understand Adam the way that Lawrence Gordon does. Nobody else was there in their shared torture-chamber-turned-tomb - nobody else that lived to tell the tale, anyway. Nobody understands those dizzy moments of blinding, all-encompassing agony, whether it be the sluggish spurts of blood that pulsed from a shot shoulder with every heartbeat or the lightheaded bite of dull hacksaw teeth severing an extremity in a desperate, white-hot-hurt bid for survival.

The two of them have seen each other at their lowest, their most vulnerable, and through that moment of completely unabashed terror-stricken neediness, they have learned more about each other than anyone else in their entire lives. There's no therapist or friend or fellow Jigsaw survivor out there that could even hope to comprehend the strength of that knowledge.

(Sometimes, it scares Adam, being so intricately intertwined with someone else. Especially given the circumstances.

But there are absolutely worse people out there. He can't imagine being connected to Scott like that.)

And it is a relief of its own to be around someone who doesn't treat Adam like he's made of extra-delicate porcelain or spider web-cracked glass. Someone who speaks to him like he's any other average person instead of someone who will fall apart at the seams with one wrong word or look. Lawrence doesn't handle him with kids' gloves, but with the tact and kindness of someone who knows what it's like - because he does, instead of the arrogant assumptions of, say, Scott Tibbs, who mostly wanted to hear Adam's story so he could pick it apart, criticize his actions and responses, and sing Jigsaw's praises while saying stupid shit like "I'm just saying, if it were me, I would..."

(The best thing - or at least one of them - Adam has done post-Jigsaw was crack Scott in the jaw and tell him to fuck off forever. After the "documentary" stunt, it wasn't hard.

Really, Adam was just surprised it'd taken him that long to do it.)

The bottom line is this: Lawrence cares about Adam, and Adam cares about Lawrence. They don't have to, but they do. Despite the ugliness of their first meeting, they do.

Enough for Lawrence to be helping Adam with setting up the bedroom he'd practically reserved for him, smiling every time their eyes meet just as he had done when they were in Adam's apartment. He'd smiled like that when Adam finally emerged weakly victorious from his six-day battle with the blister of severe sepsis, too, though he was more dewy-eyed and thin-lipped with relief then, face clammy with a hot sweat of exertion and lack of rest.

(God, when did Adam become one of those people whose brain is always thrumming with an unceasing internal monologue? Isn't talking to himself to fill silences weird enough?)

Lawrence is still smiling, unguarded and a tad more self-conscious. Again, Adam's heart gives an odd pang.

Grabbing an armful of shirts, Adam smiles back, body lax as the rarity of true peace courses through his veins. Tentatively, he allows a tiny flicker of hope to spark in his chest.

He thinks this change is something that can help them both heal.

-

Of course, it's not always sunshiny smiles and easy conversation.

There are days where Adam barely speaks, but when he does, it's with a tongue so sharp he cuts his own mouth up in spitting out those bladed words. He's pissy, sometimes (often) angry for reasons he can't discern nor explain, the blood in his veins incandescent and vibrating as it runs through him in a frenzy. He can get mean, he knows he can, but by the time he manages to rein himself in and recognize how much of an abrasive asshole he's being, it's often too late. He's said something that landed a bit too hard, taken the wrong tone of voice, hurt the one person Adam can stand being around.

Lawrence, on the other hand, will silently collapse in on himself and smile and say "Oh, I'm fine" when Adam notices and asks if he's okay. He'll have a screaming, crying panic attack and meet Adam's concern with red-rimmed eyes and rose-splotched cheeks and a quivering lower lip just to shake his head and tell him it's okay, it's not a big deal. He hides, he bottles up, he compartmentalizes to the point of breakdown and then he turns around and acts like it didn't happen. He won't talk about what's bothering him and honestly? Sometimes it pisses Adam off, even though he knows that there's not much else he can do if Lawrence doesn't want to talk.

You try to help me when I'm fucked up, he wants to yell, wants to take Lawrence by the shoulders and shake him until he understands. I want to help you too. Let me return the favour. Just let me help you.

Adam does not do that, however.

It's been a while since their argument this morning, about three or four hours (not that either of them are counting or anything), and Adam's ears are still ringing with the venom he'd mindlessly spat and the way Lawrence's expression went blank yet guarded in response. He was remarkably civil about it, speaking in a low and unsettlingly even tone before retreating behind the safety of his bedroom door, which he closed softly behind him instead of the slam Adam had been expecting.

Somehow, that felt worse than it would have if Lawrence had slammed the door. At least then Adam would've had an excuse for being on the brink of tears.

It was so stupid; that's all Adam can think now that the heat of misplaced anger has melted away and left him feeling cold and ashamed. There was no reason it needed to escalate the way it did. He doesn't even know why he acted like that.

He just... he opened his mouth and let whatever horrible thing came to mind tumble from trembling lips and through bared teeth.

He was an asshole, plain and simple. If he were Lawrence, he'd have been an asshole right back.

But... that's not what Lawrence did.

(In all honesty, Lawrence was just trying to help.

Adam, he'd murmured lightly over his plate of waffles, I think I should take a look at your shoulder. I've noticed some redness, and I know it's been feeling extra tender lately, so I just... want to make sure, is all. Just want to make sure it's healing alright.

Adam seemed to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed this morning. He'd felt off since he opened his eyes, but he didn't know why. In that moment he felt bitter indignation suddenly rise up the back of his throat and he mumbled, glaring at Lawrence from under his lashes, I think I'm more than capable of taking care of it, Lawrence.

A soft sigh, another coal added to the irritated fire already being stoked in his core. I didn't say you weren't, Lawrence said carefully, itching at the peak of his cheekbone. I just... I know it can be hard for you sometimes, so -

Something lit up in Adam's chest then, something choking and trembling and writhing in the rungs of his rib cage, and he'd all but slammed his fork down on the table, breathing already stilted and throat tight. He remembers feeling a dim jolt of regret when the action caused Lawrence to jump a bit, startled, but he didn't let it stop him. He wishes he had. Just because I'm not a doctor doesn't mean I'm incapable of taking care of myself, uttered slowly and severely. Dark, turbulent. I don't need to sit there and have you look down your nose at me like I'm five and act like I'm - like I'm incompetent, or whatever.

Adam, pleading this time, just a faint edge of exhausted exasperation. You know that's not how I feel. I know you know that.

Oh, I do? Adam rose to his feet so fast that his head felt fuzzy and his vision went black for a moment, so tense that he was shaking, clenching his teeth hard enough that his jaw hurt. Did you forget what you said to me in there? 'cause I sure haven't.

What -?

The clap of his flat palms hitting the table startled them both, but Adam paid no mind to the shudder of frightened breath that caught in his throat, drawing his lips back in a snarl and narrowing his eyes. Let me remind you, he'd hissed. You said, and I quote, 'I think I'm dealing with a juvenile who's more stupid than he looks', so you'll have to forgive me if I don't believe you.

There had been such a long, ugly pause after that, Lawrence looking like he'd been struck where he sat across the table and Adam's shoulders heaving with the effort of trying not to raise his voice. I don't think you're stupid, Lawrence had replied, voice hardly above a whisper. Adam could tell by his eyes that he was writhing internally. I know what I said, but I don't think you're stupid, Adam. It's quite the opposite.

