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Something is wrong with Lawrence.
No, not wrong, but off. In his demeanour and with the far-away look in his eyes. In the way he says his name.
Adam could never be entirely sure though, since both of them have been some sort of “off” ever since…
Bloody hands, slipping. Couldn’t hold on. Whose blood? All mixed together. Together. Don’t leave me.
“Adam.”
He looks up. His shitty apartment lights shine upon golden hair and cast a broken halo. The shade in more recent years has faded and dulled somewhat, flecked with greys, though Adam likes to marvel at how Lawrence’s hair has retained its softness throughout the years. He could picture him as a young man, that softness transposed in his every countenance.
“What’s wrong?”
He almost laughs. You are. Whatever is wrong with you.
Lawrence would never lie to him now. Never. But he had his walls, which Adam could not bring himself to knock upon. Lawrence had always been closed off, right from the very day they met, and to Adam this was an identifying feature of the man. Who was Lawrence without his haunts and his torment? It didn’t matter, not really.
He lets himself laugh now.
“Care for a check-up, doc?”
It occurs to Adam that Lawrence is worried about him. It was ironic, but he supposes that’s what love is all about, or so he’s heard. They could be one complete person, if only they could merge into one and become the world’s most fucked up and unholy union, finally whole. Lawrence with his brains and calm collection, and Adam…
The thought severs itself. He knows truly that he is not good for the other. He has nothing to offer. To Lawrence, Adam was the echo of terror and madness he might’ve one day been able to move on from. He had ruined his life, even. The man had lost his wife and saw his daughter less than he would like, though Adam was told time and time again that he was not responsible for any of that. He tells himself that too. Says it to the mirror, studies his own face; cheeks turned gaunt and eyes that flicker away when caught. Eyes that follow, watch, want.
Even if their fates had never been bound (ha) since their encounter in the bathroom, Adam could still have very well ruined Lawrence’s life by capturing those photos.
Little creep, Scott used to call him when they were kids. What are you sitting all the way over there for, you creep?
He still has copies of those photos.
Adam does not remember getting out of the bathroom – or rather, removed from it. He had awoken in the hospital, startled by the mechanical sound of beeping and the coolness of the sterile room. A far cry from the place he had come from; the filthy, suffocating bathroom which still exists somewhere in the bowels of some godforsaken place. His personal Hell.
Sometimes he feels that his body is still there, rotting as time passes. Sometimes he walks through the street, past the living souls and thinks, Do you smell it? The blood and decay? Sometimes he’s convinced that they do.
He doesn’t tell Lawrence any of this.
Lawrence disappears sometimes. To be fair, he’d waited until Adam’s nightmares subsided. Not that they'd ever stopped. They just don’t wake him up anymore, with a scream lodged in his throat and arms thrashed forward. Then, Lawrence would cradle him like a father would cradle a child. Tell him he’s safe. Alive.
These days, Adam mostly wakes still and quietly, with terror’s last vestiges lingering deep and sour in his mouth and stomach. He does not doubt that Lawrence is infected with the same sickness.
One night Adam had awoken to a small noise, and for a moment he lay alert and wide-eyed until he realised it was the man beside him. He took Lawrence by the shoulder then, hands unsure and careful, shaking him gently at first, urging him to wake up. Get out of there, get out of that place.
“Oh, God,” the moan came out coiled and wretched. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please, God.”
Adam tried to hold him the only way he knew how. The way Lawrence did. He leaned close into the man's body, willing his own to crowd out the other presence, whatever it could be. Lawrence did not wake up. All night Adam listened. I’m sorry, please help me. Help me.
He didn’t tell Lawrence about that either.
Something is wrong with Lawrence, he remembers thinking. He had quickly quashed the thought. No Jigsaw victim was the same, but he could safely assume soul-crushing guilt and loss was nothing unusual. Adam could only guess what the man was seeing in both his dreams and waking life.
