Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

beautiful art done by Dumme_Taube🫁 on telegram!! <33 

“I have seen deer split open on the road and thought, that’s exactly what those soft and gentle fuckers deserve.” - Hedgie Choi

It’s glinting, that son of a bitch, right in his eye as he drives down the cracked pavement of this forgotten stretch of America.

The sun’s barely up, but it’s already got this town in a chokehold, drenching everything in a syrupy yellow that sticks to the skin. The shotgun’s in the passenger seat, not in the trunk where it usually sleeps under an old blanket, safe from prying eyes. Today it’s out in the open, like it’s got something to prove. Glistening in the morning light, every inch of that polished metal begging for attention, like the skin of a woman with too much lotion and not enough self-respect. Nigel’s eyes keep sliding back to it.

He squints against the glare, the edges of his vision blurring as his head throbs from last night’s vodka. That headache’s a real bitch, pounding in rhythm with the shitty Robbie Dupree song blaring from the radio. 

The road ahead is a straight line, as empty and desolate as the thoughts rattling around in his skull. The trees lining the sides are mostly dead. The occasional rusty mailbox stands sentry, paint peeling off in strips, names faded. The kind of place where dreams go to die, if anyone had the nerve to dream in the first place. Nigel’s foot presses down on the gas, and the old girl sputters in response, engine coughing like an asthmatic. He should’ve taken it in for a tune-up months ago, but the mechanic’s another asshole in this town full of them, and Nigel doesn’t need more reasons to want to blow his brains out.

His skin’s crawling, and it isn’t from the polyester uniform. No, it’s something deeper, something that’s been coiled up inside him for as long as he can remember. Today, it’s closer to the surface, like a splinter working its way out of infected flesh. Today might be the day. The day he might finally give in, might finally do what’s been whispering at him in the dead of night when the silence gets too loud.

The shotgun’s there, whispering, too. Like a pretty lady. The kind of voice that could make a man do something stupid. His fingers itch, twitching on the steering wheel, wanting to reach out, to feel the cold steel under his hands, to heft that weight and press it against his own temple. It’d be so easy. Just one pull of the trigger, one split-second of pressure, and it’d all be over. No more bullshit, no more pain, no more empty, endless days that stretch out in front of him like the goddamn road he’s on now.

He drags on his cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs, acrid and bitter. He exhales out the window, watching the gray plume get whipped away by the wind, disappearing into the air like everything else in this fucking town. Disappearing like he wishes he could. A Romanian like him, he’s got no place here, no place in this world, really. He’s out of place, out of time, a relic of a life he can’t even remember clearly anymore. He was supposed to disappear, to get lost in the crowd, but this town, it’s too small for that. Too small to hide in, too small to breathe in. Darko, that bastard, told him to run, told him to get the hell out of Europe and never look back. And Nigel did, because what choice did he have? 

No one’s up yet, no one but him, and that’s just how he likes it. No distractions, no one to look at him funny or ask him stupid questions he doesn’t want to answer. He’s always early for work, not because he gives a shit about the job, but because it gives him a moment of peace. A moment where he can pretend, just for a little while, that he’s not a complete and utter failure. He hasn’t eaten since yesterday, not that it matters. He’s running on nothing but black coffee and nicotine, his stomach a hollow pit that he’s gotten used to ignoring. It’s funny, really, how the hunger doesn’t even bother him anymore, how it’s become just another part of the background noise in his head, something he can shove aside along with all the other things he doesn’t want to think about.

He pulls into the parking lot of Burgers Burgers Burgers, the neon sign above flickering pathetically in the dawn light. It’s the kind of place that’s stuck in the 70s, with cracked vinyl seats and a jukebox that hasn’t worked in years. The paint on the walls is peeling, exposing layers of garish colors underneath, like the place has tried on a dozen different skins over the years and none of them fit right. The windows are grimy, the glass smeared with fingerprints and grease, and the whole place smells like stale fries and old fryer oil.

Nigel kills the engine, the silence rushing in to fill the void left by the radio. For a moment, he just sits there, his hands gripping the wheel. He stares at the shotgun, at the way it catches the light, the metal gleaming like a predator’s eye. It’s practically vibrating with energy, with the promise of release, and his pulse picks up.

He tosses the cigarette out the window, watching the ember flare bright red before it hits the pavement and fizzles out. He thinks about the scar on his forehead, the one no one around here asks about. It’s ugly, a jagged thing of puckered flesh, the color of old bruises and bad memories. He remembers how he got it, the way the world had exploded around him in a flash of light and peace. Quiet. 

He doesn’t have the energy to make up lies, and the truth’s something he’s not willing to share. Not with these people, these goddamn Americans who wouldn’t know a hard life if it kicked them in the teeth. He thinks about that sometimes, about how easy they all have it, with their big houses and bigger cars, their stupid smiles and even stupider dreams. They don’t know what it’s like to live in the dark, to have your whole life ripped away from you and replaced with something you didn’t ask for.

The shotgun’s still glinting at him from the passenger seat, catching the light just right, and he scowls at it, tells it to shut the fuck up, even though he knows it won’t. It never does. He grabs the crumpled hat off the dashboard, shoving it onto his head, the brim low over his eyes, hiding the mess of hair that he hasn’t bothered to cut in months.

He stares at himself in the rearview mirror, at the eyes that stare back at him, dead and flat, like a shark’s. There’s nothing there, nothing behind them, just an empty void where something used to be. Maybe it was hope, maybe it was something else, but whatever it was, it’s gone now, and he’s not sure he even remembers what it felt like. He bares his teeth at his reflection, a grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, the nicotine stains darkening his teeth, the canines sharp and pointed, like something feral, something not quite human. 

It used to scare people, that smile.

He shoves the door open. His boots hit the pavement with a dull thud, the sound swallowed up by the emptiness around him. There’s no one else here yet, not even the boss, and that’s just how Nigel likes it. 

He locks the car, the shotgun still sitting in the passenger seat, taunting him, daring him to take it with him. But he doesn’t. Not yet. There’s no point in bringing it inside when there’s no one there to tempt him. No one to push him over the edge. He walks across the cracked asphalt, his boots scuffing against the ground, past the old gas station pumps that surround the place like relics of a bygone era. They’re rusted and empty, no longer in use, just like everything else in this town.

The glass doors of the diner are smeared with grease, the handle sticky under his palm as he unlocks them and steps inside. The place is dark, the overhead lights flickering on as he hits the switch. They buzz, a low, annoying hum that gets under his skin, but he’s used to it by now. It’s part of the ambiance, part of the daily grind that he’s resigned himself to.

He lets his mind wander, lets it drift to the thought of what it would look like if he finally gave in, if he finally did what he’s been thinking about for so long. He imagines the crimson splatters on the walls, the way the blood would drip down slow, like honey, thick and warm. It’s a comforting thought, a calming one, more so today than it usually is. 

His eyes trace the familiar surroundings, the dirty tables, the floor sticky with spilled soda and crumbs. The till sits behind the counter, silent and untouched, waiting for the morning rush that never really comes. 

Nigel makes his way to the back, past the till, past the fridge where they keep the burgers, the asshole boss still nowhere to be seen. Thank fuck for that. That man’s a special kind of prick, the kind that could set off a saint, let alone someone like Nigel. He pushes open the door to the small locker room, grabbing the mop and bucket, his mind still half-lost in the visions of blood and metal and finality. It’s a routine, one he knows by heart, one he’s been doing every day since he started working here. Except for the weekends. 

Weekends are for drinking himself into oblivion.

He pauses for a moment, the mop in one hand, the bucket in the other, his eyes drawn to the locker next to his. It’s covered in stickers, little space-themed ones, stars and planets and meteorites, all of them peeling at the edges, worn from time and touch. It’s a small thing, a stupid thing, but it always makes him stop, makes him feel something he can’t quite name. Something that’s not anger, something that’s almost… soft. He stares at it for a long moment, chewing on his lip, before he shakes his head and turns away, dragging the mop back out to the main area.

By the time he’s finished mopping, the floor gleaming wet under the fluorescent lights, he knows something’s different today. It’s a feeling deep in his chest. It’s like doom.

Nigel ends up by the door, mopping the stained linoleum with lazy, half-hearted strokes, the bristles of the mop dragging through the murky brown water that spreads across the floor. The bucket at his side, dented and withering the edges, holds water so filthy it looks more like mud. His shoulders slump forward as he leans into the mop handle, fingers gripping the splintered wood with a force born out of habit rather than any real effort. 

The bell above the door jangles suddenly, a sharp, grating sound that cuts through the dull hum of the overhead lights. Nigel barely lifts his head, eyes narrowing into slits as he glances toward the entrance, already knowing who it is. He doesn’t need to look, but he does, out of habit.

And there he is, the kid, stepping in like he always does, the same awkward shuffle in his walk, the same downcast eyes that never quite meet Nigel’s. He’s like a deer caught in the headlights, jumpy, like he’s expecting something bad to happen any second. The kid’s uniform hangs off his slight frame, the polyester fabric swishing with each hesitant step. It’s too big on him, the sleeves swallowing his thin arms, the pants bunched around his ankles. The nametag, pinned to his chest, catches the light for a brief moment, the letters spelling out “Raki” in cheap, faded print. Nigel thinks it doesn’t suit him, the name. 

His eyes, though—they’re the worst. Nigel can’t get a good look at them because the kid’s always looking away, always darting glances at the floor or the walls, anywhere but at Nigel. His cap, worn and faded, sits low on his head, the brim casting a shadow over his face, hiding those eyes that Nigel’s so curious about. The curls underneath are neat, almost too neat. 

There’s something about the way he walks, something unsure, like he doesn’t quite know where he’s going or why he’s even here. His steps are small, almost timid, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible. He reminds Nigel of a small, fragile thing lost in a forest full of predators, unaware of the dangers lurking just out of sight. The kind of creature that doesn’t stand a chance if something decides to go after it. It’s impossible not to notice him.

Usually, the kid just walks in, head down, shuffling past Nigel without so much as a glance. But today, something’s different. Today, as he moves past Nigel, he does something unexpected. He lifts his head, just for a second, and there’s this tiny, almost imperceptible smile on his lips, a soft curve that could be mistaken for a trick of the light. 

“Hi, Nigel,” he says, and his voice is as soft as his smile, barely more than a whisper, like he’s afraid of being too loud.

Nigel stops mopping. He just stops, the mop freezing mid-swipe, dirty water dripping from the bristles onto the already filthy floor. It’s such a small thing, that greeting, but it hits him like a punch to the gut. Nobody talks to him, not really. People come and go, they give him orders, tell him what to do, but they don’t talk to him, don’t acknowledge him as a person. He’s just part of the scenery, another broken piece of this place. But this kid, this shy, awkward kid with the too-big uniform and the too-small voice, he sees Nigel. He sees him and he says hi.

For a moment, Nigel doesn’t know what to do. He just stares at the kid, at the way he’s already turning away, heading for the locker in the back, the one with the peeling star stickers on it. That locker’s his, the kid’s, the one spot in this whole place that’s his own. Nigel watches him go, the mop still hanging limp in his hand, and feels something strange crawl up his skin. It’s like a swarm of tiny, fuzzy caterpillars, their little legs tickling him as they move. It’s an uncomfortable feeling, one that makes him shift his weight.

He forgot he could be noticed, that he could be real. He forces himself to keep mopping, the movements automatic, but his mind isn’t on the task. He watches the kid out of the corner of his eye as he walks into the locker room, moving with the same careful precision he always does, following the same path, making the same motions. Every day, it’s the same thing. The kid comes in, goes to his locker, and gets ready for work.

Nigel’s seen it a hundred times, knows every step the kid will take, every action he’ll perform. It’s like watching a machine, one that’s been programmed to repeat the same sequence over and over again. But today, the kid’s greeting, that tiny smile, it’s a crack in the pattern, a ripple in the still waters of Nigel’s world. He doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know why it’s happening, but it’s there.

The kid comes out of the locker room, his uniform looking no less baggy on him than before. Nigel knows where he’s headed. He’ll go straight to the stack of trays by the soda machine, set them up, and get to work like always. But as he watches, mop moving in slow, distracted swipes, the kid stops. He hesitates, standing there with the tray in his hands, fingers twitching like he’s nervous about something. His eyes are still hidden under the brim of that damn cap, but there’s a tension in his posture, a tightness in his shoulders that wasn’t there before.

And then, in that same soft, hesitant voice, the kid speaks. “Do you know who’s working today?” 

Nigel doesn’t know what to make of it, doesn’t know why the kid’s talking to him, why he’s asking questions. It doesn’t make sense. This isn’t how things are supposed to go. They’re supposed to ignore each other, never intersecting, never interacting.

He thinks of the locker with the star stickers, the way it stands out in the dingy, gray room, a tiny splash of color in a sea of monotony. He thinks of how that locker makes him feel something too, something he can’t quite name, something that gnaws at him every time he looks at it. Is this kid some kind of message, some sign from God? An angel sent down in the form of an awkward, shy kid to pull him out of the dark pit he’s been sinking into? Nigel almost laughs at the thought. He’s too far gone for saving, too deep in the muck to ever climb out.

But still, he forgets about the gleaming thing in his car for a second. 

Before Nigel can respond, before he can figure out what to say or how to deal with this unexpected conversation, a car pulls up outside. He glances out the grimy window, feeling the tension coil tighter in his gut. Chris and Jess.

Chris strides in first with Jess right behind him, practically glued to his side. They’re always like this, always together, always touching. It makes Nigel sick, the way they can’t keep their hands off each other, like they’re trying to prove something to the world. Jess’s hand is hooked around Chris’s arm, fingers digging into the fabric of his jacket, and Chris’s other hand is resting low on her hip, pulling her close. Their heads are tilted towards each other, their lips almost brushing, eyes locked like they’re the only two people in the world.

Nigel feels his grip on the mop tighten. He hates them. Hates the way they flaunt their affection, the way they act like they’re the stars of some romantic movie, the way they think they’re better than everyone else. His jaw clenches, teeth grinding together as he watches them, that bitter taste rising in his mouth again. He thinks about the shotgun again.

A sound cuts through his thoughts, a small, disappointed “Oh,” from the kid. It’s barely audible, just a whisper, but it’s enough to pull Nigel back to reality, to remind him of where he is, of who he is. 

They end up in the locker room when their boss gets there. Hardy’s footsteps are heavy, each one a thud against the linoleum, like he’s trying to make sure everyone knows he’s here. He’s got that stupid red tie on, the one that’s too tight around his thick neck, and his moustache is as greasy as the food they serve.

Nigel leans back against the wall, the mop forgotten, as Hardy strides in, his beady eyes scanning the room. There’s a scowl on his face, his lips pressed into a thin line of disapproval as he takes in the scene. He claps his hands together, a sharp, loud sound that echoes through the room, trying to get everyone’s attention.

Nigel almost smiles at the tension, almost enjoys watching Hardy struggle to maintain control. But then Hardy’s eyes land on him, and the almost-smile disappears. “Nigel,” Hardy barks, pointing at him with one thick finger, “you’re cleaning the dining room today.”

Nigel doesn’t move, doesn’t nod, just stares back at Hardy. He doesn’t care what Hardy wants, doesn’t care about the orders, the rules, the expectations. Hardy’s just another asshole in a long line of assholes, just another guy who thinks he’s got power when he doesn’t. Nigel’s long past caring about people like Hardy, people who think they can push him around. He’s seen it all before, heard it all before.

Hardy can bark all he wants, but Nigel’s not listening, not really. He’s too busy watching, waiting, feeling that itch under his skin.

His eyes flick to the kid, just for a moment, and he sees the way Raki straightens up, the way he tries to look confident, like he’s not scared, like he’s not waiting for Hardy to snap at him too. The kid’s good at pretending, Nigel will give him that. But he can see the fear, the tension, the way Raki’s eyes flicker with something close to panic when Hardy’s gaze sweeps over him. The kid’s standing there, trying so hard to be what Hardy wants him to be, trying so hard to please, to impress, and it’s almost sad.

Nigel feels that itch again. He watches the kid, watches the way his hands fidget, the way his shoulders hunch just a little. Hardy’s focus shifts, and Nigel knows what’s coming next, knows that Hardy’s going to point at the kid, going to put him on front window, where everyone can see him, where he can’t hide.

Sure enough, Hardy’s finger points at Raki, and he gives the order, tells the kid to man the window. And Raki, like the good little soldier he is, nods, just like always, eyes still glued to the floor, still too scared to meet Hardy’s gaze. 

Nigel raises an eyebrow, watching the whole scene play out, wondering how the fuck someone can be so beaten down, so controlled. It’s not worth it, he thinks. Not worth the trouble, not worth the pain. But the kid, he doesn’t seem to see it that way. He’s still trying, still holding on to something that Nigel can’t even begin to understand. The urge to laugh bubbles up in Nigel’s throat, but it gets stuck, turns into a bitter taste on his tongue that he swallows down.

He tunes them all out as Chris gets yelled at for leaving food out under the heat lamps. Fucking idiot. 

Hardy finally sends them off, and Nigel is the first to move, pushing away from the wall. But he stops, just for a second, when Hardy calls the kid into his office. There’s something about the way the kid stays back with Nigel, just for a split second, that makes him pause. Something that makes Nigel’s chest tighten, makes that itch flare up again, stronger than before.

But Nigel shakes it off, pushes it down, tries to ignore it. It’s not his problem. Not his circus, not his fucking monkeys. He’s got enough on his plate. The kid’s just another pawn in the game and Nigel’s not about to get involved.

Chris bumps into the kid’s shoulder as he passes by, shoving him aside like he’s nothing, like he’s not even there. And the kid, he just takes it. He’s used to it, like he expects it, like he knows he’s not worth fighting for. Nigel watches it all unfold, the way the kid steps aside, lets Chris push him around, and it makes him want to lash out, to break something, anything.

But he doesn’t. He stays where he is, watching the kid disappear into Hardy’s office, the door closing behind him with a soft click. 

The mop slides sluggishly over the grimy floor again by the time the kid walks out of the back room with a different energy, like he’s trying to act like whatever Hardy told him back there made him something more than what he is. But there’s still that nervous jitter to him, the way his fingers can’t stop moving, pulling at the frayed edges of his uniform, the way his feet hesitate, never fully committing to a step. He heads back to the counter, to the red plastic trays that he’s been trying to stack all morning.

Nigel’s eyes keep drifting over to him, can’t stop themselves. Chris is perched on the counter, legs swinging back and forth. Jess is over by the soda machine, pretending to clean the napkin dispenser, but really, she’s positioning herself just so, hips cocked to the side, legs encased in those ratty fishnets she’s always wearing. Her eyes keep flicking back to Chris, like she needs his attention to breathe, like the moment his gaze slips away, she’ll wither and die.

Nigel keeps his head down, keeps mopping, but his eyes are everywhere. They flick from the kid, still stacking trays with trembling hands, to Chris, who’s starting to look bored, that dangerous kind of bored that always ends in someone getting hurt. Nigel’s jaw clenches, the muscle ticking as he forces himself to focus on the floor, on the way the mop handle vibrates slightly in his grip, the rhythm of the swish, swish, swish as he pushes it back and forth. But it’s no use; he can feel the tension ratcheting up, the air in the room growing thicker, heavier.

Chris’s feet hit the floor with a loud thud. He’s up in a flash, zeroing in on the kid like a wolf scenting blood. Nigel knows what’s coming; he’s seen it a hundred times before, and yet it never gets easier to watch.

Chris barrels into the kid, slamming his chest against the kid’s back with enough force to make him stumble. The kid’s body goes rigid, every muscle tensing like a cornered animal, but he doesn’t fight back. He just stands there, frozen, his hands clutching the tray so tightly Nigel can see the blood draining from his knuckles, leaving them bone-white.

“What were you doing back there, huh? Sucking Hardy off?” 

The kid doesn’t say a word. He’s locked in place, staring straight ahead, his face pale under the harsh fluorescent lights. 

“Wasn’t talking about me, was he?” Chris presses. When the kid still doesn’t respond, Chris’s patience snaps. He slams his hand down on the counter with a loud crack. The kid jumps, the tray slipping from his grasp, clattering to the floor in a spray of cheap plastic.

Nigel watches from the corner of his eye as Chris’s arm tightens around the kid’s shoulders, pulling him in close, too close, until the kid is practically shrinking under his touch.

The kid’s voice comes out in a stammer, barely above a whisper, “No,” he says, his eyes darting to the floor, anywhere but at Chris. He tries to push him off, but it’s a half-hearted effort.

If it were Nigel, if he were in the kid’s place, Chris would be on the floor right now, blood pouring from his broken nose, but this kid… this kid doesn’t have that fight in him. It’s like he’s already given up, already decided that there’s no point in resisting. 

“I promise,” the kid adds, his voice shaking, his gaze still fixed firmly on the dirty tiles. It’s pathetic, really, and it makes Nigel’s stomach churn with a mix of disgust and something else. He half wants to step in, to shove Chris away and tell the kid to grow a backbone, but he doesn’t. He just keeps mopping.

Chris’s sneer deepens, his lip curling as he yanks the kid’s hat off his head, his dirty fingers digging into the kid’s curly hair, messing it up with rough, careless strokes. “Good,” he says. “Cause if you’re lying, you’re dead.” He shoves the hat back at the kid, who fumbles to catch it, his hands shaking as he jams it back onto his head.

The kid takes a deep breath, and for a moment, it looks like he’s going to do something, like he might finally snap. But then he just turns back to the trays, picking them up one by one. Nigel doesn’t fucking get it—doesn’t get why the kid doesn’t fight back, doesn’t get why he just takes it. It’s like he’s got no fire, no anger, nothing.

Nigel pulls his hat down lower over his eyes, trying to block out the sight, but it’s no use. He’s still watching, still feeling that strange mix of emotions twisting in his gut. It’s not like he gives a shit about the kid, not really, but there’s something about this whole scene that rubs him raw, that makes him want to do something, anything, other than keep mopping this goddamn floor.

Chris, bored with his latest plaything, saunters over to the intercom, his eyes lighting up with that same mean spark as he flicks it on, making the mic squeal with feedback. Nigel’s head snaps up at the sound, his glare sharp enough to cut, but Chris doesn’t even notice. His attention is on Jess now, his eyes raking over her as she struts toward him, her hips swaying.

Nigel circles them, the mop sloshing through the filthy water in the bucket.  Chris’s voice crackles through the intercom, loud and obnoxious as he starts chanting lewd remarks about Jess’s body. Jess plays along, twirling a strand of hair around her finger, her laughter bright. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Nigel sees the kid twitch, sees him set down the trays with a shaky breath. His hands flutter up to his ears, then back down, like he’s not sure what to do with them, like he wants to block out the noise, or maybe tear his own ears off. And then, in a voice so quiet Nigel almost doesn’t catch it, the kid says, “C-Chris, stop.”

Chris freezes, his hand hovering over the intercom, and then he turns. There’s a smile on his face, a smug, twisted thing. Chris sets the mic down, the squeal of feedback fading into a heavy silence, and saunters over to the kid.

“What’d you say?” Chris’s voice is all mock innocence, his smile widening as he gets right up in the kid’s face. 

“You’re hurting my ears,” the kid finally manages to get out, his voice trembling but steady enough. Nigel feels a flicker of something like pride, a rare emotion these days. Chris laughs, a harsh, barking sound that grates on Nigel’s nerves. He claps his hands right in the kid’s face, making him flinch, making that small spark of defiance flicker and die. “What’s got you all high and mighty?” 

Nigel keeps mopping.

“Got a new girlfriend?” Chris asks, his eyes narrowing as he glances back at Jess, who’s still playing her part, still laughing. “No, can’t be. Boyfriend?” The kid’s face flushes, a deep pink that spreads up his neck, turning his ears red.

Nigel catches that blush, and it stirs something else in him, something uncomfortable, something that makes his chest tighten the way it does when he looks at that old space locker in the back. Chris softens his stance, laying it on thick, all sweet and caring, and Nigel can see the kid’s posture shift, like he’s about to fall for it.

“Come on, Raki,” Chris says, his voice low and coaxing, like he’s trying to lull a frightened animal. “Tell me what’s on your mind.” He reaches out, his hand sliding down the kid’s shoulder, and Nigel’s teeth grind together, the sharp pain in his jaw barely registering. 

The shotgun says his name. He ignores it. 

“Did you ask a girl out and she turned you down? Told you she’d never fuck a loser like you?” 

The kid’s voice is barely a whisper as he asks Chris to stop again, but it’s a futile request, and they both know it. Chris’s smile widens, his eyes glittering with malice as he struts over to the counter, grabbing the old, stale burger he left under the heat lamps hours ago. 

Chris waves the burger in front of the kid’s face. “Eat this burger,” he says, his voice daring, taunting, “and then I’ll shut up.”

The kid’s hands tremble as he stares down at the burger, the once-yellow bun now a sickly shade of green, speckled with fuzzy patches of mold that spread like a disease over the meat. The greasy patty is half-disintegrated, sagging under the weight of congealed, sour-smelling cheese that’s hardened into a fucking crust. His fingers twitch around the foil as he grabs it, crinkling the edges as he tries to hold steady, but his grip falters, and the burger almost slips from his grasp.

Chris is enjoying this, every second of it, and Nigel can see it clear as day. Chris’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips, his fingers drumming a slow rhythm on the countertop.

“Come on,” Chris drawls, “Eat the burger, and then you won’t have to deal with my shit for the rest of the day.”

Nigel knows the game Chris is playing—he’s seen it a thousand times before, in a thousand different places. People like Chris, they get off on this kind of shit, on the power they hold over someone weaker, someone who can’t or won’t fight back. 

It’s a sick kind of thrill, watching someone squirm, knowing they’re trapped, knowing there’s nothing they can do but obey.

Nigel stops mopping. 

His fingers curl around the handle of the mop, the rough wood biting into his palms as he leans against it.

The kid’s shoulders hunch inward, his head dipping lower. The brim is pulled low over his face, hiding his eyes, but Nigel can see the way his body trembles, the slight quiver in his knees as he stands there, frozen. His Adam’s apple bobs once, twice.

Nigel clenches his jaw, his teeth grinding together so hard it sends a jolt of pain shooting up through his temples. The kid tilts slightly toward him, just the barest hint of movement, as if seeking some kind of silent support, some reassurance that he’s not completely alone in this. 

“Chris,” Nigel says, his voice low and rough, like gravel grinding underfoot. “Stop.”

The word is simple, unadorned, but there’s a weight to it that hangs in the air, heavy and foreboding. But Chris, the fucking idiot, doesn’t hear the warning in Nigel’s voice. Or maybe he hears it and just doesn’t give a shit. Hardy said once that Chris had his dick in his ears, and Nigel is starting to think he might’ve been right.

Chris doesn’t look up immediately, too absorbed in his own sadistic amusement, but when he does, it’s with a raised eyebrow and a look of feigned surprise. “What?”

The kid shuffles a step closer to Nigel, his head still bowed, his breath coming in shallow, rapid bursts. 

Nigel straightens up, pushing off from the mop, his movements measured and controlled. He widens his stance, planting his feet firmly on the ground, his shoulders squaring as he locks eyes with Chris. There’s a shift in the room, a subtle change in the atmosphere as the others—Jess, even the kid—seem to sense that something is different now.

“You should stop now,” Nigel says. He doesn’t break Chris’s gaze, doesn’t let his eyes waver or soften. They remain flat, cold, like twin pools of dark water reflecting nothing but emptiness. 

For a moment, Chris hesitates, the smirk faltering as he stares back at Nigel, trying to read the expression—or lack thereof—on his face. But whatever doubt or fear that might have flickered in Chris’s mind is quickly snuffed out, replaced by anger, by the need to assert his dominance, to prove that he’s still in control.

Jess sees it too, the shift in Chris’s posture, the way his fists clench at his sides, and she tries to step in, tries to stop him before things go too far. But Chris ignores her, shrugging off her attempts to calm him down as he takes a step forward, closing the distance between himself and Nigel.

He’s taller than Nigel, by a good few inches, but there’s nothing to him—just skin and bone and a mean streak a mile wide. He gets right up in Nigel’s face, close enough that Nigel can smell the sour stench of sweat and cheap beer on his breath.

“Nigel,” Chris says. “Why the fuck do you care?”

Nigel doesn’t answer right away. He just stares at Chris, his face a blank slate, eyes devoid of any emotion. The kid’s still watching them, but Nigel doesn’t look at him, doesn’t let his gaze waver from Chris’s. He stands there, silent, his hands tightening around the mop handle.

Why does he fucking care? It’s a question that echoes in Nigel’s mind, bouncing around like a loose screw in an empty can. He doesn’t know why he cares today, why this particular scene is affecting him more than any of the others he’s witnessed. Maybe it’s the kid, the way he looks so damn scared, so damn small. Maybe it’s something else, something buried deep inside Nigel that he’s been trying to ignore for too long.

But it doesn’t matter. Not really. 

“You made your point,” Nigel says. “You made it a while ago. And now you’re just being a dick.” 

From outside, the voice calling Nigel’s name grows louder, more insistent, but it’s drowned out by the pounding of blood in his ears, the rush of adrenaline that surges through his veins. Chris slams his hand down on Nigel’s shoulder. The grip is hard, fingers digging into the muscle with a bruising force, but Nigel doesn’t flinch.

“I’ve never had a problem with you, Nigel,” Chris says. “But if you try and tell me what I can and cannot fucking do, I will have no problem turning your existence into a living hell.”

Nigel’s gaze drifts away from Chris, his eyes sliding over to the kid, who’s still standing there, frozen in place. The kid’s whole body is tense, his muscles locked up with fear, but there’s something else there too—a spark of defiance, a flicker of something that Nigel almost misses.

Nigel’s mind flashes with an image—a glint of metal, the smooth edge of metal catching the light, bright and tempting. Nigel glances back at Chris, his voice flat, emotionless. 

“Sure.”

For a moment, Nigel feels a small surge of pride for the kid again, for that tiny spark of resistance he thought he saw. But it’s gone in an instant, snuffed out like a candle in the wind as Chris turns back.

“Come on,” Chris whispers, leaning in close. “You know what to do.”

The words are a command, and the kid’s body responds automatically, his hands shaking as he unwraps the burger. The foil crinkles loudly in the otherwise silent room. 

“Faster,” Chris snaps. 

The kid’s fingers fumble with the burger, the patty almost slipping from his grasp as he brings it to his mouth. 

Chris watches, his breath hitching slightly as the kid takes a bite. The room is so quiet that Nigel can hear the squish of the rotten burger as the kid’s teeth sink into it, the sound mingling with the soft sobs that escape the boy’s lips. Tears streak down the kid’s face, dripping off his chin as he chews, his body trembling with each forced swallow.

Nigel’s teeth grind together, the pressure building in his skull, a throbbing pulse that beats in time with his racing heart. He doesn’t fucking understand why the kid doesn’t fight back, why he lets Chris treat him like this. 

The voice calling Nigel’s name from outside is louder now, more frantic, no longer the sweet, lilting tone it was before. It’s harsh, grating, each repetition of his name like a spike driven into his skull. Chris and Jess’s laughter rings in Nigel’s ears.

The tension in the room is palpable, thick and suffocating, wrapping around Nigel’s chest like a vise. The kid’s quiet sobs, the mocking laughter, the voice screaming his name—they all blend together into a whirlwind of noise that swirls around Nigel’s head, drowning out his thoughts, his reason.

And then, just like that, something inside Nigel snaps.

He cracks his neck, the loud pop echoing through the room like a gunshot. Nigel doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s halfway to the door, pushing it open and stepping outside. The air hits him like a slap in the face. He walks to his car, his steps slow and measured, like a man on a Sunday stroll, his mind eerily calm in the aftermath of his decision.

The cigarette pack lies on the passenger seat, half-crushed and stained with old coffee spills. Nigel grabs it, pulling out a bent, slightly stale cigarette and lighting it with practiced ease. He’s smoking, half because it calms him, and half because he wants the kid to deal with the consequences of not fucking reacting. The first drag is harsh, the smoke burning his throat and filling his lungs with a familiar, comforting warmth. He breathes out slowly, watching the smoke curl into the air.

He knows now. 

He knows what he has to do. He’s known it for a while now, even if he couldn’t admit it to himself until this moment. The idea has been festering in the back of his mind, growing like a cancer, eating away at him until there’s nothing left but this one, final decision. It’s not about revenge, not really. It’s not even about anger. It’s about purpose—something he’s never really had before. But now, he feels like he’s finally found it.

Nigel doesn’t get it—never has. The kid, with his stupid space stickers, always doing his best, always trying so fucking hard, like it means something. Like any of this shit means anything at all. The kid’s too good for this place, too good for this life. He doesn’t deserve to be stuck in this shithole, surrounded by people like Chris and Jess, who wouldn’t know real effort if it bit them in the ass.

But the kid keeps going, keeps working, day after day, like he’s got something to prove. Maybe he does. Maybe he thinks if he just works hard enough, keeps his head down, he’ll make something of himself, escape this hellhole. But Nigel knows better. He’s seen too much, lived through too much, to believe in bullshit like that. Life doesn’t get better. It just gets worse, until you can’t take it anymore and you do something about it.

Maybe that’s why the kid is different. The only one who ever saw Nigel, really saw him. The only one who bothered to say hi, who treated him like he was a real person and not just another piece of the scenery, another worthless cog in the machine. The kid’s got potential—Nigel can see it, even if no one else does. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough reason to do what he’s about to do. 

Nigel flicks the cigarette onto the ground, grinding it under his boot until it’s nothing but ash and charred paper. He takes one last look at the building, the place he’s been working at for months now, a place that’s sucked the life out of him, drained him of whatever hope he had left. But he doesn’t feel any guilt. Instead, he feels something else—something he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. A vague sense of motivation, of purpose. Like maybe, for the first time in years, he’s got a reason to keep going. 

The car door creaks as he reaches inside, pulling out the shotgun.

It’s heavy in his hands. He slams the door shut and starts walking toward the building, each step measured. His heartbeat is steady, a slow, rhythmic thud in his chest. The shotgun rests comfortably in his grip, the cool metal soothing against his skin.

He pushes open the glass doors, the bell above tinkling softly. He’s calm, more so than he’s been in a long time. No clenched teeth, no headache pounding in his skull, no hunger gnawing at him from the inside out. Just… calm.

Nigel doesn’t let his gaze linger on any of the place. He doesn’t need to. He’s seen it all before, lived it day in and day out. But today, it’s different. Today, he’s going to change things. He’s going to make this place mean something, even if it’s only for a moment.

Chris and Jess are by the booths, laughing at something, probably something stupid, something that doesn’t matter. They’re always laughing, always joking around like life’s just one big fucking party. It makes Nigel sick. They don’t see him yet, don’t notice the shotgun in his hands. They’re too wrapped up in their own little world, too comfortable in their ignorance.

The kid’s over by the counter, stacking the fucking trays, his cheeks wet with tears. Nigel sees the way his hands shake, the way he keeps his head down, like if he just focuses on the task in front of him, everything else will disappear. 