And Adam, caught up in the wash of rushing blood and lingering hurt, said the one thing he really, really should not have: I might be a shitty actor, but at least I'm a better liar than you, Lawrence. Y'know, the thing that made me 'a part of this game'. Other than the whole bottom-feeder thing.

Lawrence had stiffened, hurt flashing across his face before his muscles went slack and his expression blanked.

I think I'm going to go read for a while, he said simply, and then he was gone, leaving his unfinished breakfast on the table. He never does that. He never leaves dishes out.

At least Adam didn't tear up until Lawrence's bedroom door closed.)

What Adam said was nasty. He knows that. He knows how bad Lawrence still feels about the things that were said in that room. He knows that it's completely his fault - there was no reason for him to blow up like that. A lot of the anger housed deep within him is either irrational or stubbornly residual, but the way he practically went for the throat this morning... Adam has no idea where that came from.

The statements he'd mentioned aren't even things he's still upset over, and it goes without saying that he'd shot back with some pretty ugly things himself. They've talked about it, moved past it. Lawrence was, objectively, just trying to be nice.

And Adam repaid those good intentions by doing what he does best: barking and biting.

(Distantly, Adam recalls his therapist telling him, when he told her about these outbursts that happened mostly when he felt happy, had to do with the fact that Adam often feels he shouldn't get to be happy. "It's self-sabotage," she'd said, though not condescendingly. "You'd be surprised at how many others do the same thing."

It hadn't made him feel better, but at least he kind of knows why. It doesn't make what he said acceptable, though.)

Now he's pacing at the entrance of the hallway, bitten bloody nails warm with irritation and the corner of his lip stinging where he'd split it under the unforgiving dig of his teeth. He's trying to work up the courage to knock on Lawrence's door so he can apologize for being a dick, but his heart is giving him a hard time of it.

His stomach is churning with choppy waves of nerves, gnawing at him with the familiar pull of electric anxiety that's been with him forever. He's still congested, nose still red and eyes still tender like bruises after the little crying fit he had out on the balcony about twenty minutes ago (which nobody saw, thank you very much). Adam feels awful. He needs to fix this.

Before he can stop himself, Adam stands awkwardly in front of the door and raises his fist, rapping against the wood no more than three times before leaning back and squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation, sucking in a nervous breath through his teeth.

Eventually, Lawrence's voice, very gentle in acknowledgment, "Adam?"

"...Hi." Adam's tongue thankfully stops feeling like lead long enough for him to respond in a timely manner. "Um... listen, can I come in? I... I wanna apologize for... y'know. This morning."

Adam cranes his neck a little, strains his ears to listen for Lawrence's response, whatever it may be. He holds his breath and tries to prepare himself for the very real possibility of the other man saying no. Just because he's ready to apologize doesn't mean that Lawrence is ready to listen.

But, much to his surprise, what Adam hears is a very quiet "Yeah, you can come in."

So Adam does, turning the knob gently so it doesn't click and pretending that his legs aren't shaking under the weight of his racing heart and restlessly roiling stomach. "Hey," he forces out, his voice crackling and small. God, he's so scared he feels like he's going to faint. He can't even look Lawrence in the eye - he's too worried about breaking down or throwing up. "I, uh... are you okay?"

He lingers in the doorway, lightheaded and focused on keeping himself upright.

"Yes," Lawrence murmurs, words quiet but honest, the way he always speaks after they've fought. "I'm -"

He pauses, clears his throat. "I mean... I'll be alright. Just... y'know."

Ah. Adam understands the brief pause immediately, and it both hurts and soothes him. Thankfully, that's something they've had a long conversation about recently: Lawrence's tendency to lie and say he's fine when he's not instead of discussing what's bothering him. Lawrence is trying to be more conscious of it now, and it comes through in little statements like that - "I'll be alright" instead of "I'm okay". He's been doing pretty well with it lately. Adam wonders if it's weird for him to feel proud.

"Yeah," Adam mutters, running a clammy hand over his face. "I... look, Larry, I'm sorry. What I said was really nasty and it wasn't fair of me to act like that 'nd take my bad day out on you." He swallows hard, tongue darting out to wet his chapped lips. He still can't get himself to look at Lawrence. "I know you don't think I'm stupid, and I'm not actually mad about the whole juvenile thing. Or the bottom-feeder thing. Those things you said, we were both freaking the fuck out and panicking - anyone would. I know you didn't mean it."

"Adam, it's -"

"I just don't know what's wrong with me today," Adam suddenly blurts, a laugh left abandoned coasting the undercurrent of his words, a hiccup in his chest. "I mean, I dunno why I even - acted like that. You were just being nice. You didn't deserve it, 'kay? That was my stupid defensive brain acting up. I'm sorry."

Adam Riley Faulkner-Stanheight, he thinks to himself mutinously, do not start fucking crying again. You're not the one who should be upset here. This is your mess.

Still, his eyes are burning with the threat of tears. Thank God Lawrence can't see.

Except... "Hey, Adam, it's..." The roar of blood thumping in his ears cuts out some of Lawrence's words. "...not angry... hurt, a little bit, but things have been hard and -"

There's a pause, a wheeze from Adam's chest. "Adam, are you okay?"

"Sorry." Dragging the word out from behind his gritted teeth is, funnily enough, like pulling them. It comes out in a strangled gasp as one of Adam's hands jerks up to clutch at his chest, tugging and knuckling the worn fabric of his sleep shirt with all the frenzied desperation of a dying man (ha ha - maybe he'll be lucky enough to beat death twice).

He doesn't know why it's suddenly so hard to breathe, like he's trying to force air through one of those skinny coffee stirrers, but it is and he can't help it. He does know that this is the introduction to a panic attack, knows it's already past the point of prevention, knows he can't stop it, but God, he doesn't want to be doing this right now. It's not his place. It's not his turn.

And yet, the floor is feeling much more magnetic than usual as his vision crosses and blurs.

"This sucks," he coughs out, horrified to discover that his cheeks are warm and wet. "I'm - I'm mad that it had to happen to us, and - and that it made me like - like this -"

"Breathe." That's Lawrence's voice, right beside him. When had he gotten so close? Adam doesn't know, but he pushes his face against the give of the other man's shoulder, nosing for comfort like the puppies he worked with when he was volunteering at that animal shelter in junior year. He presses himself into Lawrence's side and tries to make himself smaller, so small that he can pretend this isn't happening.

Adam sniffles, broken. His throat spasms every time he tries to take a proper breath. His knees finally buckle and give out, and the only reason he doesn't hit the floor is because Lawrence is holding onto him too tight for him to simply collapse.

"Breathe," Lawrence says again, making no mention of the way Adam is all but howling in his ear. He pulls him close to his chest and holds him there, one arm wrapping around Adam's lower back and the other hand tentatively threading into the ruffled hair at the back of his skull. "It's okay. It's okay, I'm not angry at you."