He thought of Lawrence’s family – his wife and daughter. Ex-wife. Lawrence had told him all about it some time after he and Adam had first reunited; that the former couple had done their best to recover after the whole kidnapping ordeal. In light of their already strained marriage (Lawrence’s fault), they somehow believed that the very harrowing experience could’ve helped them. People would tell them the craziest things – that their marriage had gone through life’s greatest challenges, and they had made it through. But they hadn't, and they couldn't. They had attended marriage counselling, took time off work, had movie nights…
“What went wrong?” Adam had asked.
“Me. I was all wrong,” said Lawrence, and Adam didn't know if he should disagree with him. “She tried you know. The nightmares, the–” he gestured to the cane propped against the table. Adam contemplated all the physical therapy he must have endured, on top of the emotional therapy. “Not that any of that was the problem. She really helped me through it all. But she said I was – I don’t know. Unstable. She didn’t want Diana to see me like that, or get hurt.”
Did you tell her that I unwillingly took a bullet for Diana? Did you remind them how you cut off your own fucking foot for them?
He didn’t say any of that. For Lawrence’s sake.
Not that Adam could really understand the whole marriage and family dynamic. He’d never wanted children. He couldn’t bring himself to be too empathetic about the divorce, but he did feel bad for Lawrence. For them all, really.
Sure, Lawrence was sometimes very distant, and other times incredibly intense to the point of unease– but otherwise, he was the most stable thing in Adam’s life. The only thing he could hold onto. Alison had been worried about nothing, their marriage was just probably destined to end.
Where was he again?
Oh, right. Sometimes Lawrence would disappear, mostly during the night while he believed Adam slept. Little did he know that Adam had not been sleeping at all before Lawrence had finally decided to get in touch with him again. Whenever Lawrence left, Adam returned to sleeplessness.
The first three times Lawrence disappeared, Adam did not allow himself to outwardly panic. He had told himself that Lawrence was just feeling restless. Getting some air. He would be back soon. He did not allow himself to grapple for the other, to call out.
He squeezed his eyes shut, willed himself to breathe, to sleep.
By the fourth time, Adam was calm enough to be appropriately suspicious. Lawrence would be gone at times for an entire night or day at most. Though often he’d be back well before morning – and he always, always had a reason. The man was a doctor after all, with many other responsibilities besides.
Had Adam not made his own career out of men like Lawrence, he might have settled into the comfort of belief. Adam, the once distant eye cast over Lawrence’s immorality, understands that the nature of an adulterer is to sneak, charm, evade. Now, he finds himself far too close to discern what he is looking at.
Not that he has any suspicions in that regard. He knows well that Lawrence’s days of infidelity are far behind him. That’s what worries him; God knows what that man was up to. Adam hates uncertainty, especially when it comes to Lawrence.
When they first met, Lawrence was not much of an enigma to him. Adam had kept the man’s secrets in his palm, never playing his hand, all the while Lawrence looked him in the eye and lied. He had thought he had Adam all figured out, who held Lawrence’s gaze all the same, up until his own lies (he preferred omissions) were exposed.
Not that his knowledge of the man would've helped him escape, and even if it did, Adam probably wouldn't have used it as leverage anyway. Probably.
Still, he likes to think that he’s the only one who has ever, and will ever, truly understand Lawrence. Nevermind how concerning that was on both their accounts.
But those damn walls.
If only Lawrence would let him in, he had no doubt that he would be able to understand whatever the hell was going on in there too.
Lawrence has a very irregular work schedule. A surgeon’s schedule. Adam never lets it bother him because of the way his own work operates, to which Lawrence has already tried to convince him to quit in favour of more ‘stable’ work a few times now. Adam doesn't really have it in himself to be too offended.
Today is one of Lawrence’s rare days off, and so is tomorrow. Or it was supposed to be, until Lawrence informed him that he would be going into work tomorrow after all, so they should adjust their plans for the day accordingly.
Adam was concerned, but not nearly as concerned as he was in the next moment.