But it won’t. It never does.

Nigel watches the kid for a moment, something tightening in his chest. The kid’s so goddamn innocent, so naive. He doesn’t deserve this, any of it. And maybe that’s why Nigel’s here, why he’s doing this. To make sure the kid doesn’t end up like him, like Chris, like Jess. To give him a chance, a real chance, at something better.

Chris looks up first. “Where were you, buddy?”

Nigel fucking hates him. 

Nigel raises the shotgun. Chris’s eyes widen, panic flickering across his face as he realizes what’s about to happen. “What the fu—” he starts, but he doesn’t get to finish. Nigel pulls the trigger.

Chris is thrown backward, his body slamming into one of the booth seats with a thud. Blood and guts explode from the wound, painting the wall behind him in a mural of red and black. The smell of gunpowder mixes with the stench of blood and grease, creating a nauseating cocktail that clings to the back of Nigel’s throat. He just stands there, staring at the mess he’s made, feeling nothing but strange satisfaction.

For a moment, the world seems to stop, everything frozen in that single, violent instant. Then, Jess screams, a high-pitched, keening wail that slices through the air, tearing at Nigel’s already frayed nerves. It’s desperate, terrified, and annoying.  

He didn’t know she could scream like that. Didn’t know she had it in her. He watches her, her face twisted in horror, her eyes wide and wild as she stares at the blood, at the body of Chris slumped against the booth. But Nigel doesn’t feel sorry for her. She should’ve seen this coming. She should’ve known.

Chris isn’t dead yet, though. Not completely. His body twitches, his hands scrabbling weakly at the seat, trying to find something, anything to hold onto. His eyes are glazed over, unfocused, but there’s still a flicker of life in them, a spark of defiance, of desperation. He’s trying to hold on, trying to fight, even though it’s pointless, even though he’s already lost.

Nigel takes a step forward, the shotgun still raised, his gaze locked on Chris. He watches the way Chris’s fingers claw at the vinyl seat, leaving streaks of blood behind. It’s pitiful, really—watching someone like him struggle. The man who always thought he was on top, always acted like he owned the place, now reduced to a bleeding, broken mess. Nigel’s lips curl into something like a sneer.

Jess is still screaming, her voice a grating, endless wail that echoes through the small, grimy restaurant. Nigel can’t stand it—her shrill voice cutting through the calm that’s settled over him, disrupting the peace he’s found in this moment. He clenches his jaw, trying to block out the noise, trying to focus on what he’s here to do.

Chris’s eyes meet Nigel’s for a brief, agonizing moment—wide, bloodshot, filled with terror. There’s no recognition in them, no understanding, just raw, animal fear. And maybe that’s what Nigel wanted to see all along. He wanted Chris to know, to understand, but now that he’s looking at him, he realizes it doesn’t matter. Chris was always too stupid, too self-absorbed to ever get it.

Nigel tightens his grip on the shotgun. He doesn’t say anything—there’s nothing left to say. He just pulls the trigger again, the blast echoing in the small space, drowning out Jess’s screams for a brief, blissful moment.

The shot hits Chris square in the head, and this time, there’s no coming back. His skull shatters under the force, spraying blood and brain matter in all directions, some of it splattering onto Jess, painting her face and hair with the remnants of the man she used to laugh with, joke with, maybe even love. It doesn’t matter anymore. None of it does. 

Chris’s body slumps forward, lifeless now, nothing but a heap of flesh and bone crumpled in the booth. The blood pools beneath him, thick and dark, seeping into the cracks in the floor, spreading. Nigel watches it, almost mesmerized by the way it moves, the way it creeps across the dirty tiles, claiming the space as its own.

Jess’s screams turn into sobs, deep, wracking sounds that shake her whole body. She’s covered in Chris’s blood, her hands trembling as she wipes at her face, smearing the red across her skin, making her look like something out of a nightmare. 

Nigel watches her, wondering if this is what she wanted, if this intimacy is what she was looking for. He did her a favor, really. Now she and Chris are connected in a way most people never are. 

Nigel's head snaps up as Hardy bursts out of the back room. He’s surprised Hardy heard the screaming over the fucking porno Nigel knows he was watching. Hardy’s face is flushed, his wide eyes darting around the room as he tries to piece together what the hell is happening. The man’s gut hangs over the waistband of his pants, his shirt untucked and stained with grease. He freezes when his gaze lands on Nigel, his eyes locking onto the shotgun.

Nigel feels nothing as he reloads the shotgun, the motion smooth, automatic. There’s no rush, no urgency. Hardy’s face drains of color as the realization hits him, his bravado evaporating in an instant. The man’s lips tremble. For a moment, they just stare at each other, Hardy’s breath coming in quick, panicked gasps while Nigel’s remains steady.

Nigel can almost see the gears turning in his head, the pathetic little calculations Hardy’s making—how far the door is, how fast he could run, whether he could make it out alive.

But they both know the answer. 

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Nigel’s voice is low, almost conversational, as if they’re discussing something as mundane as the weather, not the fact that he’s about to blow the man’s brains out. He cocks the shotgun, making Hardy flinch.

Hardy’s lips tremble as he takes a step back, his body bumping against the counter, trapping him between it and Nigel. “Nigel…c’mon, man…we can talk about this…we can work something out…” His voice is shaky, desperate, the words spilling out in a rush as if he thinks he can somehow talk his way out of this, like this is just another shitty deal he can negotiate.

Hardy’s eyes dart around the room, looking for an escape that isn’t there. His back is pressed against the counter now, his hands raised in a pitiful attempt at self-defense. “Please, don’t, don’t do this…we can fix this…we can—” The words die in his throat as Nigel takes a step closer, the shotgun aimed squarely at Hardy’s chest.

Hardy’s body jerks violently, his eyes widening in shock as the impact sends him stumbling backward. Blood sprays from the gaping wound in his chest, splattering the counter and the floor in thick, dark droplets.

Hardy’s hands clutch at the wound, his fingers slick with blood as he tries to stem the flow, but it’s pointless. The sight is pathetic, really.

He turns away from the body, the shotgun still in his hands, and starts walking toward Jess. She doesn’t see him at first, too caught up in her own horror, her own grief. But then she looks up, her eyes wide and filled with terror. She scrambles back, pressing herself against the table, her breath coming in quick, panicked gasps.

Nigel doesn’t hurry. He takes his time, each step slow, savoring the way her eyes widen with every inch he closes between them. There’s no rush. He’s got all the time in the world now. The chaos around him seems distant, like it’s happening to someone else, somewhere else. The only thing that matters is the calm, the strange sense of peace that’s settled over him, the feeling that for once, he’s in control.

He raises the shotgun, pointing it at her chest, watching the way her eyes flicker with realization, with the understanding that this is it, that there’s no escaping what’s coming.

She screams again, louder this time, the sound piercing, shrill, making his teeth grind together.

“Shut the fuck up!” he shouts, the words ripped from his throat in a snarl, his finger tightening on the trigger.

The blast echoes through the restaurant, and Jess’s scream cuts off abruptly, her body jerking as the shot hits her. She’s thrown back, slamming into the table, her blood spraying, mingling with the grease and grime that’s accumulated over the years. She crumples to the floor, her body a broken, bloody mess, her eyes wide and unseeing, her mouth still open.

Fucking finally.

Nigel doesn’t lower the shotgun, his breath coming in slow, even puffs. The air is thick with the stench of blood, gunpowder, and burnt flesh. He just stands there, staring at Jess’s lifeless body, feeling the weight of what he’s done settle over him.

For a moment, he’s tempted to turn the shotgun on himself, to end it all here and now. It would be so easy—just one more pull of the trigger, and he wouldn’t have to feel anything anymore. He wouldn’t have to deal with the aftermath. He could just disappear, leave this world behind, and take the easy way out.

But then he hears it—a soft, muffled sound, almost drowned out by the ringing in his ears. He turns, slowly, his eyes scanning the room until they land on the kid, still standing there, rooted to the spot, his small frame trembling, his hands clenched at his sides.

The kid hasn’t moved, hasn’t screamed, hasn’t done anything but watch as Nigel destroyed everything, as he painted the walls with blood and gore. His face is pale, his cheeks streaked with tears, but there’s something, something that stops Nigel in his tracks.

Blue. 

Those eyes—Jesus, those fucking eyes. 

Cobalt, cornflower, carolina—every shade of blue Nigel’s ever seen, all rolled into one, staring up at him with a mixture of fear, confusion, and something else, something Nigel can’t quite place. He’s never looked at Nigel before. Not like this. 

Nigel’s hand grips tighter as he keeps the shotgun leveled at the kid, the barrel wavering slightly as he stares down the length of it. 

The kid’s shoulders are hunched up so high they’re practically touching his fucking ears. He looks tiny, dwarfed by the room, by the situation, by Nigel’s looming presence. His bottom lip is trembling too, a faint quiver that gives away just how scared he is, and the tears falling, slipping down his cheeks in slow, uneven streams.

He looks fragile, breakable, like one wrong move might shatter him into a million pieces. And he’s just standing there, not moving, not making a fucking sound. For a moment, it pisses Nigel off, a flash of irritation that sparks in his chest. Why the hell isn’t he moving? He could, if he wanted to. Nigel’d let him. Hell, he almost wants the kid to make a break for it, to scream, to fight back, to do something—anything—other than just standing there and taking it.

Nigel just killed three people right in front of him, and the kid hasn’t said a goddamn word. Not a single sound. He could be yelling, calling Nigel insane, a monster, a psychopath. He could be reaching for his phone, dialing 911, begging for help. Nigel would let him. But he doesn’t. All he does is stand there, staring at Nigel with those big, tearful eyes, like he’s waiting for something, like he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

Nigel lets out a long, heavy sigh. He lowers the shotgun he’s still gripping, the cold metal slick with sweat from his hands. The little gasp of relief that slips from the kid’s mouth when he sees the gun go down—it’s like the air’s been let out of a balloon, soft and quiet, almost too faint to hear. But Nigel hears it, and it both comforts him and pisses him off in equal measure.

It’s the sound of someone who just realized they’re not going to die.

He starts walking. He glances back over his shoulder, just a quick look, to see if the kid will run now that Nigel’s back is turned. But he doesn’t. He just stays there, rooted to the spot, his eyes following Nigel.

Nigel circles around. The kid’s still crying, but it’s quiet now, just soft little sobs that don’t quite make it past his lips. Those big blue eyes are still locked on Nigel, tracking his movements like a lost puppy, and there’s something in that look that makes Nigel pause for a second, just a brief moment of hesitation.

Nigel’s eyes fall on Chris’s body, lying there in a pool of darkening blood. It’s a mess, a real fucking mess. The blood’s spreading out in a thick, sticky puddle, the edges already beginning to dry and crust over. It’s seeping into the cracks in the floor, staining the grout a deep, ugly red. He can see the way the light catches on it, making it shine in places, dull in others, like the blood itself is alive, still moving, still flowing even after it’s been spilled.

It had to happen, Nigel tells himself. This is what’s going to set everything in motion. This is what’s going to make things right. This is what he needed to do to help the kid, to make him see that things get fixed when you take control, when you stop being a fucking sheep and start making your own decisions. This is the first lesson he’ll teach.

Nigel pauses, just for a moment, and listens to the kid’s quiet crying. He wants him to do something. He wants him to move, to speak, to fight back. Anything. He raises a hand, gesturing towards Chris and Jess’s bodies. “Help me move these two to the back,” he says, his voice flat and cold. The kid doesn’t move.

That defiance—it grates on Nigel’s nerves now, makes his blood simmer with a slow-burning anger. Nigel locks his eyes on the kid, staring him down, waiting to see if he’ll break, if he’ll crumble under the pressure. But the kid doesn’t meet his gaze. He keeps his eyes down, focused on the floor, on the blood, on anything but Nigel.

“Raki,” Nigel says, “don’t make me do some count to ten bullshit.” 

The kid’s shoulders climb even higher, if that’s even possible, and his breath comes in short, shaky gasps, like he’s trying to hold back a panic attack. Nigel waits, silent and still, just staring at the kid, letting the weight of his gaze press down on him. He knows what he looks like—splattered in blood, shotgun in hand, dead-eyed and dangerous. He knows he looks like a monster. He doesn’t care. 

He starts counting, lifting one finger, then two, all in silence.

By the time he reaches three, the kid finally moves, like he’s been yanked on a leash. His eyes are glued to Nigel’s hand, to the fingers that are still counting down, and he shuffles forward with his shoulders still hunched up. 

Nigel stares down at the blood, at the bodies lying in it, and lets out another heavy sigh. “Look at this fucking mess.” He sets the shotgun down on a table with a heavy thud. He grabs Chris by the shoulders, dragging him out of the booth, and grimaces as brain matter spills onto the floor in wet, sticky clumps. 

“Grab a leg,” he orders, glancing at the kid just once, just to see if he’ll obey. The kid hesitates, but he does it, reaching out with shaking hands to grab one of Chris’s legs. The flesh is cold, clammy, and the kid recoils slightly at the touch, but he doesn’t let go. Nigel grunts as they start to pull, the kid’s shoulder brushing his, and he can smell the fear on him, sharp and sour like sweat. But more than that, he can feel the kid’s need to listen, to obey, to do what he’s told. It might be survival instinct, might be something deeper, but it pisses Nigel off all the same. 

As they drag Chris’s body across the floor, it leaves a thick, red streak in its wake, the blood smearing and spreading like paint. By the time they get him to the back, Nigel’s shoulders are burning, his muscles aching from the effort, and he’s breathing heavily, each breath coming out in ragged gasps. He doesn’t stop, though. Doesn’t slow down. Jess’s body is next, and Nigel ends up having to hoist her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She’s heavier than she looks, her limp form sagging against him as he carries her to the freezer.

The kid’s already at the freezer, hands shaking as he fumbles with the handle. He’s frozen there, standing in front of the open door, staring into the cold darkness like he’s seeing something that isn’t there. Nigel’s breath comes out in a sharp huff, irritation flaring up again. 

“Fucking move.” Nigel shoves him into the wall, just hard enough to make the kid stumble. 

He dumps Jess’s body into the freezer, the lifeless form crumpling into an unnatural heap on top of the others. The sight of it—a pile of bodies stacked like discarded meat—should make him feel something, anything. But he’s numb, detached, like he’s watching it all happen from somewhere far away. He flicks the blood off his hands, the dark droplets spattering onto the floor, and straightens up, taking a step back.

The kid’s still standing there, eyes glued to the bodies like he can’t look away, like he’s trying to make sense of the horror in front of him. Nigel moves closer, his presence looming over the kid, and he watches the way those wide, blue eyes stay fixed on the carnage, the tears now drying on his cheeks. The kid’s breathing is shallow, rapid, like he’s on the verge of hyperventilating, but there’s no more sobbing, no more crying—just that blank, stunned silence.

“Where’s your phone?” Nigel asks. The kid responds immediately, almost mechanically, like he’s been waiting for a question to answer. “In my locker.” Nigel strides over to the row of lockers against the wall, yanking the kid’s open with a rough jerk. 

He notices the space stickers on the locker door. This time, he lets a faint smile tug at the corners of his mouth. This time, it’s feral but at least it’s fucking real. 

He snatches up the phone, shoving it into his pocket before slamming the locker shut. The kid hasn’t moved from where Nigel left him, still standing there like a statue, eyes following Nigel’s every move.  Nigel moves back to the freezer, the door still open, cold air spilling out into the room. He shoves the kid aside with a rough push, shutting the door. The sound seems to jolt the kid back to reality, and he blinks, a flash of something—fear, confusion, maybe both—crossing his face.

They don’t talk as they clean up the aftermath. 

Nigel grabs the fucking mop and starts scrubbing the bloodstains off the floor. The kid’s given a rag and a bucket, and he scrubs at the walls with a sad, defeated air, his movements slow and mechanical. There’s no conversation, no words exchanged, just the sound of water sloshing, of fabric scraping against tiles, of the mop’s wet swish as it drags across the floor.

By the time they’re done, the floor is a faint, mottled pink, the blood diluted and washed away, but not entirely gone. The kid’s still following Nigel’s lead, still doing what he’s told, and that obedient silence—it makes him want to shake the kid until he wakes up, until he fights back.

It’s only midday when they finally step out, the sun high in the sky, casting harsh shadows on the ground. Nigel drags the kid out by the back of his baggy shirt, the fabric bunched up in his fist as he moves him along like a doll. The kid’s light, too light, like he’s all bones under that oversized shirt, and Nigel can feel the sharp edges of his shoulder blades digging into his palm. The kid stumbles as Nigel pushes him forward, his feet dragging on the ground, but he doesn’t resist. 

Nigel shuts the door behind them with a firm click, locking it tight before shoving the key into his pocket. His hand is still fisted in the kid’s shirt as he pushes him again, forcing him to move faster, to keep up with Nigel’s brisk pace. “Walk.” 

He steers the kid to the passenger side of his car and forces him to stop by the door. The kid stands there, frozen, waiting for whatever comes next. Nigel strides to the trunk, popping it open with a practiced motion, and tosses the shotgun inside. The metal clinks against the hard surface, the sound sharp in the stillness.

The kid’s still just standing there, blue eyes wide and scared, like he’s waiting for instructions, for orders. He doesn’t run, doesn’t even try, even though he’s younger, faster, could probably get away if he wanted to. Nigel unbuttons his bloody shirt, revealing the plain, sweat-stained t-shirt underneath, and shrugs the dirty fabric off, tossing it into the trunk with the gun.

“Raki,” Nigel says. “I could have killed you a hundred times by now.” He raises his voice, just enough to make the kid flinch, and snaps, “Will you get in the fucking car?”

The kid flinches again, scrambling to open the passenger door and slide inside. He’s quick, almost frantic in his movements, like he’s terrified of making Nigel mad. Nigel watches him, a frown pulling at his lips, and shakes his head, muttering under his breath. “Jesus Christ.” He changes his mind, grabbing the shotgun from the trunk and slamming it shut with a loud bang.

He walks around to the driver’s side, the shotgun clutched tightly in his hand, and yanks the door open. He throws the gun into the back seat, the heavy weight of it thudding against the worn upholstery. For a moment, he pauses, hands curling around the keys, feeling the cool metal press into his skin. He takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly, and then slides into the driver’s seat.

The car rumbles to life, the engine growling as it settles into a steady purr. Nigel’s hands are steady on the wheel, his mind calm, clear. He doesn’t feel regret. Doesn’t feel sick with himself. There’s no weight on his conscience, no voice in the back of his mind telling him he’s crossed a line. Instead, he feels a vague sense of renewal, of rejuvenation, like he’s just shed an old skin and stepped into something new.

He glances over at the kid, small and huddled in the passenger seat. The kid’s eyes are stuck to the view outside the windshield, staring at the barren landscape with a blank, wide-eyed look. His hands are clenched tightly in his lap, knuckles white from the pressure. 

There he is, Nigel’s purpose in this godforsaken fucking world, wrapped up in one blue-eyed trembling, fragile frame.

Chapter Text

Nigel grips the steering wheel, the cracked, faded leather cutting into his palms. The car groans under his heavy foot, tires kicking up clouds of dust as they speed down the road cutting through the heart of this dying town.

The road stretches out ahead, a thin strip of gray disappearing into the horizon, swallowed up by the endless expanse of flat, featureless land. The kind of land that was once fertile, back when people still believed in things like the American Dream. Now, it’s just dirt and dust, the earth cracked and dry, like an old man’s hands after a lifetime of hard work. The houses they pass are all the same—small, boxy, and sad, their paint peeling, roofs sagging under the weight of too many winters and not enough repairs.

Nigel keeps the window rolled down,  the air hot and dry, filled with the scent of dust and gasoline. A cigarette dangles from the corner of his mouth, the ash long and ready to fall, but he doesn’t bother to tap it out. He just lets it burn, the smoke curling up into the air, mixing with the wind before disappearing into nothing.

He doesn’t know where they’re going, doesn’t much care. All he knows is that he has to keep moving, has to keep that energy coursing through him, that wild, manic energy that took hold the moment they stepped out of that blood-soaked diner. It’s like a fire in his veins, burning hot and fierce, making him feel more alive than he has in months, maybe even years. It’s the kind of energy that makes your hands shake, makes your heart race, makes your thoughts scatter. 

But it’s good, it’s fucking good, because it means he’s still alive, still capable of feeling something, anything.

Nigel glances over at the kid in the passenger seat, a quick, sideways look that doesn’t last more than a second, but in that second, he takes in everything. The kid is hunched over, shoulders drawn up like he’s trying to make himself smaller, trying to disappear into the worn-out fabric of the seat. He’s staring out the window, eyes fixed on something in the distance, but Nigel can tell he’s not really seeing anything. His hands twitch in his lap, fingers curling and uncurling.

Nigel can’t help but wonder what’s going through the kid’s head. Does he even understand what they’ve just done? Does he get it? The gravity of it, the weight of it? Or is he just numb, just going through the motions, not really processing any of it? Nigel doesn’t know, and he’s not sure he wants to know. There’s something in the kid’s eyes, something broken, something that makes Nigel’s stomach twist, makes him feel things he doesn’t want to feel. Things like guilt, like regret, like maybe he should’ve just left the kid behind, let him figure it out on his own. But then again, if he had, where would Nigel be? Still stuck in that shithole, still thinking about putting a bullet in his brain just to end it all? 

No, this is better. This is fucking better.

He takes another drag from his cigarette, the smoke filling his lungs, hot and heavy. He lets it sit there for a moment before exhaling, watching the smoke drift out the window, carried away by the wind. The kid hasn’t tried to jump out yet, which is…something. Nigel hasn’t locked the door; there’s no point. If the kid wanted to get out, he would’ve done it by now. But he doesn’t. He just sits there, breathing, chest rising and falling under that oversized shirt, and that’s enough for Nigel. He figures that’s something he can work with, something he can build on.

The blood, the brains, the bodies—they don’t matter. Not anymore. What matters is the kid sitting next to him, the kid who gives Nigel something worth living for. Nigel doesn’t know how to thank the kid, doesn’t know how to put it into words, so he doesn’t. He just keeps driving, keeps his foot on the gas, keeps his eyes on the road, and lets the silence stretch out between them.

He’s not worried about the bodies, not really. Nobody goes to that diner anymore, not unless they have to, and even then, it’s just to grab something quick, something greasy to soak up the booze or the drugs or whatever else they’ve been drowning their sorrows in. The other employees, the ones who are supposed to show up for the late shift, they won’t give a damn that the place is locked up. Hell, they’ll probably be relieved, take it as a sign from above that they can take the night off, go home, and forget about the whole thing. And even if someone does care, even if someone does show up, it’ll take hours for them to get inside, hours more before they find the mess in the freezer.

By then, Nigel figures, they’ll be long gone.

Time is on their side, and that’s what Nigel needs, time to figure out what the fuck to do next, time to show the kid how to take control of his life, how to be the one pulling the strings instead of the one being yanked around. Nigel knows what that feels like, knows it all too well, and he’s not about to let the kid go through the same shit he has. Not if he can help it. This is a fresh start, for both of them, a chance to rewrite the script, to flip the fucking page and start over.

A grin tugs at the corner of Nigel’s mouth as he blows out another puff of smoke. He can feel the excitement bubbling up inside him, a wild, giddy feeling that makes him want to laugh, to scream, to do something reckless and stupid, just to see what would happen. He glances over at the kid again, catching a glimpse of him in the corner of his eye. The kid is still as a statue now. Nigel lets the cigarette dangle from his fingers, the ash finally falling to the floor.

“I know what you’re thinking, Raki,” Nigel says. The kid flinches, his head snapping toward Nigel before he looks away just as quick, like he can’t stand to meet Nigel’s eyes. Nigel catches a flash of blue, those damn eyes that never quite look at him, always darting away. 

It pisses Nigel off. But there’s something else too, something deeper, something that makes Nigel want to see those eyes, to see them look at him and not away. Maybe it’s because he sees something of himself in those eyes, something broken and beaten down, something that’s been kicked around so many times it doesn’t know how to stand up anymore. Or maybe it’s just because those eyes are the only thing that still have any color in this godforsaken world, the only thing that hasn’t turned to gray like everything else. 

Either way, he doesn’t care to analyze it.

“I’ve already done the math,” Nigel goes on. “Next shift starts at two. It’s 8:30 now. That’s five and a half hours before anybody gets inside. That’s assuming those other fuckers even care, which they don’t. You know that as well as I do, they’d take it as a blessing, don’t you?”

Nigel grins around his cigarette, glancing at the kid who’s stiff as a board, bracing for impact. But Nigel sees the kid’s head dip, a tiny, hesitant nod that makes Nigel’s grin widen even more. 

“Nobody’s gonna lose their shit over a curly fry shortage. We’re not exactly saving fucking lives here, right?” Nigel continues. “But if that does happen, someone might call headquarters, might call the fucking cops.” The kid tenses even more, his hands clenching into fists, knuckles turning white as he grips the fabric of his pants.

“But it’ll take hours for them to find the shit in the freezer, and then a couple more hours to clean the shit out of their pants and figure out what the fuck to do about a triple homicide in a town of what? 10,000 people?”

The kid finally makes a sound, a little murmur that barely reaches Nigel’s ears.

“What? Speak up.”

The kid’s hands twitch again. “10,367.”

Nigel blinks, surprised the kid actually corrects him, even if it’s just by a few hundred. He watches the kid, who’s trembling now, his whole body shaking, eyes glistening with tears that are just waiting to fall. This isn’t the time for that.

Nigel shakes his head. “Same fucking thing,” he mutters, taking another drag from his cigarette. The smoke fills his lungs, calming him down. “We’ve got a couple days at least. Until things get serious, of course.”

He glances back at the kid, seeing him nod again, his throat bobbing as he swallows hard, trying to keep the sobs at bay. Nigel can see the kid is close to breaking, can see the cracks forming, but he doesn’t say anything. He just lets it be, lets the kid have his moment. He figures the kid has earned it.

“Days?” Adam's voice is weak.

“State cops won’t rush unless they’ve got a reason. You saw the scene—we made it look clean. They’ll hesitate.”

A grin tugs at Nigel’s lips again, a wild, giddy laugh bubbling up inside him, and he can’t help but let it out. It’s a strange sound, almost foreign, like it doesn’t belong to him, like it’s coming from somewhere deep inside that he hasn’t tapped into in a long time. But it feels good, feels right, like he’s finally letting go of something that’s been weighing him down for far too long. He sees his sharp teeth flash in the rearview mirror as he turns back to the road, the grin still plastered on his face.

“Who knows where we’re gonna be in a couple of days?” Nigel says. “You and I both know what could happen in just a fucking hour.”

Nigel shakes his head, tossing the cigarette out the window, watching the orange ember spark and die as it’s carried away by the wind. He feels lighter now, almost like he could float, like he could just lift off the ground and fly away. The excitement is still there, bubbling under the surface, but it’s controlled now, tempered by the realization that they have time, that they can make this work.

“10,367, huh?” he says. “Well, that’s 10,365 too fucking many if they start looking for someone to blame.” 

He glances at the kid one last time, seeing him still sitting there, still breathing, still hanging on by a thread. That’s enough for Nigel. It has to be.

“Are you hungry?” Nigel asks. He doesn’t wait for an answer. He doesn’t need one.

“Let’s get something to eat.”

Nigel and the kid end up at some mom-and-pop diner, the kind of place you only find when you're not looking, buried deep in the backroads where the pavement gives way to gravel and the horizon stretches out like a worn-out promise. The sun’s still high up in the sky, its relentless heat shimmering off the cracked asphalt like it’s trying to burn away the sins of the day. Nigel steers the car off the main road, the tires crunching over loose stones, sending up tiny clouds of dust that settle like a blanket over the chipped paint of the diner’s sign. It’s a washed-out, peeling thing that might’ve once been a cheerful blue, now faded to a tired, sickly green, the words “Dottie’s Diner” barely legible.

Nigel ignores the kid’s quick, panicked breaths beside him, each one coming faster than the last. 

He pulls the car into the parking lot, the engine sputtering as if it’s just as relieved as Nigel to be done with the drive. Gravel crunches beneath the tires, the sound gritty and satisfying. Nigel’s eyes scan the lot, noting the handful of rusted-out trucks and ancient sedans. The diner itself stands like a forgotten relic, a squat building with a flat roof and a facade that’s seen better days. Its pastel-colored walls—pink, maybe, or a faded yellow—look almost cheerful in the harsh sunlight. 

Better than the diner they just fucking came from, at least. 

Nigel glances over at the kid, who’s doing his best impression of a scared doe. The blood splattered on his clothes stands out stark against his pale skin.

“God dammit,” he mutters.

He turns, reaching into the back seat, his fingers searching through the mess of crap he’s accumulated back there. It’s a disaster zone—empty beer cans rattling around, greasy fast-food wrappers crumpled into balls, and the random detritus of a life lived on the run. The kid recoils as their shoulders nearly brush, pulling one shoulder up to his ear. Nigel’s hand brushes against the cold metal of the shotgun, and for a moment, he lifts it up, feeling the familiar weight of it in his grip. But then he tosses it aside with a grunt, digging deeper until he finds what he’s looking for: an old black jacket, the fabric worn thin in places, stained and torn, but still serviceable. He pulls it free, wadding it up into a ball.

“Put that on,” he says, tossing the jacket into the kid’s lap. “Nobody needs to fucking see that.”

The kid stares at the jacket like it’s a snake ready to strike, his face twisting. He pinches it between his fingers, using only the tips, like he’s afraid it’ll infect him. The kid’s cheeks are flushed, a stark red that contrasts with the pale skin, his dark lashes wet against his wet cheeks skin. 

Nigel watches him for a moment, a strange mix of emotions churning in his gut, something that makes him want to look away. He rolls up the window, the squeal of the glass against the frame loud in the stillness, and then pulls the keys from the ignition.

Opening the door, he steps out into the heat, the sun beating down on him like it’s got a grudge. The air is thick with the smell of hot asphalt and dust, with a faint undercurrent of something greasy wafting from the diner’s exhaust vents. Nigel narrows his eyes, squinting at the diner in front of them. It’s the kind of place where the coffee’s always burnt and the pie is always just a little too sweet, but the regulars don’t care because it’s cheap and it’s theirs.

He glances back at the car, watching as the kid fumbles with the door handle, his movements clumsy and panicked. The door finally swings open, and the kid stumbles out, the oversized jacket engulfing him, making him look even smaller. Nigel feels his own eyes linger. The kid’s hands are twisted in the sleeves, fingers barely poking out of the too-long cuffs, and he looks lost. 

Nigel turns away, heading toward the diner’s entrance, his boots crunching over the gravel with each step. The kid follows him, stumbling a little, his footsteps uneven as he tries to keep up, the sound of his shuffling shoes almost drowned out by the low hum of the cicadas in the distance.

The diner’s door is a heavy thing, old and creaky, with a little bell hanging above it that jingles with every movement. The bell is one of those cheap, jangly Christmas decorations that should’ve been taken down months ago, now hanging there like a sad reminder of a holiday long gone. Nigel pauses at the door, hearing the kid come to a stop just behind him.

Nigel sighs, a long-suffering sound, and reaches back, grabbing a fistful of the jacket’s collar and giving the kid a push, enough to get him moving again. “Take a seat,” he says, his voice gruff but not unkind, steering the kid toward the bar seats lined up against the counter.

The kid hesitates, eyes fixed on the cracked linoleum floor as if it holds the answers to all his problems. Nigel watches him for a second, waiting to see if the kid’s gonna move on his own, but when it’s clear that he’s not, Nigel takes the lead. He drops onto one of the stools, the vinyl seat creaking under his weight, and only then does the kid finally move, perching on the edge of the stool beside him, his back straight, eyes still glued to the floor.

Nigel raises an eyebrow at the whole display, a mixture of irritation and curiosity gnawing at him. But he doesn’t have time to think too hard about it, not when the waitress shows up, two glasses of water balanced on a tray. 

Nigel mumbles a thank you, rubbing his hands over his face, the rough skin scraping against the stubble on his jaw. He grabs the plastic menu, flipping it open. He feels the kid’s gaze, trying to ignore the feeling of those big, blue eyes watching him.

It’s a strange sensation, being under that kind of scrutiny, and it makes Nigel’s skin crawl. He’s used to being invisible, to blending into the background, to being the one who watches, not the one who gets watched. But now, with those big eyes on him, he feels exposed, like the kid can see right through him, see all the cracks and flaws he tries so hard to hide. It makes him uncomfortable, makes him itch with the need to get up and leave, but he forces himself to stay still, to keep his head buried in the menu.

He reads the names of the breakfast specials, his eyes skimming over the words without really taking them in. “Lumberjack’s Breakfast,” “Uncle Herschel’s Favorite,” all the usual shit that every diner seems to have. 

A small noise comes from beside him, a faint clearing of the throat that’s almost lost in the background hum of the diner. Nigel ignores it, focusing on the tiny print of the menu, pretending he doesn’t hear. 

“Nigel.” The kid’s voice is so quiet, so tentative. It grates on Nigel’s nerves, that uncertainty, that weakness, but he doesn’t look up, doesn’t acknowledge it. If someone wants his attention, they better damn well get it, not whisper it like they’re scared of their own fucking shadow. He just keeps his eyes on the menu, fingers tapping against the plastic cover, waiting for the kid to say something else, something that might actually matter.

“Nigel?” The voice comes again, a little louder this time, enough to cut through the noise of the diner. Nigel still doesn’t look up.

“Why are we here?” Nigel finally looks over at the kid. Those big blue eyes are locked onto the menu in his hands, reflecting the sunlight leaking into the diner, making them shimmer like broken glass. 

But the kid won’t meet his gaze, won’t look up from the menu, and Nigel can’t decide if that pisses him off or if he’s grateful for it. He watches the kid struggle with the words, watches his mouth open and close like he’s trying to find the right thing to say, but can’t quite get it out. It’s pathetic, really, and it makes Nigel want to grab him by the shoulders and force him to spit it out.

“Why are… are you doing this?”

Nigel straightens up, his eyes scanning the diner, taking in the old men hunched over their coffee cups, the waitress wiping down tables with a practiced hand. He leans in closer to the kid, his voice dropping to a low whisper. 

“What the fuck do you mean? You think I wanted to drag you here just to watch you squirm?” he asks, though he already has a pretty good idea of what the kid’s getting at.

The kid blinks, his eyes wide and uncertain. Nigel watches him for a moment, and then a small laugh escapes his lips.

“Oh, you mean—” Nigel makes a gun gesture with his hand, pointing it at the kid, his lips curling into a wide, toothy grin. “You mean that?”

The question is almost funny to Nigel. It’s the opening he’s been waiting for, the chance to explain things, to start teaching the kid what this is all about. How everything that’s happened so far, everything he’s done, has been leading up to this moment. How he believes he was sent here for a reason, for this fucking kid, and how the kid means more than he could ever understand.