Adam nearly chokes on his own spit. "I don't know why," he sobs, clawing at Lawrence's shoulder blades. Don't leave me. "'s not your fault. I dunno what's wrong with me. 'm sorry."

"I've got you," Lawrence says simply. "It'll be okay. We'll be okay."

Adam cries until he has no tears left to cry and he gets sick in Lawrence's bedroom waste bin.

After, he falls asleep while tucked under Lawrence's covers, the curve of his body molded to Lawrence's side from the hip down while the man himself slowly cards through his hair until he slips under, a wordless acceptance of his messy apology.

Things feel a little bit better after he wakes up.

-

(Later, with Adam's blush-warm cheek resting on the steady rise and fall of Lawrence's chest so he can listen to his heartbeat and the way his breaths cycle in his lungs, Adam whispers, "It's not s'pposed t'be like this, is it?"

He's still shaking like a leaf as he speaks, voice raspy and wrecked from crying - again. He does not move, if anything settling even further against Lawrence, who accepts the influx of more body weight with a soft sigh and an arm slung around Adam's middle.

"Not supposed to be like what?" Lawrence whispers back, his own voice gruff and a tad bit husky with sleep; it's a pleasant sound. He's been combing his gentle fingers through Adam's unruly hair ever since his second panic attack had tapered off into quiet sobs and trembling, and Adam is basking in the simple offer of comfort, occasionally pushing his head up into Lawrence's splayed palm like a sleepy, demanding cat.

It could definitely be worse.

"I mean..." Adam's throat sticks, dry as a field in a heatwave. He pushes through and his voice only breaks twice. "You shot me. I stalked you for money from an ex-detective hellbent on proving you to be Jigsaw - and there were countless people before that. You cut off your foot." He gives a brief cough; he needs a bottle of water. "I killed a man for you."

Lawrence's chest rumbles with a soft punch of sound, something halfway between bittersweet acknowledgment and wry (but not unkind) laughter. "Yes, Adam, I know," he mutters, the laughter hushed and mirthless but not in the way of being legitimately angry, so Adam forces his metaphorical fur to lie flat. "I was there."

Trembling at the corners, Adam grins, flexing the fingers tangled in the fabric of Lawrence's pajama shirt just to feel his bones moving beneath his skin and to make sure his hand doesn't go numb. He hates feeling the static flood his limbs or extremities or both - it reminds him too much of those hazy, infinite moments of silence in the bathroom. "You'd think we'd hate each other after all that - never wanna see each other again, let alone talk - but..."

He rubs his cheek against Lawrence's sternum and forces a sigh through his nose. For a split second, Lawrence's hand stills in his hair, but the stutter in movement is quickly corrected when Adam continues. "I don't hate you," he offers weakly. "I can't."

Lawrence hums and Adam feels the vibration against the friction-warm shell of his ear. He allows himself to sort of drift in the cascade of sound, lets it rumble in his chest, curl around his heart, make a home in his sternum. It makes him feel safe - it's grounding, reassuring. After the day they've had, Adam knows it could be worse.

Another hum, this time more thoughtful. "...I can't either, Adam," he manages after a beat more of quiet, almost too soft to be heard. Like he's the tiniest bit afraid to be heard. "I couldn't hate you even if I wanted to."

Before Adam can respond with something (admittedly affectionately) sarcastic like "Thanks for the vote of confidence, Larry," Lawrence's hand drifts to the nape of his neck to rub little gentle nonsense patterns into the soft, heated skin there and Lawrence sighs out fondly, "But for the record, I've never wanted to."

...That does something to Adam's heart, right there. What it is, he doesn't know, but something.

Darting to cover the soft slip of his underbelly, regardless of whether or not Lawrence realizes he's been shown it, Adam chuckles and quips, "Not even when my terrible acting skills got us into trouble?", picking his head up enough to show the other man his crooked smirk.

In return, he gets to hear Lawrence light up in semi-startled but mostly genuine mirth, a marked difference from his laughter earlier. He even gets a light-hearted smirk, the one where one corner of his mouth raises up into a narrow point of amusement.

Huh, Adam finds himself thinking absently as he peers up into Lawrence's face, all gentle lines and hints of colour highlighted by the glow of the lamp Lawrence can't sleep without, I've only ever seen him smirk at me like that.

His cheeks warm up further. I think.

"Not even then," Lawrence says amidst Adam's musings, which breaks him out of his trance with a sigh of a chuckle as he allows his eyes to flutter closed once more. He lowers his head back down to rest against the comfort of Lawrence's breastbone where he'd tucked himself earlier. He chalks the flash of summery, almost sweet warmth suddenly sweeping through his belly up to emotional exhaustion and tries not to think too hard about it - that's twice now in the past five minutes that that feeling has struck him in response to something Lawrence has said, and he really does not have the capacity to ponder possible reasons why at the moment.

For now, Adam just lets himself feel it, lets it relax him enough to brush up against the usually elusive pull of sleep. "Thanks," he makes sure to mumble before he fully slips under, tapping clumsy fingers twice over Lawrence's shoulder before loosely tangling them in the striped fabric there.

(Adam can't help but wrinkle his nose with a sleepy almost half smile; he'd never admit it in a million years, but the fact that Lawrence is one of those people that wears those striped, long-sleeved, matching two-piece "old man" pajama sets is honestly incredibly endearing.

Even better is when he wears his round-framed reading glasses, the ones that slip halfway down his nose every so often while he's thumbing through whatever novel has caught his attention recently. It's - it's kind of cute, really.

You definitely didn't hear that from Adam, though.)

The last thing Adam hears is "You're welcome," accompanied by fingers gently moving back up into his hair. Instead of combing this time, however, Lawrence curls a wide palm around the back of his skull in a cup and holds him there, occasionally brushing the pad of his thumb through the hair curling around the helix of his ear.

He doesn't remember the last time he fell asleep feeling this safe.)

-

It's been about three months since Adam's moved in when he's dragged out of a rare, dreamless dead sleep by a desperate scream - one that sends his heart surging up into his throat, its rhythm thunderous and stuttering as this horribly cold shiver passes through him and leaves him trembling in its wake. There's only one person that that scream could have come from, but Adam can think of a million and one horrible reasons when it comes to why.

He doesn't even have to think about it. Within seconds Adam is out of bed and on his feet, legs heavy and sleep-fuzzy as he stumbles around a bit, hands reaching around blindly in search of something with which to steady himself until his wandering fingertips catch the edge of his dresser.

It hurts a little bit (he'd put more force behind his searching than he'd intended), but the flicker of pain is sobering, grounding. It's enough to help him find his balance, and as another urgent, though quieter noise of distress pierces the otherwise tranquil ambience of their apartment, it's also enough to properly kick Adam into gear.

It's a primal kind of panic that awakens beneath his goosebump-prickled skin in response to the sound, almost entirely incapacitating with how it freezes his blood in his veins. He breezes through the doorway (Adam can't sleep with the door closed anymore) like it's nothing and makes a beeline for Lawrence's bedroom. Thankfully, it's only a few feet away with a very faint, but still noticeable, trail of lamplight peeking out from under the almost-closed door (Lawrence can't sleep with the door closed anymore either).

