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Adam didn't mean to. Really, he didn't.
He'd been trying so, so hard not to, tried to be stronger than the urge that'd begun haunting him again lately, but one look at the safety razor sitting innocently on their bathroom counter and all that effort, all that progress, all four years he's spent clean went right out the window.
He'd been trying so hard to ignore it and move past it, but something in Adam just... broke, tonight, while he was waiting for Lawrence to get home. It's not Lawrence's fault, not at all, it's just an unfortunate coincidence that this had to happen while the doctor was at work.
God, Adam doesn't want Lawrence to find out. He doesn't want him to know, but the photographer knows he's a terrible liar.
(Except for when the lie is "Yeah, I'm okay", but Lawrence has gotten particularly good at seeing right through that one.)
Still, Adam can't deny the full-bodied wave of relief that rolls through him as he drags the head of the razor across the soft flesh of his hip, flooding his veins and settling deeply within the pit of his stomach. The photographer repeats the action, pressing down harder, folding his lip between his teeth and biting down hard through the sting. He knows this sting, knows it like the back of his hand, knows it better than almost anything else.
With every new set of lines he carves, Adam feels some of the weight in his chest loosen and dissolve, breaking free and leaving him feeling lighter than he has in a long time. It makes it so much easier to breathe, doing this. Like the photographer is flushing all his bad thoughts and feelings out with the blood he's letting.
It hurts, just like it always does, but the pain is grounding - again, like it always is. Truthfully, Adam knows that this isn't just a spur-of-the-moment decision, but he can deal with that mess later (or, better yet, never). He'll finish up here, clean himself up and bandage the wounds properly, throw this disposable razor away, and carry on.
It's not as though the marks will be hard to hide; Adam's a pro at this by now. That's why he chose his hip. Everything can easily be covered by his boxer briefs, let alone pants. It'll be fine.
He squeezes the area around one of the lines until those familiar crimson orbs bead up and he exhales, slow but thick with exhaustion. Adam supposes he must be tired of trying to repress this part of him, knowing full well that it's far from healthy but also being unable to resist the allure of temporary quiet. He hates himself for it, but Adam needs that quiet.
It's been completely out of reach these past few weeks.
Adam switches sides, awareness lost in the off-beat rush of blood in his otherwise deaf ears and the funny staccato thump of his sick-feeling heart. He doesn't know how long he's been here. He can feel that his fingertips have gone a bit tacky with something, but he doesn't have to look for him to know what it is.
Vaguely, it reminds the photographer of how slippery his hands felt after he'd bashed Zep's head in, but he forces the thought from his head quickly enough. He doesn't want to think about that right now. It'll only make things worse.
(But can it get any worse when he's already doing this?)
Then there's a quick tug, and suddenly, Adam is not holding the razor anymore.
"...dam, why are... happened? I'm..."
It's just scraps of attempted conversation floating around the yawning void that is currently his cognizance, and Adam finds himself unable to secure any of it in his grasp, make it make sense. He still tries, turning his dizzy head in the direction he thinks the words are coming from, craning his neck and straining his ears, but he can't trace it. Can't follow the trail the word-mush is laying out.
"Let me... at you, I need... you cleaned up, okay?"
"What?" Adam's voice is foreign in his ringing ears, shuddering and unrecognizable. His legs are shaking, the muscles of his thighs screaming under the pressure of keeping himself upright, so he just... stops trying. Lets them give out.
And when his knees hit the tile as a result, a lightning bolt of feeling zipping all the way up to his belly, he hardly even winces. It's distant, now, the pain.
Something drips down his upper thigh. It itches as it chills, settles. Adam rocks back until he's sitting on his ass, huffing as his shoulder blades come into contact with something solid and cool, smooth. Porcelain?
(The bathtub, his mind whispers.)
The photographer searches with his hands, confused. Something on his hip burns. Both hips, actually. Like fresh air hitting his bullet wound for the first time after being hauled from his almost-tomb. He must be hurt.
Where'd the shaving razor go? He wasn't finished.
Adam growls, though the sound is weak, a million miles away under the babble of rushing water. His hands are sticky. His brain is static crackling like white noise, hazy misfires and scrambled synapses. A connection waiting to be made, but one that cannot due to outside interference.