Nigel’s grin widens, his teeth flashing in the light of the diner, and he feels a strange sense of satisfaction bubbling up inside him. “I was wondering when you were gonna ask me that,” he says.

But before he can say anything more, before he can start spinning the web of truths and half-truths that’s been building in his mind, the waitress returns. She’s wearing a faded purple uniform that’s seen better days, the fabric worn thin, a few stray threads hanging loose. 

“What can I get for you fine gentlemen this morning?” she asks, her voice carrying that soft, southern drawl that wraps around each word like honey, making even the most mundane question sound like an invitation to something sweeter.

Nigel leans back in his seat. He meets her gaze, a small smile playing on his lips, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Marsha,” he says, reading her name off the little brass tag pinned to her chest. “I have a question for you, gorgeous. Does the, uh, fucking short stack come with hashbrowns?” 

“No, just toast,” she replies.

Nigel clicks his tongue, a low, disgruntled sound that rumbles in his throat, more out of habit than anything else. “Well fuck,” he mutters under his breath. He wanted pancakes and hashbrowns, wanted that satisfying combination of crispy and soft, sweet and savory. The menu feels heavy in his hands, the pages thick and unwieldy as he flips through them again, scanning the options with a kind of resigned indifference. The words blur together, a jumble of breakfast clichés and diner staples that offer little in the way of real comfort. “But the omelets do?” he asks, squinting at the small print.

“Correct, sir,” Marsha says, her voice steady and polite, that same sweetness lingering in her tone. She stands there, pen poised over her notepad, ready to jot down whatever he decides, her smile never faltering. 

As Nigel watches her, something about the way she carries herself, the way she stands so patiently waiting for his order, reminds him of the kid. There’s a kind of quiet desperation in her, a willingness to do whatever it takes to get through the day, to keep things running smoothly, even if it means sacrificing her own dignity, her own sense of self. She’s probably seen it all, heard it all, dealt with every kind of asshole imaginable, but she’s still here, still trying, still smiling. Letting slimy old men flirt with her all day, shoving crumpled bills into her pockets without saying a goddamn word. She’s pretty, no doubt, but she could be doing so much more, Nigel thinks. So much more than wasting her life in this dead-end diner, serving up coffee to men who just want to squeeze her ass.

Nigel can’t help but think of the kid, showing up every day to get pushed around, beaten down, doing his best. Working hard for nothing, for scraps, for the illusion that maybe, just maybe, things might get better if he keeps his head down and plays along.

Nigel lets out a slow breath, the sound almost lost in the hum of the diner, in the clatter of dishes and the low murmur of conversations around him. “That’s a shame. But I guess I’ll have to have the western omelet, then.” He leans back in his seat, the vinyl creaking under his weight, and props an elbow on the counter in front of him, the cool surface a welcome relief against his skin, a brief respite from the sticky heat that seems to permeate the entire diner.

He glances over at the kid, his eyes lingering on the boy’s frame. The kid’s got this look about him now, this wide-eyed curiosity like he’s seeing the world for the first time, taking it all in with a kind of cautious wonder. His blue eyes dart around the room, never settling on one thing for too long. 

Nigel raises an eyebrow, studying the kid’s face, the way his gaze eventually lands, not on Nigel himself, but on his shoulder again. “And for mister…”

The kid hesitates, his lips parting slightlyt. He seems to struggle with words, his mouth forming shapes that don’t quite translate into speech, his eyes wide and anxious. 

“Raki, what is your last name?” Nigel asks. 

The kid’s lips move, but no sound comes out at first, just a little breath of air like he’s trying to remember how to speak. “It’s Raki.” 

Nigel frowns. “Your name is Raki...Raki?” 

The kid gulps, his throat bobbing as he swallows nervously, his hands fiddling with the sleeves of his jacket, pulling at the worn fabric. “No, my last—my first name is Adam.” 

Nigel leans back, his hand rubbing absently over his lips as he mutters the name under his breath. 

Adam.  

It feels heavy in his mouth, laden with meaning. Marsha, still hovering nearby, chimes in with some saccharine comment about it being a nice name, the first name God gave to man, like Nigel gives a shit about that. He doesn’t, not really, but the thought worms its way into his mind anyway.

Adam, the first man, God’s perfect creation. The one who trusted too easily, who took a bite of that forbidden fruit and brought the wrath of heaven down upon him. Nigel can’t help but think of the kid in those terms, can’t help but wonder if he’s the snake in this story, tempting the boy with something he doesn’t fully understand, or if he’s the fucking apple itself, offering up a taste of something forbidden, something that might change everything.

But maybe, just maybe, Adam was better off after the fall. Maybe learning how to live on his own, without the constant guidance, without the hand of the big guy hovering over him, was the best thing that could have happened to him. Maybe this Adam, sitting in front of him with those scared eyes and nervous hands, is better off too, better off with Nigel guiding him, teaching him how to navigate a world that doesn’t care about innocence, about fucking purity, about right or wrong.

Nigel smiles, a slow, creeping grin. “That’s special, your name, Adam. Means something,” he says, his voice soft. He lets out a low chuckle, more of a huff than a laugh. This is confirmation, he thinks, a little red thread of fate tying them together, binding their paths in a way that feels almost predestined. This kid, this Adam, is why he’s here, why he’s stuck in this dingy diner in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by people who don’t matter, who don’t get it.

The thought makes something inside him spark again, a manic surge of energy that rushes through his veins, making his fingers tap restlessly against the counter. 

“What are you eating, Adam?” Nigel asks. There’s a strange gentleness in his tone, almost like he’s trying to coax a wild animal out of hiding, to gain its trust.

The kid’s gaze drops to the table, his voice barely above a whisper as he mumbles, “I’m not hungry.” He stammers out a “thank you” after a beat, like he suddenly remembered he’s supposed to be polite.

Nigel watches him for a moment, taking in the way the kid’s shoulders hunch forward, the way his hands never seem to stop moving. The kid’s too skinny, his clothes hanging off him. He needs to fucking eat something, that much is clear. 

“You know what,” Nigel says, his tone shifting, becoming a little more authoritative, a little more decisive, “let’s just get him a cinnamon bun. He can snack on that.” 

Nigel trusts he knows what’s best for the kid, knows what he needs, even if the boy doesn’t realize it yet.

Marsha nods, jotting down the order on her notepad with a quick, efficient motion, her pen scratching across the paper. “Coming right up,” she says, that same cheery tone in her voice.

As she turns to leave, Nigel watches her go, his eyes lingering on the way her hips sway just slightly as she walks, the tight bun of her hair bouncing with each step. She’s still got that air of practiced politeness, that veneer of professionalism, but Nigel can see through it, can see the weariness underneath, the way her shoulders slump just a little bit.

And then, just as she’s about to disappear into the kitchen, something clicks in Nigel’s mind, a sudden, sharp thought that slices through his consciousness like a knife. This is a moment, an opportunity, a chance to teach the kid something important, something he won’t fucking learn from anyone else. 

“Actually, I have another question for you, gorgeous,” Nigel calls out, his voice shifting again, taking on a slick, almost oily tone. He clears his throat, his gaze sharp and focused as he watches her pause, turning back to face him with that same patient smile, but there’s a flicker of something else in her eyes now, something like wariness.

“Shoot,” she says, her voice light and breezy.

Nigel grins, a slow, predatory smile that shows just a hint of teeth, a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He glances at Adam, making sure the kid’s watching, that he’s paying attention to every word, every gesture. Adam’s eyes are still fixed on Nigel’s shoulder, but there’s a new intensity to his gaze, a new curiosity. 

Nigel turns back to Marsha, his voice smooth and honeyed as he asks, “Tell me, how long have you worked here?”

Marsha’s smile falters just a little, her eyes flicking to the side for a brief moment before she answers, her voice steady but with a hint of something like resignation. “About six years now,” she says.

Nigel hums softly, nodding as if he’s considering her answer, as if it really matters to him. “And in the dining industry, overall?” he presses, his voice still smooth, still pleasant.

Marsha lets out a small laugh. “Guessing 19, maybe 20 years. Long time, huh?” 

“Long time indeed,” Nigel echoes, his voice almost thoughtful. He leans in a little closer, his eyes narrowing slightly as he studies her face. “Did you live around here your whole life?” 

Marsha straightens up a bit, her posture stiffening as she answers, a hint of pride creeping into her voice “Why, as a matter of fact, I have.”

Nigel wants to laugh at that, wants to throw it back in her fucking face, but he keeps it inside, just nods like he’s impressed, like he actually gives a shit. “You got any kids?” 

She nods, a real smile breaking through this time, a smile that reaches her eyes, that lights up her face in a way that none of the forced smiles before have. “Yes, two boys. Eighteen and twenty-two,” she says, and there’s something in her voice now, something warm and genuine.

Nigel can feel Adam’s gaze on him again, those big blue eyes watching him intently, trying to figure out what he’s doing, why he’s asking these questions, what it all means. Good. Nigel doesn’t feel the usual discomfort. He wants Adam to see this. 

“When’s the last time you talked to them?” Nigel asks, his voice dropping just a little, becoming softer, more intimate. But he doesn’t give her time to answer, doesn’t give her a chance to take control of the conversation. He’s already moving on to the next question, already pushing her further. “You have a husband?”

He cocks an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Does he see the boys as much as you do? Or are they closer to you? Ever feel like they’re drifting away? Like they’re slipping through your fingers, bit by bit?"

Her face shifts, and it’s a subtle thing at first—the corners of her mouth faltering, the brightness in her eyes dimming as if someone’s slowly turning a dial. The polite, cheery mask she’s been wearing, like a uniform she puts on every goddamn day, starts to slip. And then, like a dam finally giving way, it crumbles, leaving behind a blank, almost desolate expression. He’s seen that look before—a thousand times, maybe more. 

Especially in the mirror. 

"Or maybe they’re still mama’s boys, huh? Still call you up just to hear your voice, tell you about their day, get some advice?" His smile is faint, almost wistful, but there’s a sharp edge to it. "You must miss that, if they don’t. The way they used to need you."

Nigel leans in closer, his eyes locked on hers, his voice dropping to a near whisper, but it’s sharp. “But when’s the last time you’ve really done something, Marsha? When was the last time you woke up and felt like you couldn’t wait to start the day? When was the last time you looked at your life and thought, ‘This is it. This is what I’m meant to be fucking doing?' Can you even remember?”

It’s like watching a marionette’s strings get cut—she’s still standing there, still breathing, but something inside her has gone slack. The falseness of her smiles, the chirpiness of her voice, all that bullshit, it just fades into fucking oblivion. It’s gone. Dead. 

He lifts an eyebrow, his lips curling into a half-smirk, and says, “Nothing coming to mind?” she just stands there, staring at him, her face a mask of something else now. Not fear, not confusion.

This is the point he’s been trying to hammer home to Adam. You can work your ass off, put in all the hours, do everything by the book, but none of it will mean a damn thing unless you make it mean something. The world doesn’t give a shit about how hard you try, how much you sacrifice. It’ll chew you up and spit you out if you let it. You can drag yourself out of bed every morning, go to a job you hate, live a life that’s as empty as the inside of this fucking diner, or you can grab the reins, take control, and go after what you really want. That’s what separates the winners from the losers, the ones who matter from the ones who fade into nothingness.

Nigel knows this all too well. He’s been on both sides of that equation. Sure, he’s lost more than he cares to admit—more than he’ll ever admit to Adam—but he’s also gained things. The hatred he usually feels when he thinks about Gabi simmers down to a dull ache as he mulls it over. Gabi was a tough woman, hard as nails, and stubborn in a way that used to drive him up the fucking wall. She never backed down, never let anyone push her around, and though it pissed him off to no end back then, he can’t help but respect her for it now. She wanted something out of life, something more than what they had, and she went after it with everything she had. That something didn’t include him in the end, but she made her life mean something. She took control.

If it were any other guy, Nigel might’ve been proud of her, maybe even given her a nod of approval. But it wasn’t any other guy—it was him she left behind. She didn’t just walk out of their marriage; she walked out of his life, and the bitterness of that betrayal still lingers, coiled up tight in his gut like a snake ready to strike. It’s not that he still loves her—God knows that fucking ship has sailed—but the possessiveness, the anger that comes with being cast aside, that hasn’t faded. It’s like an old scar that flares up every now and then, a reminder of the fact that he wasn’t enough for her, that she found what she wanted in someone else, someone who wasn’t him. A fucking American, no less. 

But that’s not the point right now.

The point is, people have potential. All of them, whether they know it or not. It’s buried deep down in most of them, under layers of self-doubt, fear, and complacency, but it’s there. And that potential? It doesn’t mean shit unless you do something with it. Marsha could be something, if she ever got off her ass and decided to. Adam especially. He’s got more in him than he realizes, more than anyone around here gives him credit for. 

Marsha finally turns on her heel. She’s pissed, but she’s also thinking, and that’s exactly what he wanted. She glares at him, her jaw set tight, and says, “I’m going to go place your order.”

Nigel just nods. “Alright.” He watches her walk away, the tension in her shoulders visible even from behind, and he can’t help the grin that spreads across his face. “Lovely chat, darling.”

He scoffs, shaking his head as he turns back to Adam, who’s been watching the whole exchange. The kid’s face is pale, his eyes narrow and glassy. 

There’s a distaste in his expression, his lips curling ever so slightly in a way that tells Nigel he doesn’t approve, doesn’t understand. But confusion? Confusion is good. Confusion means the kid’s still trying to figure things out, still searching for answers, and as long as he’s confused, he’s open to learning. 

Nigel can work with that.

Adam shifts in his seat, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso. His movements are tense, defensive, and Nigel can see the gears turning in his head, trying to make sense of what just happened. 

Nigel smiles at him, more wolf than man. “Don’t look at me like that.” He jerks his head in the direction Marsha went, his eyes never leaving Adam. “You really think that little show did anything to her life? Made some kind of difference?” 

He doesn’t wait for a response. Instead, he stretches his neck, feeling the satisfying crack as the tension releases, and lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. “And if it did, good,” he says, his voice firm, almost angry. “Maybe now she’ll stop dragging herself through the mud of her miserable fucking life and actually do something about it.”

Nigel pauses. “You believe in God, Adam?”

The boy hesitates, his gaze flickering to Nigel before settling on his hands. “No,” he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t believe in God.”

“Smart kid. All that bullshit is just to explain things, to feel like we’ve got some control. But out here,” he gestures vaguely, “it’s just us. No one’s watching.” 

Nigel frowns, thoughtful. “But God might believe in you. Ever think about that?” 

Nigel’s fingers move to tap on the counter, a restless, staccato beat. The sound is almost hypnotic, drawing Adam’s gaze. The kid’s eyes are locked on Nigel’s hand, watching the movement with a kind of dazed fascination, his thin neck bobbing as he swallows hard. 

Then, in a voice so quiet Nigel almost misses it, Adam whispers, “What about me?”

Nigel’s fingers freeze mid-tap, and for a moment, he just stares at the kid. “What about you what?” 

Adam shrugs, a quick, jerky motion that makes him look even more uncertain, more vulnerable. He’s still staring at Nigel’s hand, his gaze unfocused, his thoughts clearly miles away. “I…you’re talking about her, but what about me? What does this mean for me?”

“Are you trying to ask why you’re here?” Nigel asks, his voice low. Adam nods, just a small, subtle movement, like he’s too scared to commit to it fully.

For a long moment, Nigel doesn’t say anything. Then, he leans in closer, closing the distance between them. 

He plants his elbow on the table, his arm sliding across the surface until it’s right next to Adam’s. Nigel can see everything now—the faint smattering of freckles across the kid’s nose and cheeks, the way his skin is so pale it’s almost translucent, the way his blue eyes, wide and uncertain, are a shade so light they remind him of the petals of forget-me-nots. 

Nigel just looks at the kid, really looks at him, and he feels something surge through him—that wild, electric jolt of purpose . He leans in even closer, until he can feel the heat of Adam’s breath on his face, can smell the faint scent of mint mixed with the sharp, metallic tang of blood. 

He pauses for a moment, just taking it all in, feeling the manic energy bubbling up inside him, the adrenaline pumping through his veins like gasoline. It’s a high, better than any drug, and it fuels him as he leans in even closer.

“Because, Adam,” he says, his voice low and intense, “I’ve been watching you and I know for a fact that you are better than this shit. You’re squandering your potential, drowning in fucking mediocrity.” He raises his hand, letting it hover for a moment before it drops onto the back of Adam’s head, his fingers curling into the kid’s hair, holding him in place even as Adam tries to shrink away. Nigel’s grip is firm, unyielding, and he pulls them closer, their foreheads almost touching.

“You’ve got a brain, a fully functional, ticking piece of fucking meat between those cute ears,” Nigel continues. “And yet you let some two-bit, testosterone-filled, walking dick with arms command you like you’re his fucking puppet.”

Adam’s lips move, like he’s trying to say something, but the words don’t come out. Nigel watches the way they tremble, those pink, bitten lips, and he feels a surge of frustration, of anger.

He yanks Adam’s head back, the fury in Nigel’s eyes almost palpable. “You’re what? Twenty fucking years old? You should be out there, living, making mistakes, learning from them—hell, even screwing up in a way that’s your own. But instead, you let some asshole reduce you to...this.”

He gestures around them, disgust curling his lip. “This place, these people—they’ve given up. They’ve resigned themselves to being nothing, to living in filth and misery. And you—” he points a finger in Adam’s face, “—you’re worse than all of them combined. You’re not just pathetic, you’re a fucking waste of potential. And that—” his voice cracks with the intensity of his anger, “—that bugs the living shit out of me.”

Nigel leans in, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Let me tell you something, Adam—you’ll end up like them, like every sorry bastard in this dump. Hollow. Empty. Dead inside.” He spits the last words, his voice cold as ice, “And I can’t stand it. I won’t stand it.”

He stares at Adam, his eyes boring into the kid’s soul, watching the way those big blue eyes flicker, never settling on one spot, always shifting, always searching. There’s something in them, something Nigel’s never seen in anyone else—a hunger, a curiosity, a need to learn, to understand. It’s like a spark, just waiting to be ignited, and Nigel can feel it, can almost taste it, the potential that’s right there, within his grasp.

Adam is different, Nigel knows it. He’s not like the rest of the useless fucking pricks in this town, not like the lifeless drones who shuffle through their days with no purpose, no ambition. This kid has something, something real, something raw, and Nigel is aching to grab hold of it, to mold it, to shape it into something powerful, something meaningful. He’s never felt this kind of connection before, this kind of drive, and it’s exhilarating.

Nigel’s lip quirks up into a smirk then, a slow, lazy thing. He raises an eyebrow, just a fraction, letting the smirk linger on his lips as he shakes his head, a slow movement that makes a few strands of his hair fall across his forehead.

“There’s something about you, Adam.” 

He watches as Adam’s eyes widen, the pupils dilating like a frightened animal’s. The blush that spreads up the kid’s neck is a deep red that stains his pale skin, creeping all the way to the tips of his ears. “Like a star. But it’s distant, Adam. Far and untouchable.”

Nigel’s smirk softens into something almost genuine—almost. He winks, letting the moment stretch out, watching as Adam’s blush deepens, spreading across his cheeks like wildfire. The kid’s practically vibrating with tension, his whole body wound tight like a spring, but there’s something in his eyes that tells Nigel he’s not about to run. 

Not yet, anyway.

“There’s something fixable, something in there worth shaping,” Nigel continues, his voice softer now. “And I believe that.” 

Funny thing is, he really does. The words don’t feel like the usual bullshit he’s so good at spinning, the lies and half-truths that roll off his tongue without a second thought. These words feel different, heavier somehow. “It just takes the right tools, the right pressure. A little heat, a little time.”

He leans in closer, sliding an arm around Adam’s shoulders. He can feel the warmth radiating off Adam, the kid’s bony shoulder fitting into the crook of his arm. 

“I mean, when you were standing there…” Nigel starts again, his voice barely above a whisper now. He gestures with his free hand, the one not resting on Adam’s shoulder, extending his arm in front of them. His fingers splay out, rough and calloused, close enough that Adam could reach out and touch them if he wanted to. “Watching me, waiting for me to kill you…”

Nigel turns his gaze back to Adam, watches as the kid’s eyes fixate on his hand, that wide, curious look still there, still hanging on. There’s fear in those eyes, sure, but there’s something else. 

Eagerness.

He studies Adam’s face, his eyes tracing the lines and curves of it, so close now he can see every detail. It’s soft, too soft. His eyes drift down to the kid’s jaw, tense, the muscles tight like he’s holding something back, then back up to that soft cheekbone, smooth and unblemished, a stark contrast to the roughness of Nigel’s own face.

Adam’s so fucking soft, inside and out. Soft features, soft heart, soft fucking backbone. And yet, as Nigel keeps looking, keeps studying this kid who’s so different from him in every way that matters, he feels something swell in his chest. Maybe it’s admiration, maybe it’s something darker, but whatever it is, it makes Nigel’s voice turn prideful, makes his words come out softer, more genuine than he ever intended.

“That was the only thing I believed,” Nigel finishes. 

The energy in the room shifts, crackling with something electric, something alive, something that makes the hair on the back of Nigel’s neck stand up. 

He stares at the kid, at the way he’s sitting there, breathing, existing. Nigel’s never felt more honest than he does right now, never been more certain of anything in his life than he is of this moment, of these words he’s just spoken.

He knows it, deep down in his bones, more than he’s ever known anything. This kid means something. Something more than this shitty diner, more than this town that’s sucked the life out of everything and everyone in it. More than the oversized clothes he’s drowning in, more than the way his hands shake like he can’t control them. Adam’s something else, something bigger, something that could be great if someone just took the time to see it, to fix it.

Nigel’s gaze drifts down to Adam’s mouth, those lips parted in a way that makes Nigel think the kid’s in awe. 

“Does that answer your question, Adam?” 

The moment is shattered by the sudden clattering of dishes as Marsha  sets their food down on the table with a thud. The sound is sharp, jarring, pulling Nigel out of whatever spell he’s under, snapping him back to reality. He watches her for a moment, the way she moves briskly.

“Thanks, Marsha,” Nigel says. 

He slides his hand off Adam’s shoulder, the touch lingering for just a second longer than it should, feeling the warmth of the kid against his palm. The energy that was buzzing inside him hasn’t dissipated, still crackling under his skin like static electricity, making his fingers tingle. 

He focuses on the sad excuse for an omelet in front of him, the edges browned and crispy, the middle a mess of overcooked eggs and cheap cheese that’s already starting to congeal. He grabs the pepper shaker, and starts shaking it over everything on his plate, even the hash browns that are about the only thing he really fucking wanted. 

“Actually,” Nigel hears, quiet as a mouse, “stars… they’re already shining, even if we can’t see them yet.” He hears Adam shifts uncomfortably, fidgeting with the edge of his sleeve.

“It’s… it’s a common mistake,” he continues, his words tumbling out faster now, as if he’s afraid he’ll lose his nerve if he doesn’t get them out quickly. “Stars… they’re born in clouds of gas and dust, and sometimes… sometimes it takes millions of years for their light to reach us.”

Adam’s voice catches slightly, and he hesitates. “So, if… if you’re thinking of me as a star… I’m already…” He stammers, his breathing quickening.

Nigel stops mid-shake, pepper still spilling out in a heavy sprinkle. He blinks, looking at Adam like he’s just sprouted another head. The kid barely says two words on a good day.

He looks down at his food, cutting into the omelet that’s already cold by now. “It’s a fucking metaphor, kid.” He gestures with his fork, the motion a little sharper than necessary. “Eat your cinnamon bun.”

A slow, surprising warmth unfurls in Nigel’s chest and he immediately wants to crush it like a bug under his boot. It’s fucking endearing, in a way. He thinks of the locker, though he doesn’t linger on that thought too long. “See? Just what I’m talking about. Smart.”

“What happens now, Nigel?” He hears Adam whisper, the words coming out hesitant, like he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“I’m gonna eat my fucking omelet, is what.” 

Chapter Text

Nigel’s fork clinks against the edge of the ceramic plate as he scoops up the last few pieces of his omelet, each bite thick with pepper. 

He leans back, letting out a sigh as he wipes his fingers on a crumpled napkin. Beside him, Adam’s cinnamon bun sits untouched. 

Nigel glances at the kid, noticing the way Adam’s fingers hover just above the edge of the plate, twitching slightly. The kid’s eyes are downcast, fixed on the table like he’s lost in thought—or maybe just lost.

Nigel narrows his eyes, wondering what’s going on in the kid’s head. There’s a part of him that wants to reach across the table, grab the bun, and shove it into Adam’s hands, force the kid to fucking eat it right then and there. But he knows better. 

When Marsha slaps the to-go box onto the table, the force of it makes Adam flinch, his shoulders jerking up. She’s rough now, careless in the way she shoves the cinnamon bun off the plate and into the box. But Nigel sees it differently. To him, the act is a tiny power play. He smirks. 

Nigel barely glances at her, his attention still on Adam. Nigel wonders if it’s defiance that keeps Adam from eating, or something else. Maybe the kid’s too sick with what they did, the guilt twisting his insides until the thought of food makes him nauseous. Or maybe Adam just doesn’t like cinnamon buns. It’s a simple enough explanation, but Nigel doesn’t believe in simple explanations. Not anymore.

Whatever the reason, Nigel knows one thing for sure: Adam’s going to eat that fucking cinnamon bun, whether it’s now or later. He can’t have the kid getting dizzy on him, passing out from hunger when there’s still so much to do, so much to teach. Nigel’s made a promise, to himself and to Adam, and he’s going to keep it, no matter what. He’s fulfilling his purpose, and nothing else matters. Not the future, not tomorrow—just today, just the here and now.

Nigel stands up. He picks up the to-go box, feeling the slight warmth of it against his palm, and places it in Adam’s hands. The kid looks up at him, his eyes wide and uncertain, but Nigel doesn’t give him a chance to protest. He runs a hand through his hair, the strands tangled, and turns toward the exit.

Nigel squints against the brightness, his eyes adjusting to the sudden change in light as he steps out into the open. 

He doesn’t bother checking to see if Adam’s following; he knows the kid is there, can feel the hesitant shuffle of footsteps behind him. But then, just as he reaches the edge of the parking lot, the sound stops. Nigel freezes mid-step, his boot hovering above the pavement before he slowly turns, his gaze locking onto Adam, who’s standing still as a statue, the to-go box clutched tightly in both hands.

The kid looks like he’s about to bolt. Nigel sighs, a heavy sound that seems to carry with it all the frustration and weariness he’s been trying to keep at bay. He’s not in the fucking mood for this, not after the morning they’ve had. He doesn’t have the patience. The kid could run if he wanted to—Nigel’s made it clear that he’s not going to stop him. The kid’s too scared, too lost, too tied up in the mess of his own thoughts to make a move like that.

“What the fuck are you doing, Adam?” 

He raises a hand, gesturing for Adam to come closer, his fingers curling in a beckoning motion. “Let’s go.”

For a moment, there’s no response. Adam just stands there, his gaze fixed on the ground, his hands trembling around the edges of the to-go box. Nigel can see the conflict in the kid’s posture, the way his body is caught between fight and flight. It’s pissing him off, just a little.

Nigel narrows his eyes, his hand still raised in that impatient gesture. He starts counting down the seconds in his mind, his gaze never leaving Adam’s form. He’s already thinking about what he’s going to say, how he’s going to get the kid moving, but before he can reach the end of his mental countdown, Adam finally lifts his head.

He takes a step forward, then another, his movements stiff and awkward. Nigel watches him, a humorless smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as Adam finally reaches him.

There’s a sense of relief that washes over him, though he’d never admit it—not to fucking Adam, not even to himself. 

“Good,” Nigel mutters under his breath, the words barely audible as he turns back toward the car. He doesn’t wait to see if Adam heard him, doesn’t need to. The kid’s following him now, and that’s all that matters.

Nigel pulls out his keys, the metal cool against his palm as he unlocks the car and slides into the driver’s seat. He glances at Adam as the kid climbs in beside him, the door closing with a soft click. Adam’s movements are still hesitant, still cautious.

Nigel can’t help but wonder why the kid’s still so fucking scared. He’s told Adam he’s going to help him, that he’s not going to hurt him, but it’s like the kid doesn’t believe him. Nigel’s fingers flex around the steering wheel as he inserts the key into the ignition. He tries to shake off the frustration, tries to remind himself that it takes time—people need time to warm up to him. He’s always been like that, a little rough around the edges, a little hard to get close to. But once people realize they need him, once they see what he can do for them, things change. They always do.

Nigel reaches for his pack of cigarettes, his fingers brushing against the worn cardboard as he pulls one out and sticks it between his lips. He can feel Adam’s eyes on him again. Nigel glances at him, watching as Adam shifts uncomfortably, his nose scrunching up in that way that makes Nigel think he’s going to say something, but the kid stays quiet. Nigel lights the cigarette, the flame from the lighter flickering briefly before he tosses it back into the cupholder.

He takes a deep drag, the smoke filling his lungs, the familiar burn settling in his throat as he exhales. The acrid scent mixes with the stale air of the car, creating a cloud that hangs around them. Nigel watches Adam out of the corner of his eye. It’s almost comical, the way Adam tries to hide it, tries to pretend like the smoke isn’t bothering him, but Nigel can see right fucking through it.

For a brief moment, the insane urge to flick the cigarette out the window and get rid of the smoke tugs at Nigel’s mind, but he quickly pushes it away. These are good fucking cigarettes, and he’s not about to waste one just because the kid’s got a sensitive nose. Shit’s getting expensive these days, and Nigel’s not in the business of throwing money down the drain. If the smoke bothers Adam that much, he can speak up, say something. It’s not Nigel’s problem if the kid wants to suffer in silence.

But there’s a lesson here, Nigel thinks—a lesson Adam needs to learn. He needs to learn to speak up, to tell someone to stop if something’s making him uncomfortable. The memory of Chris flashes through Nigel’s mind, a wave of anger washing over him, but he quickly shoves it down. Chris is dead. Nigel made sure of that.

“Something on your mind, Raki?” 

Adam’s fingers tighten around the to-go box, the cardboard creaking under the pressure. “I d-didn’t say anything.” 

Nigel exhales another cloud of smoke, this time aiming it slightly out the open window, though not enough to clear the air entirely. He doesn’t look at Adam as he does it, but he can feel the kid’s eyes on him.

The silence between them stretches on, only broken by the faint strains of music that trickle out of the car’s speakers. It’s an old song, one Nigel can’t quite place, the melody distorted by the crackling static. The sound of the wind rushing in through the window drowns out most of it, but it’s enough to fill the space between them, to keep the quiet from becoming too oppressive.

Nigel’s mind drifts as he drives, his thoughts a jumble of fragmented images and half-formed ideas. He’s aware of Adam fidgeting beside him, the kid’s nervous energy practically radiating off him in waves. It’s like sitting next to a live wire.

He’s used to being looked at, used to people judging him by the scars on his knuckles and the hardness in his eyes. But Adam’s gaze is different—softer, maybe, or more searching. It’s unsettling, to say the least, and Nigel finds himself wishing the kid would just look away, focus on something else, anything else.

But Adam doesn’t. He keeps staring, his eyes boring into Nigel’s side until, finally, he speaks again, his voice a little louder this time, more sure of itself.

“I’m actually twenty-one.”

“What?” 

Adam turns away, his gaze fixed on the window, the passing landscape a blur of muted colors reflected in the glass.

“Before,” Adam continues, his voice quieter now, “you said I was twenty. But I’m actually twenty-one.”

There’s a pause, a long, tense moment that stretches between them like a rubber band pulled too tight. Then, after a moment, Adam nods, like it took all of his confidence just to say those words. 

Nigel huffs out a laugh. “Same fucking thing,” he mutters. The kid’s got a habit of correcting him, something Nigel’s noticed. It’s not done out of defiance, not really. Nigel’s not sure if he finds it endearing or fucking annoying.

Maybe a little of both.

But this is good, Nigel thinks. It’s a start, a sign that there’s something inside Adam worth salvaging. The kid’s got confidence, buried deep down, but it’s there. Nigel just needs to dig it out, to bring it to the surface and shape it into something more. A spark that just needs a little fanning to turn into a flame.

Adam shifts again. Nigel doesn’t take the bait, doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just lets the silence settle between them. He can see the kid’s frustration building, the way Adam’s lips press into a thin line, the way his eyes narrow slightly.

“Twenty-one, then,” Nigel finally says. 

He sees Adam nod again, satisfied. 

Nigel feels the faintest hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his own mouth, barely there but enough to make Nigel feel like he’s won something. 

Minutes later, Nigel pulls the car to a slow stop in front of his house. The engine sputters, giving one last groan before he turns the key and kills it. He sits there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel.

The neighborhood is a goddamn ghost town. Cracked sidewalks snake their way through yards that are more dirt than grass, littered with weeds that have grown wild and stubborn, like they’re the only things that have the energy to survive out here. The few other houses on the block don’t look much better—paint peeling off in strips, windows either cracked or boarded up, driveways with cars that probably haven’t moved in years. 

Nigel’s eyes fix on his own front yard, a sorry sight that’s almost too painful to look at. Dead grass, and the remnants of cardboard boxes—some half-crushed, others bloated from rain—are scattered around like the aftermath of a war he’s too tired to clean up. He should’ve gotten rid of all this crap months ago, but the truth is, he just couldn’t muster the energy. 

“Home sweet fucking home,” Nigel mutters to himself, his voice laced with a bitterness he doesn’t even try to hide. He glances over at Adam, who’s sitting there in the passenger seat, his small body rigid, those big blue eyes taking in the disaster in front of him with something between shock and disgust.

He can’t blame Adam. Hell, he’d be fucking horrified too if he were in the kid’s shoes. 

For a split second, Nigel feels the urge to explain himself, to tell Adam that this isn’t how it’s always been, that once upon a time, he had a life that didn’t look like this. A better house, more money, more… everything. But the words stick in his throat. What’s the point? The kid doesn’t need to know. And Nigel isn’t in the mood to dig up old memories.

But the feeling gnaws at him, worming its way into his gut and settling there like a bad meal. It pisses him off, this sudden need to justify himself. He shouldn’t care what Adam thinks—shouldn’t give a fuck about anything, really—but there it is.

Nigel tears his eyes away from Adam and stares hard at the house instead, letting the old anger flare up again, because anger is easier. The house stares back, lifeless and dull, the white panels more yellowed and grimy than anything resembling white. The paint is chipping away, leaving behind patches of exposed wood that look like the skin of some diseased animal. The steps leading up to the front door are warped and splintered. 

A strange mix of emotions churns inside him—regret for what he’s let this place become, shame for bringing Adam here, anger at himself for caring at all. And there’s something else too, something that feels like longing, but for what, he can’t quite tell. Maybe for a time when things were different, when he was different, before he’d ended up in this shit hole of a life. But the feeling pisses him off more than anything. It makes him want to punch something.

Adam’s voice cuts through his spiraling thoughts, uncertain. “Where are we?”