That settles Adam a little bit; if they were under the threat of danger coming from outside - i.e., another Jigsaw attack, God forbid - then he figures that there would be a lot of things out of place, like the power being out when there were no storms predicted to roll through or the sounds of a struggle. Lawrence would put up a fight. Adam knows he would. So would he, baseball bat or not.

Standing just before the door now, Adam begins to register a different, softer kind of sound, steady and continuous yet choked, as if there's an attempt being made to cover it up. In his muddle-minded state it takes him a few heartbeats to realize what it is he's actually hearing, but once it clicks into place, Adam doesn't know how he didn't understand it sooner.

After all, he's spent more than enough nights trying to sob soundlessly to recognize those halting gasps of breath and splintered whimpers anywhere.

"Lawrence?" he calls out, sweaty hand rising up to curl cautiously around the doorknob; near silent weeping or not, Adam just doesn't feel it's respectful to just barge in without asking first or without announcing himself. After what they've been through, doing something like that would be beyond tone deaf. "Lawrence, are you okay, man?"

A beat of silence stretches into a minute, two minutes, three. Adam's pounding heart is a jackhammer where it's nestled safely behind the rungs of his rib cage. A myriad of pulling-yourself-together noises - extended sniffles, shaky sighs, uncertain and maybe embarrassed groans - and then, finally, broken-voiced and hushed: "A-Adam?"

Thank God. Adam was starting to get nervous (or, well, more nervous). "Yeah," he replies almost instantly, wincing at the audible eagerness in his voice but choosing to leave it in favour of trying to reassure his friend. "Yeah, it's me."

A wave of déjà vu washes over Adam; it almost feels like the day they had that argument. "I, um, heard you yell. I got worried."

Another sniffle, this one followed quickly by a whine of discomfort. "...Oh, Adam, I'm sorry," Lawrence says, a low murmur of sound from behind the door. "I... didn't mean to wake you up. I'm sorry, I just... it was so... God, sorry - I don't know. I-I don't know."

"No, hey," Adam breathes, pointedly ignoring the pained spasm his heart gives at the other man's tears and sleep-raspy speech. Now is not the time. "It's okay. I've woken you up hundreds of times - it happens."

"But - I-I know how hard it is for you to get to sleep, and I..."

"Lawrence, listen, it's alright. You're always there for me when I have nightmares, 'nd I really appreciate that, okay? So I don't mind doing the same for you. It's all good." Then, quieter, "Is it okay if I come in?"

A deep sigh, one Adam thinks sounds a lot like relief. "Please," Lawrence answers instantly, very much a testament to how upset he actually is right now. Normally, when this happens, Lawrence will politely decline and say something like "I'll be okay, don't worry about me" or "Thank you, but I'm sure you must be tired, so you just so back to bed, okay?", so for him to be so honest and straightforward like this...

Whatever his dreams showed him tonight must've really rattled him. Adam just can't help it - it makes something in him ache. Again, he tries not to look too deeply into it.

When he finally edges the door open further and crosses the threshold into Lawrence's bedroom, the first thing his attention is drawn to is the man himself, figure softened by the mellow glow of the lamp on the bedside table. Lawrence is sitting up in bed with his hands clasped in his lap, blankets twisted up around his waist and pillows (only two of them; Adam doesn't know how he sleeps like that) strewn haphazardly about the bed itself, one smushed against his hip and the other dangling precariously over the edge of the mattress.

Though not as often as Adam himself, there are times when Lawrence's nightmares are so visceral, so violent, so real, that he winds up kicking and thrashing until he eventually wakes himself up.

The shadows underneath Lawrence's eyes are so dark in this lack of light that they look like bruises, the lines of his face appearing deeper, more gaunt. Even so, Adam doesn't miss the rosy, uneven splotches of colour that cling to the apples of Lawrence's cheeks, his nose, the brief stretch of skin where his neck meets the collar of his sleep shirt. Adam sees the twin trails of sparkling tears streaking steadily down either side of Lawrence's face, caught by the dim cast of light just enough to be noticed, and those eyes...

Wide expanses of glossy white surrounding those familiar blue-grey irises, pinprick pupils constricted by a raw panic that admittedly sends a chill racing down Adam's spine, still brimming with frantic, heavy tears.

The last time Adam saw that kind of look on Lawrence's face, the man had a gun aimed at his head very shortly after severing his foot to be free from the shackle secured around his ankle.

It breaks his fucking heart.

"Can I -" Adam begins with at the same time Lawrence starts to say "Will you -", and for a moment, the two of them enter a cycle of accidentally interrupting each other several times ("I'm sorry, you can -" "Sorry, you should -") until they look at each other - and they burst out laughing at the awkward expression on the other's face.

A little bit of the tension clouding the room fades away between the chorus of their shared mirth and the easy way both their bodies loosen with the relief of laughter, and even once it's died down and they're both working on catching their breath, Adam finds that the lightness in his chest remains.

He hopes it's the same for Lawrence. For himself, personally, it stokes the cooling fire of his confidence enough for him to clear his throat and ask what he wanted to ask in the first place: "Can I come sit with you?"

There's only a brief pause before Lawrence surprises Adam for the second time tonight (this morning? Adam isn't sure what time it is) by murmuring, "I would like that."

So that's what Adam does. He crosses the room in what feels like only a step or two, careful as he heaves himself up onto the soft plush of the other man's rumpled comforter, quietly marveling at the way his body weight slowly sinks into the memory foam mattress topper as if he's experiencing it for the first time. It's cool beneath his thigh, covered by the bed sheets but still able to be felt; that's why Lawrence chose it, after all. He's a naturally hot sleeper and nightmares certainly don't help.

(Often, when Adam is having a rough night of his own, he ends up sleeping in Lawrence's bed - he's long since moved past being embarrassed to admit that it makes him feel safer.

Needless to say, he's already used to the memory foam.)

Lawrence shifts back a bit to give Adam more room, and Adam makes sure to keep track of where the other man's legs are beneath the covers as he moves; he doesn't want to hurt him by accidentally sitting on or hitting his stump in his bid to get more comfortable.

Eventually Adam ends up settled in front of him atop the blankets, his legs drawn up underneath him because that's just the way he likes to sit. He has all of a few seconds to adjust, however, before Lawrence is tipping forward and pulling him into his trembling arms, tucking him to his chest tight, almost protective. After the brief startle, Adam gives a soft sympathetic sigh and wills his muscles to go slack, allowing himself to be moved however Lawrence pleases. However he needs.

In return, he curls one arm around Lawrence's middle and raises the other hand to splay between his tensed shoulder blades. "It's okay," he whispers, lifting his legs so that his knees are bracketing Lawrence's sides instead. When he draws his palm down the bowed line of Lawrence's spine, his heart aches when he feels how tightly-bunched the planes of his back are, realizing that the taut muscles are pulled so rigidly there's no way it doesn't hurt.

Again, Adam sighs, resting his cheek against the side of Lawrence's head when the man noses needily into the crook of his neck and hides there. He closes his burning eyes and focuses on the tickle of Lawrence's sleep-disheveled hair sliding against the curve of his jaw, feathery soft and far more familiar than anything else lately - touch is grounding for Adam when he's freaking out, and Lawrence likes having his hair played with, so that's just what they do sometimes.