"What did I do?" he blurts, suddenly frantic and very, very afraid. The words still being spoken by someone that isn't him are beginning to melt into identifiable syllables and sounds, into English that Adam can understand. There's warmth hovering around him, a garbled mess of colours and shapes.
What did he do? Why can't he remember? He's sitting down. Why does he feel like he's a man adrift at sea? His stomach is certainly churning enough, that's for sure. "I did something wrong, didn't I? I think... I think I did somethin' I wasn't s'pposed to."
"It's okay." There's a steady hand in Adam's hair now, slowly petting, combing. The voice that accompanies it is warbly with barely concealed panic, though. "I'm sorry I didn't call when I had to stay over. I know how much it scares you. I'm so sorry, baby."
Adam rubs against the affection needily, wanting to drown in it. No, not drown, that's not the right word. Adam doesn't want to drown. He wants to lose himself in it, maybe. Let it envelop his sore, shivering body.
Yeah, that sounds better. Still, "That's - that's not why I..."
Not why he what?
Finally, the photographer sluggishly dips his head, gaze sweeping absently over himself until he reaches his legs and he understands. At the same time, a firm kiss is pressed into the side of his head, right above his ear. It hits him like a fucking bus, leaving him sweaty and embarrassed, ashamed.
"Lawrence," he whispers. He doesn't have the strength to make his voice any louder. "Tell me I didn't. Please tell me I didn't," even though he already knows the answer.
Adam presses his face forward, sighing long and deep when his too warm cheek brushes against semi-scratchy cotton. In return, cautious arms find anchor around his shoulders, pulling him close into the soft line of a familiar chest.
Moments later, gentle fingers resume their sifting through Adam's hair. There's an urgency to it, the photographer thinks.
"I'm sorry." Lawrence's murmur is soft, unaccusing. Kind, if a little panicked, which is totally understandable. "I wish I could tell you that you didn't, but I - I can't."
Great fucking job, Adam.
"What happened, bug?"
Maybe he's too emotionally exhausted to cry. If that's the case, Adam isn't complaining, but he has enough clarity to know it's not a good thing. "I dunno," he answers honestly, because he really doesn't. He doesn't know why tonight was worse than any other night. "I didn't mean it. I mean, obviously I - I did, but I didn't. I was trying so hard... I should've told you instead."
His hands twitch, yearning to hang on to something, but he doesn't want to make a mess. Or a worse mess, at least. "'s it bad?"
Lawrence, bless him, understands what Adam is saying perfectly. "No stitches," he assures him, breathing out a short sigh through his nose that tickles the ruddy plane of Adam's cheek. "No hospital. We still need to get you cleaned up, though, okay? I want to make sure they don't get infected."
Ah, infected. That word is almost enough to make Adam throw up, after the bathroom. Hasn't he had enough to do with infections to last a million lifetimes?
It kind of makes him want to laugh, but the sound is imprisoned behind forcefully clenched teeth, so the photographer just noses into the crook of Lawrence's neck and sighs again. He's tired, so tired. Achy. Fractured. Shattered.
"Hold me," Adam mumbles, dry, cracked lips brushing up against the doctor's pulse point. His nose is running, eyes feeling puffy and throbbing like twin bruises. He's been crying anyway, hasn't he? And he still wants to throw up. Really, really wants to throw up. The pain in his hips is dull, distant. Thank God. "Just - after. Please. Don't let me go. Don't let me go, Lawrence, please."
"I won't, baby, I promise. I won't let go. I wouldn't lie to you."
Relieved, Adam closes his eyes and smiles.
"Do what you need to, Larry."
-
After, when he's freshly bandaged and shivering in the tight circle of Lawrence's arms, Adam coasts the line between sleep and wakefulness as he struggles to say anything other than sorry. Lawrence keeps telling him it's okay, it'll be okay, Adam, I'm right here, we'll be okay, but the photographer just can't seem to keep the word out of his mouth.
"I don't know why," he mumbles weakly, nose tucked against the (significantly calmer) thump of Lawrence's pulse. His lids are heavy, so heavy, but the doctor deserves an explanation for the mess he came home to tonight. "I've - I've wanted to, again, for a while, but... I didn't, y'know, actually think I would. I thought I was stronger than that."