Nigel blinks, shaking himself out of whatever the hell that was, and turns to look at Adam. The kid’s eyes are wide, too wide, a shade of blue that stands out even more against the dull, lifeless backdrop of this place.

And just like that, all the anger that was boiling inside Nigel dissipates, replaced by something he doesn’t want to name. It’s a warmth that makes him think of things he hasn’t thought about in years—soft things like bunnies, for Christ’s sake. What the fuck’s wrong with him? But the feeling is there, softening the edges of his thoughts, making it easier to breathe.

He forces a smile, though it feels awkward on his face, like he’s forgotten how to do it right. He grabs his keys. “Come on, let’s get inside.” 

Nigel pushes the car door open, the hinges squealing in protest, and steps out into the dry, dusty air. He circles around to the back of the car, yanking the door open with more force than necessary, and grabs the shotgun. The wood is smooth under his fingers, the metal cool to the touch.

He slams the door shut and walks back around to the driver’s side, bending down to look at Adam through the open window. The kid’s still sitting there, clutching that damn to-go box, eyes flicking nervously between Nigel and the shotgun. Nigel snaps his fingers twice, sharp and quick. 

“This way.”

Adam blinks, startled, but then he’s scrambling out of the car, closing the door much softer than Nigel did. The kid’s still holding onto the to-go box with one hand, while the other is clutching at Nigel’s jacket. Nigel slows his pace as they walk toward the house, letting Adam catch up, and then he places a broad, rough hand on the kid’s bony back, steering him toward the front door.

The lock is stubborn, just like everything else in this fucking place, and it takes a couple of tries and more than a few curses before it finally gives way. 

The house is a mess, no two ways about it. The walls are lined with old wood paneling, dark and scratched, the kind that sucks the light out of the room and makes everything feel smaller. The furniture is old, mismatched, and worn down. Beer cans are scattered everywhere, some upright, others knocked over, their contents long since dried up.

Adam steps into the room hesitantly, his body practically vibrating with tension. His eyes dart around, taking in the mess, the chaos, the signs of a life that’s been neglected just as much as the house. Nigel watches him, noting the way the kid fidgets, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, those blue eyes still wide and full of questions he’s too scared to ask.

“Is this your house?” Adam’s voice is timid.

“Yup,” Nigel replies, his voice rough, popping the ‘p’ with a click of his tongue.

Adam shuffles his feet, his gaze flitting over the mess. “It’s not very clean.” 

 “Well, I haven’t been in the best fucking mood lately,” he says, walking over to the dining table. 

The shotgun thumps down onto the table with a heavy sound. Nigel leans down to tug open a drawer in the shelf beside it, but his hand stills when his eyes land on something.

The rope.

It’s tied in a noose, sitting there on a stool in the corner of the room like it’s been waiting for him. Waiting to mock him. Waiting to remind him of how close he came to giving up. His throat tightens.

With a quick, angry motion, he shoves the rope under the table, out of sight, out of mind. He doesn’t need to think about that right now. Doesn’t need to let Adam see that part of him. He rattles through the drawer, pulling out his revolver and some bullets from an old ammo box. Loading the gun, he tucks it into the waistband of his boxers at his back, feeling the familiar weight settle against his spine. He doesn’t think he’ll need to use it, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. 

And if things get dicey, a little show of force never hurt anyone.

Nigel cracks his wrists, loosening the tension that’s been building in his body, and walks back over to Adam. The kid’s standing there in the middle of the room, looking lost and small, surrounded by a mess that’s way too big for him to understand. Nigel jabs a finger into the kid’s chest. 

“Don’t touch anything. I’ll be right back,” he says, his voice low and edged with a warning that he hopes the kid understands.

Adam’s eyes go even wider, and he nods quickly, too quickly. Nigel watches him for a moment, making sure the kid gets the message, before turning and heading down the hallway.

His room is just as much of a disaster as the rest of the house—clothes scattered everywhere, a few empty bottles rolling around on the floor, and the bed unmade, sheets twisted and tangled like he’s been wrestling with them in his sleep. He digs through the closet, shoving shirts and pants out of the way until he finds something that doesn’t smell like it’s been sitting there for a month. His fingers brush against the fabric of an old blue button-up, the one with the dachshunds printed on it.

He stares at the shirt for a long moment, his mind drifting back to a time when he wore it proudly, when he walked into rooms with his head held high. But now, it just feels like a bad omen, a reminder of everything he’s lost, of the man he used to be and the mess he’s become.

Whatever. The kid needs something to wear, and this is the best he’s got. Nigel tosses the shirt over his shoulder, not bothering to look at it again. He turns to leave the room, but freezes when he hears the phone ringing, loud and shrill in the silence.

The damn thing sits on a rickety little table, vibrating with every ring like it’s possessed, like it’s trying to shake itself apart. The sound is relentless, drilling into Nigel’s skull, setting his teeth on edge. He grits them so hard it feels like they might crack, his jaw clenched tight enough to make the muscles in his neck stand out like cords.

He told Adam not to touch anything. He’s not so sure Adam will listen. Nigel isn’t even sure he would listen if he were in Adam’s shoes.

He’s been trying to convince himself that things are going fine, that they’re settling in, that maybe this plan of his might actually work. They’ve only been together a day, but in that time, there’ve been no sirens, no curious pricks poking around where they don’t belong. Adam’s been quiet, keeping to himself, not causing any real trouble, and for a brief moment, Nigel let himself believe that they might be able to keep this up for a while longer. 

But all of that hinges on one thing—Adam doing as he’s told. And right now, with that phone screaming its insistent demand for attention, Nigel’s not sure if Adam’s going to hold up his end of the bargain. Because if Adam decides to pick up that phone, if he reaches out for help, it’ll be the end.

There’s a part of him that almost wants Adam to do it. To defy him. To pick up that phone and make the call that’ll bring the whole thing crashing down around them. Because if Adam’s got that spark of rebellion, that fire that Nigel’s always been drawn to, then maybe he’s worth the trouble. Maybe he’s not just another lost cause, another broken kid doomed to repeat the same shitty patterns over and over again until there’s nothing left but anger and regret.

But now isn’t the time for that. Nigel’s been around long enough to know that sometimes you’ve got to pick your battles, and this isn’t one of them. Adam needs to learn that. He needs to understand that there are times to push back and times to keep quiet, to bide your time and wait for the right moment. But if he fucks this up, if he makes that call, there won’t be any lessons left to teach. There won’t be anything left for Nigel to hold onto.

The fear is like a living thing inside him, writhing and twisting, turning his stomach into knots. It’s not just about losing control—it’s about losing everything. If this falls apart, if Adam goes down that path, he’ll end up like every other poor bastard Nigel’s seen: beaten down, broken, nothing more than a shell of what he could’ve been. And Nigel… Nigel will be left with nothing. No purpose.

And then, just like that, the phone stops ringing. He hears it, then—the soft click of the phone being picked up.

Fuck.

Nigel’s teeth grind together so hard he can feel the strain in his jaw, his nose twitching up in that familiar snarl that used to make Gabi go pale. The fear that’s been gnawing at his insides is swallowed up by a wave of anger, hot and blinding, that surges up from the pit of his stomach. His body moves before his mind catches up, feet pounding against the creaky floorboards as he storms down the hallway.

He rounds the corner, and there he is—Adam, the phone in his hand, his eyes wide and terrified. Nigel’s on him in an instant, closing the distance between them with a few quick strides. “What the fuck are you doing?” The words come out as a growl as he grabs Adam by the shoulders, his grip rough and unyielding. The kid doesn’t even have time to react before Nigel’s dragging him, his feet stumbling to keep up, the phone falling from his grasp and hitting the floor.

Nigel’s vision narrows, a tunnel of red-hot anger that drowns out everything else. He slams Adam against the wall, face-first, the impact rattling the thing. The sound of Adam’s breath hitching, sharp and pained, barely registers as Nigel pulls him back, only to slam him against the wall again, this time with his back hitting it.

Nigel’s hand shoots up to Adam’s neck, fingers wrapping around it like a vise, the heat of his skin burning into Nigel’s palm. He can feel the pulse there, frantic and erratic, beneath the skin, can feel the slight resistance as Adam tries to suck in a breath. His thumb presses into the soft hollow just beneath Adam’s jaw, the pressure making the kid’s eyes go wide, his lips trembling as he struggles to hold back whatever pitiful noises are trying to escape.

Nigel’s fingers press into the soft, warm flesh and it sends a jolt of something wicked straight to his core. He leans in, crowding Adam against the wall, his breath hot and heavy against the kid’s flushed cheek. “What the fuck did I say to you, huh?”

“What the fuck did I say to you?” He slams Adam’s head back against the wall and the sound of it, the way Adam gasps, the way his eyes go wide and his lips part in a soft, involuntary whimper—it sends a shiver through Nigel that he can’t suppress, no matter how much he tries. “I said don’t fucking touch anything. Do you think I’m fucking with you?”

Adam’s whole body trembles, his chest heaving as he struggles to breathe, pink creeping up his neck and across his cheeks. His eyes are squeezed shut, like he’s trying to block out the world, like he thinks if he doesn’t see it, it isn’t real. But Nigel’s right there, so close he can smell the faint trace of soap on Adam’s skin, can feel the warmth radiating off him in waves, can see the way his eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, wet with tears.

Nigel’s anger falters, confusion and something he can’t quite name creeping in around the edges of his vision. Adam’s body trembles under Nigel’s touch, his movements weak, almost submissive, and there’s something about the way Adam doesn’t fight back that makes Nigel’s heart pound harder. He’s not clawing at Nigel’s face, not trying to push him away; he’s just… there, accepting it, his breath hitching in shallow, desperate gasps.

His grip on Adam’s neck loosens, just a fraction, but it’s enough for Adam to suck in a ragged breath, his eyes fluttering open just enough for Nigel to see the fear in them shining bright against the tears that are finally starting to fall. Big, fat drops that slide down Adam’s cheeks, soaking into the collar of his shirt, dripping onto Nigel’s hand, warm and wet and real in a way that cuts through the haze of anger.

“I just—I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Adam’s voice is small, broken. He can barely get the words out, his breath hitching on every syllable, his chest heaving with the effort. “The noise—the noise, it was so l-loud, I just wanted it to s-stop.”

That hits Nigel like a punch to the gut, the anger in his chest simmering down to a low, dull ache that leaves him feeling hollow and tired. He loosens his grip on Adam’s neck, fingers still curled but no longer squeezing. He watches as Adam sags against the wall, the tension draining out of him all at once, his knees buckling slightly as he struggles to catch his breath.

Nigel doesn’t know what to say. The words that usually come so easily are nowhere to be found. He’s never been good with this kind of thing, with comfort, with making people feel better. That was always Gabi’s thing. She knew how to talk to people, how to say the right things, how to make the world a little less scary. But Nigel… Nigel’s never been that guy. He’s the one who breaks things, who hurts people.

So he does the only thing he can think of. He bends down, grabbing the shirt he’d dropped on the floor, and shoves it into Adam’s trembling hands.

“Go get changed,” Nigel says, his voice rough. He nods toward the bathroom down the hall, the only place in this shitty house that offers even a semblance of privacy. It’s a small, cramped space with cracked tiles and a leaky faucet, but it’s the best they’ve got.

Adam doesn’t say anything. He just nods, his movements jerky and stiff. He clutches the shirt to his chest and stumbles away, his footsteps fast and uneven as he makes his way down the hallway. The further he gets from Nigel, the faster he moves, like he’s desperate to put as much distance between them as possible.

Nigel watches him go, his gaze fixed on Adam’s retreating figure until he disappears into the bathroom, the door closing behind him with a soft click. The sound echoes in the silence, leaving Nigel standing there, alone, in the middle of the room that suddenly feels too big, too empty, too quiet.

For a moment, the hallway feels like looking down the barrel of a shotgun.

Nigel’s breath catches in his throat as the phone rings again, that sharp, insistent sound tearing through the heavy, oppressive silence of the room. He grits his teeth.

“Fuck.” 

When he finally reaches the phone, he bends down, snatching it up from the floor. He knows exactly who it is. He brings the phone up to his ear, his grip so tight that his tendons stand out starkly against his skin. 

“Nigel,” he barks into the phone. 

There’s a moment of silence on the other end, and then he hears it—the deep, familiar sound of laughter. It’s a sound that sends a fresh wave of irritation surging through him. He can picture the smirk on the other man’s face, the smug, self-satisfied expression that always accompanies that laugh, and it makes him want to put his fist through the nearest wall.

“What the fuck do you want, Darko?” Nigel snaps. He leans back against the wall, trying to steady himself, but the rough surface does little to soothe the fire raging inside him. His free hand comes up to scrub at his face.

Darko’s laughter finally subsides, tapering off into a sigh that sounds almost exasperated, like Nigel’s the one being fucking unreasonable. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve got another Gabi on your hands,” Darko says, his voice smooth and deep, carrying that infuriating tone of someone who knows exactly how to push all the right buttons. “What the hell was all that?”

Nigel grinds his teeth. He pushes away from the wall, his body in constant motion, unable to stay still, like a caged animal pacing back and forth. 

“It was fucking nothing,” he spits out.

“You sure about that? Doesn’t sound like ‘nothing’ to me.”

Nigel hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, his mind racing, weighing the options, the risks. Should he tell Darko? Would it even make a difference? His hand comes up to his mouth, his fingers brushing over his lips as he chews on the inside of his cheek. Fuck it. 

“I think I might need another move arranged soon,” he finally mutters.

There’s a pause on the other end, just long enough for Nigel to regret saying anything at all, and then Darko’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and demanding. “What the hell did you do this time, Nigel?”

Nigel’s lips pull back in a snarl, his teeth bared, but there’s no one here to see it, no one here to take the brunt of his anger except for the walls and the floor and the empty space around him. The red flashes in his mind again, vivid and violent, blood splatter against white walls, the emptiness that comes after. 

“Nothing,” he grunts. “I’m just losing my goddamn mind here.”

“Not my problem. You know exactly why you can’t go into the city, my friend.”

“Yeah,” he bites out. He drops himself into one of the chairs at the dining table, the wood creaking under his weight, the sound eerily similar to the way his bones feel right now. 

“You gonna tell me why you were calling?” he asks.

Darko’s voice shifts, the tone lightening. “Just making sure you haven’t blown your brains out yet, Nigel. You’ve been quiet the past few months.”

Nigel swallows hard, his throat dry. His gaze drifts to the window. “I’ve just been fucking busy.” 

Darko’s laughter comes again, that same mocking tone that makes Nigel’s skin crawl. “Busy with whoever you were fucking yelling at?”

For a moment, Nigel doesn’t respond. But he knows Darko won’t let it go, knows the other man will push and push until Nigel breaks, until he spills everything.

 “I got a new dog, is all,” he finally says, the lie slipping out as easily as breathing. “Made me drop the fucking phone when I answered.”

Nigel can almost hear Darko’s mind working, analyzing, dissecting every word, every inflection. “You shouldn’t yell at dogs when you want to train them, Nigel,” Darko says after a moment, his voice low and serious, like he’s imparting some great wisdom. “You know that. There’s a way to make them submit, a way to reward good behavior.”

Nigel swallows. 

“Training a dog isn’t about dominance,” Darko continues. “It’s about understanding their behavior and communicating clearly. You want them to trust you. To see you as the leader, but not through fear.”

Darko’s voice, though steady, feels distant, like it’s coming from somewhere far away. “Use positive reinforcement,” Darko instructs. “Reward them when they do something right. A treat, a pat on the head, a bit of praise—simple things, you know.”

Nigel listens, the words washing over him, but they barely register. His head’s pounding, a dull, persistent ache that starts behind his eyes and radiates outwards, throbbing in time with his pulse. Darko keeps talking, laying it out like some kind of gospel, the steps to take, the methods to use, but Nigel’s barely holding on, the edges of his vision going blurry, the room around him tilting, spinning. 

And then Darko pauses.

“But we’re not talking about a dog, are we, Nigel?”

He opens his mouth to deny it, to say something, anything to deflect, to steer the conversation away from where it’s heading, but the words die in his throat. 

“No.” 

Darko hums again. “Careful, my friend. You know love makes you crazy.”

Nigel’s stomach twists.

 “Bye, Darko.” 

He stays there for a moment, hunched over the table, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, each one a struggle, like he can’t quite get enough air. His elbows rest on his knees, his head in his hands, fingers clutching at his hair, tugging hard. 

His eyes drift to the window, to the bleak, colorless world outside. Nigel’s mind flashes with nicer shades of blue. Cobalt, cornflower.

Fuck, it must’ve hurt. But it wasn’t his fault. No, it wasn’t. Sometimes you have to take control, and that wasn’t one of those fucking times. Adam was disobeying him. What was Nigel supposed to do? He’s the teacher. You listen to your fucking teacher, right?

He pushes himself up from the chair, the movement sudden, abrupt. He clenches his fists. A muffled banging sound comes from the bathroom. His head snaps up, scanning the room. 

He moves towards the noise, each step slow, cautious. But as he gets closer, everything goes silent, the noise cut off abruptly, like someone hit a switch. Nigel stops, just outside the bathroom door, his hand hovering over the handle.

He clears his throat as he knocks on the door, the sound too loud in the quiet.

“You alright, Adam?” 

There’s no response. Nigel’s jaw tightens, his patience fraying. “Don’t fucking ignore me.” 

Sniffling. Sharp little sobs, muffled but unmistakable.

“Adam, if you don’t open this door, you know full well I can do it myself.” Nigel’s voice is rough, a low growl that’s more a threat than a promise, but there’s an edge of desperation there too, something raw that slips out before he can stop it.

He waits, the seconds dragging out. Every muscle in his body is coiled tight, ready to burst through the door if he has to, to rip it off its hinges if that’s what it takes. But then, finally, the door swings open, and Adam stands there.

Nigel’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of him, the boy’s blue eyes blazing with anger, cheeks flushed a deep, angry red, curls a wild, tangled mess around his head. There’s something in those eyes, something fierce, something that could drown Nigel if he lets it, something that could pull him under and never let him up for air. 

He opens his mouth, trying to force something out, anything, but before he can, Adam’s hands are on him, shoving at his chest with all the force the boy can muster.

Nigel lets himself be pushed, the force of it making him stumble back a step, his eyes wide with something close to awe as he watches Adam, usually so quiet, so careful, lash out at him. There’s a sense of pride swelling in Nigel’s chest, even as Adam’s hands keep shoving at him, even as one of them lands a stinging slap across his face.

“Hey, hey,” Nigel grabs Adam’s wrists. “Fucking stop.”

Adam yanks his wrists free with a sharp, jerky motion, backing up, his blue eyes wide and wild, tears welling up. “No! You don’t know what it’s like...what it feels like when you—” 

Nigel watches, frozen, as Adam backs away further until he’s crumpling to the floor, curling in on himself, his hands clutching at his hair, pulling, like he’s trying to rip it out by the roots.

Nigel drags in a breath, long and deep. The bathroom door swings shut behind him with a dull thud. He barely notices the peeling wallpaper, the mildew creeping up the corners of the walls, or the cracked tiles underfoot.

Adam’s a fucking mess, shaking and sobbing into his arms, his thin frame trembling with every hitched breath. Nigel lowers himself down beside the kid, dropping to the floor, crossing his legs.

Nigel’s not great at this shit—never has been. Comforting people, offering a shoulder to cry on—it’s all foreign to him, like trying to read a book in a language he doesn’t speak. If anything, he’s the one who usually makes people cry, who pushes them to their breaking point, then leaves them to pick up the pieces. It’s not like he’s ever cared before, either. People cry, people hurt, that’s just the way the world works. You suck it up, you deal with it, and you move on. 

But this time, it’s different.

This kid, with his tear-streaked face and those big, watery blue eyes—he’s important to Nigel. There’s something about Adam. Adam’s the one who kept Nigel from putting a bullet in his brain.

And now, here Adam is, breaking down on the bathroom floor, and Nigel’s supposed to help him. He’s supposed to be the one to make it right, to fix whatever’s broken. But how the fuck is he supposed to do that? Nigel’s hands fist in his lap, his jaw clenching as he watches Adam sob into his arms, his face hidden from view. 

It’s like asking a wolf to mend the sheep it just tore apart.

The bathroom is too quiet, save for the sound of Adam’s muffled crying. He fumbles for words, his mind racing to find anything that might help. His fingers play with the frayed edge of the bathroom mat, pulling at the loose threads like they might unravel the answer he’s looking for. The kid’s got his own demons, and Nigel knows he’s one of them.

“I can’t fucking fix it if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” Nigel finally mutters. He doesn’t look at Adam when he says it, doesn’t dare. “And I want to. Fix it, I mean.”

He chances a glance at Adam then, hoping to catch a glimpse of those big blue eyes, but the kid’s still hiding, face buried in his arms like he’s trying to block out the whole world. It frustrates Nigel, makes him feel useless, like he’s trying to put out a fire with his bare hands. The kid’s got so much potential, so much fucking light in him, and all Nigel wants is to make sure it doesn’t get snuffed out. Doesn’t he get it? 

Adam’s voice breaks through the silence, shaky and barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what you want from me, Nigel.”

Nigel’s frown deepens. How can the kid not see it? How can he not understand how much Nigel wants to help him, how much he believes in him? It pisses him off.

Adam keeps talking, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I c-can’t stay here. With you. I-I can’t. I need my things at h-home and my routine. I already missed breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It smells in here and it’s disgusting, you don’t know how to clean. Everything smells like cigarettes and I hate it. I just want to go h-home.”

The kid’s hands move to his hair, tugging at the brown locks in a way that makes Nigel wince. It makes him feel something twisted, something that tightens his chest and makes his skin prickle. He watches as Adam pulls at his hair, the sight sending a surge through him that he can’t quite explain. 

He can’t just sit here and watch the kid hurt himself like this, but fuck if he doesn’t want to see just how far Adam will go.

“The lights are too bright, the air is too thick, and I can’t breathe right. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be a-around you.” Adam starts rocking slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper, almost pleading. “Please, let me go home. I-I’ll do anything.”

Adam’s voice cracks on the last word, and Nigel feels like a monster.

Still, Nigel slides closer. He reaches out, his hand finding Adam’s wrists and wrapping around them both, holding them tight in his grip. Adam’s wrists are small, so fragile in his hands, and Nigel’s breath catches at the thought of just how easily he could hold the kid down, keep him from doing anything stupid.

“Don’t fucking do that,” Nigel growls, his voice rougher now, the frustration bleeding through. “You’re hurting yourself.”

Adam’s face finally lifts. Nigel’s breath catches in his throat, his heart skipping a beat. The kid’s face is a mess of tears and pink cheeks, his lips swollen and trembling. But it’s those eyes—those goddamn eyes that get to him. Blue like the ocean, deep and endless, full of so much pain and confusion. He swallows hard.

Adam’s gorgeous, Nigel realizes, and the thought hits him like a punch to the gut. Pretty in a way that makes something deep inside Nigel twist with want, with a hunger he didn’t know he had. The kid’s features, his messy curls, the way his body shakes with each sob—it’s all too much, and Nigel feels that ugly thing inside him growing, spreading through his veins like wildfire. 

He’s got this soft, almost delicate look about him, like a fucking cherub that’s fallen from grace. But Nigel can’t—won’t—let himself think about that. He shoves those thoughts down, buries them deep where they can’t cause any more trouble.

“Adam,” Nigel starts, his voice softer now, a little steadier, even though his insides are a tangled mess. “I realize now that I may have been giving you mixed signals.”

Adam’s still tense, his body stiff and unyielding. There’s guilt there, buried deep, gnawing at the edges of Nigel’s consciousness, but it’s tangled up with so many other feelings that he can’t make sense of it all.

“Maybe.. when I encouraged you to make your own choices, it might have felt like a prompt for action,” Nigel continues. He shakes his head, his eyes tracing the messy curls that fall over Adam’s forehead. The kid’s changed into Nigel’s shirt. It hangs off him like a fucking blanket, the fabric swallowing him up, making him look even smaller than he is. 

Nigel’s eyes catch on the exposed collarbones, the pale skin stark against the fabric, and he forces himself to look away, focusing on the words he needs to say.

“And maybe it was,” Nigel admits, trying to smile, trying to soften the edges of the truth he’s laying down. It’s a struggle, every word feeling like it’s being dragged out of him, but he pushes on. “Maybe that’s my fault.”

Adam’s gaze flickers, jumping from Nigel’s forehead to his eyes, then down again. There’s a storm of emotions swirling in those blue depths—anger, confusion, hurt. Curiosity. It’s small, barely there, but Nigel sees it.

“But there’s certain decisions,” Nigel murmurs, leaning in a little closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. He’s trying to be gentle. “Certain decisions that are bad decisions. Stupid decisions. And they put me in a tough spot. They trap me.” He’s watching Adam closely now, watching how those blue eyes widen just a fraction, how the kid’s breath hitches. Nigel wants to make sure Adam understands, really understands what he’s saying. 

“Because I end up in a position where I have to hurt you, doll. When all I really want to do,” Nigel says, his voice so soft it’s barely a whisper, “is help you.” 

Nigel reaches out with his free hand, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from Adam’s cheek. The skin under his touch is warm, soft, and it sends a jolt through Nigel, something hot and electric that he doesn’t know how to deal with. It scares him, just a little.

Adam goes still under Nigel’s touch, his hands curling into fists where Nigel holds them. Nigel can see the conflict in those blue eyes, the way the kid’s fighting against the tide of emotions threatening to pull him under. But Nigel’s not going to let him drown. Not yet.

He takes his hand away, his fingers trailing down the side of Adam’s face before dropping back to his lap. He watches as Adam’s eyes flicker with something Nigel can’t quite read.

“You believe me, don’t you?” Nigel asks, leaning in just a little, trying to catch Adam’s gaze.

Adam hesitates, the fury in his eyes dimming, replaced by something softer, something more vulnerable. He nods, just a little, but it’s enough for Nigel. It’s enough to make that tightness in his chest ease, just a fraction.

Nigel lets out a shaky laugh. “Because I really fucking do,” he says, his voice raw, the words coming out more honest than he intended. 

He loosens his grip on Adam’s wrists, gently guiding the kid’s hands onto his lap. He watches Adam carefully, sees the way the kid’s breathing starts to even out, the way the tension begins to seep out of his body.

“Let’s just forget about everything that happened, alright?” Nigel says, trying to put on a smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes but is still genuine, still real. Adam’s eyes widen at the offer, the kid tensing up like he’s waiting for the catch, but then he relaxes and nods again. It’s hesitant, uncertain, but it’s a start.

“And if I’m gonna help you,” Nigel whispers, “like really help you... then I can’t have you getting in my way.” He stills, his gaze darkening just a fraction, enough to let the kid know he means business. “I need you to work with me, not against me. Okay?”

Adam takes a shaky breath, his voice small but firm when he finally speaks. “Okay.”

Nigel’s face breaks into a grin, the smile stretching wide across his face, showing all his teeth. 

“Good,” Nigel says, his voice softer now as he watches the last of the tension drain out of Adam’s small frame. “That’s really fucking good.”

Pushing himself up from the floor, he feels every muscle stretch and protest, a series of cracks and pops that reverberate through his body. His neck rolls, vertebrae shifting with a series of satisfying pops as he straightens up, looking down at Adam, who’s still curled up on the floor.

For a moment, Nigel just stands there. The urge to touch Adam again is strong, almost overpowering. He’s just offering a hand, nothing more. But when he extends it, he can feel his own heartbeat in his fingertips, a thrumming pulse that seems to sync with the shallow breaths Adam’s taking. The kid’s staring at his hand like it’s some kind of wild animal, something unpredictable and dangerous, and Nigel can see the hesitation in those wide blue eyes, the way they dart between his hand and his face, trying to gauge his intentions.

It’s a look Nigel’s seen before, in animals, mostly. That mix of fear and curiosity, the kind that comes just before they decide whether to run or stay. He can see Adam’s mind working, the gears turning behind those eyes, trying to make sense of what the hell’s going on. The silence stretches between them, thick and heavy, until finally, Adam’s fingers twitch, lifting to hover in the air.

When Adam’s hand finally settles in Nigel’s palm, it’s like a shock of electricity, a jolt that runs up his arm and settles in his chest. The grip is weak at first, barely there, just the ghost of a touch, but as Nigel wraps his fingers around Adam’s, he can feel the grip tighten, almost desperately, like Adam’s holding on for dear life. It’s a strange sensation, the way their hands fit together, the softness of Adam’s skin against the rough calluses of Nigel’s palm. He pulls Adam up with a steady tug, not hard, just enough to get the kid on his feet, but even that’s too much for someone as light as Adam. The kid stumbles, his body lurching forward, and before Nigel can react, Adam crashes into his chest.

Nigel feels the breath hitch in Adam’s throat, a sharp intake of air that presses against his chest where Adam’s head has ended up. Adam’s small frame is practically molded against him, and Nigel’s hyper-aware of every point of contact—the way Adam’s chest presses against his ribs, the soft puff of breath against his collarbone, the tremble that runs through the kid’s body and into his own. 

A rough laugh escapes Nigel’s throat, more of a grunt than anything else, as he mutters, “Easy,” the word coming out in a low, gravelly tone. He’s not sure who he’s telling to take it easy—Adam, or himself—but he forces his hands to drop away from Adam’s shoulders, letting the kid stumble back a step, putting some space between them.

Adam’s still looking at him, eyes wide, his breath coming in shaky bursts, and Nigel can see the tension in the kid’s frame, like he’s expecting something else, something worse. He wants to reach out again, to feel that warmth, that softness, but he swallows the urge down, letting it simmer in the pit of his stomach where it fucking belongs.

Instead, Nigel turns on his heel, heading for the door. The bathroom door creaks as he pushes it open, the hinges protesting under the sudden movement, and he steps into the main area of the house. 

As he walks in, his eyes immediately land on the cinnamon bun that’s lying face down on the carpet, and a low curse slips out before he can stop it. “Goddamnit,” he mutters, the word rolling off his tongue in a mix of frustration and resignation. He bends down to pick it up. When he flips the bun over, the sight of the icing smeared with dust and tiny hairs from the floor makes him grimace. 

With a sigh, Nigel nudges the ruined pastry back into the to-go box, closing the lid. He tosses the box onto the dining table with a little more force than necessary, the plastic container sliding across the surface before coming to a stop near the edge.

Nigel fidgets, a nervous energy thrumming under his skin that he can’t seem to shake. When he turns to face Adam, the kid’s standing there with a curious expression on his face, those blue eyes wide and searching. It’s like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on inside Nigel’s head. 

“What’d you mean,” Nigel grunts, “when you said you need your fucking routine?”

Adam shifts on his feet, those blue eyes darting around the room. Nigel can see the way his mind works, the way his gaze lingers on certain spots, taking in the mess, the dust, the way everything seems out of place. There’s a part of Nigel that wants to snap at him, to tell him to stop looking, to stop judging, but he bites it back, waiting for Adam’s answer.

Nigel turns and yanks out a chair from the dining table, the wooden legs scraping against the floor with a screech that sets his teeth on edge. He pulls another chair out, placing it directly in front of the first one, and drops into his seat with a heavy thud, the wood groaning under his weight. He pats the seat of the chair across from him, his palm slapping against the worn surface in a way that feels final.

“Sit.”

Adam freezes, his body going stiff for a moment before he moves. He crosses the room in a few hesitant steps, lowering himself into the chair like it might break under him, his hands fidgeting the whole time. Nigel notices the way those thin fingers tap out a rhythm on Adam’s knees, a pattern that’s almost soothing in its consistency.

Nigel’s eyes zero in on those fingers, watching the way they move, the precise, practiced motion that suggests this isn’t a new habit. It’s something ingrained, something Adam does without even thinking, and Nigel wonders what kind of music would come out of those fingers if they had a piano to play. He doesn’t know shit about playing, doesn’t know the first thing about music theory or notes, but he can picture it in his head—Adam’s fingers dancing across the keys, playing something fast, something that matches the energy buzzing under his skin.

“Why do you do that?” Nigel asks, his voice coming out softer than he intends, the rough edge dulled by curiosity.

Adam’s head snaps up. “Do what?” 

Nigel gestures with a tilt of his chin, his gaze still on Adam’s hands. “You’re always fucking fidgeting.”

There’s a moment of silence as Adam takes a breath. 

“It makes me more comfortable.” Adam shrugs, his fingers stilling for a moment before resuming their restless movement. "It’s just… something my body needs to do. When I do it, it’s like the noise in my head quiets down. I can think clearer. Focus. It’s not really something I choose to do, it’s more like… something I have to do.”

Nigel watches him, trying to understand. “So, it’s like when I take a drag of a fucking cigarette to take the edge off?”

“Kind of,” Adam replies. “But this is better. There are no side effects, and I don’t n-need a lighter.”

Nigel hums, a low sound of acknowledgment as he takes that in. He can see it now, the way Adam’s movements have a purpose. It’s almost admirable, in a way, the way the kid’s found something that works for him, something that keeps him steady even when everything else is falling apart.

But then Nigel frowns, the weight of the situation pressing down on him again, and he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees as he fixes Adam with a piercing stare. 

“You’re anxious now? Scared of me?”

Adam’s reaction is almost instant, his brows pulling together in a look of confusion, like Nigel’s just asked the dumbest fucking question in the world. And maybe he has, because the kid’s answer is as straightforward as it gets.

“You… you kidnapped me,” Adam says.

Nigel waves a hand, dismissing the accusation like it’s nothing, even though the word ‘kidnapped’ hangs in the air between them like a loaded gun. 

“I wouldn’t fucking call it that,” he mutters.

Adam falls silent, his eyes dropping to Nigel’s shoulder, his gaze distant. Then, in a voice so quiet it’s almost a whisper, Adam asks the question that Nigel’s been dreading.

“When… when can I go home, then?”

Nigel realizes he doesn’t know the answer. .

“I said I was going to help you,” he says, the words coming out slower than he intends. “I need fucking time for that.”

Adam makes a small, distressed noise, and the sound grates against Nigel’s nerves. He clicks his tongue, a sharp sound meant to get Adam’s attention, and leans forward, his voice taking on a harder edge.

“Hey, hey, none of that,” Nigel snaps, his tone more forceful than before. “What did I fucking tell you?”

Adam takes a deep, shaky breath, his hands clenching into fists on his lap as he forces out the words. “Work with you… not against you.”

Nigel nods, pleased with the response. “Exactly. So just fucking tell me what would make you more… comfortable here.”

Adam shrugs, a small, almost helpless gesture that makes Nigel’s chest tighten again.

He narrows his eyes, studying dam’s face for any sign of what’s going on in that head of his. “You haven’t fucking eaten anything, right?” he asks, the question coming out more like a statement. “You said you missed dinner and shit.”

Adam nods. 

“What’d you like?” Nigel asks. “I’ll get you whatever you want, on me.”

The look Adam gives him is strange, like Nigel’s suddenly grown a second head. Those blue eyes are studying him, trying to figure him out, and it makes Nigel’s skin prickle under the scrutiny. But he doesn’t look away, watching the gears turn in the kid’s head as he tries to decide what to ask for.