Lawrence is still crying, huffs of damp air being pressed into Adam's pulse point as hot tears seep into the worn fabric of his t-shirt at the shoulder. His grip on Adam is firm and mildly terrified, as if Adam will disappear if he dares to lighten his touch or even do something as simple as move. His chest stutters against Adam's with every hitching sob that forces itself past his chattering teeth.

"It's okay," Adam says again. "It's okay. You're safe. I'm right here."

He's not going to ask Lawrence what his nightmare was about. He's not going to move until Lawrence is ready, and in all honesty, he's probably not going back to his room tonight. Not that he thinks Lawrence is incapable of looking after himself, because he knows that he very much is, but for Adam personally, the concept of leaving Lawrence alone tonight makes him uncomfortable. He would feel better being close by - just in case.

"'m sorry." The words are muffled and hardly above a whisper, but Adam hears them, heartbreakingly apologetic. "Didn't mean to wake you up, I really didn't, I... I'm sorry, you shouldn't have to deal with - with me like this. 'm sorry, Adam."

God, is Lawrence trying to rip his heart out? "I don't have to," he tells him bluntly, nuzzling against Lawrence as he sniffles miserably. "I want to help you, Larry, because you deserve help too. I know that you, like, think that you don't, sometimes, but you do. That's why I'm here. I care about you."

That seems to stop Lawrence short. He stiffens momentarily in Adam's embrace, his breaths coming out in strained bursts, but just as quickly he relaxes with a pit-of-his-stomach sigh and a gentle "Thank you". His voice still carries a significant warble to it, but his breaths are, thankfully, steadily evening out and his pulse isn't thumping nearly as hard as it was mere minutes before. It's a good sign; Lawrence is probably going to be dealing with body aches due to stress and some irritating grogginess, but the sooner he's able to get back to sleep and rest, the better off he'll be tomorrow (or today - again, Adam has no clue). Thank God it's his day off.

It takes a bit more time, but eventually, when Adam's hand skates back up the line of Lawrence's spine, he feels the tension keeping his body stiff just bleed out like a dam burst. Directly after, Lawrence is slumping bonelessly into his chest with a rattling yawn.

Fleetingly, Adam considers asking the other man if he wants to talk about it, just to make sure, but then he feels himself being tugged down against the pillows (had he fixed them and forgotten about it?), feels the covers being pulled sluggishly over them both. Moments later, Lawrence's chest is pressed to his back and there's a heavy arm around his middle as if to keep him in place, so. That idea is out the window for now.

(You don't have to hang on to me like this to keep me here, he wants to tease, very lightly elbow the other in the ribs to drive the point home. I'm not going anywhere.

As if he were planning on going anywhere, anyway. As if he could stand to be anywhere other than where he is right now, finding himself unable to do anything besides relaxing back into Lawrence's touch as said man's breathing slowly begins to deepen with true sleep and evens out somewhere around Adam's ear.

He decides not to say anything at all.

He's kind of afraid that it'd make Lawrence let go.)

-

When Adam wakes up the next morning, he wakes up alone... but the blankets are all tucked in around him to keep him warm.

Sleepy and unguarded because of it, he smiles, all bright light. Even after the night he'd had, Lawrence's first concern upon waking up and rolling out of bed was to make sure Adam didn't get cold.

(Adam's starting to realize what the feeling the simple gesture gives him is.)

With a sigh, he squeezes his eyes shut and, after counting to three in his head, he hefts himself upright and hisses through clenched teeth as that familiar radiating ache sparks to life in his shoulder. There's no way around it, nothing he can do to stop it from happening when he's slept so still and deep, so he's taken to the rip-the-bandaid-off approach. The slower he moves, the worse the pain is. It's simple.

A cursory glance at the clock on the bedside table tells Adam that it's 9:30 - a bit earlier than he'd have wanted to wake up on a Saturday, but there's a sweet smell coming from the direction of the kitchen and that's all the motivation he needs to actually pull himself out of bed. Pancakes or waffles, if he had to hazard a guess, and the unmistakable, blessed bitter bite of freshly-brewed coffee. He can feel the needed boost of energy already.

He stumbles a little bit once he's fully upright, prompting a hushed oh, Jesus Christ from his lips as he throws an arm out to stabilize himself, but after a moment taken to center his balance Adam is steady on his feet and finally makes his way out the door and down the hall.

"Good morning," Adam yawns to Lawrence's back where he stands in front of the stove when he crosses the threshold and his bare feet meet cool vinyl, naturally gravitating toward the Keurig in search of his morning cup of coffee...

...Only to find his favourite mug (well, one of them; today it's the one that reads "Kick Today In The Dick") already sat out on the counter, full of what smells like French vanilla coffee that's still steaming, a spoon, and the French vanilla powdered creamer that he loves so much. What's more, Adam notes that it's not dark brown as it would be immediately upon being dispensed; no, it's tawny, with that slightly lighter film on top of it that comes from the creamer, almost overwhelmingly sweet-smelling. Just the way he likes it.

"Good morning," Lawrence greets him without turning around, and before Adam has the chance to say even one word, the other man continues, sounding a touch nervous. "I know how much you like having coffee in the morning, so I, um, thought I'd get it ready for you. There's already a bunch of sugar and creamer in it -" Adam can practically see the way Lawrence is likely wrinkling his nose - "but I'm not sure exactly how much of those you use, so I kept them out just in case you wanted to add more."

Adam must still be emotionally raw after the night before, because this simple act of kindness very nearly has him tearing up. God, where did that come from? At least Lawrence isn't looking at him. "Thank you," he offers after clearing his throat, beyond relieved that it takes the potential warble out of his voice.

Not only is it too early for that shit, Adam also doesn't think he could take having to explain to Lawrence that he started crying because he got his coffee ready for him so he could have it when he woke up. He'd never survive. "Did you sleep okay?"

Lawrence hums, and Adam watches the broad slope of his shoulders as he (presumably) flips a pancake. There's a pause there, the two of them lapsing into a comfortable, companionable silence while Adam takes his mug into his hands and curls his palms around the near burning heat, before Lawrence responds to that question, his voice soft and shy. "...Yeah," he murmurs, still standing with his back to Adam, shoulders that had briefly tensed going slack. "Yes, I did. Thank you, Adam. I don't think I would've been able to go back to sleep if it weren't for you."

Oh. Well.

Warmth floods Adam's cheeks, so he takes a cautious sip of his coffee to justify the rosiness of his face should the other man turn to face him. "I'm just glad I could help," he manages eventually, mildly mortified to hear how his voice cracks in the middle of his sentence. He coughs a little bit. "I didn't mind. I know how hard it is to go back to bed after somethin' like that, so."

"Yeah," Lawrence agrees. "It was... yeah. I haven't had one that bad in a while."

"D'you... y'know, wanna talk about it? You don't have to or anything if you don't want to, I just... figured I'd offer."

Another long bout of quiet. Then, "You."

