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Lawrence doesn’t sing.
It’s a peculiarity of his that takes a while for Adam to notice. There’s a lot of little eccentricities his new roommate has, so this one in particular escapes his notice for a while– of more note are the slippers he puts on every time he enters their apartment, the precise three minutes and twenty seconds he takes to brew his tea in the morning, the way he doesn’t mind Adam smoking weed on the fire escape but balks at regular cigarettes. At least the last one makes sense, him being a cancer doctor and all, but the way Lawrence phrases it, it seems to be the smell that offends him more than the nicotine.
“Honestly, I like the smell of marijuana,” he’d said once. And then, when Adam had finally stopped laughing at him calling it marijuana like he’s some kind of narc: “Reminds me of college.”
“Reminds me of dropping out of college,” Adam cracked, and Lawrence had laughed.
It seems easier for him to do that, these days.
Adam had been used to living alone for most of his adult life, but it’s a surprisingly easy adjustment to have a roommate like Lawrence. He’s neat, and he pays two-thirds of the rent, and he’s a quiet worker when he works from home, and he doesn’t mind Adam’s habit of playing music at top volume from the headphones around his neck. He’s a shit cook, but so is Adam, and Lawrence doesn’t mind paying for takeout for the two of them.
They help each other adjust to their new normal: Lawrence’s prosthetic gives him as much grief as Adam’s newly limited mobility in his right arm, and they’re able to assist each other with each discovered difficulty. Adam lets him into the darkroom to help him hang photos, and Lawrence leans against him for support at the places where the sidewalk is uneven during their daily physical-therapist-mandated walks.
Another thing that surprises Adam is how much Lawrence respects his privacy. Or, scratch that, respects him. He’d sat Lawrence down when the doctor had first proposed that they move in together to make their respective situations– divorce, expired lease– more bearable, and had haltingly, cautiously told him that he was trans, and if that changed Lawrence’s mind about them moving in together, he totally got it, and–
Lawrence had quirked a brow at him, a bit curious, but otherwise completely nonplussed. “Why would that make me change my mind?”
“Uh…I dunno. Just, like, I wanted you to know.”
“I was already planning on finding us a place with separate bathrooms, so you’ll have as much privacy as you need,” Lawrence had said. “Other than that, it’s entirely a nonissue to me.”
Adam had grinned, spine already unknotting itself from the tension he’d been carrying. “Yeah, that’s– okay, cool. Great.”
Beyond the convenience of having another, helpful, kind, respectful person sharing his space, Adam learns, it also helps to have a roommate with pretty much the exact same trauma. He wakes up screaming some nights, and it helps that Lawrence knows exactly which nightmares had returned, and knows just how to comfort him– all the lights in the apartment come on, and he pulls out the most boring documentary he owns on DVD, and they sit on the sofa together until Adam’s eyes slide shut again. He knows that Lawrence has those nightmares, too, and he adds Alison’s cell phone to his speed dial so that Lawrence can talk to Diana at a moment’s notice.
Lawrence is an early bird, and Adam a night owl, but they make time to talk, to have the conversations that would be difficult with other people. Lawrence copes by clicking off the news whenever he hears the word “Jigsaw”, and Adam copes by obsessively reading every new fact of the case that he can find. He doesn’t know which of them is being more unhealthy about it, but Adam hopes they cancel each other out somehow.
And then, one warm, rainy day in April, Adam arrives home, slaps a copy of The Herald down on the kitchen counter, picks up a pillow from the sofa, and screams into it as loudly as he’s able.
“Adam–” Lawrence emerges from his bedroom and rushes to him, half-dressed, only in his trousers and his undershirt, belt flopping free from the half of the loops he hasn’t threaded it through. He doesn’t even have his cane, Adam notices numbly; his need to comfort Adam is greater than his need for his own stability and comfort. “What’s wrong? What happened?”
He points wordlessly to the paper, head still spinning in a disbelieving haze, and Lawrence hobbles over to read the headline that’s splashed over a picture of a man whose face has haunted both of their nightmares for months.
JIGSAW UNMASKED: SERIAL KILLER FOUND DEAD– VICTIM OF OWN TWISTED GAME.
Lawrence sinks down onto the sofa next to him, too stunned to speak.