Finally, Adam murmurs, “Macaroni and cheese.”

Nigel raises an eyebrow. “That’s it?”

Adam swallows, his hands twitching again, fingers tapping out that familiar rhythm. “And bran cereal. Two percent milk.”

Nigel shakes his head, a small, amused smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Is that all you fucking eat? No wonder you’re so fucking skinny.”

Adam’s face flushes a pretty shade of pink, and Nigel has to force himself to look away before he does something fucking stupid. The blush makes Adam look even more vulnerable.

“No, I also eat chicken and broccoli,” Adam mumbles.

Nigel can’t help but chuckle at that. He stands up, the chair scraping against the floor as he pushes it back, and pulls his keys out of his pocket, the metal jingling softly in the quiet room.

“Alright, gorgeous,” he says. “Stay here.”

Adam’s eyes follow him as he moves, watching every step, every movement. There’s a nervous energy in the air. 

Just as he’s about to leave, Adam’s voice stops him, small and uncertain. “Where are you going?”

Nigel pauses, his hand on the doorknob, and turns to look at Adam. There’s fear in those blue eyes. 

“Don’t get fucking worked up,” Nigel says, his tone more reassuring than he feels. “The store’s around the corner.”

He opens the door, the air from outside rushing in, and takes a step out before he stops, looking back at Adam one last time. There’s a warning in his gaze, something dark and dangerous that he knows Adam will understand.

“And don’t try to fucking run,” Nigel adds, his voice dropping to a low, threatening rumble. “Because I’ll know.”

Nigel gives a quick wink. The door creaks on its hinges as he pulls it shut. He stands there for a second, his hand still gripping the doorknob, and a flicker of something—curiosity, maybe—sparks in his chest. He’s left Adam alone in there, vulnerable and scared, but somehow, that doesn’t sit wrong with him. It’s not like he expects the kid to run. The boy’s too shell-shocked, too goddamn lost in his own head to even think straight, much less make a break for it. But still, the thought niggles at him, making his fingers tighten on the cool metal of the doorknob.

He wonders if Adam will use the phone again. Will he dial 911? Nigel’s not stupid; he knows he’s a scary fucker, and not just because of the shit he’s done. There’s something in his eyes. And Adam he’s seen that look up close, felt the sharp edge of it. But there’s something else too, something that Nigel wants the kid to understand. It’s not just about fear or power; it’s about connection.

 A sudden memory flashes in his mind—he left the shotgun on the table, right in plain sight. He doubts the kid’s got it in him to use it. Adam’s more likely to piss his pants than pull the trigger, but if he did—if he actually had the balls to do it—Nigel thinks he’d be proud. 

With a rough exhale, he strides towards his car. He yanks open the car door, sliding into the driver’s seat with a grunt. He can’t judge the kid’s diet too harshly, not when his own consists of fast food and whatever’s cheap and easy.

Nigel’s not one for self-reflection, but he knows this isn’t just about keeping the kid from losing his shit. There’s something else, something that feels wrong in his chest, like a bruise that’s tender to the touch. 

He focuses on the road, trying to clear his mind as he drives. The store isn’t far, just a few blocks away, and he’s glad for the short drive. The last thing he wants is more time alone with his thoughts. He pulls into the parking lot, killing the engine and stepping out of the car. 

The bell above the door jingles as he pushes it open, the sound sharp in the quiet store. He grabs a basket from the stack by the door, his mind already on the task at hand. 

He finds the macaroni and cheese in the middle aisle, a whole row of different brands and flavors staring back at him. He settles on a box of Annie's mac and cheese. It’s not gourmet, but it’ll do. He tosses it into the basket, his eyes already scanning the shelves for the next item.

The cereal aisle is a pain in the ass. He hates how many options there are, hates the bright colors and the stupid fucking mascots grinning at him from the boxes. He stands there for what feels like an eternity, trying to decide between different brands, muttering curses under his breath. Eventually, he just grabs the one that looks the least fucking obnoxious and shoves it into the basket.

Milk’s easy enough after that. He heads to the counter, dropping everything onto it with a dull thud. As he digs around in his back pocket for his wallet, something catches his eye—a strip of little space stickers hanging by the register. He stares at them for a second, his mind blank, before reaching out and grabbing them. He doesn’t know why, doesn’t even think about it, just adds them to the pile.

The drive back is a blur and by the time he pulls up outside his house, his nerves are shot. He sits there for a moment, gripping the steering wheel so hard his fingers ache. 

Nigel stuffs the star stickers in his front pocket. He grabs the bag of groceries, pushes the car door open, and trudges up the steps to his front door. 

Adam’s still sitting exactly where he left him, curled up on the seat. Nigel freezes in the doorway, his eyes locked on the boy. “I didn’t mean you had to stay exactly fucking there.”

Adam blinks, his wide eyes blinking up at Nigel, looking startled and a little confused.

“Oh.” 

Nigel forces a smile, though it feels more like a grimace, his lips pulling back to reveal teeth. It’s crooked, sharp. He jerks his head toward the kitchen, the motion abrupt. “Follow me.”

Adam scrambles to his feet, his movements quick and jerky, like he’s afraid of what might happen if he doesn’t obey fast enough. He trails behind Nigel, his footsteps barely making a sound on the worn wooden floor. 

In the kitchen, he drops the bag on the counter with a dull thud, the sound breaking the tense silence between them. He starts pulling out the items, one by one, holding each up for Adam to see, as if seeking some kind of approval. The box of macaroni and cheese, the cereal, the milk—each one is presented like an offering, his eyes flicking to Adam’s face, searching for a reaction.

Adam’s shoulders relax just a fraction, and for a brief moment, there’s a flicker of a smile on his lips. It’s small, barely there, but Nigel catches it, and it sends a pang through him, sharp and painful. It’s the same kind of smile the kid gave him that morning, hesitant and fragile. Nigel’s chest tightens, and he has to look away.

He clears his throat, the sound rough and awkward in the quiet kitchen. “You’re gonna fucking eat, alright?” 

He reaches for a pot, filling it with water from the tap before slamming it onto the stove. The clang of metal on metal echoes through the room, and he cranks up the heat, waiting for the water to boil. Nigel finds himself tapping his fingers on the counter, the rhythm uneven and impatient.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “You grow up here?”

Adam shakes his head, his eyes fixed on the pot of water as if it holds all the answers in the world. “I lived in New York, before.” 

Nigel lets out a low whistle. “New fucking York, huh? Why’d you move?”

There’s a pause, a hesitation, and Nigel glances over to see Adam biting his lip, as if debating whether or not to answer. Finally, he speaks, his voice even softer than before. “M-my dad, he got injured, and we couldn’t afford it anymore.”

Nigel nods slowly, processing the information as he tosses the noodles into the boiling water. The pasta hits the water with a soft splash, and he watches it swirl around, the motion hypnotic. “That’s rough.” 

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of the water bubbling on the stove, and then Adam takes a small, shaky breath, his voice trembling with uncertainty. “I like it better here, sometimes. There’s less noise.”

Nigel snorts, a rough laugh escaping his lips before he can stop it. “Doesn’t fucking drive you crazy?”

Adam shakes his head, his gaze still fixed on the pot of water. 

There’s a moment of silence, and then Adam shifts on his feet, his eyes flicking up to meet Nigel’s for just a second before darting away. “Where are you from? You’re not American.”

Nigel raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That obvious?”

Adam nods, his gaze steady now, the nervousness fading just a bit. “You have exotic features and an accent. And the way you phrase things— like you’re translating thoughts into words.”

The smile fades from Nigel’s face. 

“Bucharest,” he says flatly.

“Romania?” Adam asks, curiosity evident in his voice. But Nigel’s not in the mood to indulge him. He cuts the conversation short with a curt nod.

“Go sit at the table,” he snaps, the command leaving no room for argument. “I’ll be out there in a second.”

Adam hesitates, his mouth opening as if he wants to say something more, but he thinks better of it and nods, his footsteps soft as he retreats to the other room. Nigel watches him go, the tightness in his chest growing with each step the boy takes away from him. Talking about Romania is the last thing he wants to do.

Once Adam is out of sight, Nigel lets out a long, shaky breath. 

He grabs a couple of mismatched bowls from the cabinet, the faded white ceramic chipped. He sets them down on the counter with a bit more force than necessary. The macaroni and cheese sits in the cheap, scratched-up pot on the stove, steam rising from the neon sludge. 

He picks up the pot, the handle warm in his hand, and carefully pours the macaroni into each bowl, trying not to spill any. The pasta slops into the bowls, the thick cheese sauce clinging to the noodles in a way that looks almost unnatural. He scoops out the last of it, scraping the pot with the spoon, making sure to get every bit. Waste not, want not, his old man used to say, though he’d usually follow it up with something about how much of a waste Nigel fucking was. 

Nigel shakes the thought off, dropping the pot back onto the stove with a clang.

He rubs a hand over his stubbled chin, feeling the scratchy bristle under his fingers as he stares down at the bowls. He turns to the cutlery drawer, pulling it open with a creak. Inside is a mess of forks, knives, and spoons, all jumbled together in a chaotic tangle. Nigel hovers over the drawer, his fingers twitching as he tries to decide what the kid would like. Fork or spoon? Hell, maybe a knife, just to see if the Adam’s got any fight in him. He snorts at the thought, finally grabbing a fork and a spoon. The metal is cold and heavy in his hand, the weight of the decision somehow feeling like more than it should.

Nigel glances around the corner at the table, where Adam is sitting like a ghost, almost blending into the shadows of the room. He notices that the chairs are righted, even as can be. Nigel walks over and drops the fork and spoon next to the bowl in front of Adam with a clatter.

“Bon appétit,” Nigel says. He slides into the chair across from Adam.

Adam just sits there, staring down at the macaroni and cheese. His blue eyes—too big for his face, too damn blue for this world—are fixed on the bowl, unblinking. The kid doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even acknowledge Nigel’s attempt at humor. Instead, he just reaches out, his hand trembling slightly as he picks up the fork. The metal scrapes against the bowl as he pokes at the pasta. 

Adam finally takes a bite, the fork disappearing into his mouth. He chews mechanically, his jaw working up and down. 

Adam glances up, his eyes darting from Nigel’s face to the bowl, and back again. “Are you going to eat?” he asks.

Nigel blinks, startled out of his daze. “Yeah.” He’s not hungry, not really, but he figures he should probably eat something. He picks up his fork, jabbing it into the macaroni with more force than necessary, the tines sinking into the soft pasta. He scoops up a bite, the cheese sauce dripping off the fork, and shoves it into his mouth. He chews slowly and swallows it down, feeling it sit heavy in his stomach.

"So how long you been out of high school?"

Adam blinks. "Uh..." He hesitates. Nigel doesn’t give him much time before he presses, a bit more insistent this time, "What is it, three years?"

Adam shakes his head, dropping his gaze to his plate. His fingers start fidgeting with the fork, spinning it. "Two. I got held back a year."

Nigel's eyebrows shoot up, surprise flickering across his face. Adam’s smart as hell, Nigel can tell. Smarter than Nigel, that's for damn sure. Not the type of kid to get held back. He leans in a little. "When?"

Adam’s eyes dart around the room like he's searching for an escape route. After a long moment, he sighs, voice barely above a whisper. "Second grade."

Nigel stares at him, the words not really registering at first. Then, before he can stop himself, a laugh bursts out of him. "Shut the fuck up."

Adam’s eyes widen. "Why?"

Nigel is still chuckling. "What do you mean why? How the fuck do you fail second grade?"

Adam’s face flushes, his cheeks turning a shade of pink that makes him look even younger. He fumbles for words, stammering. “I—I didn’t fail. I just got held back."

Nigel shakes his head, still smirking. "For what? What'd you do? Color outside the fucking lines?"

Adam’s expression shifts, the confusion giving way to something else. He doesn’t look amused—if anything, he looks upset, like Nigel’s hit a nerve. His voice is quieter now, almost defensive. "My dad just didn’t think I was ready."

"Sounds like a load of bullshit to me, Adam."

Adam shrugs. "Maybe."

Nigel shakes his head, more determined now, the smile fading from his face. "No, definitely. That’s some overparenting bullshit." The thought gnaws at him, something dark stirring in the back of his mind. Adam’s dad doing that—holding him back, keeping him down. It reminds Nigel of things he doesn’t like to think about.

"You need to stand up for yourself," Nigel says, the words coming out sharper than he intended. "Don’t let them decide what’s right for you."

Adam shifts in his seat, uncomfortable under the intensity of Nigel’s gaze. "I was only seven."

"Still," Nigel says, voice firm, like he’s making a point Adam should’ve already known.

Silence settles between them.

Nigel clears his throat, the sound rough and loud. “So,” he says, trying to sound casual, though the word comes out too sharp, too pointed. “You like space?”

Adam pauses mid-chew, the fork hovering over the bowl. He blinks, looking up at Nigel with those wide blue eyes, like he’s surprised anyone would care enough to ask. After a beat, he nods slowly. “Yes,” he says. 

Something shifts in the kid’s expression, like a switch has been flipped. The kid’s face lights up, his eyes sparkling.

“Did you know andromeda,” he says, his voice gaining momentum, “is the closest spiral galaxy to the Milky Way, about 2.537 million light-years away? It’s massive—over a trillion stars, way more than our galaxy, and it’s on a collision course with us. But don’t worry, that won’t happen for another 4.5 billion years.”

His hands suddenly slice through the air. “Andromeda and the Milky Way are gravitationally bound. They’re drawn to each other. When they collide, they’ll merge to form a new galaxy—some call it Milkomeda, but it’ll be nothing like what we know now. The stars won’t actually hit each other, though; space is so vast that they’ll just pass by.”

Nigel just sits there, fork halfway to his mouth, watching the kid with a kind of stunned silence. He’s never heard Adam talk this much, never seen him so… alive. It’s like a different person is sitting in front of him, someone full of energy and curiosity, someone with a brain that’s clearly too big for the shitty little world he’s been stuck in. 

Nigel leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, his fork clutched in one hand. He studies Adam’s face, the way his eyes are wide and bright, his cheeks flushed with excitement. “So, uh… isn’t there a star named Nigel or something?” 

Adam’s brow furrows, a tiny crease forming between his eyebrows. He shakes his head, looking confused. “No, it’s Rigel. Not Nigel.”

Nigel can’t help but laugh. It’s not really that funny, but something about the kid’s earnestness, the way he’s so serious about it, makes it impossible not to. “That’s not the same fucking thing?” he asks, grinning.

Adam shakes his head again, more forcefully this time. His voice is firm. “No, it’s not. Rigel’s a blue supergiant star, part of the Orion constellation. It’s one of the brightest stars you can see from Earth.” 

Nigel stares at him. For a moment, he doesn’t know what the hell kind of expression he’s wearing. Something strange, something almost…warm? But that’s not right.

“Alright,” Nigel says, his voice gruff, trying to push away the strange emotions bubbling up inside him. “Eat up. We have a big day tomorrow.”

Adam’s eyes go wide, the fork clattering against the bowl as he nods quickly. He turns his attention back to the macaroni. The room falls into silence again, the only sound the clink of silverware against the bowls.

Nigel watches him, his own food untouched, the weight of the silence pressing down on him. But this time, it doesn’t feel as heavy, doesn’t feel as suffocating. There’s something different about it, something almost… peaceful. He lets out a slow breath, leaning back in his chair, his eyes still fixed on the kid across from him. 

The star stickers in his pocket feel heavy, almost unbearably so. 

Chapter Text

Nigel sits on the edge of his bed, his mattress sagging beneath his weight. He rubs at his eyes, fingers scraping over the rough stubble on his cheeks. 

Adam had slipped away right after they ate last night. Nigel noticed the way the kid’s eyes kept darting to the windows, watching the sun dip lower in the sky. When he finally asked to go to bed, Nigel didn’t argue. He just nodded, jerking his head toward the hallway that led to the guest room. The kid practically bolted.

Nigel let him go without a word, his own exhaustion pulling at him, weighing him down. The guest room’s the only place in this whole goddamn house that’s clean. It’s almost unsettling in its neatness, like it doesn’t belong here, like it’s a part of some other life, some other world where things are normal. Nigel doesn’t go in there if he can help it.

He’s still in his jeans, the rough denim digging into his skin, but he couldn’t muster the energy to change last night. Could barely bring himself to kick off his boots before collapsing onto the bed.

His hands flex, fingers curling and uncurling. But then he freezes, every muscle in his body going rigid as he hears the faint sound of running water. 

Adam could have took off in the middle of the night, slipped out the front door while Nigel was out cold. He didn’t tie him up, didn’t chain him to the bed or anything. The front door’s right there, just a few steps away. Easy to unlock, easy to slip through. And Nigel’s a heavy sleeper, a shot to the head does that to you. Once he’s out, he’s out for hours.

But he’s still here, using Nigel’s fucking shower. 

He walks past the locked bathroom and heads straight for the kitchen. He lights up a cigarette as soon as he steps in, the flick of the lighter a sharp, comforting sound. He inhales deeply, letting the smoke fill his lungs, letting it calm the frantic beat of his heart, the rush of blood in his veins. 

The coffee machine is old, the kind that makes more noise than it should, but it’s reliable, and that’s what Nigel needs right now. Something steady, something predictable. 

He suddenly understands what Adam meant about needing his routine. 

He sets it up with quick movements, the smell of coffee already starting to fill the air. He opens the cupboard, pulling out the box of cereal, a bowl, and a spoon, setting them down on the counter with a little more force than necessary. He hesitates for a moment, cigarette dangling from his lips, before deciding to leave the milk in the fridge. He’s not in the mood to coddle anyone right now, not even Adam. 

If the kid wants milk, he can fucking get it himself.

Nigel can smell the dampness from Adam’s shower, the faint scent of soap and steam that must cling to the kid’s skin. It’s distracting, making it hard to focus, making it hard to think straight.

Nigel grabs the milk out of the fridge and slams it on the counter. 

The coffee finishes brewing, the machine letting out a final gurgle, and Nigel pours himself a cup. He takes a sip, the bitterness of the coffee hitting his tongue.

Nigel stands there, leaning against the counter like he’s got nowhere better to be, his spine pressed into the edge. He switches between the coffee and cigarette, fast enough that his mouth tastes like ash and bitterness, but he doesn’t care. 

Then, the bathroom door creaks open. Nigel’s head tilts slightly, his eyes flicking toward the sound without him fully turning to look. He doesn’t need to see to know who’s coming out—he can already sense Adam’s presence in the room, that awkward, skittish energy making itself known even before the kid appears. The soft padding of feet against the wood tells Nigel Adam’s moving slow, like he’s still trying to figure out his place in this space, in this kitchen, in this house, in Nigel’s world.

Adam shuffles into view a second later, and Nigel finally gives him a once-over, his eyes dragging lazily from the kid’s damp, messy hair down to the clothes he’s wearing. The shirt is still Nigel’s, and it’s hanging off Adam like it doesn’t belong on him, the fabric too loose, the hem nearly reaching his thighs. 

Nigel’s pants that he gave him to sleep in last night cling awkwardly to Adam’s legs, too big in the waist, bunching up around his hips. The kid’s just wearing socks, and Nigel finds something weirdly endearing about that detail.

Nigel doesn’t say anything at first. He just watches, cigarette between his fingers, as Adam’s wide, uncertain eyes land on the kitchen counter, spotting the cereal box and bowl Nigel set out for him. There’s a moment where Adam looks up at Nigel, like he’s waiting for Nigel to give him the go-ahead to eat.

Nigel raises an eyebrow as he lifts his coffee mug to his lips again, eyes still trained on Adam over the rim. He’s studying the kid, taking in every little movement, the way Adam hesitates before stepping forward, the way his hair is still half-wet and clinging to the sides of his face. 

There’s something about the sight of Nigel’s shirt hanging off one of Adam’s shoulders, exposing that pale strip of skin. His hands twitch, fingers flexing like he’s fighting the urge to reach out and grab something, maybe grab Adam, maybe something else.

He wants to take that feeling and smash it against the wall, shatter it until there’s nothing left, until it’s just pieces scattered across the floor, like shattered glass or broken teeth. He wants to see it bleed. 

Adam’s eyes flicker, his gaze dropping to the floor. “I-I needed to shower,” he stammers, his voice small, almost trembling. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask you if I was allowed to.”

Nigel tries to smile, tries to make it reassuring, but it feels wrong, feels forced, like his face doesn’t know how to form the expression anymore. “No problem,” he says.

“You said I-I wasn’t allowed to… touch anything,” Adam says.

“That was yesterday,” Nigel snaps. 

Adam moves slowly, his hesitant hands reaching for the cereal box. He’s being careful, too careful. His fingers are a little shaky as he tips the box, the cereal pouring out in a slow, rattling stream, clattering against the ceramic bowl. Adam glances over the edge of the bowl, checking how much he’s poured, like he’s not sure if it’s enough or too much, like he’s measuring it out with some invisible line in his head. Nigel just stands there, puffing on his cigarette, watching the whole thing. In truth, he’s not sure why he can’t stop watching. He’s just stuck.

Adam pauses for a moment, his hands freezing above the cereal, and then his eyes flick up toward Nigel again, like he’s looking for approval or some kind of reaction. Nigel catches the look, sees the uncertainty in Adam’s wide eyes, and something inside him tenses. The kid’s biting his lip, teeth sinking into the soft flesh.

He clears his throat, the sound rough and gravelly. “What is it, gorgeous?”

Adam freezes, like he wasn’t expecting Nigel to say anything. Then, after a beat, he murmurs, “I need a cup.” There’s this tiny pause, like he’s remembering his manners, and then he adds, “Please.”

Nigel grunts, pushing off the counter with a lazy roll of his shoulders. He takes his time, moving to the cupboard. When he grabs the cup and hands it to Adam, their fingers brush for just a second, and Nigel feels this tiny spark, like electricity jolting up his arm. He swallows hard, turning back to lean against the counter again, watching as Adam sets the cup down next to his cereal.

The kid’s still being meticulous, opening the milk and pouring it into the cup instead of directly into the bowl. Adam’s so careful with it, tipping the milk over the spoon just enough to flood it before setting the cup down and eating. 

Nigel notices how tense Adam’s shoulders are. He knows he’s staring too much, knows he’s making Adam uncomfortable, but he can’t stop. 

Adam chews on his cereal, gaze fixed on the counter. Nigel takes another drag from his cigarette, holding the smoke in his lungs for a beat longer than necessary, trying to smother the feeling that’s clawing its way up his chest.

After a moment, Adam finally speaks. “I know it’s weird.”

Nigel doesn’t answer right away, just flicks the ash from his cigarette into the coffee cup beside him, watching the gray dust swirl inside. “It’s not,” he says eventually.

Adam blinks, looking down at his cereal like he’s trying to make sense of that. 

“Then why are you looking at me like that?” 

Nigel shrugs, frowning a little as he searches for words that won’t make him sound like a complete asshole. “I don’t fucking know.”

There are the circles under Adam’s eyes. They’re dark, too dark, stark against his pale skin, like he hasn’t slept in years. Nigel’s eyes flick to the faint bruises on Adam’s neck, the ones he left there, and something twists inside him, ugly and raw. He grits his teeth.

He exhales a slow breath through his nose, forcing himself to speak. “Did you sleep last night? Don’t lie to me.”

Adam freezes for a second, his spoon hovering in the air. Then he swallows, shaking his head. “I couldn’t.”

Nigel sighs, running a hand through his hair, feeling the frustration bubble up inside him. “I’m trying, you know,” he says. “Trying to make you fucking comfortable here.”

Adam’s reaction is immediate. He makes this frustrated noise, something between a sigh and a groan, and when he speaks, his voice is sharper, more desperate. “You don’t understand how my mind works,” he says, the words tumbling out in a rush. “I need certain things to... to function. You don’t understand.”

“I want to.”

The words slip out before Nigel can think about them, and when they do, Adam’s eyes snap up to his face. There’s this wide-eyed look of surprise, like he wasn’t expecting Nigel to say that, like no one’s ever told him that before. 

“Why?” Adam whispers.

Nigel feels his breath catch in his throat, those big blue eyes locking onto him with an intensity that makes his chest tighten.

“You’re interesting, Adam. I told you.”

There’s a pause, and Nigel can see the wheels turning in Adam’s head, can see the kid trying to figure out if Nigel’s serious or just messing with him. But Nigel’s dead serious, and he lets that show in every line of his body, in the way he stands there, tense and still, in the hard set of his jaw.

Finally, Adam murmurs, “Okay.”

Adam eats slowly, methodically, each crunch of his cereal echoing off the walls. He’s got this way of eating, like he’s on autopilot—spoon up, spoon down, chew exactly twenty times, then swallow. The same number of chews for every single bite. 

Nigel shifts his weight, his back aching. He looks around the cramped kitchen, the faded wallpaper peeling at the edges, stained from years of cigarette smoke that wasn’t his own. He’s trying to figure out what to do with the day, what he can teach Adam. But then he looks back at Adam, and all those plans kind of fade into the background.

There’s something about the kid that pulls him in, something that makes him want to know more, to ask questions he’s not sure he should ask. He studies Adam’s face, the way his cheeks turn pink under the light, the way his eyes flick up to Nigel’s and then dart away just as quickly. He’s squirming under Nigel’s gaze, his fingers fidgeting around the edge of the bowl. 

Nigel blinks, and for a moment, his mind flashes back to Chris, to the memory of that greasy, rotting burger and the way Chris was practically shoving it down Adam’s throat, laughing the whole fucking time. He remembers the way Adam’s eyes had gone wide, that look of confusion and hurt. 

He remembers what Chris said, about Adam not having a girlfriend. He wonders if Adam’s ever even kissed anyone, if he’s ever had that awkward, fumbling experience of a first date, of trying to figure out where to put his hands, what to say, what to do. 

He looks at Adam again, really looks at him, and he can’t help but think the kid’s gorgeous in his own way—soft features, big eyes, a kind of quiet prettiness that sneaks up on you. But he’s not the kind of guy girls usually go for, not the tall, ripped, confident types that get all the attention. Nigel used to be one of those guys, the bad boy with a leather jacket and a don’t-give-a-shit attitude. He knew how to play the game, how to make girls want him, how to be the guy everyone talked about. But that feels like a lifetime ago, a part of him that he doesn’t miss.

High school was bullshit, he thinks. All that popularity crap, trying to be the coolest, trying to get laid as much as possible. It’s all meaningless, just a bunch of teenage bullshit that doesn’t matter once you’re out in the real world. The whole thing pisses him off now.

Nigel shifts again, pushing off from the counter and crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes never leaving Adam. The kid’s still eating, still chewing each bite the same number of times, still avoiding Nigel’s gaze. “You went to high school here, right?” 

Adam swallows, nodding without looking up. 

Nigel hums, his fingers tapping against his bicep as he thinks. “That stuff Chris was saying, about you not having a girlfriend, is it true?” 

Adam glances up, just for a second, his eyes wide and nervous. He nods slowly, his shoulders tensing up even more. “It’s true.” 

Nigel can’t help but think about what else Chris said. He tilts his head slightly, his gaze never leaving Adam’s face. “Are you gay?” he asks, his voice steady, not accusing, just... curious.

Adam freezes, his spoon halfway to his mouth. He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “I... I don’t know,” he finally says, his voice barely more than a breath.

Nigel feels a slow grin spread across his face. He pushes off the counter, takes a step closer to Adam, and he can see the way the kid flinches.

Nigel reaches out, his hand moving almost on its own, and he gently tugs at the corner of Adam’s shirt—his shirt, really—pulling it up to cover Adam’s exposed shoulder. The fabric is soft, and he feels Adam’s skin, warm and smooth, beneath it. He watches the way Adam shivers at the touch, the way his eyes dart up to Nigel’s face.

“Are you a virgin?” Nigel murmurs, his voice low, almost teasing, like he’s asking a question he already knows the answer to.

Adam’s cheeks flush a deeper red, his mouth opening and closing like he’s trying to find the right words but can’t quite manage. Nigel doesn’t need him to say anything; he can see the answer in the way Adam’s whole body seems to shrink in on itself, in the way his fingers grip the edge of the table. Nigel lets his hand fall away, stepping back to his spot against the counter, a strange satisfaction settling in his chest.

“Uh... y-yes,” Adam finally says. 

Nigel’s grin widens, a hand coming up to rub at his jaw, trying to hide the smile that he knows is there, the one he can’t quite keep off his face. He hates the little thrill he feels at the confession, hates the way it makes his mind start spinning with all kinds of thoughts he shouldn’t be having. But he can’t help it. There’s something about Adam, something that makes him want to push, to see how far he can go, to see what the kid will do.

“That’s good,” Nigel says.

Adam blinks. “It is?” 

“Yeah, definitely,” Nigel replies, dropping his hand back to his side. 

He does really believe it’s a good thing, aside from the way the little confession made him feel. He knows there’s always a chance that whoever Adam ends up with could get pregnant, that some poor kid could end up with a father who doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing. It’s not personal, just a fact of life. Too many guys start fucking too early, end up with kids they never wanted, and those kids grow up knowing they were never really wanted in the first place. They end up doing all kinds of crazy shit, trying to fill that void, trying to make sense of a world that never really made room for them. Nigel’s pretty sure most of the world’s problems come from teenagers not being able to keep their fucking hands to themselves. 

So, Adam staying a virgin? He’s doing the world a favor. 

Nigel looks at Adam again, his mind wandering to all the things he doesn’t know about him, all the things he wants to find out.

“You ever had one? A girlfriend?” 

Adam finishes the last of his cereal, pushing the bowl away with a shaky hand. “I... yes, I... I had one. It was a couple years ago.”

Nigel nods, picturing it in his head—a high school romance, all awkward touches and stolen glances. Cute. 

“What was her name?” he presses, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Adam swallows. “Beth,” he says quietly.

Nigel hums, an idea forming in his mind, something that makes his pulse quicken, makes him feel like he’s got a purpose, something to focus on again. He lets out a slow breath, then grins at Adam.

“Stay here, alright?” Nigel says, grabbing the empty bowl and tossing it into the sink with a loud clatter.

Adam blinks. “O-okay.” 

Nigel pauses, glancing back over his shoulder, and for a moment, he feels a strange pang of something. “I mean in the house. You can walk around if you want.” 

Adam nods, relaxing just a little, and Nigel turns away, heading towards his room with a new kind of energy, his mind racing with possibilities, with what comes next.

Anticipation pulses inside Nigel’s chest. Hell, he could pick Adam up, spin the kid around, just for the way the boy’s mere presence lights him up. That kind of move would make the kid jump out of his fucking skin, maybe try to claw his way through Nigel’s flesh to get free. Once he’s done showering and making himself look a bit less fucking insane, he flicks off the bathroom light, plunging the small room into shadow, the remnants of steam swirling and curling in the air like ghosts. He made sure to keep his mind blank in there. 

And there’s Adam, exactly where he left him. The kid’s sitting on the stool, legs drawn up, looking at Nigel with those big eyes. Nigel likes that look. A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he reaches for his keys on the counter. The jangle of metal against wood.

Nigel snaps his fingers. “Let’s go,” he says. 

Adam doesn’t say a word. He hops off the stool, quick and eager. 

Nigel bends down, shoving his feet into his boots. 

“Where are we going?” 

Nigel finishes tying his boots, straightening up. “I told you we had a big day today, doll.” 

Adam fumbles for his shoes, his movements clumsy in his rush to catch up. Nigel doesn’t wait for Adam to finish; he just steps up, grabbing a fistful of the kid’s shirt and tugging him toward the door. The fabric bunches in his hand, and he can feel the heat of Adam’s body through the material, the way the kid stumbles but doesn’t resist, just lets himself be pulled along. 

The door clicks shut behind them, and Nigel locks it with a swift motion, barely glancing back. His hand finds Adam’s back again, pushing, guiding.

At the car, Nigel opens the passenger door. Adam blinks up at him, wide-eyed, like he’s not sure what the hell is happening, but he doesn’t ask. Instead, he scrambles inside, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste. Nigel watches, lingering just outside, his grin widening as Adam looks back at him, still confused, but not questioning. 

Nigel’s smile doesn’t fade as he rounds the car, slipping into the driver’s seat. The engine roars to life. Adam’s stiff as a board beside him. Nigel knows better than to think Adam’s head is anywhere near as quiet as he looks.

As the car rolls onto the main road, Nigel’s mind wanders, thoughts flicking to Adam’s ex-girlfriend. He can’t wrap his head around why she’d ditch someone like Adam. The kid’s soft, sure, but he’s the kind of soft that’s rare—smart, good-hearted, even if he’s lacking a fucking backbone. Teenage girls don’t know what they want. They chase after the wrong things, the wild things, when what they really need, what they’ll end up wanting, is a guy like Adam. A guy who’ll marry them, build a life, settle down with the white picket fence and the two-point-five kids. 

Nigel’s love isn’t clean and domestic. His love is cigarette burns and gunmetal, bruises and control. But at least it’s real. 

Nigel shifts in his seat, feeling a twinge in his back. He grimaces, reaching behind to fish out the gun he’d stuffed into the waistband of his pants. He pulls it free, the metal cold and heavy in his hand, and tosses it onto the dashboard with a casual flick. It lands with a dull thud, and he glances at Adam out of the corner of his eye, just to see the reaction.

Adam’s staring at the gun, his whole body going still. 

Nigel watches Adam’s reaction, his eyes glued to the kid’s face. Adam’s stare stays fixed on the gun, the way it sits on the dashboard like an invitation, like it’s daring him to make a move. There’s something in Adam’s expression that shifts, just a flicker, but Nigel catches it. There’s a hunger, a curiosity that’s making Adam’s breath hitch just a little, making his fingers twitch like he’s got half a mind to reach for it. 

A forbidden fruit. 

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just lets Adam marinate in that feeling, lets the silence stretch until it’s uncomfortable, until Adam starts squirming in his seat again, his eyes flicking between the gun and Nigel like he’s weighing his options.

Part of Nigel wants to see what Adam would do if he grabbed the thing, if he had the balls to wrap his fingers around the cold metal and feel its weight. Would he aim it at Nigel, try to act tough? Or would he just hold it, marveling at the power it represents, the control he could have if he just squeezed the trigger? Nigel can almost picture it—Adam’s trembling hand, his lip quivering, his eyes wide and scared, but maybe a little excited too.

Nigel glances at him, side-eyeing the kid. “Your old sweetheart,” Nigel starts, watching Adam stiffen at the words, “she live around here?”

Adam gives the smallest nod, barely perceptible. “She works at the mall.” 

Nigel hums, filing that away for later. “Why’d you guys split?” 

 The question hits something sore, and Nigel can see it in the way Adam’s fidgeting.

For a moment, it looks like Adam’s not going to answer, like he’s going to shut down completely. But then he speaks, his words rushed. “Her… her cat died.”

Nigel’s brow furrows. “What?”

Adam shifts uncomfortably, his eyes glued to the windshield, avoiding Nigel’s gaze. “Her cat died, and we just… stopped dating after that.”