"Me?" Adam tucks a strand of hair behind his ear (it's getting long), stealing another mouthful of coffee. For not knowing 100% how much sugar and creamer he likes in his coffee, Lawrence damn near got it perfect. "What about me? Uh, if you don't mind me asking."

He watches Lawrence plate the pancake he'd flipped a minute ago, excited to find that it's got blueberries in it. Then Lawrence grabs the bowl of batter to pour another pancake.

Is it just Adam, or is the other man shaking a little?

"In the bathroom." He's quiet, now. Very quiet. "I tried - I tried so hard, so hard to get you out of there, but... by the time I got back - I don't know how long after - you were gone. I mean, you were there, but you were so cold and still, too still..."

Lawrence sucks in a shaky deep breath, one hand drifting to the edge of the counter and squeezing until his knuckles go white. Adam's heart twists.

"I failed you," Lawrence mumbles, "and when I woke up, my head was such a mess that I couldn't tell the difference between nightmare and reality. For a minute there, I really thought... I thought you were gone, and - and I was distraught."

"Lawrence," Adam all but whispers, not even caring that his voice breaks on the r - his brows are furrowed and his eyes are wet. He's got other things to worry about.

"But then you came in, moving and breathing and alive, and knowing you were okay? I can't even begin to explain how relieved I was." Adam can hear a smile in his voice now, and it makes him smile, too. "I had visual proof that you were fine and that we made it out. Having you stay with me after that... I could make sure it stayed that way. So, thank you."

Oh, Christ. Adam can't ignore the swell of feeling that curls tight around his heart anymore.

He doesn't just care about Lawrence.

He loves him.

Reeling a little from the realization that he's been trying desperately to delay, the only thing Adam finds himself able to say is "You're welcome, man, I'm glad. We're okay."

Lawrence throws a glance at Adam over his shoulder with this affection-warm, beautifully bright genuine grin, and as he tries his best to grin back, all Adam can think is fuck.

He's really in trouble now, isn't he?

-

Diana is, in two words, fucking awesome. Seriously, Adam's never met a seven-year-old as badass as she is. After everything she's been through, all of the horror she's been forced to witness, she's still got the brightest smile and gentlest soul.

Maybe it has to do with her being a child, able to "bounce back", so to speak, quicker than an adult would be able to (especially one as jaded as he is), still able to hold onto that beautiful optimism that children are blessed with. Whatever it is, Adam doesn't know, but he's in awe of her.

He doesn't meet her properly until he and Lawrence have been living together for six months. This decision came about partially because Lawrence and Alison were still working out the custody agreement (thankfully, their phone conversations have become much more amicable and run leagues smoother than they had in the very beginning), and partially because Diana is, understandably, a lot more nervous around strangers than she used to be.

Having her mom and dad around helps a lot, to be sure, but it can't take away all of her anxiety. Adam gets it. He's always looking over his shoulder, always mapping out every viable escape route should he need to get away quick, always feeling that heavy, ice-cold shiver flooding his veins when he can't tell if someone new seems trustworthy. It's stressful, scary, especially for a little kid.

Once Lawrence had introduced them, though ("This is daddy's roommate Adam, sweetheart, I promise he doesn't bite," which caused both Adam and Diana to burst out laughing), it was like something just... clicked.

It only took an hour for Diana to deem him safe, and once she'd come to that conclusion, she'd sat down next to him on the couch, fixed him with this sweet, wide-eyed look of wonder, and she'd said, "So you and daddy get to have sleepovers, but like, all the time?"

"Yeah, I guess it's kinda like that," Adam had chuckled, very pointedly ignoring the way Lawrence had been watching them interact fondly from the kitchen and how the attention caused his cheeks to warm. "Hey, can I tell you a secret?"

Diana's eyes just absolutely lit up at that, nodding so enthusiastically that Adam remembers wondering how it didn't hurt. "Please," she added after a moment, as if to remove any and all doubt.

So he'd leaned in, lifted his hand to sort of shield his mouth, and he'd announced in a very intentional stage whisper, "Your dad snores. A lot."

She'd collapsed into the back of the couch in giggles, and that was it.

(Even better was when he'd glanced back at Lawrence, a teasing smirk on his face despite the fact that he was still shocked by actually making Diana laugh, and the man narrowed his eyes, smirked back, and stuck his tongue out in a feat of unexpected but hilarious childishness.

Adam laughed until he cried.)

That night (Diana was staying over for the weekend), Adam helped Diana create the pillow fort to end all pillow forts with some structural assistance from Lawrence, who was not immune to retaliating when Adam managed to snag a pillow and swatted (very carefully, he didn't want to knock him off his feet) at Lawrence's belly. He'd let out a startled oof, took a moment to recollect himself, and then he grinned and did the same with the little throw pillow he already had in his hands.

Diana shrieked with laughter, head whipping around between both of them, watching the battle unfold, and it was completely worth it just to see the smile on her face.

(After dinner - pizza from Diana's favourite place - and two and a half Disney movies, Diana fell asleep in the fort easily. Like it took nothing at all.

"It's been a while since I've seen her so happy," Lawrence had whispered as the two of them absently continued to watch Pooh's Heffalump Movie (so what if Adam got kind of invested? It was almost over anyway), his hand having worked into Adam's freshly-washed hair at some point, carding gently and slowly. "Has anyone ever told you that you're great with children?"

Adam had laughed softly, praying that Lawrence couldn't hear just how fast his heart was beating. A benefit of their routine of reassuring physical touch was that Adam was able to bury his face in Lawrence's shoulder without any questions.

"Not really, no," he'd mumbled, sleepy, shy, and pleasantly warmed by the words of praise. "I was always, like, that cautionary tale, y'know? The kid that every parent tells their kid not to hang out with because they'll end up in trouble." Adam shrugged nonchalantly. "Started smoking when I was fifteen, cigarettes or weed, didn't matter. Drank every now and then at parties, mostly 'cause Scott wouldn't stop calling me a pussy if I didn't, but I didn't really feel comfy being drunk around people I didn't know. Acted out at school and at home because of all the shit my brothers and I dealt with - my work slipped bad because of the depression."

He'd taken a short breath, then, letting it out in a long sigh. "It's so weird. Adults are always telling you to come to them if you're struggling and need help, but when you don't act in a way they consider 'acceptable', they just don't care anymore. The reputation that shit gave me... even when you get better, they never see it. You're always going to be the same troublemaker going nowhere in life to them." A snort, definitely unkind though not aimed at Lawrence. "At least I didn't smoke or drink and drive."

Lawrence went quiet at that, and Adam couldn't have lied and said it hadn't made him nervous. "I never did shit like that around kids, though," he'd added nervously, heart skipping beats for an entirely different reason. "I saw that shit enough when I was a kid. I'd never want to put another child through that."

"Your parents...?"

"My biological father. It's, uh, most of the reason why Specs, David and I stopped seeing him. 'course, he was into much harder shit than just weed, so... y'know. He really liked alcohol 'nd coke, stuff like that. I've only ever smoked weed and took edibles so I could sleep."