“It’s over,” Adam sobs, abandoning the pillow to latch onto Lawrence, and despite his shock, Lawrence immediately wraps his arms around him, tucking his chin protectively over Adam’s head. “It’s over, it’s over, it’s over.”
It’s hours before they stop holding each other. It’s days before Lawrence’s hands stop shaking. It’s weeks before Adam stops seeing John Kramer’s face peering out at him from newsstands and has to rush home each time to breathe through the panic.
And it’s easier, after he dies. It finally feels like freedom. They can just be normal, boring men again, living their lives, arguing over which groceries to buy, politely– or not so politely, depending on who picks up the landline– declining the journalists who call them. Adam stops looking over his shoulder when he slouches home from his shitty retail job, and Lawrence starts pumping his own gas again instead of staying locked in his car and paying the attendant.
Life goes on, and in a sick way, the game sort of worked, because now Adam’s eager to live the rest of it.
He prefers not to think about it that way. He prefers to think it’s Lawrence’s presence in his life that’s the new element, that it’s him who’s made the change in Adam from passively suicidal to actively looking forward to waking up in the morning. He just wishes they had one solid thing in common, now that they’re leaving the shared horror of the bathroom behind.
And then they find the throughline.
“The fuck’s that?”
Lawrence looks up from the box he’s peeling the cling film off of, grinning somewhat manically. “It’s a stereo system,” he says. “It just got delivered.”
Adam slings his camera off his good shoulder and plunks it onto the coffee table, flopping onto the sofa to stare at his roommate as he opens the box with all the care and precision of– well, of a surgeon. “Why? We’ve already got that little iPod dock.”
“I know, but this–” Lawrence flings an instruction manual towards him, and Adam impresses himself with a one-handed catch. “This can play everything. It’s got the cable thingies for the iPod, but it can also play CDs, cassettes, records– it does it all. New technology to aid old technology.”
He grins; Lawrence’s enthusiasm is infectious. “Okay, but…we don’t have any records.”
With a toss of his hair to get it out of his face– and Adam tries to ignore the flip in his stomach at that– Lawrence fixes him with another starry smile. “I thought that might be your job.”
With that, their new method of non-traumatic bonding begins.
Adam is somewhat a creature of habit when it comes to his music– he likes his metal intense, assertive, and dirty-minded, just like his women, and his classic rock mellow, honest, and full-bodied, just like his men– and in trying to find albums that both he and Lawrence will like, he finds himself branching out of his usual comfort zones. He scours the local thrift stores on his days off, amassing a collection of vinyl that Lawrence eventually buys them a shelf for, complaining that they’ll warp if Adam keeps stacking them on the floor.
“What’ve you got for me today?” becomes the first thing out of the doctor’s mouth when he comes home, and Adam always grins and puts his newest find on the turntable.
Lawrence has surprisingly great– and eclectic– taste in music, often able to recognize an album from the first few notes of the opening track. He tells Adam about seeing Talking Heads in concert over dinner, shares liner notes on Pet Sounds, and even air-guitars along with a shocking amount of finger-placement-accuracy to Jimi Hendrix.
Adam starts tagging along on errands Lawrence has to run with the car, just so they can listen to CDs. They talk about the evolution of rock, about the birth of grunge, about the pros and cons of nu-metal. Adam drums on the dash, and it makes Lawrence laugh, and Adam’s heartbeat matches the onetwo-onetwo-onetwo, because he’s never seen a more gorgeous smile.
He can’t talk about love songs with Lawrence. He chooses not to think about why.
They go to record stores together, crowding into a listening booth with a stack of LPs nearly up to Adam’s chin, shouting comparisons and recommendations over the music. They leave with empty wallets, full bags, and enormous smiles, and Adam is shocked by how much easier it is to smile these days, watching the sunlight stream through Lawrence’s hair in golden filaments.
That’s around when he notices.
“You don’t sing,” he says, once they’re in the car after a trip to Lawrence’s preferred source for jazz records, specifically. “When we listen to music together– you never sing along.”
“I’ve got a dreadful voice,” Lawrence says, with that charming, tilting smile, shaking his head in self-deprecation. “I can’t carry a tune to save my life.”
“Me too, but I still sing anyway.” Adam buckles his seatbelt, and Lawrence starts the car. “Why don’t you? I’m not gonna laugh at you.”
Lawrence pauses, and wets his lips.
“I don’t think I’ve sung aloud since I fell out of love with Alison,” he says, and it’s so swift and raw and brutal that Adam nearly chokes on his tongue.