“Because her..cat died?” 

Adam nods, looking miserable, like the whole thing still doesn’t make sense to him either. His eyes dart briefly to the gun on the dashboard before flicking away again, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

“Wait—what are you saying to me right now? What the fuck are you trying to tell me?” His voice sharpens, holding back a laugh. “She told you, ‘I can’t date you because my fucking cat died’?”

Adam stammers, his voice shaky. “N-no, I didn’t mean—”

“Then what the fuck did she say, Adam?”

Adam lets out a small, frustrated noise, his fingers gripping the edges of his shirt tighter. “We… we just never talked about it after that. It happened, and then… we just kind of…never saw each other.”

Nigel’s eyes narrow, his mind trying to wrap itself around this pathetic excuse for a breakup story. “So you never thought to bring it up? Like, ‘Hey, remember that time you broke up with me because of your dead fucking cat’?"

“No.”

Nigel lets out a loud bark of laughter, throwing his head back, the sound echoing inside the car. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, shaking his head, still chuckling under his breath.

Adam’s face turns bright red, his embarrassment practically radiating off him in waves. He shifts in his seat, avoiding Nigel’s eyes, clearly wishing he’d never said anything. 

”Where… where are we going now?” 

Nigel wipes a tear from his eye, still grinning like an idiot as he turns his attention back to the road. “I need fucking cigarettes.” 

Nigel eyes the car, squinting at the dashboard. They should get gas too, no point in putting it off. The fuel gauge is damn near empty, the needle hovering dangerously low, as if it’s got nowhere left to go but to the red. Might as well kill two birds with one stone. 

He shakes his head, huffing out a short laugh, more breath than sound, as the gas station comes into view. There’s a sagging awning over the pumps, rusted metal showing through chipped layers of green paint. It’s as abandoned as everything else out here. 

It feels like the whole world has moved on without them, like him and Adam are the last two people alive, drifting through a ghost town that used to be something, but now it’s just... this. 

Empty.

Nigel pulls the car to a slow, easy stop beside the gas pump, rolling to a halt with a gentle crunch of gravel under the tires.

His hand moves to the dashboard, fingers brushing against the cool metal of his gun, just a light touch at first. His grip tightens, and he picks it up, the cold barrel sliding against his palm as he tucks it into the waistband of his jeans, pushing it down just enough that it won’t be seen. The way Adam’s been looking at the fucking thing—it sticks with him. 

It was the kind of look that said too much. The kid had been plotting. He’s sure of it. Thinking, watching, like he’s calculating something in that quiet way of his. Nigel’s been around enough people, seen enough of that glint in someone’s eyes when they’re on the verge of doing something fucking stupid. Adam’s starting to think too much. 

Starting to figure things out on his own, maybe.

Nigel huffs again, sharper this time. He pushes the door open, the old hinges creaking as the dry heat rushes in, thick and heavy like a blanket. His eyes slide over to Adam, still sitting there in the car. Nigel clicks his tongue twice.

Adam moves, opening the door with that same soft, careful touch he always uses, like he’s afraid the car might bite him if he slams it too hard. He steps out, closing the door behind him with barely a sound, his eyes darting around. 

Nigel watches him, watches the way he stands there, frozen in place, unsure of where to put his hands, his feet, his gaze. The kid’s always  been like that, never quite knowing how to fit into his own skin. It’s one of the things that first caught Nigel’s attention, that awkwardness, that tension. But now it’s different. Now it’s got an edge to it, something sharp that Nigel doesn’t like.

He grabs the gas nozzle, yanking it free from the pump with a grunt, and shoves it into the tank. The nozzle clicks as it settles into place, and Nigel leans on the car, turning his eyes back to Adam. 

“You know,” he says, his voice low and even, “I saw you eyeballing the gun, Adam.”

Adam stiffens at that, like he’s been caught red-handed, but he doesn’t move. Nigel watches him carefully, his eyes narrowing as he waits for a response.

There’s something brewing in Adam’s head, Nigel can tell. He knows the kid well enough by now to see the gears turning, the thoughts churning behind those wide blue eyes. It makes Nigel uneasy, makes him feel like he’s losing control of the situation, and that’s not something he can afford right now. Not when everything’s so fucking precarious.

“I need you to remember what we talked about, gorgeous,” Nigel says. 

Adam shifts on his feet, his eyes flicking to the ground for a moment. 

“I remember,” Adam says. There’s a certainty in his tone that Nigel hasn’t heard before, and it makes him raise an eyebrow, studying the kid a little closer.

“Do you?” Nigel leans in, just a little, just enough to make Adam flinch. “Because I’m not so sure.” 

“I promise,” Adam says, nodding, his voice a little shakier now. “I remember.”

Nigel doesn’t reply right away. He just tilts his head, considering, letting the silence stretch out between them. He’s not so sure. Not after that look. Not after the way Adam’s been acting. But he doesn’t push it, not yet.

“Top that off, doll,” Nigel finally says, nodding toward the gas tank. “I’m paying inside.”

Nigel turns on his heel, walking away without looking back, his boots crunching on the gravel as he heads toward the gas station. There’s a part of him that’s curious, eager to see what Adam’s going to do next. But there’s another part, a deeper, more vulnerable part, that feels a little sting of hurt. 

Nigel pushes through the door, the air inside stale and thick with the smell of old cigarettes and grease. The fluorescent lights overhead flicker weakly, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow. The old man behind the counter looks up, his face worn and tired, like he’s seen too much and cares too little.

“Thirty on pump two,” Nigel says, tossing the crumpled bills onto the counter. “And a pack of Marlboros.” The man nods without a word, his bony fingers snatching up the money. Nigel taps his fingers on the counter, glancing out the window as the old man rings him up.

His eyes lock on Adam, still standing by the car, the gas pump in his hand.

Nigel’s fingers drum against the countertop, eyes glued to the kid through the grimy gas station window. It feels like a mirage out there. Adam looks small against it all, like the landscape’s gonna swallow him whole if he moves too fast.

Nigel knows what’s running through Adam’s head. He can see it in the way the boy's fingers tighten around the pump, the way his jaw clenches and unclenches, the way his eyes dart to the side like he’s measuring the distance between himself and freedom. He’s thinking about it, Nigel can tell. The kid’s planning. Plotting. Thinking about how easy it would be to make a run for it, to just drop the pump and bolt.

It would be easy, Nigel knows. Hell, he’s practically given the kid the chance. He left the door wide open. If Adam wanted to make a break for it, now would be the time. There’s no one else around. No witnesses. Just trees and dirt roads leading to God knows where.

But Adam stays put, gripping the pump tighter, his knuckles going white. Nigel can feel the tension rolling off him, can almost hear the frantic beating of the kid’s heart from inside the station. Adam’s scared—scared enough to run, but also scared enough to stay. And that’s what Nigel’s banking on.

Still, there’s a sliver of doubt worming its way into Nigel’s chest. What if Adam does run? Nigel’s gut clenches at the thought, that same ache of hurt that settled in his chest earlier creeping back in. It’s the same feeling he had when he caught Adam with the phone, the same feeling of betrayal mixed with something worse—disappointment.

Nigel lets out a slow breath, turning his back on the old man behind the counter. The guy’s still fiddling with the cash register, barely paying Nigel any mind, which is just fine by him. Nigel’s not here for conversation.

His eyes are still locked on Adam as he reaches into his waistband, fingers brushing the metal of the gun. He knows he shouldn’t. It’s reckless, stupid, a move that could get them both caught if things go sideways. But the impulse is there, raw and pulsing, like an itch he can’t quite scratch.

Without breaking eye contact, Nigel pulls the gun from his waistband, holding it loosely in his hand. He doesn’t lift it right away, just lets it dangle at his side, his gaze never leaving Adam’s face. The boy’s head swivels, those big, scared eyes locking onto Nigel’s through the window.

Nigel’s chest tightens.

He lifts the gun, pointing it directly at the old man behind the counter. His arm is steady, his aim sure, but his eyes—they’re still on Adam. Always on Adam. 

Adam’s mouth falls open, like he wants to say something, wants to scream, wants to move. But he doesn’t. He’s frozen, stuck in place, staring at Nigel like he’s seeing him for the first time. 

Nigel’s heart thuds in his chest, but his face stays blank, his expression calm, almost bored. He can feel the weight of the moment pressing down on them both, heavy and suffocating, like the heat outside. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t blink. He just stares at Adam, watching, waiting.

The old man behind the counter hasn’t even noticed. He’s still hunched over, punching buttons on the register, oblivious to the fact that he’s got a fucking gun pointed at the back of his head. Oblivious to the fact that his life is hanging by a thread, a thread that Nigel could cut with just a twitch of his finger.

And Adam knows that. He knows Nigel could pull the trigger right now, knows Nigel could kill this man without so much as a second thought. The fear is written all over his face, plain as day. But underneath the fear, there’s something else—a flicker of recognition, maybe even understanding.

This is a lesson. It’s always been a fucking lesson.

Nigel raises an eyebrow, tilting his head just slightly as if to ask, Well? What’s it gonna be, kid?

He watches as Adam’s hands curl into fists, his whole body trembling with the effort it takes to stay still. Nigel can see the fight going on inside him, the battle between instinct and fear, between the urge to run and the need to stay. Adam’s shoulders hunch, rising up toward his ears, that familiar shivering posture settling back in.

But he doesn’t run. He doesn’t drop the pump, doesn’t take off into the trees like Nigel half-expected him to. He just stands there, frozen, waiting for Nigel to make the next move. Waiting for Nigel’s verdict.

And that—that’s what Nigel was waiting for. That little sliver of obedience, that little sign that Adam’s still with him, still willing to follow, still willing to stay.

Nigel’s finger twitches on the trigger, just the smallest movement, but enough to let Adam know. Enough to let him know that if he wanted to, he could end this right now. He could make sure Adam never has another chance to disobey.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lowers the gun, slipping it back into his waistband with a quick, practiced motion, like nothing ever happened. He turns back to the old man, who’s finally finished ringing him up, oblivious to how close he just came to death.

Nigel feels something settle in his chest, something warm and comforting, like the tension’s finally releasing. There’s a mix of emotions swirling inside him—pride, relief, disappointment. He’s proud of Adam for not running, for staying put, for listening. But there’s also a part of him that’s disappointed, a part of him that wanted Adam to run, wanted him to take that chance, to prove he could stand on his own two feet. Nigel wants to call him fucking stupid. Nigel wants to call him good. 

But Adam didn’t run. And that’s what matters.

Nigel glances out the window one last time. The boy’s still standing there, still holding the pump, still looking at Nigel. Once he’s done, Nigel turns away, pocketing the pack of Marlboros the old man hands him, and walks toward the door.

Adam didn’t run.

And that little fact settles deep inside Nigel, warm and cozy, soft like the boy’s eyes.

Once he’s back in the car, Nigel leans back in the seat, his grin spreading, lips curving around the filter of his cigarette. Some old Springsteen song fills the space between them, the thrum of guitars mixing with the static hum of the radio’s barely working speakers.

But Adam—Adam’s all wound up, tight as a coiled spring, his body practically vibrating. He’s sitting there beside Nigel, his small frame pressed into the seat. His skinny legs are drawn up a little, knees pulled close to his chest, and his hands won’t stay still. They twitch, fidgeting with the frayed hem of his shirt, fingers tugging at loose threads, or rubbing nervously together. 

There’s something almost mesmerizing about the way he moves, something about the nervous energy that radiates off him, filling the car like static electricity. Nigel watches him out of the corner of his eye, watches the way Adam’s chest rises and falls, his breathing fast and shallow, like he’s holding back something. Nigel’s not sure he wants to dig too deep.

Nigel shifts in his seat, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, feeling that itch again, that restless feeling in his chest. It crawls under his skin, making him feel like he’s too big for his own body, like his bones are rearranging themselves, making room for something new, something unfamiliar. He can’t quite put his finger on it, can’t figure out what the hell it is, but it’s there, and it’s not going away anytime soon.

He flicks his eyes back to Adam, taking in the kid’s messy curls, the way they catch the sunlight streaming through the window. It makes the strands look almost golden, glowing like some kind of halo around his head. All he knows is that looking at Adam makes his chest feel tight, like his ribs are squeezing his heart, and he doesn’t fucking like it. 

Not one bit.

But he’s got a job to do. A purpose. He promised himself today was gonna be about Adam, about helping him. That’s the plan, and Nigel’s nothing if not a man of his word. So he throws his cigarette out the window, watching the glowing ember disappear into the wind before he focuses back on the road. 

The plan. Stick to the plan.

“Hey,” he says, breaking the silence. “You said she worked at the mall, right? Beck?”

Adam shifts beside him, his body tensing even more at the mention of her name. Nigel can practically feel the anxiety radiating off him, like heat waves in the summer. His voice is soft when he finally responds, barely more than a whisper. “Beth,” he corrects, like it even fucking matters. 

Nigel doesn’t care about the name. Doesn’t matter if it’s Beck, Beth, or fucking Betty. What matters is the opportunity it presents. He shrugs, the gesture lazy, dismissive. 

“Whatever. You think she’s working today?”

Adam’s fingers start twitching again, rubbing together. “I-I don’t know,” he mutters. “Maybe. Sometimes she works on the weekends.”

That’s all Nigel needs to hear. His grin spreads wider, stretching across his face like a wolf baring its teeth. “Then that’s where we’re going,” he declares.

It takes a second for Adam to process what Nigel just said. Nigel can practically see the gears turning in his head, slow and clunky, before it finally clicks. When it does, Adam’s head whips around, his wide blue eyes locking onto Nigel’s face. 

“What?” 

Nigel’s grin widens, and he nods, his heart pounding in his chest. This is perfect. Fucking perfect. It’s like everything’s falling into place, like the universe is aligning just for him. He leans in closer. 

“Yes,” he whispers, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

Adam’s still staring at him, eyes wide, lips parted, looking like he’s just seen a ghost. He stammers, his voice trembling, “R-really?”

Nigel keeps nodding, his excitement bubbling up inside him like a damn volcano ready to erupt. He can’t help himself—his voice rises, louder, more animated. “Fuck yes,” he practically shouts, his hands flying off the steering wheel as he gestures wildly, his whole body vibrating with energy. He’s never felt more alive than he does right now, in this moment, with Adam sitting there beside him, looking at him like he’s lost his fucking mind. Nigel loves that look. Loves the confusion, the uncertainty. It’s fucking intoxicating.

“You don’t get it, do you?” Nigel says, his words tumbling out in a rush, too fast, too excited. “This makes so much fucking sense.” He turns to Adam, that feral grin still plastered on his face, eyes gleaming. “We go, you talk to her, figure out what her deal is, why she dumped you.”

Adam’s eyes get even wider—Nigel didn’t even think that was possible—and he shakes his head, stammering, “But, I—”

Nigel cuts him off, waving his hand dismissively. “I don’t care what you do, alright? Make up with her, become best fucking friends, or—hell—punch her in the fucking face for all I care.”

Adam’s face flushes bright red, his cheeks practically glowing, and he opens his mouth to protest, but Nigel doesn’t give him a chance. “It doesn’t fucking matter, okay? What matters is you talk to her.” His voice drops, turning more serious, more intense. “Because this? This is gonna help you figure out your shit.”

Adam’s breathing is fast now, almost frantic, his cheeks still flushed with frustration or embarrassment or whatever the hell he’s feeling. His hands are trembling, fluttering in the air like he’s trying to grasp something he can’t quite reach. “But what if—what if she’s not there?”

Nigel just shakes his head, chuckling to himself as he takes another drag from his cigarette, the smoke swirling lazily out the window. “Don’t worry about that. Don’t cross bridges before you get to them, gorgeous.”

Adam frowns, his brow furrowing in confusion, like Nigel’s just spoken in a foreign language. “That doesn’t make any sense,” he mutters, his voice small and frustrated. “How can you cross a bridge if you’re not there?”

Nigel grins, his eyes gleaming with amusement as he flicks the ash from his cigarette out the window.

“Exactly.”

Adam’s frown deepens. “How can you cross something you haven’t reached? It’s just… words that don’t mean what they say. I don’t get it.”

Nigel’s grin widens. “Sometimes, things don’t have to make perfect sense. Sometimes, it’s about the journey, not the destination.”

Adam blinks. “But if the journey doesn’t lead anywhere real, then what’s the point?

Nigel finds he can’t answer that. 

His fingers drum on the steering wheel, though his mind is buzzing with a plan that he thinks is gold. One of the best fucking ideas he’s had in a long while. Nigel’s stubborn. He’s already decided this is happening, and when Nigel decides something, well, it’s like trying to move a goddamn mountain.

It’ll help Adam, he tells himself for the tenth time. Kid’s been in a hole, stewing in his own insecurities, and it’s all because of that girl. Nigel’s got it in his head that if the kid can just face her—Beth—get some kind of closure, maybe then he’ll stop torturing himself over why he wasn’t enough for her. Why she couldn’t stay. Nigel might be projecting a little, yeah, but that’s beside the fucking point.

The point is, if Adam knows why she left, instead of this endless spiraling, it’ll give him what he needs to move on. Grow up a little. Get stronger. Become something better, less fucking insecure. Nigel snorts to himself, thinking maybe if he’d gotten the closure he needed from Gabi, he wouldn’t be here either. But that’s a different road, one he doesn’t need to walk down. Not now. What matters is Adam. That’s what keeps him grounded. That’s what gives all this a little meaning.

The mall looms ahead, a hulking relic. It’s got that washed-out look, like the color’s been sucked out of it over the years, leaving only the bare bones behind. The letters on the sign out front are missing, leaving behind a jumble of words that don’t make sense, like a bad crossword puzzle. But Nigel’s not here to sightsee, and neither is Adam, though he’s sure the kid would rather be anywhere else right now.

Nigel gets out of the car, the door creaking like it might fall off, and Adam follows.

The parking lot’s almost empty, just a couple of cars scattered around like someone forgot to come back for them. The concrete’s cracked, weeds pushing through just like on the road, and there’s trash blowing around in the breeze—a crumpled-up fast food wrapper, a plastic bag caught on a bush, flapping like a sad little American flag. The air smells faintly of grease and something stale, like the scent of despair’s settled in for good. 

The mall doors slide open with a reluctant hiss, like they’re not sure they want to let them in, but do it anyway because that’s what they’re programmed to do. The inside’s no better than the outside—lighting casting long shadows, the floor tiles chipped and dirty, and the once-glossy storefronts now looking tired and defeated. Most of the stores are empty, the windows covered in dusty paper or faded “For Lease” signs. The ones that are still open don’t look much better, a sad mix of dollar stores and discount outlets that don’t draw much of a crowd.

Nigel glances around, taking in the scene with a raised eyebrow. 

Adam’s footsteps are barely audible, shuffling along the cracked tiles as if he’s trying not to disturb the ghosts that surely haunt this place. Nigel watches him out of the corner of his eye, noting the way Adam’s hair falls into his eyes, the way his fingers are clenched into fists inside his pockets, like he’s holding on for dear life. 

Nigel nudges Adam with his elbow, leaning in close.

“Loosen up. Just be cool.”

Adam glances up at him, his eyes wide and nervous.

“Be cool?”

Nigel nods, the corners of his mouth twitching up into a smirk. 

“Yeah, you know. Like me.”

Adam’s eyes widen even more at that, and for a second Nigel thinks he might laugh, but then the kid just swallows hard and nods, his gaze dropping back to the floor. Nigel sighs, running a hand through his hair, feeling the sweat starting to collect at the back of his neck. 

They walk in silence, their footsteps echoing in the empty mall, the sound bouncing off the walls and making the place feel even more deserted than it already does. Nigel shoves that thought aside, focusing instead on Adam, who’s leading the way through the maze of empty stores with a determination that Nigel can’t help but admire.

They finally reach the store, and Nigel stops short, blinking at the sight in front of him. “Animal Fun-Stuff Workshop” is spelled out in bright, garish letters above the entrance, the kind of sign that practically screams at you to come in and spend your money on cheap crap that’ll break before you even get it home. The colors are all wrong, too—a sickly yellow mixed with an eye-searing combination of greens and blues that make Nigel’s head throb just looking at it. The floor inside is checkered with rainbow tiles, and the walls are painted with some kind of forest-jungle scene that’s supposed to be cute but just looks fucking tacky. There are stuffed animals lining the walls, some of them blank and lifeless, others with faces stitched on that make them look like they’re staring right at you, judging you for even being here.

Nigel raises an eyebrow, trying to suppress the urge to bolt. The whole place makes him feel twitchy, like he’s stepped into some kind of warped version of childhood that he never got to experience. He can feel the walls closing in, the colors pressing down on him, and it takes everything in him to stay put, to remind himself that this isn’t about him. 

This is for Adam. It’s all for Adam.

There’s a weird song playing from the speakers inside the store, something vaguely familiar but distorted, like it’s been played one too many times and the tape’s wearing out. The lighting inside is warm, a stark contrast to the cold, sterile feel of the rest of the mall, and it makes the place a little more bearable, if not exactly comfortable. There are little tables scattered around the floor, painted in sweet shades of pink and blue, clearly meant for kids who’ll sit and play with the overpriced toys that line the shelves.

Adam stops at the entrance, his whole body tensing up as they both spot the lone girl inside. She’s got long brown hair that falls in waves down her back, and her cheeks are flushed a rosy pink that makes her look like she’s just stepped out of some picture-perfect suburban fucking fantasy. Nigel doesn’t even need to ask to know this is her—Beth, the girl who took Adam’s soft little heart and crushed it without a second thought.

Nigel tuts softly, jerking his chin in the direction of the counter.

“Go on. Walk.”

Adam hesitates, trembling slightly as he takes a step forward, then another, until he’s standing just a few feet away from Beth. Nigel hangs back, letting the shadows swallow him up as he leans against one of the shelves filled with stuffed animals. The things stare back at him with their blank, lifeless eyes, but he ignores them, his attention focused entirely on the scene playing out in front of him.

“Beth,” Adam says, his voice cracking slightly. “Hi. Uh… how are you?”

Beth turns around at the sound of his voice, her smile dropping the moment she sees him. Her eyes narrow slightly, and for a moment, Nigel thinks she might just tell him to get lost. But she doesn’t. Instead, she shifts uncomfortably, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“Adam. I’m fine. How are you?”

Adam shrugs, his gaze dropping to the floor again, like he’s suddenly fascinated by the way the tiles don’t quite line up. Nigel clicks his tongue, a sharp sound that cuts through the silence, and Adam’s head snaps up, his eyes wide as he tries to find his voice again.

“Oh. I—I’m good,” Adam stammers, his words tumbling out in a rush. Nigel can’t help but smile at him, a small, sad smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He’s trying so hard, and it’s almost painful to watch.

Beth, on the other hand, doesn’t seem impressed. Her expression is one of thinly veiled annoyance, her lips pressing into a tight line as she uncrosses her arms and starts fiddling with the basket of craft supplies she’s holding. She walks around the counter, heading toward one of the little tables without so much as a glance in Adam’s direction. “So, what’s up?” 

Adam takes a deep breath, his hands fidgeting nervously as he turns to follow her. “I was actually wondering if we could… talk for a bit.”

Beth lets out a short, derisive laugh, shaking her head as she sets the basket down on one of the tables.

“Now’s not really a good time. I know it looks dead in here, but I’ve got a party of second graders coming in an hour, so…”

Adam turns to Nigel then, his eyes wide and pleading. But Nigel just raises an eyebrow, his face a blank slate. He’s not here to hold Adam’s hand through this, as much as he might want to. Adam’s got to learn to stand on his own, even if it means falling flat on his face a few times.

Adam swallows hard, his voice trembling as he stammers, “Uh… well, it… it wouldn’t take that long.”

Beth doesn’t even bother to look at him this time, her attention focused entirely on the craft supplies she’s arranging on the table.

“I’m working, Adam,” she says. “I’m here to help customers.”

Nigel feels something hot and sharp flare up in his chest, anger sparking like a live wire. He stares at Beth, his jaw tightening as he fights to keep his temper in check. There’s something about the way she’s brushing Adam off, treating him like he’s nothing more than an inconvenience, that makes Nigel’s blood boil. 

Adam turns to him again, his eyes wide with desperation, silently begging for help. But Nigel doesn’t look at him, doesn’t acknowledge the plea. He can’t. Not right now. If he does, he knows the anger bubbling up inside him will spill over, and that won’t help anyone, least of all Adam. So he keeps his eyes fixed on Beth, his expression carefully neutral.

Adam swallows again, his voice barely above a whisper as he says, “Well… we can be customers.”

Beth turns to them, her face a perfect mask of indifference, like she’s somewhere far away even though she’s standing right there. Her lips barely part as she says, “You want to decorate stuffed animals?” 

There’s a flatness to her voice, like she’s already resigned to the fact that this is how her day’s gonna go—trapped in some cheap craft store, surrounded by glitter glue and felt scraps, with Adam awkwardly smiling at her like she’s asked the most serious question in the world.

Adam, bless him, grins back at her. But it’s not a full smile—it’s crooked, nervous, as if he’s afraid it’s wrong to even be asking. His face flushes almost instantly, his cheeks turning a soft pink that spreads all the way to his ears. His smile is like an apology wrapped in embarrassment, like he’s waiting for her to laugh at him. Nigel shifts where he stands, leaning heavier against the wall behind him. 

He doesn’t know why he finds it fucking cute, that pink on Adam’s cheeks, the way he fumbles with his words. Cute enough to make something twist low in his stomach, something he ignores because he’s not sure he likes what it means.

Adam’s voice trembles a little, that familiar stutter making him sound unsure. “Y-yes. You can talk to me while I do it.” He shifts on his feet, his shoulders hunching in like he’s bracing for impact, and Nigel wonders if Adam’s expecting Beth to rip into him for such a stupid request. He’s seen it before—Adam’s bracing himself against disappointment.

Beth sighs. “Which one?” 

Adam freezes. “What?”

Beth's eyes harden, and if it’s possible, she looks even more annoyed. Nigel swears he can almost see her teeth grinding together. “Which stuffed animal do you want to decorate?” she repeats, each word slower than the last, her hand gesturing toward the wall behind Nigel.

Nigel pushes himself off the wall, finally moving after leaning there like a statue. He glances at the stuffed animals hanging in rows behind him. 

Adam’s eyes flicker over the stuffed animals, scanning them with the kind of focus that suggests this choice is monumental. Like the whole world hinges on which one he picks. And then his gaze stops, landing on a stuffed raccoon. Nigel watches closely as something shifts in Adam’s eyes—a glimmer, like a spark, a flicker of excitement so brief that if Nigel hadn’t been staring at him, he might’ve missed it.

But Nigel sees it. And something inside him stirs.

That same glimmer, that same little light in Adam’s eyes—Nigel had only seen it once before, and back then, it hadn’t meant anything to him. Now, though, watching Adam’s face soften with a kind of gentle excitement, Nigel feels something warm and strange unfurling in his chest, something he wants to shove down but can’t seem to. It flutters there, unwanted but insistent, like the first hint of a storm you didn’t see coming.

Adam reaches out, his fingers closing around the stuffed raccoon. He turns to Beth, holding it up for her approval.

“This one,” Adam says, and there’s a faint tremor in it, like he’s still a little unsure of himself.

Beth looks between Adam and Nigel, her expression barely changing, but there’s a tightness around her mouth that suggests she’s holding back some snide remark. Instead, her eyes cut to Nigel.

“You want one too?” 

Nigel doesn’t hear her. Not really. His focus drifts to the shelf again, where a small, plain stuffed dog sits waiting, its round eyes staring up at him with the kind of blank expression that feels a little too familiar. He stares at it for a moment, something tugging at the edges of his thoughts, and before he knows it, he’s speaking.

“Let me get a dog.” 

Beth huffs out another sigh, one that’s thick with frustration, and turns on her heel. “Okay. Let me go get them from the back,” she mutters, sounding like she’s already tired of this whole ordeal. Her footsteps echo as she walks away, disappearing behind the rows of cheap craft supplies and shelves of brightly colored yarn.

Nigel scoffs under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he watches her go. Typical. He turns back toward Adam, who’s still standing there, holding his stuffed raccoon. His hands fidget, always moving. The sight of it—of Adam’s nervous energy, the way he’s trying so hard to stay calm—pulls at something deep in Nigel’s chest. It’s like a string, tight and sharp, tugging him forward without his permission.

Adam’s doing good today—better than he has in a while. He’s following Nigel’s lead, doing what he’s told, sticking to the plan. And for now, that’s enough. But there’s always that small chance Adam could say something, slip up, spill the wrong thing to Beth. The bodies. The blood.

If that happens, Nigel knows he’s done. They’re all done. And in the back of his mind, he thinks about what he’d do if Adam ever turned on him. How he wouldn’t let it end like that.

Nigel’s steps are slow, unhurried as he closes the gap between them, moving toward Adam like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He keeps his pace steady, almost lazy, his eyes flickering around the room like he’s just casually taking it all in. But when he reaches Adam, he doesn’t hesitate—his arm snakes around Adam’s shoulders, pulling him in close.

Adam’s body stiffens at first, but he doesn’t pull away. He lets Nigel hold him there, pressed against his side. And Nigel can feel it—the warmth of Adam’s body seeping into his own, the faint tremor in his limbs, the way his breath hitches just slightly.

And then Nigel catches the scent.

It’s faint at first, just a hint of something familiar, but as he leans in, it hits him fully. Adam smells like him. His soap, his cigarettes—it’s all there, clinging to Adam like a mark of ownership. Nigel inhales deeply, the scent filling his lungs, and something dark and possessive curls up inside him. It spreads through him like hot tar, slow and suffocating, and he finds himself wanting to pull Adam even closer, to claim more of him, to make sure no one else ever gets close.  

“You’re going to be a good boy for me, right Adam?”

He feels the shiver that runs through Adam’s body, sees the way his face flushes even deeper, his breath catching in his throat. Adam’s eyes lift to meet Nigel’s, wide and unsure but willing, those dark lashes framing them just right, and he nods.

That nod. It does something to Nigel, makes something hot and wild rise up in his chest. His eyes linger on Adam’s lips, chapped and bitten, and Nigel thinks they’re the prettiest thing he’s ever seen.

The simple act of Adam agreeing, of submitting to him, sets his skin on fire, and for a moment, all Nigel can think about is how much he wants to—

He pulls back, forcing himself to breathe. Beth’s footsteps echo back into the room. She drops the stuffed animals onto the table, and Nigel steps away from Adam, putting space between them before anyone can notice. He doesn’t think about what that means.

They end up sitting at the small, square tables that are scattered around the craft store, a little too low for adults but just the right size to make the whole thing feel a bit fucking ridiculous. The chairs creak under their weight, cheap plastic barely holding up . Beth plops down across from Adam, her body language screaming disinterest, as if the very act of sitting with him is some kind of punishment. She dumps the stuffed animals onto the table—Adam’s raccoon landing in a soft, unceremonious pile.

Nigel, meanwhile, sits at his own table a few feet away, though his gaze never leaves Adam. His fingers move absently as he starts sticking rhinestones onto the fabric of the little stuffed dog, not even bothering to make it look good. The craft supplies are spread out in front of him—feathers, googly eyes, glitter pens—and he grabs them at random, sticking things on in the shape of a dick. 

As he works, he can’t help but glance at Adam, watching the way his brow furrows in concentration as he carefully peels stickers from their backing. Adam’s fingers tremble just a little, but he’s so focused, like this is the most important thing in the world right now. Nigel’s lips twitch into a half-smile at the sight, though he quickly hides it, gluing a tiny feather mohawk onto his dog’s head.

 “Adam,” Beth says, “this is... weird.”

Adam’s head jerks up. “I guess so,” he mumbles.

Nigel snorts softly under his breath, gluing a pair of googly eyes onto his stuffed dog’s chest, facing the wrong way. The whole thing’s a fucking mess. 

Beth leans back in her chair, arms crossed, staring at Adam like he’s some kind of puzzle she can’t quite solve. Her lips press together in a thin line, and for a moment, it looks like she’s trying to decide if this whole conversation is even worth having. Finally, she lets out a heavy sigh. “You wanna tell me what’s going on?”

Adam swallows hard, his hands busying themselves with the craft supplies, peeling the stickers, sticking them carefully onto the raccoon’s face. His fingers shake just a little, his eyes flicking up to meet Beth’s for only a second before dropping back down. “Y-yeah, um...” he starts, his voice trailing off into nothing. 

Nigel’s eyes narrow as he watches, his fingers pausing mid-glue. He can feel it, that uncomfortable stirring in his gut, that itch of anxiety. This is the moment, the moment where Adam might just say too much, where he might spill the truth if he’s not careful. Nigel’s heart beats a little faster, his jaw clenching as he keeps his eyes locked on Adam’s trembling hands.

Adam shrugs, a small, helpless gesture, like he’s apologizing for even existing. “I was wondering... I was wondering why you broke up with me after... after Oreo died.” 

Nigel rolls his eyes, muttering under his breath as he glues a strip of rhinestones down the stuffed dog’s belly. Fucking Oreo. 

Beth raises an eyebrow, her lips pulling into a tight, cynical smile. “This is what you wanted to talk to me about?”

Adam scratches the back of his neck, his eyes darting to the craft supplies again. “Well, we never really... talked about it,” he mumbles, his fingers fidgeting with the edge of the table, his gaze slipping back to Nigel for reassurance.

Beth’s expression softens, just a fraction, as she leans forward, resting her elbows on the table. For the first time, she actually looks like she’s considering her answer, like maybe this conversation does mean something after all. “No, I guess we didn’t,” she admits, her voice quieter now, the bite gone. “It wasn’t that I cared so much about Oreo.”

She pauses, her lips pursing as if she’s choosing her next words carefully, weighing their impact. Nigel watches her closely, his eyes narrowing as he glues on more glitter.

“I mean, I did,” Beth continues, her voice softer now, more contemplative, “but... I guess I wanted you to care about him too. Or... maybe I wanted you to care that I cared about him.”

Nigel’s fingers still, the glue drying on his stuffed animal as he watches the realization settle over Adam. He can see it in the way Adam’s shoulders droop, the way his eyes widen just slightly, as if something deep inside him just clicked into place.

Beth shrugs, her gaze falling to the table, fingers tracing invisible patterns on its surface. “I don’t know,” she says. “It’s stupid. But it felt like you didn’t care. About Oreo. About me.”

Nigel raises an eyebrow, shoving the little camo jacket he’d found onto his stuffed dog, the fabric stretching awkwardly.

“I wanted you to care about something, Adam. Besides yourself. All you ever talked about was what you wanted, what you cared about.” Her voice is soft, but it hits hard, the kind of softness that cuts right through skin. She pauses, watching him with those brown, searching eyes, as if looking for a reaction, some sign that he’s getting it. “You never even said you loved me. Dating you was like—" she shakes her head, a bitter laugh escaping her lips, “—like babysitting.”

