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You really don’t know how you ended up here.
Or— you know how you ended up here, logically, but you don’t quite understand why this is happening, or why it’s happening to you, specifically. Maybe it’s a— cosmic joke, or something. Maybe you did something terrible in a past life. Maybe this is a just a prank on you, and everything will be over in a minute, when Adrian jumps up and tells you he was just fucking with you and runs out of the room.
That’s what you’re expecting, anyway. As ridiculous as it may seem, it makes more sense, logically, than what’s actually happening here right now.
Beside you, Adrian exhales. His back is to you; he’s apparently asleep on his side, but you don’t think he ever actually fell asleep. You think he’s just as awake as you are. You don’t see why, really, because— it’s you.
You and Adrian—
It’s not that you don’t get along. Well— You don’t get along super well, but that’s mostly just— You don’t know how to deal with him. Adrian is a lot. From the second you were ordered to join Emilia and John on assignment with Peacemaker, you’d known this was going to be overwhelming, but— you really hadn’t expected him.
You thought you were just going to keep an eye on Peacemaker, follow instructions given from above, and successfully carry out your mission. You didn’t necessarily always know what was going on, or why, but you knew your role, and you figured— the better you did, and the harder you worked, the sooner you’d be able to get out of here. Even if things didn’t go smoothly, you hoped they’d at least end, at some point. Then, you’d be done.
Unfortunately, you didn’t account for actually meeting somebody who caught your attention on this mission.
Adrian— He really isn’t on the team, so much, but he’s not not on the team. He’s always showing up, and helping out, and talking. He is always fucking talking. And you don’t—
You’ve never known what to make of him.
In a way, you think, in the privacy of the darkness, staring at the motel room wall, with your own back to Adrian’s, you’re a little— afraid of him. He’s so much, and so loud, and he’s just— unabashed. He flirts clumsily with you, and he hangs all over Chris, and he openly tells the group they’re his best friends.
He’s endearing, and terrifying, and open. He’s just so fucking open, and you’re—
You’re supposed to be in and out. You’re not supposed to get attached. This is all meant to be an easy path back to your old life; this mission is meant to be short, and optimistically simple, and it’s turning out to be anything but.
Somehow, Adrian’s been wriggling his way under your skin. And the more you find yourself enjoying his company, and the more you grow to like him, and the more you actually come to understand that you want to be with him, the more you have to push him away. You know you have to; it’s the only choice, here.
What other option is there?, you think bitterly to yourself, blinking against the acidic burning behind your eyes, still staring at the wall. Either you stay and fuck him up, or you leave and fuck him up. Either way, you’re fucking the both of you up. What’s the point?
Adrian shuffles next to you in a deliberate way, obviously awake. You can feel the mattress shifting beneath him as he moves; it feels like he’s twisting around, before there’s a soft exhalation of breath.
Your heart picks up a little bit, pulse starting to quicken in your veins. It sounds like he’s laying on his back, now, rather than his side, and all your muscles tense up, pulling together. Your shoulders are tight, but you can’t get yourself to release. You keep thinking about him beside you, sharing the same blankets as you, wide awake, maybe even looking at you.
The two of you— You work so well together, it’s stupid. Everybody’s noticed. That’s a big part of why they keep assigning the two of you to back each other; together, you’re practically an unstoppable, four-armed, monstrous killing machine. Nothing can stop you when you’re working side-by-side.
And maybe that’s part of why you’re afraid, too. You like him, and you want to be with him, and you work well with him, and if you fuck this up—
When you fuck this up, you’ll lose all of that. You know you will; it’s not worth the risk
You’re unable to stop yourself from a soft sigh yourself, frustrated and sad and accepting. It’s better to push him away now than to pretend he’d love me before he hates me.
It’s just easier this way. It’s just easier. You keep repeating that to yourself: This is better for me, this is better for him, it’s easier this way, it’s just easier, it’s just better. Don’t give in, don’t give in, don’t give in.
Into the darkness behind you, Adrian moves slightly again, restless. You’re not surprised he’s unable to stop moving here; you’re honestly more surprised he’s not still talking.
Honestly, it really does feel like some sort of prank, or karma, or cosmic joke, because there’s no reason the two of you should be here, right now. You’ve been fighting so, so hard not to give in, and then Emilia just— goes and throws the two of you in the same motel room for the next couple of days on this op, and— all your hard work feels like it’s about to completely collapse.