It always takes a few whiskeys for Lawrence to talk about the divorce, and he’s never said anything about his actual feelings for Alison besides being glad for the friendship they have now. It makes Adam’s stomach twist to think about the deeper and more complicated emotions that Lawrence isn’t comfortable sharing with him. They were married for eleven years; the affection you have for someone after being with them for that long doesn’t just evaporate into thin air once the relationship ends. It has to go somewhere.
Adam is silent for a bit, and then he lunges for the safety line, sliding Violator into the CD player. It eases the tension and the silence, and they’re able to talk comfortably after a few songs, analyzing synth riffs and lyrics as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
It’s a little while later that the topic comes up again.
“My mother used to sing this to me as a lullaby.”
Adam rolls his head curiously over to look up at Lawrence. “Huh?”
“This song.” Lawrence gestures vaguely with the hand holding the joint they’re sharing– it had taken considerably little coaxing on Adam’s part to convince him to join him in some herbal relaxation after a particularly stressful shift at the hospital. “She used to sing me to sleep with this.”
They’re listening to Ella Fitzgerald, the volume on the stereo cranked high enough for them both to hear it from the fire escape they’re sitting on– Adam on the metal grate floor, legs dangling, and Lawrence in a kitchen chair he’d insisted on dragging out to spare his spine a little pain. “Misty” floats over them with velvet smoothness, and a soft breeze tickles playfully at Adam’s hair. It’s a perfect late spring evening, warm enough to shed their respective flannel and jacket, and the view of the city from here is lit in gold and pink from the setting sun casting its last light from the opposite side of the apartment building.
“Walk my way, and a thousand violins begin to play,” Ella sings, and Adam reaches up wordlessly, taking the joint that Lawrence obediently passes him. He takes a slow, smooth hit, breathing out smoke to rise in a gentle, fragile cloud around them both. “Or it might be the sound of your hello, that music I hear. I get misty whenever you’re near…”
“Kind’ve a romantic song to sing to your own kid,” he comments, and Lawrence lets out a gentle snort.
“Oh, stop. It’s the melody that matters when you’re singing to a child, not the words.” He takes the joint from Adam’s fingers without looking. Adam wishes he would look at him. “It makes for a lovely lullaby, I think.”
Adam hums, head feeling loose and floaty. If he could, he thinks, he’d like to float up with the smoke Lawrence is breathing out, drifting over the city and into the sky. Or he could stay right there, curled safe and warm in his mouth.
“Do you ever sing to Diana?” he asks, mostly to interrupt the strange flow of his own thoughts.
Lawrence laughs. It’s a wonderful sound. “God, no. I tried when she was little– she hates my singing voice. She kept putting her hand over my mouth, even as a baby. Alison is the one who sings to her. I’m only good at reading stories.”
They’re both silent for a while, letting the music wash over them.
“Don’t you notice how hopelessly I’m lost? That’s why I’m following you…”
“Do you miss her?” Adam asks, after a while.
“Diana? Oh, Christ, yes. Of course I do. I– I know it’s for the best that she lives with Alison now…with my schedule with the hospital, and– and with my leg…but yes, I miss her terribly. She’ll always be my little girl.” He glances down at Adam, smiling a bit sadly. “You’ll understand someday, if you ever become a dad.”
He snorts. “I’m not equipped for fatherhood, Lawrence. Not emotionally, and not, uh, plumbing-wise.”
“Mm. Well, I think you’d be a wonderful father.”
It feels different when Lawrence says it than when Adam’s OBGYN had said it– granted, she’d said it with terminology that made Adam’s skin crawl. With Lawrence, though, it doesn’t sound like condescension or expectation. It sounds almost like…like he’s wistful. Like he’s not thinking of Adam as an abstract someone’s father on an abstract someday, but more in the way his last girlfriend had said he’d be a great boyfriend, right before kissing him for the first time.
Not that those similarities mean anything, he’s sure.
“I’m too misty, and too much in love…too misty, and too much in love…”
“Yeah,” Adam mumbles, and heaves himself up to flip the record over as it spins into the flickering run-out. “Yeah, maybe…maybe someday.”
It comes up again about a month later.