Nigel’s jaw tightens at that, fists curling around the fur of his stuffed dog, the fabric stretching under his grip as his knuckles turn white. He watches Adam flinch at the words, sees the way Adam's face twists in response, the hurt creeping in. Adam’s eyes drop to his lap, eyebrows pulling into that deep, worried frown that Nigel’s seen a hundred times. His fingers start picking at the edges of the little stuffed raccoon in his hands.

“I do care,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flicker between the table and the craft supplies again. “But I don’t always know how to show it. It’s... it’s..in my head, it’s all there.”

It makes Nigel's blood fucking boil. Not at Adam. But at her. Beth. Sitting there like she has any right to say these things, to make Adam feel like that. Adam, who’s the smartest person Nigel’s ever met. Adam, who’s more than she could ever dream of being. What the fuck does she know? She doesn’t get him—never did. Adam’s got this… light to him, this potential, and she’s too goddamn shallow to see it. She’s just a piece of noise, static in a world full of fucking idiots who can’t appreciate brilliance when it’s right in front of them. 

But Nigel sees it. He’s always seen it.

Beth's voice cuts through the tension again, her tone softer now, but it still feels like a slap to Nigel. “We never even talked about what happened to you in second grade.”

Adam freezes. He doesn’t need to look to know what Adam’s face looks like now—red cheeks, glossy eyes threatening to spill over. Nigel knows it like the back of his hand but now it makes him want to fucking explode. He wants to hurt something. Break something. Maybe her. He wants to grab Beth by the shoulders and hit her until she understands.

Adam’s voice is a quiet mumble, barely audible. “I can care. I just don’t always know how.”

Beth lets out this little sigh, like she’s being patient, like she’s trying to be reasonable. “Adam, I appreciate you coming here. I do.” She’s speaking like a teacher explaining something to a slow student, like she’s on some higher level of understanding and Adam’s the one who needs catching up. “It’s good that you’re trying to… change things up. But this—” she gestures at the table in front of them, where Adam’s been decorating his stuffed raccoon with little blue gemstones and sparkles. She waves a hand vaguely, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as if Nigel can’t hear every word. “This doesn’t seem like the right way to do it. I don’t get you. And I really don’t get him .”

Her thumb jerks back at Nigel, pointing like he’s some kind of oddity, something foreign and wrong. Adam looks up then, those big, vulnerable eyes catching Nigel’s gaze, his lips parting slightly like he’s searching for something to say. “He’s my… my friend.”

Nigel feels a spark of warmth spread through him, despite everything. A grin pulls at his mouth, sharp and lazy all at once. He stands up before he can think about it. 

Nigel swings his stuffed dog back and forth, moving towards Adam. He stands beside him, his hand brushing against Adam’s shoulder as he leans in to inspect the raccoon. The thing’s covered in glitter and sparkles, blue gemstones shining like stars in the fur, arranged with a weird precision that’s so perfectly.. Adam. 

Nigel nods, his grin widening. “Oh, look at you. Fucking Picasso.” His voice is soft now, just for Adam. “That’s pretty good, doll.”

Adam blushes at the praise, looking down, fingers fidgeting with the edges of the raccoon again, his face pink and flustered. “It’s Ursa Major,” he whispers. There’s this quiet, shy happiness in his eyes that makes Nigel’s chest feel too tight. But then his gaze shifts back to Beth, and all the warmth drains from his face.

Nigel looks at her, really looks, and all the anger comes flooding back, hot and sharp. Babysitting? Is that what she thinks of Adam? Like he’s some clueless fucking child who needs looking after? The thought makes his blood pound in his ears, makes his fists itch to grab something, to break something. Adam’s not a fucking child. He’s brilliant, and she’s just too small-minded to see it. She’s like every other person in this world who looks at Adam and sees someone fragile, someone broken. But Nigel knows better. He knows what’s inside Adam.

Nigel takes a deep breath, forcing himself to keep his voice steady as he asks, “What are you doing later?”

Beth blinks, confused for a moment. “Uh… I just started my shift, so—" She stops, her eyes narrowing, like it should be obvious, like Nigel’s asking a stupid question. That look grates on him, like sandpaper against his skin, but he holds it together, waiting.

“So, if we came back later tonight, you might still be here?” 

Adam stands up then, his hand trembling as he grabs onto Nigel’s shirt, tugging gently. Nigel glances over at him, sees the scared look in his eyes, the silent plea to stop. Nigel relaxes his shoulders, trying to calm down. Adam’s fingers twist into the fabric of his shirt, and Nigel feels the tremble in his hand.

Adam’s voice is soft. “We should go. Before… before all those kids come.”

Beth’s eyes narrow further, suspicion creeping into her gaze. She looks between them like she’s trying to figure something out, her eyes settling on Adam’s trembling form. It makes Nigel’s blood boil all over again. He hates that she sees Adam like this—weak, scared. She doesn’t know him. She doesn’t know what he’s capable of. But he forces himself to smile, forces his voice to stay calm.

“Right. The kids.” 

Adam’s hand relaxes a little, and he lets go of Nigel’s shirt, his fingers moving to clutch his stuffed raccoon instead. Nigel shifts up slowly, turning to Beth with a smirk that doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s a cold, dangerous thing, and for a second, he just stares at her.

“You keep up the good work, huh?”

His words are dripping with sarcasm, but there’s something darker underneath. Something that promises blood and broken bones. He holds her gaze for a moment longer, watches the confusion and discomfort play across her face, before turning to leave.

“Come on, Adam.”

Adam hesitates, looking between Beth and Nigel with wide, unsure eyes. Beth’s voice is soft as she watches him go. “See you.”

Adam pauses, his eyes flicking back to her, then to Nigel. There’s this moment of hesitation, like he’s torn between two worlds. But Nigel snaps his fingers, sharp and impatient.

“Let’s fucking go.”

Adam mumbles, “Bye,” under his breath as he falls into step beside Nigel, clutching his raccoon tight to his chest. Nigel’s pace is fast, his footsteps heavy and angry as they walk out of the store, out of the mall, into the parking lot.

Nigel scoffs. “I’m sure she’s a lovely girl, Adam, but honestly, I don’t think she’s worth the fucking fuss.”

Adam frowns, his steps quickening to keep up. “Why not?”

Nigel rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “Well, for starters, she works in a fucking mall.”

Adam looks confused, his brow furrowing. “What’s wrong with shopping malls?”

Nigel doesn’t even glance at him. “What’s wrong with shopping malls? They’re just these giant, glittering temples to corporate greed, Adam. They serve no real purpose. They’re just… consumption for the sake of consumption.”

Adam stumbles a little, his eyes darting between Nigel and the mall behind them. “But… we work in fast food.”

Nigel waves his hand dismissively as they approach the car. "People go to fast food places because they need something to eat. A mall?" He points back at the towering glass structure behind them. "A mall serves no fucking purpose. It’s just a giant, glittering, air-conditioned asshole."

Adam blinks. "What?"

Nigel shakes his head, ignoring the question. "Besides, we don’t work in fast food anymore." 

Nigel’s jittery the whole way back, a gnawing restlessness crawling up his spine. It’s not the kind of restless that comes from exhaustion, though; it’s the kind that festers deep inside, twisting itself up into knots, wrapping around his bones like barbed wire. The things Beth spat at Adam have lodged themselves in his brain, sinking in and festering there, making him want to tear at his own skin just to shake off the crawling feeling.

He’s not mad that Adam stopped him from killing her. Adam was right to step in when he did. Nigel would’ve done something stupid, something he couldn’t take back, and it would’ve all gone to hell. But that’s not what’s got him on edge. It’s the way Beth looked at Adam, that cold sneer on her face as she called him a fucking child.

 That’s what’s been gnawing at Nigel. That’s what’s got him clutching the steering wheel so tight his knuckles are turning white. The words keep echoing in his head, bouncing off the inside of his skull. 

He risks a glance at Adam in the passenger seat. Adam’s face is pressed against the window, his curls all smashed against the glass. The sunset paints everything in a hazy orange glow, the light spilling across Adam’s face in warm, soft streaks. It makes his skin look golden, even though Nigel knows it’s pale—almost too pale, like he’s been drained of something vital. His lashes are fluttering, delicate and tired, and his chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm that tells Nigel he’s close to drifting off.

Nigel’s seen Adam tired before, but this? This is different. Adam’s not just tired—he’s wrung out. His body slouches deeper into the seat, so lax it’s like he’s melting into it, and Nigel knows it’s the exhaustion talking. The kid hasn’t slept in more than 24 hours. But still, there’s that small, hopeful part of Nigel, that dumb piece of him that wants to believe Adam’s not afraid anymore. That maybe, for the first time in a long time, Adam feels safe.

But Nigel knows better. He can’t erase the blood, the memories, the damage. But what he can do—what he’s always tried to do—is be there, be a solid fucking wall when everything else crumbles. That’s why he’s doing all of this. Because Adam deserves better. He’s always deserved better.

Nigel’s known it from the first time he saw him. The day Adam walked into work, eyes wide but determined, like he was ready to give the world a shot even if the world didn’t give a shit about him. Adam’s been like that ever since—showing up every day, working harder than anyone else in that hellhole of a fast food joint. Always pushing himself, always doing his best, even when the people around him couldn’t care less. Nigel saw it then, and he sees it now: Adam’s meant for something bigger than this. Bigger than greasy kitchens and minimum wage. Bigger than an ex-girlfriend who couldn’t see what was right in front of her.

Nigel scoffs, the sound harsh in the quiet of the car. She never understood Adam, never saw how bright he was, how he shined even when the world tried to snuff him out. Adam’s a fucking star, and Beth? Nothing.

Nigel’s grip tightens on the steering wheel as the memory of Beth’s voice rattles around in his head. And all Nigel can think of is Gabi, who used to say the same shit when he’d get mad, when he’d throw things in a fit of rage because he didn’t know how else to deal with what was boiling up inside him.

But Adam? Adam’s not like that. Sure, he’s got anger, but it’s different. Nigel’s seen it firsthand—the way Adam hit him right across the face, and there wasn’t a lick of childishness in it. There was fire. Passion. Bravery. Nigel’s still in awe of it.

Nigel gets it. He gets it in a way that Beth never could. That’s why he’s doing all this. That’s why he cares so fucking much.

He swallows hard, the knot in his throat tightening as he glances over at Adam again. His eyelashes are still fluttering, his body slumped against the door. Nigel wants to say something, to reach out, to tell Adam it’s all going to be okay, but the words stick in his throat like they always do. Instead, he just drives, his eyes flicking back to the road.

By the time they pull up to the house, the sky’s gone dark, and Adam’s barely conscious. His body slumps even more as the car comes to a stop, and Nigel takes a deep breath before stepping out. The cool night air hits him as he rounds the car, opening the passenger door to help Adam out. Adam stirs, clutching the stuffed animals they made close to his chest, his eyes barely open, his body heavy with exhaustion.

Nigel can’t help but chuckle softly, shaking his head. “You tired, doll?” 

Adam nods, his eyes fluttering shut again. Nigel wraps a wide hand around Adam’s wrist, tugging him gently toward the house. He can feel the bones under his fingers, feel the way Adam’s body moves, soft and fragile in his grip.

Inside, the house is quiet. Nigel leads Adam to the couch, setting him down gently, watching as Adam rubs his eyes with the back of his hand. His curls are a mess, frizzed out in every direction, and his body’s shivering, his arms trembling as he hugs himself tight.

Adam’s murmuring something about his routine, about needing to get up, but Nigel’s not having it. He clicks his tongue, pushing Adam back down onto the couch with a firm hand on his bony shoulder. “Fuck the routine, Adam,” Nigel mutters, his voice rough but not unkind. He watches as Adam’s face scrunches up in frustration, his lips trembling as he tries to argue, but Nigel’s not backing down.

“I-I need to…” Adam’s voice is soft, shaky.

Nigel shakes his head, his fingers still pressed against Adam’s shoulder. “No, you fucking don’t. What you need is sleep.” 

Adam looks up at him, his eyes tired and confused, but there’s a stubbornness there too, a fire that hasn’t gone out just yet. Nigel raises an eyebrow, daring him to keep fighting.

“Nothing’s gonna happen if you don’t do it,” Nigel mutters, his voice softer now, almost gentle. “It’s not gonna hurt you to miss one night.”

"Nigel, it's not just about the routine. It’s about... equilibrium. I need things to be predictable, structured. When I follow the routine, it's like... a system. It keeps everything in check, helps me process the noise—" Adam takes a fast breath. "—all the sensory input that never shuts off. It’s not just a habit, it’s how I maintain c-control."

Nigel leans forward slightly. "You’re exhausted, gorgeous. You’re running on fumes. Do you want to go through the motions just because it’s part of the fucking routine, or do you want to sleep and give yourself a break for once?"

Adam opens his mouth to speak, but Nigel cuts him off gently, "No, really—forget about what you think has to happen. Just think about what you want, what your body’s telling you, not your mind. You’re allowed to step back. You don’t have to push through this like it’s a fucking test you can’t fail."

Adam hesitates for a moment, then nods, his body still shivering slightly. Nigel watches him for a moment longer, eyes tracing the delicate lines of his face, the curve of his jaw, the way his curls fall over his forehead. He can’t help the way his chest tightens, the way his throat feels thick with words he’ll never say.

Without thinking, he blurts out, “Are you cold?”

Adam nods again, his teeth chattering slightly. Nigel curses under his breath, turning on his heel and heading for the storage closet. He rummages through it, muttering to himself when he realizes he doesn’t have an extra blanket. Of course he doesn’t.

Nigel slams the closet door shut with a thud that echoes through the house. He’s never thought about stuff like that—never had to. He rubs his hands over his face, feeling the grit of the day catching up to him, frustration bubbling just below the surface. But this isn’t about him.

He makes his way down the narrow hall, past the faded wallpaper and scuffed floors, heading straight for the guest room. Adam’s room. It’s as simple as it gets—just a bed, a dresser. Clean, neat. But it’s Adam’s space now, and in its own quiet way, it feels sacred. 

Nigel doesn’t linger, though. 

He strides over to the guest bed and yanks the comforter off, pulling it into a messy ball in his arms. The thing’s too big for him to carry neatly, so he just bunches it up, not caring if it drags against the floor as he makes his way back to the living room. He can hear Adam shifting on the couch, his fidgeting filling the quiet of the house like a soft, nervous rhythm.

When Nigel rounds the corner, he finds Adam where he left him—perched on the edge of the couch, still tugging at his shirt, fingers twisting the fabric. His eyes are wide open now, though, staring at nothing in particular, just the empty space in front of him. 

Nigel drops the comforter onto the couch beside Adam with a heavy sigh, his voice gruff as he mutters, “Will you calm the fuck down, Adam?”

The words come out harsher than he means them to, but that’s Nigel’s way—rough around the edges, all gritted teeth and clenched fists, even when he’s trying to be gentle. It’s not that he’s mad. Far from it. He’s just… worried. And Nigel doesn’t know how to do worry without it sounding like anger.

Adam flinches, his hands freezing where they’ve been tugging at his shirt. His lips part, but no words come out. He just shakes his head, his curls bouncing with the movement, and his face crumples in that way Nigel’s come to recognize. It’s not fear, not exactly. It’s more like a quiet resignation. Like Adam’s bracing himself for whatever comes next, like he’s used to being yelled at, used to people being impatient with him.

And Nigel hates that. 

Nigel exhales hard through his nose, his frustration melting into something softer, something that wraps itself around his heart and squeezes tight.

His hands feel heavy, like they always do when he’s tired, but he ignores the dull ache in his arms as he spreads the blanket out. 

“Go on, lay down,” he murmurs. He feels like the words are clawing their way out of his throat, scraping against his vocal cords on the way out. Adam obeys, of course he does, dragging his tired body down into the couch cushions with a slow, sluggish movement that makes Nigel’s hands twitch.

He tucks the blanket around Adam’s frame, fingers moving almost too carefully, like he’s afraid of something. The blanket falls heavy over Adam, covering him completely, the edges tucked in snugly. He smooths it down, presses the corners in around Adam’s legs and arms. His hand pauses over Adam’s chest, feeling the faint rise and fall beneath the blanket. He almost doesn’t pull away. Almost.

Adam shudders, a little jerky movement that runs up his body, and Nigel can feel it through the blanket, even though he’s barely touching him. It’s like a tremor, a little quake that seems too big for the small frame underneath him. His breath catches in his throat, lodging there like a stone, and he’s frozen in place for a second as Adam shifts, turning over onto his back, his head tipping up to look at Nigel through bleary, half-closed eyes.

Those eyes—Nigel could die in them. They’re not the usual bright, clear blue he’s used to. No, in the soft, warm light of the room, they’re darker, like the ocean just before a storm. Deep, mysterious, pulling you in. It cuts him, sharp and deep, like a blade he never saw coming. The kid’s too fucking beautiful for his own good. Too pure. Too..something.

Adam’s voice is quiet, barely more than a murmur, as he says, “I-I’m not a kid, Nigel.”

The words are simple, but there’s a weight to them. Nigel feels his lip curl up in a snarl, a reaction he doesn’t quite understand himself. He shakes his head, eyes darting away for a moment because, fuck, it’s too much. The way Adam looks at him, the way he speaks. It’s too close, too raw.

“I know you’re fucking not,” he mutters, voice rough, his tone half-sharp, half-soft. There’s a bite to the words, but it’s not aimed at Adam.

He drops to the floor, sitting cross-legged with a graceless thud. His back rests against the edge of the coffee table, head tipped back slightly as he stares at the ceiling for a second, collecting himself. His fists clench, knuckles bleached as he curls his fingers into his palms, grounding himself in the sensation of skin against skin. His heart’s beating too fast, like it’s trying to pound its way out of his chest, and he doesn’t know why. It’s just Adam. It’s just the damn kid. 

When he finally looks back at Adam, the kid’s watching him, those eyes still half-lidded, sleepy but sharp. Sharp enough to make Nigel squirm. Adam’s gaze drags over his face like he’s trying to memorize every line, every detail. Nigel feels like he’s under a microscope, like every inch of him is being examined, laid bare like a fucking bug. 

He wants to tell Adam to stop, to look away, but the words catch in his throat, lodged there. He doesn’t tell him to stop. He doesn’t want him to stop. There’s something about the attention that makes Nigel’s skin prickle, makes him feel like curling in on himself, but at the same time, it makes him feel... warm.

Adam’s eyes stay on him, unwavering, and after what feels like forever, Nigel lets out a soft, rough sound. It’s half a sigh, half a word that never fully forms.

“What?” he whispers.

Adam blinks, slow, like he’s trying to gather the energy to speak. “You’re mad,” he says, voice soft, but there’s a firmness underneath it, like he knows he’s right.

Nigel shakes his head, quick and sharp, trying to brush off the accusation. “I’m not,” he grumbles, but his voice sounds too tight.

Adam, with that same quiet stubbornness, shakes his head right back at him. 

“You’re frowning.”

The words make something in Nigel’s chest flutter, a small, involuntary thing that sends a rush of warmth through him. He huffs out a laugh, low and raspy, the sound barely more than a breath. 

“So? You frown when you’re confused.”

Before he can think about it, before he can stop himself, his hand is moving. His thumb presses gently against the small crease between Adam’s eyebrows, smoothing out the little frown. The touch is soft, almost hesitant, like Nigel’s not sure what the fuck he’s doing but can’t help himself anyway. 

“See? You’re doing it now.”

He watches as Adam’s expression changes under his touch, the confusion fading away, replaced by something softer. Adam’s cheeks flush pink, that familiar blush spreading over his face, and his lips part just a little, like he’s caught in a moment he doesn’t fully understand. Nigel’s hand lingers there for a second too long, his thumb brushing the smooth skin of Adam’s forehead, before he pulls back, quick and awkward.

He makes a move to lean back, to put some distance between them, but before he can, Adam’s hand catches his wrist. The grip is light, almost tentative, but it’s enough to stop Nigel in his tracks. His heart skips a beat, stumbling in his chest, and he’s frozen, staring down at where Adam’s fingers wrap around his wrist. Adam’s hand is warm, so warm, and it feels... real. Too real. Nigel’s throat tightens, and he swallows hard, trying to get a grip on himself.

The touch is nothing. It’s innocent. Adam’s just tired, just looking for something solid to hold onto. But still, it feels like more. It feels like too much and not enough all at once. Nigel’s eyes flick down to their hands, the way Adam’s thin, pale fingers look against his rougher, calloused skin.  It makes him feel things he knows he shouldn’t be feeling.

Adam’s voice breaks the silence, soft and hesitant. “My dad is going to get worried if I’m not home soon,” he whispers, and Nigel can hear the nervousness in his tone. The fear. 

Nigel doesn’t pull his hand away. He can’t. His fingers twitch, but they don’t move, just lying there limp against Adam’s touch. He’s too focused on the way Adam’s thumb is brushing back and forth against his wrist, a nervous, fidgety little movement that’s barely noticeable but feels like it’s burning through Nigel’s skin. Adam isn’t trying to touch him. He’s just fidgeting. But still, it makes Nigel’s heart race.

“So? You’re a fucking adult. You never stayed with friends?” Nigel asks, his voice rough, trying to sound casual, like this isn’t affecting him as much as it is.

Adam shakes his head, eyes flicking away. He wants Adam to look at him again, to keep those deep blue eyes on him. He wants Adam’s attention back on him, focused and unwavering.

“I don’t—” Adam pauses, glancing up at Nigel, and something inside Nigel feels like it’s breaking, like his heart is splitting open right there on the floor. “I didn’t have friends.”

Nigel flexes his wrist where it lies under Adam’s hand, feeling every point of contact. His mind is a mess, tangled up in the sensation of Adam’s skin against his own, and he knows he’s about to make a mistake. He knows it’s a stupid fucking decision, but he can’t help himself. 

His voice comes out soft, almost too soft, when he whispers, “Tell you what. I’ll let you call him tomorrow.”

Adam’s eyes widen, a little spark of surprise flaring in the depths of that cornflower blue.

“You can tell him you’re with a friend,” Nigel adds, the words heavy and slow, like they’re sinking into the air between them.

Adam makes a small, uncertain sound, a soft noise that’s almost a whimper. 

“I don’t like lying.”

Nigel shakes his head, a soft smile tugging at his lips despite the tightness in his chest. “It’s not a lie, doll. You said we were friends earlier.”

Adam’s eyes soften again, studying Nigel’s face with that same intensity, like he’s searching for something.

Adam tugs their hands closer. The kid’s nose brushes against Nigel’s knuckles, and that soft touch—it’s like an inferno, burning through him. His muscles freeze up, locked tight, because this moment, this goddamn innocent little gesture, feels too heavy. Adam’s only doing it because he’s tired, that much Nigel knows. It has be the exhaustion making him act like this, making him vulnerable, fragile in a way that’s just—Christ. 

But Adam, looking like that, with his lashes fluttering like he’s about to fall asleep any second—God, he looks soft. Angelic. Diabolically pure. Nigel’s heart is pounding in his chest, so loud he’s sure Adam can hear it. It’s like he’s being swallowed whole by everything Adam is, like there’s nothing else in the world but him.

He lets Adam rest his face against his hand, lets the boy’s breathing slow, steady, becoming shallow with exhaustion. 

Nigel chews on his cheek, feeling his own breath coming out uneven. 

“You’re not a child, Adam,” Nigel says, his voice coming out rough. His eyes flick down to where their hands are tangled together, Adam’s grip loose but still holding on. “I hope you know that. Fuck Beth.”

Adam’s face shifts, his eyes glancing away like he doesn’t want to be seen.

“I understand why she would say it,” Adam murmurs. “Lots of people have. I’m hard to be around. I’m particular, I talk too much, I don’t understand things.” His words start coming faster, like he’s unraveling. “I’m not—” He pauses, his breath hitching, and Nigel feels that pull again, that raw, aching need to fix something. “I’m not normal.”

Nigel shakes his head immediately, the seriousness in his face hardening, his chest tightening like a vise. “Who gives a fuck about normal, Adam?” His voice is gruff, filled with conviction, and there’s no room for argument. “Normal is bullshit. Everyone who considers themselves ‘normal’ is a miserable fucking prick.”.

“I—I try,” Adam whispers, his voice cracking in places. “I try really hard to be easy, to be less... to not overwhelm people. But it’s hard, Nigel. Everything is too loud, or too fast, or I’m saying things in the wrong way. Or I don’t say enough, and I can see it—” He breaks off, his free hand tugging at the blanket. “I can see when I mess up, and I don’t always know how to fix it.”

Nigel swallows hard, trying to push past the knot in his throat, trying to make Adam see what he’s seeing.

“And why would you wanna be like every other miserable piece of shit around here? I wouldn’t care so much if you were..normal,” Nigel says. He watches Adam’s face closely, searching for any flicker of understanding, any sign that he’s getting through. 

“I wouldn’t be doing all of this,” he gestures vaguely, as if to encompass the entire room, the whole situation, “if you were like everyone else. I told you, gorgeous.”

He grins then, just a small, soft smile, more for Adam than for himself. 

“I told you that you were special.” He leans forward and stares at Adam. “There’s potential in you so fucking bright it feels like I might go blind just looking at it.”

He shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It’s a crooked thing, that smile, like it doesn’t quite know how to fit on his face anymore. It’s been a long time since he’s smiled at someone like this, with something like hope hidden behind it. “But you can’t let people fucking control you and fizzle it out into nothing. Chris, Beth, they mean nothing. You—you mean..” 

Everything. 

Adam’s hand tightens around Nigel’s, his fingers cold and trembling, and it sends a jolt through Nigel’s body, like he’s been shocked. The touch is light, hesitant, like Adam’s not sure if he’s allowed to hold on, but he does it anyway. 

“Do you understand?” Nigel asks.

“Yes… but I don’t—I don’t understand you,” Adam whispers. 

Nigel huffs out a laugh. 

“Good.”

Adam swallows, the movement visible in the thin line of his throat, and he lifts his head, eyes catching on Nigel’s. There’s a tension between them now, something that crackles in the air, sharp and electric, like the first spark before an explosion. Nigel doesn’t know what to do with it. 

“Why are you being nice to me now?” Adam mutters.

Nigel bites down on the inside of his cheek, hard enough to taste the metallic tang of blood, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m not all too fucking bad,” he mutters, the words feeling strange on his tongue, like they don’t quite belong to him. “And like I said, I like you.”

“Like me?” Adam echoes, his voice soft but strained. His gaze darts away, then back to Nigel. “You don’t—you don’t even know me.”

“I know enough,” Nigel shrugs.

Adam’s breath hitches. Nigel knows he should get up, knows he should walk away before this gets too complicated, before he digs himself a hole he can’t climb out of. But he doesn’t move. He stays right there, his hand still wrapped around Adam’s, his thumb tracing idle circles against the back of Adam’s hand. It’s a small thing, barely noticeable, but it feels like the most important thing in the world right now.

There’s something terrifying in the simplicity of it, in the way their hands just… fit. It’s not perfect. Nigel’s fingers are too rough, too scarred, and Adam’s grip is too loose, too hesitant. 

He tells himself he doesn’t know what the feeling in his chest is, the one that’s spreading through him like wildfire, burning him up from the inside out.  He’s caught, trapped in this feeling that’s settled inside his ribs like a field of blue forget-me-nots, stubborn and beautiful and impossible to ignore. 

He tells himself that if he doesn’t name it, it won’t be real.

Adam’s hand is warm, like a star, like something eternal and burning bright, and Nigel can’t help but think of how Adam once told him about Andromeda and the Milky Way, about how they’re gravitationally bound, drawn to each other by forces they can’t resist. They’re destined to collide, to merge into something new, something neither of them could ever be alone. 

Nigel looks at their hands and wonders if this—whatever this is—could be as beautiful, if it could be as catastrophic. He wonders if they’re on a collision course, if they’re destined to crash into each other and burn up in the process, or if they can somehow find a way to hold on, to become something more.

He swallows hard, his throat tight, watching as Adam’s eyes flutter, heavy with sleep. 

“Adam?” he whispers.

Adam opens his eyes, blinking up at Nigel with a sleepy sort of confusion. For a moment, it’s like the whole world shrinks down to this room, to the two of them holding onto each other like they’re afraid to let go.

“In the morning, when Hardy called you into his office… what’d he say?” 

Adam’s quiet for a moment, thinking, before he says, “He was going to make me a manager… somewhere else. He said I was the only one who really cared, the only one who made a difference. He said I was—” His voice wavers, and he swallows hard. “He said I was indispensable.”

Nigel feels a twisted satisfaction at that. It’s good that Hardy’s dead. Adam deserves more, deserves better than whatever that shitty job could offer him. 

Adam’s voice is soft, barely more than a murmur as he looks at Nigel.

“I don’t think that’s true anymore. You cared. I could tell.”

He watches as Adam’s eyes flutter closed, his grip on Nigel’s hand tightening for a moment before he tugs it closer. He can’t make himself move. He’s frozen, panic clawing at his insides, fear gnawing at his bones. He wonders if he really doesn’t know what he’s doing, if this won’t lead to anything, if it doesn’t mean anything at all. Maybe all of this is for fucking nothing. 

It feels like doom inside him, this cold, creeping certainty that he’s in too deep, that there’s no way out now that doesn’t end in pain. But as Adam squeezes his fingers lightly, murmuring something unintelligible in his sleep, Nigel thinks… this has to mean something. It has to. He needs it to. He needs to believe that there’s a reason for all of this, that there’s something more waiting for Adam on the other side of whatever this is.

Swallowing hard, Nigel slowly, carefully, pulls his hand away, replacing it with the stuffed raccoon that’s been lying next to Adam. He watches as Adam instinctively grasps it, his fingers curling around the  fabric. But still, Nigel doesn’t get up. He doesn’t leave. He just sits there, his eyes fixed on Adam, watching the rise and fall of his chest, the way his breath comes out of his pink lips in slow, even waves.

He just watches.

Chapter Text

Nigel grumbles, twitching, the skin of his neck prickling with the irritating tickle of something brushing against him. It's a light touch, faint enough that his half-asleep mind wonders if it’s just his fucking hair. 

He hates getting up in the morning, hates peeling himself away from the cocoon of sleep where he’s swallowed whole by the kind of darkness that doesn’t come with memories or pain. No dreams to haunt him, no flashes of blood and bone breaking beneath his fists. Just black. Just silence. The kind of nothing that makes waking up in this rundown dump of a town bearable. The kind of nothing that lets him pretend he’s still human for a few hours before the world reminds him what a piece of shit he is.

But the tickle comes again, more insistent this time, and his irritation flares. He growls, a low, frustrated sound from the back of his throat, and shifts deeper into the soft cushion beneath him. 

The tickling stops for a second, like it’s giving him a break, and Nigel feels his body relax, his muscles loosening as sleep tries to claim him again. His breathing evens out, the tension starting to leave his chest, that familiar blanket of darkness creeping back over his mind.

But just as he’s about to fall under, the sensation is back, and his skin prickles again. His whole body jerks, a sudden twitch, and this time he hears it—this little intake of breath, so quiet it could be a whisper, but it’s there. His reflexes kick in, raw and honed from years of violence, from a life that’s taught him to react first, think later. His hand shoots out, lightning fast, fingers closing around the source of the touch with a bruising grip.

He feels a wrist in his hand, small, delicate, and he pushes it back hard, pinning it against the couch beneath him. His body moves on autopilot, his weight heavy as he leans over, towering above whoever it is. 

“What the fuck are you doing?” 

His voice is rough, hoarse from sleep, the sound of it dangerous even to his own ears. He can still feel the grogginess clinging to him, the kind that makes your mind slow, like you’re wading through thick mud just to form a coherent thought.

His eyes are blurry at first, not focusing right, but after a second, everything clicks into place. The room comes into sharp focus. The smell of the couch, the faint light filtering in through the cheap blinds, and then, more importantly, the person under him.

Adam.

Nigel’s breath catches in his throat as it all comes back to him—the night before, the way Adam had clung to him, both too tired to move. Adam’s pretty eyes had fluttered with exhaustion, his grip on Nigel’s hand weak, like he was too scared to let go even though sleep was pulling him under. Nigel remembers watching him drift off, his heart doing something weird in his chest that he didn’t like. Something that made him feel soft in a way he hasn’t felt in years.

And now here they are. Nigel still half on the floor, half propped over the couch, but the positioning is… wrong. His hand is wrapped tight around Adam’s wrist, pinning it to the couch like Adam’s some kind of threat. But he’s not. He’s the furthest thing from it. Adam’s lying there, wide-eyed, frozen, his lips parted as he stares up at Nigel. His face is flushed, bright red, like he’s embarrassed or nervous—hell, maybe both. His soft curls are a mess, wild from sleep, framing his face in a way that makes him look younger than he is. They’re frizzed up in little spirals, like roots searching for something to cling to.

Nigel feels his own pulse hammering in his ears as he stares down at Adam. The boy’s lying there completely still, not even trying to pull away, though his entire body is trembling just a little, enough that Nigel can feel it in the way Adam’s wrist twitches beneath his grip. 

He clenches his teeth, trying to ignore the strange, sharp pull in his chest as his gaze roams over Adam’s face. The blush that dusts Adam’s cheeks spreads down to his neck, pink and soft, like magnolia blossoms blooming in the spring. It’s… beautiful, Nigel thinks. Though he doesn’t let himself dwell on the thought for too long.

Instead, he tightens his grip on Adam’s wrist.

“I asked you a question.”

Adam’s eyes flick up to meet Nigel’s, but they don’t stay there long. They dart away quickly, like he can’t handle the intensity of the stare. He looks nervous as hell, his breaths coming quicker now, his chest rising and falling under that too-big shirt he’s wearing. The collar dips even lower, giving Nigel another glimpse of that smooth, untouched skin. He swallows hard, his mouth feeling dry as fucking sandpaper. 

“Did it hurt?” 

The question is shaky, hesitant, and it takes Nigel a second to even register what Adam’s asking about. He knows, though. The tattoo.

Nigel’s heart gives this strange little jump in his chest, and he scowls, his grip tightening a fraction more on Adam’s wrist. He doesn’t like the way that question makes him feel, doesn’t like the way Adam’s blue eyes keep flickering to his neck, to the tattoo that’s branded into his skin.

 “Did what hurt?” Nigel growls.

Adam’s eyes flit to the coffee table for a moment, a frustrated little sigh escaping his lips before he looks back at Nigel, his gaze darting nervously between Nigel’s face and the tattoo he’s asking about.

 “Your tattoo,” Adam whispers. “When did you get it?”

Nigel’s jaw clenches so hard it hurts. He leans in closer, more of his weight pressing down on Adam without even thinking about it. He feels the shift in Adam’s body, feels the way Adam’s legs twitch just slightly beneath him. There’s a gap between them, not much, but enough that Nigel knows how easy it would be for him to close it. He shouldn’t be thinking like that. Not with Adam looking up at him with those wide, innocent eyes. He shouldn’t be thinking about any of this.