Lawrence’s new place, being an apartment, was more modest than his previous house yet still distinctly affluent with its granite countertops and stainless steel appliances. While they had discussed the possibility of moving in together, Adam still could not bring himself to leave his shithole. He could not shake the sense of disconnect he felt in this place. Plus, Adam enjoys watching Lawrence fumble his way around his own crowded living space whenever he visits— ducking into the darkroom and cursing when the shower runs cold.
So, here he stood in Lawrence’s fancy kitchen, ruminating on the man’s announcement. Said man was turned from him and cutting a thick loaf of sourdough bread on the island, because pre-sliced was too far below his refined tastes. He was already wearing the prosthesis, since he liked to leave to wherever he needed to be right after breakfast. He did not even bother to look at Adam as he gave the news.
Trying to be reasonable, Adam considers that maybe Lawrence truly was called into work tomorrow. It’s not that Adam doesn’t trust him, he was just worried about him. So what was stopping him from asking?
“Lawrence,” he manages to say steadily. “I have something to ask you.”
A beat. No response.
Adam sighs. “Come on, it’s not a big deal.” He approaches Lawrence, who seems to have stopped moving, with the hand which he gripped the kitchen knife with hovering in suspension. Adam pauses as soon as he sees the flash of red glinting on metal.
He realises that Lawrence is moving after all, as he follows the man’s gaze downward.
“Oh, fuck,” Adam groans. The wound is a significant slice along the side of Lawrence's forefinger, from the first knuckle and well past the second, deep and weeping. Lawrence stares down at his hand – becoming increasingly bloody – with little concern. He turns it slowly as if considering a trinket at the store.
“Lawrence!”
Finally Lawrence faces him, like he always does when Adam calls his name.
Adam has now started to become nauseous from the sight of blood, a problem he never used to have. “Why don't you ever use an actual goddamn bread knife?”
“Because I hate the sound it makes, and how it feels.”
Lawrence’s voice is low and calm, but Adam’s heart drops at the words. He steers the other man to the sink, grabbing a clean dishcloth on the way.
After a moment he turns the tap off harshly. “I think,” Adam says, gazing straight into Lawrence’s eyes as he holds the other's dishcloth-wrapped hand in his own, “you need to go to the hospital.”
Then the most perplexing thing happens.
Lawrence breaks into an incredulously sweet smile; the one that Adam knows has those poor medical students swooning over him.
He asks almost fondly, “Why would I go to the hospital?”
Still reeling, Adam doesn’t answer him right away. “I think you need stitches.”
“Well,” Lawrence says lightheartedly. “I can do that myself.”
“No fucking way you are!”
It’s Lawrence’s turn to sigh now, like they are disagreeing on what to eat. “I don’t need to go to the hospital for something like this.”
Something like this. Lawrence on the floor, hacksaw in his hand, screaming through his shirt and clenched teeth. Adam was told later that he had cauterised the wound on his own with a steaming pipe. He had heard the scream from his tiled prison, driven half-mad from the unknown and his own pain and fear.
Do you even feel anything anymore? After that much pain? Are you in pain?
Lawrence, not seeming to notice or care when the oven tray burned his flesh. Two weeks ago. Lawrence, distant to the sight of his own blood. Today. Lawrence, constantly moving about despite his practitioner’s advice; skin red raw and ulcerated almost every night as he removed the prosthesis, serene and unfeeling as Adam applied the cream to the limb.
A strange emotion begins to build in Adam’s chest now. He feels lightheaded with it, a bubbling unease that grows with every passing second and realisation.
Upon seeing whatever inner turmoil was making itself known in his expression, Lawrence raises his free hand to Adam’s cheek in reassurance. Reassurance. Because some things never change. “You should go sit down. I’ll take care of this.”
Lawrence shuffles past him, left hand wrapped in the dishcloth while the other retrieves the cane from against the counter. Adam watches after him helplessly.
Something is wrong with Lawrence.