You are not this weak, you repeat to yourself.
You fight against the voice in the back of your head that whispers, It’s not weak to want. It’s not weak to be honest. It’s not weak to make a connection—
You exhale sharply again, trying to chase that voice away. It’s too optimistic; you know you’d fuck this up.
“Hey,” Adrian whispers, and you tense up again. “Sorry. Are you asleep?”
You hesitate, debating not answering at all. After a beat, you decide that’s dumb, and say, “Yeah, why?” in as even a voice as you can.
“You just sighed a couple times,” Adrian replies. He’s keeping his voice soft; it’s doing strange things to your insides, the unfamiliar way he’s keeping himself in a rasp. He’s usually so loud. Hearing him quiet is making you feel a little wild.
He doesn’t continue, so you say, “Sorry,” feeling shame and embarrassment flush hot across your face. You’re frustrated even more, feeling that. You’re not a child. Just share the fucking bed and stop getting so worked up. You’re a professional adult. You are not weak. It’s just easier this way. This is better for the both of you. Don’t give in, don’t give in, don’t give in.
“What?” Adrian says, a little louder. He quickly hushes back down, hissing, “I was just saying, in case— I don’t know. I just— Like, what the fuck are you sorry for?”
The mattress shifts beneath you again; Adrian must be moving. You really— You don’t get why Emilia couldn’t have gotten you all rooms with two beds. Just because she wants an excuse to share with Chris doesn’t mean the rest of you should have to suffer. Just because Emilia and Chris know how to express themselves to each other doesn’t mean you can do the same with Adrian.
“Nothing,” you whisper back, keeping your eyes fixed ahead on the dark wall. “I’ll be quiet. Go to sleep.”
There’s a beat of silence where Adrian doesn’t speak, and you hold your breath, waiting for his words. You know they must be coming; this is Adrian, after all.
Sure enough, after a moment, he whispers to you, “Are you mad at me?”
“What?” you ask, surprised enough that you actually turn to look at him. You don’t move to lay on your back, only twisting to look at him over your shoulder in the darkness. It’s difficult to see him, but your eyes have adjusted enough, in staring at nothing, to make him out. He’s mostly sitting up, actually, half-propped upwards, his head turned towards you; his bright eyes are the clearest part of him, still somehow easy to find beneath the night’s shadows and the dark spill of his messy hair down his face, mussed from his endless shuffling tonight.
“Are you mad at me?” he repeats. “Or, like— Did I do something? Or do you not like me?”
You stare at him, bewildered. After a moment, you actually do shift to lay on your back, rather than your side, and then twist again, pushing to lay on your other side, now, next to him.
There’s a part of you that wants to reach to snap the lamp back on, but you know, if you do— if you cast the room in light— you won’t be able to speak anymore. Something about the darkness feels safe, and comforting, even through the terror and fear and strange feeligns that Adrian’s drawing up out of you.
“I like you fine,” you tell him, afraid to tell him just how much you like him. Not allowed. It’s easier if it’s not allowed. You can’t get hurt if it’s not allowed. You can’t hurt him if it’s not allowed. It’s easier this way.
“I thought so,” Adrian says, sounding kind of— down, just, melancholy, which doesn’t make sense with what he’s saying, what you’re saying. The pang of it twists something inside you, has you automatically frowning. “But you don’t—” He sighs roughly, then says, “I don’t want to sound like a shithead. This is something shitheads say.”
“You are a shithead,” you tell him automatically. You’re unable to stop yourself lashing out at him, even in playful ways; there’s something in you that wants to push him away as viciously as you want to pull him in, keeping you as afraid to love him as you are desperate for it. Swallowing the feeling back, you say, “Just tell me.”
Adrian’s eyes come down to meet yours, through the darkness. You can see the shadowy movements of him as he admits, “You don’t always feel like you like me. And sometimes you feel like— weird, and I don’t— I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, some of the time. I can’t figure it out. I just— I’m sorry? If I did something? And if I didn’t, like— I don’t know. This is— This is dumb, I shouldn’t have—”
“No,” you cut him off, heart thumping so hard in your chest it feels like it wants to climb up your throat. You— This doesn’t make sense. You’re doing this for him. This isn’t supposed to hurt him; this is supposed to make life easier for him.