"You are strong," the other man says immediately, the hand that hasn't left Adam's hair since before they went through the clean up process stilling at the base of his skull and cupping him there; his thumb rubs little tremored circles through the fine dusting of hair at the nape of the photographer's neck, just touching, feeling. "This doesn't make you weak. You are not weak, you hear me? You are so brave and so kind, so strong. You're struggling right now, but that's okay. I'm not gonna let you fight this alone. We're going to get through this together."
If Adam weren't too tired to start crying again, he definitely would have at those words. "Lawrence..."
"I love you," the doctor says softly, hardly above a whisper. Adam wouldn't have been able to hear it if he weren't literally laying in his lap. "Why...?"
"I love you too." Alright, now onto Lawrence's question. "It helps, sometimes."
"Helps? Helps how? If you don't mind me asking."
Adam nuzzles against him, flexing his fingers where they're tangled in the fabric of Lawrence's sweater so they don't go numb. "It's like... I don't really know how to explain it, honestly, but it's... hm." He genuinely doesn't know if anyone's ever asked him that before. Usually, people were too scared to ask once they figured out what the white lines marking the inside of his wrists and forearms were from. "It's like doing it gets rid of all of my bad feelings, y'know? Like I'm... bleeding them out, I guess. So they're not all bottled up inside me. I was only clean for four years before tonight 'nd I've been doing it since I was thirteen, so I've... I've struggled with it a long time."
Lawrence is quiet, but not scary quiet; Adam knows the difference between I'm frustrated and might sound a little loud in a second and I'm just thinking about what to say when it comes to his boyfriend. It'd taken a while, but he got there eventually.
Finally, Lawrence breaks the silence with a softly uttered, if slightly aching, "If... if it's the bad feelings you're struggling with, maybe... maybe we can look for different ways? Ways where you don't have to hurt yourself, but you can still vent that frustration?"
All his life, Adam has heard you have to stop, please, for me? and what the hell is wrong with you, who even does something like that and do you really need attention that badly?, and hearing the man he loves the most not break out any of those ignorant, counterproductive demands? It's a breath of fresh air, truly. There's no other way to describe it; it's refreshing, relieving, soothing.
Instead of making the actions themselves the sole focus, Lawrence steps back, takes a look at the situation, and moves back in with the offering of an alternative - without belittling, reprimanding, or accusing Adam. Just the understanding of hey, I don't fully know what this must be like for you, but I want to help you in any way I can if you will let me.
And Adam wants to let him. So, "...I've heard about, like, drawing lines? With washable markers, the kind Diana uses. Or butterflies."
"Those are both good," Lawrence affirms, pressing a soft kiss to the side of the photographer's head. "Personally, I've heard of squeezing an ice cube until the cold gets too cold to handle, or writing out your feelings and, if you want to, ripping the paper up or burning it. That might give you the same sensation of letting those feelings go, huh?"
Adam smiles, sleepy and unguarded, crooked. "Wouldn't hurt t'try," he hums, allowing his eyes to drift shut once more. It's good that they're in bed, now; the photographer is pretty sure he'll be asleep before long. "Listen, I jus'... I wanna say thank you. For not freaking out on me. 'nd 'm sorry I scared you, 'cause I know I did. I'll be okay." A brief pause, just to think of anything else he might want to add. Finally, "Maybe we just... take it easy? Um, and, uh, hide the sharps."
"We can definitely do that." Another kiss, this time deposited on the top of his head. It makes Adam smile, imagining Lawrence awkwardly leaning down just so he can kiss him. "I have the next couple days off; we can sleep in and talk and spend time together, look for more ways to help, and I'll hide whatever sharps you need me to, okay? And next Wednesday, if you want, I can come in when you talk to Elizabeth. Only if you want me to."
Adam nods, already half asleep. "'kay. Thank you. Love you, Larry. 'm sorry, but 'm g'nna fall asleep."
"You go ahead and sleep, sweetheart. You've had a rough night. I'll be right here." One more kiss, lingering and tender. "And I love you, too."
This conversation is far from over, but Adam knows that whatever comes with the promise of tomorrow, he can handle it. Sure, Lawrence can't fix this for him, but the fact that he wants to help is more than enough. It's more than enough for Adam to know that he won't be alone.
Feeling much safer than he had just hours earlier, Adam finally allows himself to sleep.
It'll be okay.