They’re at a restaurant to celebrate Adam quitting his job in favor of another that’s slightly higher-paying and way more spiritually fulfilling– freelance stalking and retail can only take his budget so far, and he’s always wanted to work with animals, so working as a shelter attendant is a perfect fit.
“I’m just worried you’ll want to adopt all of them,” Lawrence says, swirling his wine as if he were sommelier-trained. “You’re one of the most empathetic men I know, and our lease doesn’t allow pets.”
“That’s the awesome part.” Adam gestures with his fork, careful not to let his last bite of steak fly off as he does. “I’ll be making sure that they’re all going to a good home. Part of my job description is vetting potential adopters, and I’m really good at getting a sense for people.”
“You are.” Lawrence smiles at him over his glass. “I’m– I know this sounds sappy, but I’m so proud of you, Adam. You’ve really come into your own over the past few months.”
He could let it rest– he could just agree, or laugh, or change the subject. But instead, on impulse, Adam reaches forward and briefly squeezes Lawrence’s free hand.
“It’s because of you,” he says. “You…you make me a better person, I think.”
The tips of Lawrence’s ears go red. His mouth drops open a little, and then shuts.
“So do you,” he says softly. “I’m a better man for knowing you.”
Adam grins at him, feeling his face heat with a blush. It feels so fucking good to have someone he can be honest with– out of all his friendships, and even his past romantic relationships, no one had gotten him like Lawrence gets him. It’s an impossibly miraculous thing, and it seems absurd that it all started with the darkest, most harrowing day of their lives.
He’s about to voice that thought when he’s interrupted by the worst sound in the world.
“Happy birthday to you, happy birthday to you–!”
Adam whips around with a laugh on his lips to see which poor bastard is being targeted by the three-person army of waiters bearing a tiny slice of cake with a sparkler in it– but to his absolute horror, they’re staring straight at him with tired, painted-on smiles.
“Happy birthday, dear Adam!” one of them crows, and Adam pivots to face Lawrence, seeing the doctor’s face instantly begin to mirror his own, turning a bright scarlet red.
“Did you fucking tell them it was my fucking birthday, Lawrence?” he hisses, as the waiters draw even closer.
“No! God, of course not! I hate when– oh, hello, yes, how…great…”
Adam bares his teeth in what he hopes is a passable grin as the piece of cake lands in front of him, and blows out the sparkler as quickly as humanly possible as the waiters cheer disspiritedly. “Thanks,” he says lamely, as all but one depart.
The remaining waiter gives him an apologetic grimace. “Sorry. Uh, I noticed when I carded you earlier, so…”
Adam blinks, and scrolls back in his mental calendar.
Oh.
Fuck, it actually is his birthday.
The waiter leaves, and Adam glumly pulls out the remains of the sparkler, setting it on the side of the plate. “There should be a way to sue places that do shit like this when you’re not expecting it,” he mutters. “Emotional damages. Something like that.”
“Adam, did– why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday today?” When he looks up, all of Lawrence’s embarrassment and dread is gone, replaced by bemused joy. “We should have been celebrating that, not just your new job. God, I didn’t even get you a gift–”
“I really don’t wanna make a big deal out of it.” He shoves a forkful of cake into his mouth, avoiding eye contact. “It’s– it’s just a day like any other. I’m one year older. Big fucking whoop.”
Lawrence’s smile melts. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I just–” Adam sighs, frustrated. “I’m not a fan of celebrating myself in general. Especially for stuff I haven’t earned. The job is one thing– that’s something I worked for, like, I interviewed, I did all the proper training– but I don’t get why I’m supposed to be happy about getting older. It feels selfish. I didn’t achieve anything."
“I think you did.” Lawrence’s voice is soft, and Adam looks up, caught off guard by the measured emotion behind it. “I mean– think about it, Adam. Out of everyone in the world, I think that the two of us…we’ve earned the right to celebrate surviving to see another year.”
He opens his mouth to protest, and then closes it, slowly.
Lawrence is right. He’s only here, turning twenty-seven and being publicly humiliated at an overpriced restaurant, because of his own pure stubbornness and refusal to die in that horrible fucking room. He’s here because of Lawrence, too, of course– chopping his goddamn foot off, getting out, calling the cops to come and save him– but he stayed alive through sheer force of will.
It’s something to celebrate. Not just getting older, but living.
The corner of Adam’s mouth lifts, and he masks it by taking another bite of the cake. “I guess so,” he says, and the lack of sarcasm in his voice seems to give Lawrence the courage to reach over and take a forkful for himself. “To…to surviving, then.”