“Yeah,” Adrian says, when you don’t continue. “Sorry. I mean— Sorry. That was super dumb of me, you just— Like, of course you—”
“Adrian,” you stop him, shifting upwards slightly. You still can’t bring yourself to turn the light on, but you do draw a bit closer, trying to see him a little better. He seems flustered, and upset, and this isn’t how this is supposed to be happening. This was supposed to make him happy. “Why wouldn’t I like you?”
He makes a sound that’s nearly like a laugh, except there’s not a lot of humor in it. It’s mostly just a frustrated huff. “Why would you? Trust me, like, I get it, you all have these like— vibes about me, and I get it, because everybody does, but I really like you and sometimes it feels like it’s different with you but then sometimes it feels like you hate me and I don’t understand.”
This is so much. This is— so much, and you don’t really understand how he can feel emotions and then think about them and then just— let them come out of his mouth like this. You’re shocked, and jealous, and you don’t understand, either.
You want to be more like him; you want to unlock your jaw and open your throat and let all the feelings and words and everything inside of you just come pouring out. You want to be better at this; you want to be more like him.
He’s offering you a chance, that traitorous, optimistic little voice in the back of your mind whispers to you. You can be more open. He’s opening up. Open up back.
It’s easier if I don’t, you remind yourself.
It’s not. The voice is firmer, now, than your own. It’s really, really not.
You make your jaw loosen, just a bit, so you can part your lips and tell him, “I don’t hate you,” because that’s one of the most important parts, right now. “Adrian, I don’t hate you.”
He makes another soft noise; this one’s almost relieved, something like a— sigh, almost, with an edge. “Then what’d I do?” he asks into that darkness, his bright eyes on yours still. Everything else is just hazy-shadow, you’re so focused on him.
“You—” you start to say, then stop. Hesitating, you instead tell him, “It’s not your fault.”
“Oh, what— ‘It’s not you, it’s me?’” Adrian asks, frustrated, afraid. “It’s not the best excuse, you know, especially when you’re, like— When you’re you.”
Heart pounding harder, you ask him, “What’s that supposed to mean?”
There’s something like fear inside him, when he shifts this time, but also something wild, and trapped, and hungry, and explosive. He whispers to you, “You’re the most incredible person I’ve ever met, and you’re so fucking cool, and you’re just— making— You make me feel amazing and I think I really fucking like you but every time I think you like me, too, you seem like you hate me, all of a sudden, and I just— How can it not be me? How could it possibly be you when I—”
“Adrian,” you cut him off, sitting up with a jerk. Your arms almost buckle beneath you, but you get yourself upright, pulling your knees up so you can sit properly beside him. You think you might actually pass out, heart racing and blood pounding and ears roaring. “It’s— None of that’s true. It is me.”
Adrian frowns. It creases his handsome face in such interesting ways, even if you hate to see him do it; he so infrequently frowns, it feels wrong to see, even now. Especially now, maybe.
“How?” he asks, but this time it feels like more of a question.
And you—
You’re afraid to be vulnerable. You’re so, so afraid. But—
But, here’s Adrian, putting everything out there. He’s making himself vulnerable, to you, and he doesn’t even seem to think he’s going to get anything out of it. He’s pouring his heart out, and confessing himself to you, and all while he apparently thinks you hate him. The idea of it has your stomach twisting, a disturbed sort of nausea inside of you.
You have to do this. You have to do this. It hasn’t been easier, it hasn’t been better; this has been hell. Every moment of not having him, of pretending you don’t want him, of holding yourself back, has been absolute hell.
You can’t take it anymore.
“Because I’ll fuck it up,” you whisper to him. Your voice breaks, and that infuriates you, but you can’t stop that frustrated prickling behind your eyes, that lump in your throat. “Because I’m— Because I’m me, Adrian, and I can’t— I can’t do this, I can’t l—” You stop, exhaling jaggedly. “I can’t let myself want you. I can’t— let myself fuck you up, I can’t. I can’t.”
Adrian’s over you in a second. There’s barely a beat between him being beside you and him moving towards you, catching your hand, pushing in closer to you than you think he’s ever deliberately been.
All the breath punches out of you. Your eyes flick up to meet his, as you ask, bewildered, “Adrian, what—”
“I am already so fucked up,” he insists to you. So close, so close, he demands to know, “So, what, you— You think you’re gonna fuck me up more? You like me, and, what? What? How could you possibly fuck up liking me?”