Adam remembers briefly considering cutting the thick silence that followed with humor, a light-hearted anecdote or two from freshman year; one time I saw a kid drop acid on the bus on the way home; that's what I get for riding someone else's bus so we could hang out after school, or a kid offered to sell me Adderall once, maybe I would've been able to concentrate better if I handed over the twenty he wanted for it; he got suspended for having weed in his backpack a week later, but it hadn't felt right. Instead, he hadn't said anything at all and waited for Lawrence's reply.

In time, it came in the form of a very quiet, but nonetheless earnest, murmur. "Well, I think you're great with Diana," as well as a touch softer addition of, "thank you for telling me," even if he sounded nervously uncertain about whether or not it was what he should've said.

Adam just nodded and closed his eyes. He didn't trust himself to speak.)

Today Adam is sitting at the dining room table with his fingers obediently spread out atop a folded paper towel, palm facing down, just as Diana had asked. She wants to practice painting in patterns, and so far, the nails on Adam's left hand are a pretty pastel assortment of colours, arranged in a rainbow. Again, Lawrence is watching the two of them from behind the kitchen counter, but this time he's significantly distracted by putting dinner together, so his attention is mostly contributed in stolen glances and wide, goofy grins whenever he catches Adam's eye.

Lawrence had insisted on making dinner tonight, and he'd also made it very clear that he wanted Adam to relax this time instead (Adam always tries to help with dinner); those reasons are how he and Diana ended up like this - not that Adam minds in the slightest.

"So I have to do this family tree thingy for school," Diana tells Adam as she messily paints his right middle finger nail green, leaning in as close as she can get away with to focus (she's had to scoot back twice already because "You can't be breathing those fumes in, honey," which had Adam practically bursting at the seams because he could not laugh). "It's not due 'til next week, 'cause Mrs. Mayfield wanted to give us time to talk to our parents 'nd stuff, but I wanna start on it tomorrow."

"That's always a good attitude to have," Adam replies, nodding his head once very carefully so as not to throw Diana off. "What sort of info d'you need?"

Adam can tell Lawrence is looking right now. He can feel it. The sensation of that affectionate gaze, Diana's humming as she inspects her handiwork, the sweet smells of home cooking... it feels comfortable. Domestic.

He kind of loves it.

Diana swipes some excess polish with the pad of her thumb, brows furrowed. "Parents, grandparents, aunts 'nd uncles... what's your mom and dad's names?"

Confused, the only response Adam can give is simply the truth. "Claire and Andrew. How come?"

"I gotta know what to put on the tree, silly!"

"...I'm not following, Diamond."

She sighs heavily, clearly exasperated. Adam can't help cracking a smile, even if he feels a little bad about it. She seems to move on from it quickly enough, though, because what she says next is "I'm gonna put you on my family tree, Addy."

Oh.

That's - oh.

Adam throws a panicked glance at Lawrence over his shoulder because I have no idea what to do or say here so help me out please, but what he finds in the other man's face are shining, almost overwhelmingly tender eyes, a smile so soft it's like ice melting in the sun, and this slight but healthy hint of colour in his cheeks. God, that does not help. His heart starts pounding harder, pulse skipping faster, eyes feeling dangerously wet. He can't do this - he has to look away.

"You gotta sit still, Adam," Diana tells him sternly when he turns back around, a frown greeting him when he finally meets her eyes, though it dissolves pretty much instantly the minute he sticks his tongue out and blows a short raspberry.

"Ooh, nice save," Lawrence pipes up from behind them, affectionately teasing. "You were on first-name basis for a minute there."

"Shh, daddy," Diana huffs, but she's still giggling. "Gotta focus."

"Sorry, sorry."

"Yeah, you can't disturb an artist while she's working," Adam feels it important to contribute, falling back on playful humor. The difference here is that it doesn't feel forced - it feels as natural as breathing. Less like he's trying to cover something up and more like his heart is actually so light that joking doesn't have to be a defense mechanism.

Maybe tonight is just a night for revelations.

It doesn't really scare Adam like he thought it would, though.

"Yeah," Diana says as she finishes painting Adam's pinkie nail pink, a wide grin still stretched across her face. "Listen to Addy, daddy." She giggles again. "That rhymed!"

Lawrence laughs, really laughs, head thrown back and arm wrapped around his middle and everything, and he glows. Diana is unable to contain herself and joins in. Adam looks between the two of them, heart thrumming warmly, and he laughs too.

It hits Adam, then, that this must be what family feels like.

He could definitely get used to this.

(Deep down, he knows he already has.)

-

After Diana has been put to bed for the night, the two of them end up on the couch, Lawrence working on one of his crossword puzzles (he buys these little books; Adam likes to quip that it makes Lawrence an old man, but in reality, he's quite endeared by it) and Adam curled up against Lawrence's side while only kind of paying attention to whatever's on TV when Lawrence disrupts the blanket of comfortable silence that's settled over them. "So, how do you feel about Diana's family tree assignment?"

Ah. Adam doesn't know why he expected Lawrence to not bring that up, or for him to forget about it. It's okay; Lawrence's voice is low but relaxed, and all Adam has to do is remember the way Lawrence smiled at him when Diana had said that to ease his nerves.

"It made me happy," he answers honestly, because it had. It felt like a candle was lit in the depths of his chest, warm and glittering yet mellow, like the heat of a bonfire. "Is that - are you okay with that? I mean, I just... I don't wanna step on anyone's toes..."

"Of course I'm okay with it," Lawrence murmurs immediately, leaning to rest his cheek on the top of Adam's head where it rests tucked against his shoulder. "You wouldn't be stepping on mine or Alison's toes, if that's what you mean. Alison and I both appreciate how good you are with Diana, and we both know how much you mean to her."

Two, three heartbeats later, he all but whispers, "You mean just as much to me."

Well, doesn't that just do all sorts of funny things to Adam's heart. In response, the words tumble from his lips unbidden, somewhat timid: "I do?"

Instantly realizing his mistake, Adam scrambles to properly elaborate. "I, um, not that I think you don't care about me, I know you do, I just..." His mouth closes, reopens. "I dunno. Sorry."

"You're fine." Lawrence sets his book aside, careful to ensure his pen ends up on the coffee table to prevent stray marks. "I... you mean a lot to me, Adam, truly. I wish we hadn't met under the circumstances we did, but I thank whatever force is out there - not Jigsaw, obviously - that I get to have you in my life."

Adam folds his lip between his teeth. Fuck, he's not getting out of this without tearing up, is he? "Larry..."

I'm grateful to have you in my life too, he wants to say. I think I've loved you since I woke up in the hospital, when you came back for me. I've been grateful for getting to be a part of your life. Thank you. I've never felt like I've belonged anywhere, but here, I do.

He freezes instead, locks up. It's okay. Lawrence isn't finished anyway.

"You know," Lawrence finally continues, "the last thing I remember before waking up in the hospital is asking that poor, terrified man that found me to go back for you. After I woke up, I asked about you so many times and got so upset that the moment you were awake and allowed visitors, they wheeled me in there without me even having to ask."