“To surviving.” They tap their forks together, and Lawrence smiles at him before saying, a laugh under his voice, “I’m not singing Happy Birthday, though. I won’t subject you to that.”
He should laugh it off. Instead, Adam gives him a shy, genuine smile. “If it’s coming from you, I…I wouldn’t mind as much.”
“Oh, you don’t mean that.”
He does. He means it more than anything.
That’s hard to say with a mouthful of cake, though, so Adam just smiles.
A week later, the first thunderstorm of summer is what finally brings it to a natural conclusion.
Adam wakes with a gasp tearing at his throat, eyes flung frantically open. His room is completely dark; the only light is his alarm clock’s bright red display blinking 2:47 over and over. His heart is racing, and he doesn’t know why– and then a flash of lightning illuminates the room, followed by an enormous crash of thunder, and he’s leaping out of bed before he even knows where he’s going.
Lawrence is curled in his own bed, fast asleep, and Adam only feels guilty for a moment before shaking him awake, tears catching in his throat.
“Wh…Adam?” the doctor mumbles, groping for the light. “What’s…what’s wrong?”
“Th-the power went out.” Adam’s voice is a croak, high with terror. “I– it’s completely dark in my room, and– and I know it’s dumb, a-and I’m not afraid of the dark or– or anything stupid like th-that, but– but it’s– it reminds me of the n-night I was…” He swallows a sob. “The lightning, it looks like c-camera flashes, a-and–”
Even in the dark, he can see Lawrence’s face soften with sympathy. He clicks his tongue, and holds out his arms. “Come here,” he says softly, and it’s like a magnet is drawing Adam towards him, inexplicable and unstoppable.
He climbs onto the bed and folds himself against him, breathing hard. Lawrence’s body is warm, and his arms are soft and strong at the same time, and his breathing is even.
“It’s stupid,” he says again, flinching as another flash of lightning lights up the room. “I’m sorry. You– y-you must think I’m being such a fucking child–”
“I don’t think that. I would never think of you as anything less than the brave, smart, sarcastic man I’m proud to call my friend.” It’s another gut-punch of honesty that leaves Lawrence as easily as Adam’s name, and Adam curls against him, resting his head against his chest and letting the doctor’s steady heartbeat inform his own.
Logically, he knows that thunderstorms are quick, that they’re in the worst of it now and it’ll pass soon, but it seems to stretch into hours like this. Oddly, he doesn’t mind. Lawrence’s embrace isn’t constricting, but enveloping– he feels safer in his arms than he’s felt in years.
Thunder crashes again, loud enough to shake the windows, and he buries his face in Lawrence’s chest, heart leaping into his throat again.
“It’s so fucking loud,” he says pathetically. “God, it’s so loud.”
Lawrence’s hand rubs soothing circles into his back as he lets out a sigh, and then–
He starts to sing.
“Blackbird singing in the dead of night…” His voice is soft, but steady. It’s a low, gentle cadence, rumbling up through his chest and into Adam’s ears, into the very core of his body. “Take these broken wings, and learn to fly…all your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arise…”
Adam feels his own breathing start to steady. He can’t hear the thunder anymore. He only hears Lawrence.
“Blackbird singing in the dead of night, take these sunken eyes and learn to see…” There’s a hand in his hair now, and Adam’s heart is aching, some innate, nameless longing weaving through him, erasing every fear until he’s only left with the perfect calm of Lawrence’s presence. “All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to be free. Blackbird, fly…blackbird, fly…”
He keeps singing, and Adam’s body feels lighter and lighter, his heart thudding a calm metronome that matches Lawrence’s cadence. He’s never felt this safe. He’s never felt this loved.
By the time the song ends, the thunderstorm is over.
It could be minutes or hours later when the power comes back on, only indicated by the resumed slow beating of the ceiling fan over Lawrence’s bed. Adam doesn’t move. He stays in the gentle circle of Lawrence’s arms, sharing the rhythm of his breath. When he finally looks up, Lawrence’s eyes are open, looking down at him with so much affection that Adam feels his heart flutter.
“Better?” he asks softly, and Adam nods.