“I’m doing it right now,” you hiss back.
“Against your better judgment, apparently,” he says, then evaluates you from close-up, his green eyes penetrating through to your core, from his insides to yours. “Do you mean it?”
“Mean what?” you ask, confused. He’s dismantling everything you’ve worked so hard to build, and you’re loving it, and you’re afraid he’s going to take it back and make you go back to how things used to be. You’re not sure you can do that, now that you’ve tasted this connection with him— this genuine, honest, real connection.
“You want me,” Adrian clarifies. “That you— You said you want me. Maybe. And you didn’t say you don’t like me, just that you don’t want to fuck up, which— Sorry, this sounds really dumb, I can’t stop sounding dumb, I just— Do you— Maybe you like me? Do you like me, do you mean it?”
So many words are coming out of his mouth, such a sharp contrast to that tense, silent darkness you’d both been trapped in before. You find yourself drowning in every note of his voice, every word that basically boils down to: Do you like me?
You can’t lie to him, not anymore. Terrified, optimistic, excited, afraid, you whisper, “Yeah.” Adrian pushes in closer to you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek, instead. “I like you—”
You’ve only just barely finished speaking before Adrian’s asking in a soft, whispered rush, “Can I kiss you?”
You hesitate, but— Really, you’re already past the point of no return.
You nod jerkily, and he pushes in, closing that last final gap between you. There’s no distance at all, now; not physically, not mentally, not emotionally, just— the two of you folding together, into one another, a house of cards collapsing until nobody remembers what came from which deck, all a jumble, one new inextricable entity altogether.
You’ve never been kissed like this. You’ve never been kissed by somebody you wanted to kiss like this. It feels like giving in, and giving up, and soaring, and satisfaction, all in the best possible ways.
Inside you, it’s like something clicks into place. You smile, just slightly, into the kiss, and you can feel Adrian do the same in return, when he feels yours.
He’s so soft, and moves with such determination, an aching passion in every shift of his lips, his fingertips against your face, his eyelashes drifting down to brush your cheek when he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, to push in even closer. His nose presses into the soft space beneath your eye, and you twist up further into the kiss.
Reaching, twining, you get your hand in his hair, pull at him to tug him closer. You drift, nudge at his hip with your other hand, guiding him up until he climbs into your lap. Straddling you with his weight, and bulk, and joy, he drops down for another kiss, both hands coming to cradle your face, this time.
When you separate the second time, he whispers, “Please still like me tomorrow,” to you, and it breaks your heart, a little bit, at the same time that it stitches it back together.
“I think I might like you always,” you whisper back. It’s so open— so, so open, and honest, and stupid, and vulnerable, and you tense just for thinking it, let alone expressing it, but—
But Adrian just grins, and pushes into another joyous kiss, saying, “I like you so much,” and you—
You don’t know the last time you were rewarded for vulnerability, for a moment of weakness, for genuine honesty. It’s a shock to your system; you want life to be like this always.
With a jolt, you realize that, with Adrian, you might just be able to have this always. This might be real; in fact, you think, with increasing certainty in the center of your chest, this is real.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper to him, separating from the kiss to tell him. It feels important, that he know. You don’t mean to fuck this up; you feel like you might even fuck it up again, and he doesn’t deserve this, and you don’t want to get hurt, and that’s what you’ve been trying to avoid—
“Hey,” Adrian replies, catching your attention, drawing you back out of your own mind. Squishing your cheeks together slightly, he says, “You have nothing to be sorry about.”
“But I—”
“Nobody’s perfect,” Adrian tells you, and pushes in again. This time, his kiss is sweet, and chaste; he drops it on the corner of your mouth before bringing another kiss to your cheek, and another beneath your eye, before he starts dotting kisses anywhere he can reach.
You laugh, twisting away, but he catches you, reeling you back in. Flickering up to look at him in the darkness, you find his bright eyes again, and you can’t help smiling. All that tension is leaking out of you, now, all that hard upset bleeding away.
“I like you,” you whisper to him, because you can. Unabashed, joyous, soft. “I really, really like you, Adrian.”
“Good,” he whispers back. “Otherwise me liking you this much was about to get super, super weird,” and he dives into another kiss, pulling you up, hips rolling down into yours, smiling the whole time.