Adam remembers that. That nurse had been so kind, calmingly soft-spoken when she'd given them a smile and a cheery "Well, I'll leave you to it!", but her eyes were practically glowing with the sentiment of thank God they're finally in the same room. After she left and closed the door behind her, they'd both cracked up laughing. Sure, it turned to relieved tears soon after, but in that moment there was nothing funnier.

"I was so happy to see you," Adam sighs, shutting his eyes with a flicker of his lashes. God, he loves Lawrence so much. He's not afraid to acknowledge it anymore - internally, at least. "I was so scared and confused and my everything fucking hurt, but seeing you, colour in your face, all teary... I felt safe. It was like - like I knew it'd be okay 'cause you kept your promise."

Then, just because he can, he adds, "And, y'know... sterility and painkillers were so much better than the smell of shit and piss and rot and my shoulder hurting so bad I felt it in my stomach."

Lawrence chuckles kindly, then takes one of Adam's hands into his and begins to rub circles into his knuckles with the pad of his thumb. Adam could melt. "I would imagine so," the man hums, lightly squeezing Adam's hand. "That's quite the improvement."

"Oh, for sure."

They're quiet for a minute, just enjoying each other's company - then, "I feel alive when I'm with you. It's kind of like I woke up, y'know? I stopped sleepwalking through life when I met you, twisted as the situation was. Of course it's not the only reason, but you... you made me want to keep going. You made me want to heal, and you still do, every day."

What can Adam say to that? What should he say to that? It doesn't feel like something that can be confined within the words of the English language. Nothing he could say would be able to properly convey how that statement makes him feel.

So, Adam keeps quiet.

Instead, he pulls away from where he'd practically melted into Lawrence's side, leans up that very minor distance between their heights (when Adam's sitting up straight, that is - he knows his posture is shit), gently presses a palm to the curve of Lawrence's jaw, and slowly swipes the pad of his thumb over the soft point of Lawrence's cheekbone. The way the other man's face warms under his touch... Adam lets himself revel in it.

"Adam...?" Lawrence sounds small and uncertain, brows furrowed into that heavy line and lips pulled taut in a thin nervous line, but his eyes are so, so warm. Always so warm, so earnest. A lot of people don't know how to read Lawrence's gaze - it can easily be described as intense, maybe even off-putting to strangers, but Adam gets it. Where he can hardly maintain eye contact for longer than a minute, Lawrence prefers to hold someone else's gaze for as long as he can ("I've been told that I make people uncomfortable, but... I don't know how else I'd be able to concentrate on what they're saying.").

The point is this: Lawrence is giving him his full, undivided attention.

It's the push he needs. Adam tilts his head, leans in further, closer enough that he can feel how Lawrence's breath stutters against his face, and closes the distance between them.

It's slow at first, tentative - Adam is shaking ever-so-slightly with anxious energy, and Lawrence is little better than stunned, but after a moment taken to adjust and a good amount of patience, one of Lawrence's arms curls around Adam's waist and pulls him closer if it were possible. His other hand raises to sink into the tufts of hair at the back of Adam's head, cradling him there.

Adam, meanwhile, lets go of Lawrence's cheek and moves instead to tuck his hands against the man's chest, twisting his fingers in the fabric of the dress shirt Lawrence hadn't changed out of after arriving home from work.

They don't separate until they absolutely have to (they kind of have to breathe), but when they do, neither of them pull away, opting to instead rest their foreheads against one another; their special place, ever since that night. Lawrence's hand remains in Adam's hair and he keeps his arm around his middle, and Adam lightens his grip on the front of Lawrence's shirt but doesn't let go. They stay that way for a long while, sharing space and breath, hearts thrumming and warm.

This silence is - it's tender, in a way. Sweeter than Adam knew silence could be. He could deal with quiet, sometimes, if it were always like this.

After some time, though, it's Lawrence (again) who breaks the silence. Voice hardly above a whisper, like he's afraid that if he speaks even a fraction louder he'll shatter this moment, he simply says, "Thank God - I thought it was just me."

Adam can't stop himself. He giggles, sudden and nearly uncontrollable, giddy with the verbal confirmation that of course Lawrence feels the same way (as if he didn't know already, given the way Lawrence kissed back). "Are you for real?" he gasps, grinning so wide that the width of it nearly forces his eyes shut. "You - you couldn't see how red my face would get when you'd put an arm around me or play with my hair or let me cuddle you whenever I had a shitty day or night? Or, like, how hard my heart would beat? Lawrence, I've been head over heels for months."

When Adam pulls back, it's only so he can rest his head on Lawrence's shoulder. It doesn't mean he can't hear the startled laugh that leaves the man's lips. "You have?" Lawrence murmurs, curious. "I - since when?"

That gives Adam pause. There's the first time he noticed, and there's the moment he thinks those feelings actually sparked. So, "Since you made my coffee and blueberry pancakes after the night you had that really bad nightmare. But... if I had t'think about it, I think I'd say that I've probably felt that way since I woke up in the hospital 'nd you were sitting next to me."

So, Adam thinks to himself, that's nine months ago. If you wanna include the months before I moved in, then it's eleven. Almost a full year.

God, has that much time really passed already?

The hand in Adam's hair slips down the nape of his neck, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake, to his shoulder all the way down until he can take Adam's hand again - though this time he laces their fingers together. "You know why I crawled out that night, don't you?"

Adam blinks. "Uh...?"

Lawrence leans down to press a kiss into Adam's hair, and with that, he whispers, "It was for you."

"For me?"

"That was what kept me going," Lawrence confirms, squeezing Adam's hand. Distantly, it reminds him of that moment shared over coffee months ago. "I thought Alison and Diana were gone. I wanted to just... stop. Close my eyes and rest. Part of me even wanted... wanted to just... go to sleep, and never wake up. A few times, I almost did. Then I'd think of you, and I'd be able to keep moving."

Clearing his throat, Adam nuzzles against the other man's shoulder, pouring all his energy into not crying. He's heard about Lawrence's painstaking, mind-numbing, agonizing crawl through the labyrinth of tunnels they'd been hidden deep within, and he can't imagine the strength it took to be able to get through that with one less foot and the shock of trauma. That being said, this time it's - it's different. In the context of hearing the man he loves essentially say I fought my way out of hell so you could get out too, it's heavier.

"Thank you," he finds himself breathing out. "Thank you, Lawrence."

"I should be telling you that." Another kiss to the top of his head, adoring. "Besides, I don't want you to think that you... owe me for that, okay? You don't. But..." A kiss to his temple this time. "I'd do it a thousand times over again. I'd always come back for you."

"God," Adam sighs shakily, but he's still smiling. "I love you - I hope that's okay for me to say. Thank you. Thank you for coming back for me." Then, softer, "Thank you for helping me work through all this shit."

Lawrence laughs, sweet and sunny. "I love you too," he says, "and thank you for helping me work through it, too."

So, this is love.

If someone had told Adam a year ago that this was where he'd be, out of his shithole apartment and into one that he shares with someone he loves and who loves him, still healing every day, he probably would've laughed in their face.

Now, he kisses Lawrence's shoulder and sighs, content.

What they were put through that night was undoubtedly the worst experience of their lives, but this, right here?

Adam couldn't be happier.