“Do you–” He clears his throat, terrified of breaking this perfect moment, desperate to disprove what he sees so clearly in Lawrence’s gaze. It’s too much, feeling this cared for. He doesn’t know how to handle it. “Do you want me to go? Because I can. I– I’m feeling a lot better now. Thank you for– for doing this, but– but I can go now, if you…if you want me to.”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
His heart is in his throat. “Then–”
“Adam,” he says quietly, and his hand is on his cheek, and his eyes are so, so blue. “I don’t want you to leave.”
That’s when he finally kisses him.
Adam feels his skin fizzle with stardust, every inch of him glowing. Lawrence’s lips are warm and chapped, and he tastes like tea. He’s kissing him like Adam is the culmination of everything he’s wanted, like he can’t drink enough of him in. The hand cupping Adam’s cheek traces over his skin, thumbing over his cheekbone, holding him gently in place. As if Adam would ever want to pull away from him.
The press of their lips are in perfect concert, asking and giving and receiving in blissful, wordless communication. It’s as simple and easy as all their hours spent together, synchronicity without sacrifice, and Adam’s heart swells in his chest as it dawns hazily on him that it isn't new, the tenderness with which he’s being kissed and touched; it's the natural evolution of how Lawrence has always treated him. He’s always been this good to him.
Lawrence makes a small, desperate noise against his mouth, and Adam realizes he’s subconsciously moved so that he’s fully on top of the older man, eager to get as close to him as possible, greedily breathing his air, savoring his lips. There’s only a moment of hesitation, the slightest ripple of doubt that goes through him– and then Lawrence’s hips buck slightly, and yeah, he wants this just as badly as Adam does. With a low, eager moan, he lets himself slide his tongue into Lawrence’s mouth, and the man below him groans helplessly, the sound starting from deep in his throat and ending in Adam’s as he moves his hands up to worshipfully trace along Adam’s spine under his shirt.
It’s the best first kiss he’s ever had. He’s never felt so treasured, so wanted. Lawrence is touching him like he’s precious, like every inch of his skin is some rare discovery.
It’s too good to have this only once, and then lose it again, he resolves. Reluctantly, he breaks away.
“W-wait,” Adam pants. Their bodies are still pressed together so closely that his chest heaves against Lawrence’s with every inhale. Lawrence’s pupils are blown wide and dark, and his hair is a mess– Adam realizes it’s from his hands fisting in the soft blond, mussing his hair’s perfect placement. “Wait, I– I don’t wanna mess this up.”
“You’re not.” Lawrence nuzzles against his neck, and Adam shivers as his lips graze his throat. “You’re not doing anything I don’t want you to do. You’re not doing anything I haven’t wanted for months.”
“No, I mean–“ He swallows. “I…I really care about you, Lawrence, and– and I don’t think I could handle it if we sleep together once, and then pretend like it didn’t happen.”
“Sweetheart…”
Adam’s breath hitches at the look in his eyes, but he presses on. “If we take it there…I want you for good. I want us for good. And I know you– you probably don’t want me like that. I know I’m too loud, and I’m too stubborn, and I’m too sarcastic, and I’m too angry, but–”
“Adam, those are all the reasons why I fell in love with you in the first place,” Lawrence tells him gently, as if it's obvious, as if Adam always should have known, and he’s kissing him again before it dawns on Adam what he’s just said.
It’s a long time before Adam’s in a state to ask him about it, in sentences longer and more coherent than yes, and touch me, and please.
“It– it took you half a goddamn year to fall in love with me?” he gasps, only pretending to be offended. It’s not very convincing, since he can’t stop smiling. Their clothes are somewhere on the floor now, and he’s never felt more comfortable in his own skin. He’s never felt so alive, every touch electric, every nerve singing with joy. They made it through, they made it to this, and it’s worth it. All the pain, all the nightmares– it was all worth it to have him like this. “Six whole fucking months?”
“No. Of course it didn’t take me that long, angel.” Lawrence is smiling up at him like he’s the goddamn sun, and Adam is sure he's glowing just as brightly. “It only took six hours.”
A few hours later, the thunderstorm rolls back around. Neither of them notice.
Adam wakes the next morning to an empty bed and a clear, vibrant sky visible through the window. He yawns, starfishing all his limbs out in a wide stretch, and then pauses, tilting his head. There’s a sound coming from Lawrence’s ensuite bathroom, barely audible over the soft hiss of the shower’s water.
He strains to listen, and then smiles.
Lawrence is singing.