Without warning, Adam’s free hand lifts, trembling as it reaches for Nigel’s neck, for the tattoo. Nigel catches his wrist before it can make contact, his reflexes sharp. He pins Adam’s other hand above his head, trapping both of Adam’s wrists now, holding him completely still. His knee rests between Adam’s legs, not quite touching, but close enough to make his heart race.

“I was sixteen. Got it in celebration of killing someone for the first time.” 

He watches Adam’s reaction, the way those blue eyes widen.

Adam squirms then, really squirms, tugging at his trapped wrists, his breath coming faster. “You’re dangerous,” he stammers, voice shaky. “You’ve killed people. More than Chris. More than Jess. H-how many?” His voice wavers, his whole body trembling now. “How many people have you k-killed?”

Nigel’s eyes narrow, his grip on Adam’s wrists tightening enough to make Adam wince. “I’m not sure you want to know the answer to that, doll,” Nigel says. “Stop fucking squirming.”

Adam’s face goes pale. “Why?” he whispers. “Why did you… why did you do it?” 

“Because I could,” Nigel says softly. “Because it made me feel alive.” He tilts his head. “Do you feel alive, Adam? Or are you too busy being fucking afraid?”

 “I… I don’t…” Adam’s voice cracks as he glances away, unable to meet Nigel’s piercing stare. “I don’t know how to feel. I’m just…” His gaze darts around the room, searching for something—anything—to anchor him, to ground him, but nothing seems to settle the tremor running through him.

 “I’m scared,” he admits.

“Fear’s a funny thing, Adam,” Nigel murmurs. “It makes people feel alive in ways they don’t even understand. It’s raw. Real. But it also makes them fucking weak. You want to survive this? You’re gonna have to learn which one you are.”

Adam’s breath hitches, but he stops moving, though his entire body is still tense beneath Nigel’s weight. His lips part, and Nigel watches as he closes his eyes for a moment, clearly trying to calm himself down.

“Can I touch it again? Please?”

Nigel’s heart stutters, his chest tightening in a way he doesn’t like. He doesn’t know what the hell he’s doing, doesn’t know why he’s still sitting here, pinning Adam to the couch like this. He should get up, walk away, put some distance between them before he does something he can’t take back. But instead, his hands loosen their grip, and he pulls back, sitting up on the couch, running a hand over his tired face.

Adam stays still for a moment, watching him with wide, uncertain eyes, but then, slowly, he shifts, crawling closer to Nigel. Nigel doesn’t stop him. He doesn’t know why. He feels Adam’s gaze on him, feels the weight of it, like Adam’s looking at him like he’s something important. Something worth looking at. Nigel’s not sure what to make of it.

Adam’s hand comes up again, trembling but determined. He feels the light touch of Adam’s finger against the tattoo on his neck, tracing the lines like he’s memorizing them.

Nigel scoffs, trying to shake off the warmth crawling up his chest. 

“I know it’s fucking ugly, Adam.”

Adam just shakes his head, lips parted in something like awe. “It’s not,” he says softly. “I’ve never seen anything like it.” His finger trails down, following the inky lines of the tattoo, and Nigel has to fight the shiver threatening to run down his spine.

"It’s—" Adam hesitates, searching for the words, the tip of his finger still hovering over Nigel’s skin. "—it’s alive. I can feel it moving... like it’s part of you, like it’s you. Your pulse."

Nigel swallows hard, unsure how to respond, his chest tight with something he doesn’t have words for. 

 Adam whispers, voice so soft it’s almost like he’s afraid to ask, “Where did you come from, Nigel? Why are you here?”

Nigel’s pulse is loud in his ears, and there’s a sharpness in his lungs, like they’re trying to expel something too big for him to hold. Romania feels so far away now, a place buried under layers of time, of decisions made and paths taken. 

The answer is right there on his tongue— For you. But he doesn’t say that. 

Adam inches closer, his gaze never leaving Nigel’s face, searching, almost pleading. “Romania,” Adam whispers again, like the word itself holds some dark secret. “Why did you leave? What’s there? Or—what’s not there anymore?” 

“It’s not your fucking business.”

Adam flinches, pulling his hand back like he’s been burned, and Nigel feels a pang of something sharp and unwelcome in his chest. He sighs, pushing himself off the couch, his movements stiff and tired. 

“It’s not about me,” Nigel mutters. “I’m not the important thing here.”

“I am?”

Nigel nods at the question, words sticking in his throat like a jagged stone. But it’s the truth. He just doesn’t know how to say it any better than that.

Nigel clears his throat. He realizes then that he’d fallen asleep on the goddamn floor, body sprawled out in a lazy sprawl right next to Adam. His head, heavy and full of dreams he doesn’t remember, was too close, almost resting against Adam’s like he’s some fucking loyal mutt. The realization sinks in slow, like syrup thick and sticky in his mind. He stayed too close, let his guard down too far. Nigel knows better than that. Knows better than to let himself be this exposed, this vulnerable, especially around someone like Adam—someone soft.

His body aches, stiff from lying on the hard floor all night, but that isn’t what bothers him. It’s the vulnerability that gnaws at him, the fact that he was asleep, dead to the world, and Adam was right there beside him, untouched, unguarded. 

And yet, there’s something else lurking underneath all that discomfort, something warm, like the embers of a fire that refuses to go out. The fact that Adam stayed again. The fact that he didn’t run, didn’t bolt the first chance he got, even though he could’ve. Adam stayed, his soft fingers brushing over Nigel’s scar, tracing it like it was something worth exploring, not something ugly or broken. Like he found it interesting. And Nigel, for all his bluster and harsh edges, felt something stir in his chest at that touch.

A flicker of hope, maybe. A stupid, reckless fucking hope that Adam is starting to come around, starting to see things the way Nigel sees them. That maybe, just maybe, Adam wants to be here, with him, as much as Nigel wants him to stay. It’s ridiculous, and Nigel knows it. Knows that hope is a dangerous thing, especially for someone like him, someone who’s been burned too many times. But still, it’s there.

He looks at Adam again and reality crashes back in, heavy and cold. That flicker of hope snuffs out as quick as it came. Because there’s a question in Adam’s gaze, a quiet, unspoken question that hangs in the air between them like smoke. Nigel remembers the things he said last night and it feels like a fucking noose tightening around his neck now.

Adam speaks first. “Can I call my dad now?”

Nigel doesn’t want to deal with this right now, not after waking up like this, not after feeling so fucking raw. But there’s Adam, fidgeting again, his hands twisting in the blanket. 

He looks like he’s waiting for Nigel to snap, to tell him no.

And the worst part is, that look makes Nigel want to pin him down again, make him stop with all the fidgeting and nervousness. Make him submit, make him give in the way he did before. But instead, he lets out a long, frustrated sigh, dragging a hand over his face, trying to scrub away the thoughts.

“After I’ve had a fucking cigarette,” Nigel mutters.

Adam tugs at his shirt, the movement jerky, his breath hitching like he’s trying to hold back an argument. His eyes, those wide, doe-like eyes, are filled with something fragile—hope, maybe, or desperation. 

“You promised.”

Nigel’s hands tighten into fists, the tension coiling in his gut like a snake.

 “I didn’t promise shit.” 

He grabs the pack of cigarettes off the coffee table, flipping it open and pulling one out with quick, angry movements. He needs this, needs the nicotine, needs the burn in his lungs to ground him, to push away all the shit swirling in his head. “I said you can call him after. Don’t get your fucking panties in a twist.”

Adam’s face twists, a frown pulling at his lips. There’s confusion there, maybe even a bit of anger, but he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he scratches at his neck, his fingers tracing over the fading bruises Nigel left there, the marks still visible, still lingering. Nigel watches, his eyes glued to Adam’s hand as it moves, leaving little red lines in its wake. 

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Adam says quietly. “It has risks—serious ones. You could develop chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. ”

 “I’ve been smoking longer than you’ve been alive, gorgeous. I think it’s a little late for me to worry about risks.”

Nigel turns on his heel without another word, pushing the door open and stepping outside. The air smells of wet dirt, of dead leaves and decay, but it’s better than the warmth inside, better than the suffocating sweetness of Adam’s scent lingering in the air. 

He leans against the doorframe, cigarette dangling from his lips, and exhales a long, slow breath. The smoke drifts up into the sky, disappearing into the blue, and for a moment, Nigel lets himself forget. But that stupid, quiet little voice in the back of his mind keeps whispering.

You promised.

Nigel grits his teeth. He never fucking promised anything. But the way Adam looked at him last night, the way he grabbed Nigel’s hand, that sleepy, desperate plea in his voice—it’s sitting heavy on Nigel’s heart.

He knows what he should do. Should put his foot down, should make sure Adam knows who’s in charge. What the kid needs is discipline, structure, not soft words and broken promises. He needs someone to mold him, to shape him into something stronger, something that can withstand the harshness of the world. Nigel isn’t doing him any favors by going soft, by giving in to every little whim just because Adam’s got those big eyes that make Nigel feel things he doesn't want to feel.

But then again, maybe the kid deserves a break. Deserves a little reward for the bravery he showed last night, for standing up to Nigel, even if it was just for a moment.

Nigel’s footsteps drag as he returns, glancing at Adam briefly before heading toward his own room.

Once he’s in there, Nigel’s gaze drifts to the pile of clothes on the floor, his worn jeans crumpled near the foot of the bed. He hesitates for a second, as if picking up the phone would solidify something he’s not ready to face, but then he crouches down, fingers brushing the denim.

The phone is wedged deep in the pocket, and as he pulls it free, it feels cold in his hand, more like a weight than a device. There’s a part of him that’s screaming not to do this, that little voice in the back of his mind that knows once this is done, there’s no going back. 

He stares down at the phone in his hand. None of it matters. The only thing that matters is what comes next. What Adam’s going to do. What he’s going to say. His whole body feels taut but there’s a strange calmness in his movements as he steps into the living room.

Adam’s still there, sitting on the old, ratty couch, his legs tucked up underneath him. He looks up as Nigel enters the room, that gaze of his landing on him like a spotlight. There’s hope in those eyes, shining like the surface of a lake before the storm hits. 

Nigel can’t stand it.

He stops just a few feet away, staring down at Adam, his jaw clenched tight, the phone burning in his grip. Adam doesn’t say anything at first, just watches him with that curious tilt to his head, like he’s waiting for Nigel to tell him what to do. Like he’s already bracing for whatever’s coming.

Nigel holds out the phone, his hand trembling ever so slightly. “Make it fucking quick.”

Adam blinks at him, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion for just a moment before he reaches out, taking the phone from Nigel’s hand with hesitant fingers. Nigel sits down beside him, close enough that their legs press together, the warmth of Adam’s body seeping into his side. 

Adam fumbles with the phone, his thumbs moving too fast, skimming past notifications, missed calls. His hands shake as he scrolls past the lock screen—some picture of stars and galaxies, some shit Nigel can’t make sense of—and lands on the contacts. The screen glows faintly in the light of the room, reflecting off Adam’s face, casting a pale sheen over his features. Nigel watches, his eyes sharp, following every movement Adam makes.

Two contacts. Hardy and Dad.

Nigel feels a knot tighten in his chest. He watches as Adam’s thumb hovers over the name, trembling slightly, his breath hitching in his throat. 

That’s when Nigel moves, his hand slipping down to his waistband, fingers closing around the cool, familiar weight of the gun. He pulls it out lazily, not in any rush, and points it at Adam, the barrel hanging in the air between them like a silent threat. Something to keep things in line.

Adam freezes, his whole body going stiff. His eyes go wide, panic flashing across his face like lightning, quick and bright. 

“W-why?”

Nigel tuts, a soft, dismissive sound. He jerks his chin toward the phone. 

“It’s just for precaution.”

Adam stares at him for a long moment, those wide blue eyes pleading, but Nigel doesn’t waver. He can’t. He watches as Adam’s lips part, a little shaky breath escaping before he nods, slowly, his thumb finally pressing down on the call button. The phone rings once. Twice. 

When the line clicks, Nigel leans in, his voice dropping low. 

“Remember what I told you. You’re with a fucking friend. Right?”

Adam swallows hard, his throat working, and nods. 

“I remember.”

Nigel grabs Adam’s wrist with his free hand, pulling him closer so their heads are nearly touching, their breath mingling in the small space between them. He can feel Adam shaking, his whole body trembling like a leaf in the wind, but there’s a heat to him, a warmth that’s so real, so close. 

“Jesus, Adam, where have you been?”

The voice on the other end is tinny, distorted through the phone, but it sends a jolt of anger through Nigel all the same. He wants to crush that voice, wants to break it apart with his bare hands. He leans in closer, pressing his cheek against Adam’s, the soft curl of Adam’s hair brushing against his skin. His other hand grips the gun tighter, knuckles turning bone-white as he stares down at the phone.

Adam stammers. “I-I’m fine, Dad, I am.”

Nigel watches as Adam’s free hand flutters nervously, tapping out a frantic rhythm on his thigh. 

That little hand of his is so small under Nigel’s grip, so easy to control, so easy to break if it came down to it. He flexes his fingers around Adam’s wrist, the bones so delicate under his palm, and for a split second, he thinks about squeezing harder. He doesn’t, though.

“You disappear for days, and we don’t hear a thing from you. Are you even thinking at all? Are you having another episode, Adam?” his dad’s voice drones through the phone and Nigel sees it hit Adam like a slap.

Adam’s whole face crumples for a moment, eyes widening, lips parting as if to respond, but nothing comes out. He just stares at the floor, chewing on his bottom lip, teeth digging in hard enough to leave marks. The kid’s brow furrows, that deep line forming between his eyebrows as he swallows back whatever words were on the tip of his tongue. Nigel can see the hurt, raw and exposed, flickering across his features like a match struck in the dark. 

He wants to reach out and smother it, put it out before it grows into something bigger.

“N-no, I didn’t have another episode,” Adam says, glancing nervously at Nigel, his eyes wide and pleading, like he’s looking for reassurance, for something to hold onto. Nigel meets his gaze, his expression flat, unreadable. He’s not giving the kid anything. Not yet. “I’m actually... I’m actually with a friend.”

“You don’t have friends, Adam.”

Nigel’s jaw clenches, his teeth grinding together as he hears those words. The heat in his chest turns into something else—something colder, something sharper. 

Adam tries to straighten up, lifting his chin just a little, but it’s shaky, uncertain. “I do,” he mutters. He looks up at Nigel for a brief second, like he’s searching for permission to continue, before turning back to the phone. “He’s from work.”

Nigel’s lips twitch, almost a smile, but not quite. He feels the weight of the gun in his hand again, that familiar weight grounding him. He keeps it pointed lazily at Adam, but his finger tightens just a little on the trigger, just enough to remind the kid to stay on course. He’s doing good so far. 

The voice on the other end doesn’t miss a beat. “Well, you’ve been out of work for a while. When were you planning on telling me this?”

Nigel bites back a growl, his chest tightening with irritation. The tone is all wrong—like this guy’s pissed Adam isn’t following some script. Not worry. Just control. He doesn’t get why Adam even bothers with this shit, why he hasn’t cut the cord already. The kid’s too old to be playing this game. Most people Nigel knows had moved out by 18, cut their ties and never looked back. But Adam? He’s tethered, held down by this invisible leash, and Nigel can see it strangling him.

“What’s his name?” Adam’s dad demands, like it’s an interrogation now.

Nigel watches the kid freeze, eyes flicking to him in a brief, nervous glance. His lips part, hesitation written all over his face. “Nigel,” he murmurs finally. “You don’t know him, but... he’s a nice man.”

Nice. That word hangs in the air, sticking in Nigel’s throat like a bitter pill. He wants to laugh. He almost does. He doesn’t know whether to feel insulted or amused, but mostly he just feels heavy. His name, out there, in the hands of someone who might start pulling at the wrong strings. It’s his fucking fault for not telling Adam not to say it. 

Nigel sighs, long and slow, before leaning in even closer as he murmurs, low and dangerous, “End the call.”

Adam’s whole body stiffens at that, his eyes going wider, and he nods quickly, too quickly. “Dad, I need—I should probably—” Adam’s words start to tumble out, stuttering and shaky, but his dad’s still talking, still droning on in that tone of his, like he hasn’t heard a thing Adam’s said. 

"Adam, I get it—you need your routines. You need your space, your stuff. You can’t just take off like this. I know what’s best for you, I’ve been doing this long enough to know. Change throws you off, and it always does. That’s why you get so worked up, why things feel too much sometimes. You’re sensitive to it all, you know that."

Nigel feels the rage bubbling up, rising like bile in the back of his throat. He glances down at Adam’s hand, the one that’s fluttering uselessly against his thigh, searching for something to grab onto, something to steady himself. 

He presses the barrel of the gun a little harder against Adam’s side, just enough to remind him it’s there, just enough to keep him focused. “End the fucking call.’

Adam takes a sharp breath, eyes squeezing shut for a moment as he nods again, finally, shakily. “Okay, Dad. Bye,” he says quickly, and without waiting for a response, he hangs up.

The phone clatters, slipping from Adam’s trembling fingers as he leans back against the couch, chest heaving with deep, ragged breaths.

Nigel lets the moment stretch, lets Adam feel the weight of it. Slowly, deliberately, he places the gun down on the battered coffee table between them. 

Adam’s whole body sags with relief. Shoulders drop, his legs unclench. Nigel wants to say something—part of him wants to reach out, to tell Adam he did good by not ratting him out to his dad. Another part of him, though, is disappointed, sickened by the thought that maybe Adam didn’t care enough to. Nigel hates that about himself—that he can never just be one thing, never just be content with how things are. 

It’s always this fucking push and pull.

His eyes flick to the phone that Adam tossed on the table. He lets the silence hang for another long moment, waiting, studying Adam’s face as the kid tries to pull himself together. Adam’s breathing slows down, but not by much. 

“Is he always like that?” Nigel finally speaks, his voice low and even, but Adam jumps at the sound of it. 

“Yes.” 

Nigel’s jaw clenches, that familiar flare of anger kindling in his chest. It’s the same thing that clawed at Nigel when he saw Chris push Adam around, the same thing that raged inside him when Beth called Adam a child. It makes Nigel want to break something, to grab people by the shoulders and shake the world into seeing just how fucking special this kid is. How bright he is, how—

But he doesn’t. He keeps his hands to himself and lets the fury smolder inside him, just another fire he has to keep tamped down.

“I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with you, Adam,” Nigel says. “But you’re never gonna figure it out if your dad’s dragging you around by your dick all day.” 

The words come out harsh, biting. It’s a truth Nigel wishes someone had told him when he was younger, when his own father had him wrapped around his finger.

Adam doesn’t respond at first, just curls his hands into the blanket beside him, his knuckles going white. 

“He’s a little too involved in how you make decisions,” Nigel continues, pushing through the moment. He doesn’t know why it bothers him so much—Adam’s a grown man. He should be making his own choices, standing up for himself. But the sight of him like this, all curled up and trembling, makes Nigel’s throat tighten. Makes him feel things he doesn’t want to unpack right now.

“I guess so.” Adam’s voice is soft. 

Adam's fingers flex against the blanket again, his hands balling into fists before unclenching, and Nigel feels his pulse quicken, heat prickling at the back of his neck. 

“I mean, your dad held you back in second grade for Christ’s sake,” Nigel scoffs, trying to redirect his thoughts. He grabs the phone off the table, shoving it into his pocket. “Who the fuck does that?”

Adam doesn’t even flinch this time, his attention somewhere far off. His teeth sink into his lower lip, chewing it raw, and Nigel’s eyes catch on the way his mouth moves, the way Adam bites down hard enough to draw a faint line of blood. Nigel feels a heat creeping into his stomach, something that has nothing to do with anger.

“It’s just micromanaging bullshit,” Nigel says, his voice harsher than he means it to be. His frustration sharpens, but not just with Adam’s dad—with Adam himself. With how he lets this happen, how he stays stuck in this pathetic fucking cycle. 

Nigel leans in closer, closing the space between them, searching for Adam’s eyes. He wants that wide-eyed gaze on him, needs to see those blue eyes fix on him, but Adam doesn’t look up.

“Listen, you’re a fucking adult, Adam,” Nigel says, throat tight. “You need to have a little self-respect.” 

Adam’s shoulders shake, a tremor running through his whole body, and his breath catches in his throat. 

“Well, there’s something I should tell you.”

“What?” 

Adam’s lips tremble as he glances up at Nigel, just for a moment. That flash of blue—the way his eyes shine with unshed tears, the way they dart away again, embarrassed—makes Nigel’s heart thud heavily in his chest. Adam swallows hard, his throat working, and Nigel can’t help but watch.

“When I got held back, it wasn’t just because… of my dad,” Adam mutters, voice small, like he’s admitting something shameful. 

“What do you mean?” 

Adam’s mouth opens, then closes, and his fingers twist in the blanket again. His breath comes out shaky, and Nigel feels his pulse thrum at the sound of it. 

“When I got held back,” Adam starts again, voice small, wavering, “it wasn’t just because of my dad.” His eyes dart up to Nigel’s face for a split second before they fall away again, staring down at his hands like they hold all the answers.

Nigel leans in just a little closer, his body drawn toward Adam without thinking. There’s something about seeing him like this—so fragile, so fucking breakable—that sends a jolt of something hot and electric through him. It’s not right, he knows that, but it doesn’t stop the way his skin prickles, the way his breathing gets just a little heavier.

“What do you mean?” Nigel asks.

Adam swallows, his throat bobbing, and Nigel’s eyes flick to the movement, watching the way his pale skin stretches tight over the bones of his neck. It makes Nigel’s hands itch with the urge to reach out, to grab Adam by the chin and make him look up. Make him meet his gaze.

But he doesn’t. 

Adam’s voice cracks when he finally speaks again, “There was… there was an incident.”

Nigel frowns, his mind racing, trying to piece together what Adam means. He doesn’t like the way that word sounds in Adam’s mouth, like it’s hiding something ugly. He feels that old itch in the back of his mind, memories he’s buried deep down trying to claw their way back to the surface, but he shoves them down again.

 This isn’t about him.

“What, like a fire or something?” 

Adam shakes his head quickly, his eyes wide, teary, rimmed with red.

 “No. Not exactly.” 

“Then what the fuck are you talking about?” 

Adam sighs, frustration flashing across his face for a brief moment before he looks away again. 

“I had a teacher,” Adam says. “Mr. Keyes.”

Nigel’s gut clenches at the name, a strange sense of dread creeping up his spine. Adam’s voice is different now—softer, more distant, like he’s telling a story from far away.

“Everyone loved him,” Adam continues. “I liked him too. He was a good teacher.”

Nigel’s heart skips a beat. He doesn’t like where he thinks this is fucking going. 

“But—there was this game the kids would play in class,” Adam says, his brow furrowing like he’s trying to make sense of it himself. He gestures with his hands, and Nigel watches the way his fingers move, delicate and trembling. “They said it was like kicking field goals, but with your fingers.”

Nigel nods slowly, remembering. “Yeah, we used to do it with a folded-up piece of paper,” he murmurs.

Adam nods too, his lips pressed into a thin line. “Right. But we did it with erasers. Like I said—they’d all play it, and, um, it got really disruptive one day. They were so loud— and I hated it when they screamed or—or cheered.” 

Nigel shifts closer, his knee brushing against Adam’s leg.

“It was so loud,” Adam repeats. 

Adam’s voice cracks as he sits there beside Nigel, this trembling mess of nerves and emotion. “Mr. Keyes noticed it too, and I just... I didn’t know what to do. I was overwhelmed.” His breath hitches, and his eyes dart around the room, like he’s trying to piece together how he’s going to say this. “So I grabbed the eraser from the kid next to me, and... and I was the one he caught doing it.”

His lips press together in this trembling little pout, pink and swollen from all the anxious chewing he’s been doing. He’s got that look, the one he gets when he’s about to cry but is trying so damn hard not to, like he’s clinging to the last bit of composure he’s got. His eyelashes flutter, dark and wet, clinging together as his eyes fill up with tears, and Nigel just watches, feeling his stomach tighten at the sight of him so fragile like that. 

“He y-yelled at me,” Adam stammers, his voice catching like it hurts him to say it out loud. His lips wobble again, and Nigel can’t stop staring at them, that small, almost imperceptible tremor that makes them look soft and vulnerable, like they’d fall apart at the slightest touch. “He thought I did it.”

Adam shrugs, this tiny, pitiful motion, like he’s already bracing for the next wave of emotion to crash over him. His pink cheeks flush darker, and his lower lip trembles so much it makes Nigel’s hand twitch in his lap, fighting the urge to reach out and brush his thumb over it, just to feel how soft it is.

He just watches, hands gripping his knees to keep still as Adam swallows again, his voice getting quieter like he’s afraid to say more. “And it was loud too,” Adam whispers, voice so soft Nigel almost doesn’t catch it, but there’s a sharpness in it, like the memory still stings. “Something about it just made me so angry because... it wasn’t my fault.”

His voice cracks on the last word, and Nigel watches the tears well up, brimming on the edge of his lower lashes, threatening to fall. Adam’s face scrunches up, this sad, lost expression.

“I was being singled out, even though I wasn’t the one w-who did it.”

Nigel lets out a quiet grunt, trying to keep his expression neutral. “Sure.” 

He nods, like that’s all the sympathy he can muster, not really sure where this story is going or why the hell Adam’s getting so worked up over it. Kids do stupid shit all the time, get caught doing it, get yelled at. It’s part of growing up. 

But Adam looks devastated, his blue eyes so wide and wet. 

“It just seemed so unfair, and it was so loud and... and I’d never felt that angry before.”

Adam’s breath hitches again, and he stumbles over his words, trying to explain through the haze of emotion. “So I... I took the eraser, and I threw it. As hard as I could. Because I was just sick of being yelled at.”

His voice breaks on that last part, and his shoulders shake. “It went flying through the air.” His lips part as he says it, the words coming out in this breathless whisper, like he’s still in awe. “I’d never seen something fly so fast.” 

Nigel doesn’t say anything, just watches as a tear finally breaks free, slipping down Adam’s flushed cheek, tracing a path along the soft curve of his face. It catches the light, shimmering like a tiny star against his pale skin, before it falls and disappears into the fabric of his shirt. Adam looks up at him then, his eyes pleading, like he’s waiting for Nigel to say something, anything.

“And it hit him in the eye,” Adam whispers, his voice so quiet it’s almost lost between them. “R-right in the eye.”

Nigel blinks, his brows furrowing as the words register. He lifts a hand, then drops it, unsure what to do with it.

 “Wait… you knocked out your teacher’s eye?”

Adam shakes his head, his eyes going wide in panic, and he stammers, his voice breaking with frustration. “I didn’t… I didn’t knock it out. I just—there was, um…” His lips tremble again, and his voice falls into this pitiful, frustrated little whimper. “Apparently, there was some bits of lead still on the eraser… and they got stuck in his eye and they had to remove it.”

Nigel stares for a second, then his lips twitch into a grin he can’t quite suppress. 

“So, you knocked out your teacher’s eye.”

“I wasn’t t-trying to.” 

Nigel tries, really tries to keep it in. His lips split into a grin, and a laugh bubbles up, uncontrollable, breaking through the tension in the room. He raises a hand to his mouth like he can hide it, but it’s no use. He bursts into laughter, his shoulders shaking as he leans back in his seat.

Adam’s face crumples, and he looks away, lips parting in a silent gasp, like Nigel’s laughter is the worst fucking thing he could’ve done. But Nigel can’t stop. He rubs at his eyes, trying to calm himself down, but the more he thinks about it, the funnier it gets. 

“Oh my fucking god.”

Adam glares at him, lips drawn into a tight line, eyes blazing with anger and hurt, but it only makes Nigel laugh harder.

“Well,” Adam mutters, his voice low and shaky, “it gets worse.”

“How… how the fuck does it get worse than you knocking out your teacher’s eye?”

Adam’s eyes fill with fresh tears, and he sniffles, his voice breaking as he says, “He had to wear an eye patch and—”

Nigel loses it. His laughter rings out loud and unfiltered. “An eye patch?” he gasps between fits of laughter. “Jesus Christ, that’s—”

Adam’s lips press into a thin line, his eyes narrowing as he shakes his head, like he’s disgusted with Nigel.

 “And all the kids started calling him Blackbeard.”

Nigel wipes at his eyes, still laughing, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. 

“That’s fucking incredible.”

Adam looks like he’s about to cry again, his shoulders shaking, but this time it’s not from the sadness—it’s from the anger bubbling up, the frustration of Nigel laughing at something so deeply painful to him.

“They started calling him Blackbeard,” Adam repeats, his voice shaking with hurt, like he’s laying his soul bare and Nigel knows he’s stomping all over it. “And they wouldn’t stop.” He takes a deep, trembling breath, swiping at the tears that won’t stop rolling down his flushed cheeks. “Even the other teachers started calling him that behind his back. His life just... fell apart.”

Nigel’s laughter dies down slowly. He glances at Adam, finally catching the fire in his gaze, the way his teary blue eyes glare at him, cutting through the fog of his amusement. 

“Gorgeous,” Nigel breathes out, shaking his head, “that’s—fuck, that’s terrible.”

Adam sniffs, wiping at his face. “He wouldn’t even leave his house after that,” he says. “He took a leave of absence, and nobody knew if he’d come back.”

Nigel hums, the last of his laughter fading into a smirk that clings to the corners of his lips. He looks at Adam, still trembling, cheeks blotchy from all the crying, and he almost feels bad. Almost. 

“Your dad made you take second grade again after that?”

Adam nods, and his voice is thick with tears. “Yeah. He thought it’d be... better for me. To repeat the year.”

Nigel smacks his lips. “That’s pretty fucked up.”

“It is.”

Nigel watches him, eyes tracing the tear-streaks on his cheeks, the way his lips tremble, like he’s still on the verge of breaking down. His hand twitches again, the urge to reach out and touch Adam, to feel that warmth of his skin, to swipe his thumb over that soft, trembling lip. But instead, Nigel just sighs, letting the moment sit heavy between them. 

His expression softens, and his voice comes out quieter than he means it to. 

“What’s he do now? Your teacher?”

Adam shrugs, his head hanging lower. “I think he’s back to teaching.” His eyes lift just enough to glance at Nigel, his gaze watery and full of this unbearable sadness.

 “You really fucked up his life, huh?” 

Adam nods slowly, his eyes squeezing shut as fresh tears spill over. “I guess I did,” he whispers, and his voice breaks in that way that makes Nigel’s chest tighten with something fierce and fiery.

Adam turns away from him, shoulders shaking with the weight of it all, like he’s collapsing under the weight of his own guilt. His sobs are quiet, muffled by the way he hunches over, hiding his face from Nigel, but they shake him all the same.

Nigel's heart twists in his chest like a rusty blade, scraping at his ribs as he watches Adam's skinny shoulders shake. Nigel swallows hard, feeling a lump in his throat that he can’t get rid of, like there’s too much inside him to put words to. He wants to reach out and fix it, but he doesn’t know how. Doesn’t know if it’s even something that can be fixed.

"God. Hey, hey." 

His voice comes out softer than it should, a little rough, a little unsure. He reaches forward, his hand hovering in the air for a second before he touches Adam’s face, his fingertips grazing his cheek. Nigel’s never been the gentle type, never had to be, but with Adam, it’s different. He cups Adam’s face, turning it gently, trying to coax him out of that dark place he’s drowning in.

Adam won’t look at him, though. His eyes are glued to the floor, fixed on some invisible point like if he just stares hard enough, he can escape everything that’s eating him alive. His lashes—thick and dark—are heavy with tears that cling to them, waiting to fall. And when they do, they slip down slowly, cutting little glistening paths over his flushed cheeks, trailing down to his swollen lips. Lips that are trembling, just like the rest of him. Lips that are red and bitten.

Nigel watches those tears, feels something in his gut tighten as they slide down, one after another. Adam’s pretty when he cries. There’s no other way to say it. He’s pretty in a way Nigel’s never seen before, not in real life, at least. Not up close. Those carolina blue eyes, glossy with unshed tears, shimmer in the dim light, reflecting the world back like glass. A doll that’s been left in a corner, too beautiful to touch, yet too fragile to leave behind.

There’s something delicate about it, something raw and honest, like Adam’s letting every wall he’s ever built come crashing down in front of him, and Nigel is the only one here to see it. The only one who’s allowed to. 

"Come on," Nigel murmurs, his voice low. His thumb moves of its own accord, swiping away one of those tears from Adam’s cheek, and the warmth of his skin sends a jolt through Nigel that he wasn’t expecting. It’s soft under his rough thumb, soft in a way that makes him feel something dangerous in his chest, something heavy and hungry that he can’t quite name. He pushes it down. Now’s not the time.

 "It was an accident. You were just a kid."

He’s trying to sound reassuring, but there’s something off in his tone, something dark lurking under the surface, and he’s not sure if Adam can hear it or not. Hell, Nigel can hear it, feel it, curling around his words like smoke. There’s a part of him that wants to comfort Adam, to tell him it’s all gonna be okay, but there’s another part—a bigger, darker part—that’s hungry. Hungry in ways Nigel’s trying hard not to think about right now.

But Adam leans into the touch, trembling all the while, and it makes Nigel’s heart stutter in his chest. He watches the way Adam’s body reacts, like he’s so used to feeling fragile that a simple touch has him on the edge of falling apart completely. His breath catches in his throat, and for a second, Nigel thinks he might be the one to break.

"Forget about it," Nigel says, shaking his head. 

But Adam shakes his head, too, more tears spilling down his face. "It’s not the kind of thing you just forget. It wasn’t an accident."

Nigel clenches his jaw, shaking his head again, looking away for a second as if he can avoid the weight of Adam’s words. But he can’t. He knows Adam believes it, knows he’s been carrying this guilt for years, like some kind of twisted fucking badge of honor.

"You were seven years old, Adam," Nigel says, turning back to him. His hand slides down from Adam’s cheek, resting on his chin, thumb finally brushing over that bottom lip, swollen and wet from tears and biting. It’s a simple touch, but it feels like it’s burning Nigel from the inside out. He feels the tremble in Adam’s lip under his thumb, and he has to grit his teeth to keep himself steady.

Adam shakes his head, a frantic, desperate motion that sends more tears tumbling down. 

"No, listen. Mr. Keyes was… he was special."

Nigel sighs, leaning back slightly, trying to clear his head. 

"Adam," he says, voice low and soft.

But Adam doesn’t stop. His voice cracks again, more tears falling as he says, "And because of me, his life was ruined."

Nigel pulls his hand away, frustration bubbling up in his chest. He wants to tell him that none of this is his fault, that he’s been torturing himself for no fucking reason. But he knows it won’t help. Adam’s been carrying this guilt for too long, too deep. It’s wrapped around him like chains, and Nigel’s not sure how to break them.

Adam’s breath comes faster now, his chest heaving, his words spilling out in a rush. "Do you know why I let Chris push me around like he did? Why I let him make me eat that burger?" His voice rises, filled with a kind of frantic desperation. "Because nothing good comes from me making my own decisions. The one time I let myself react the way I wanted to, I ruined a person’s life."

Nigel watches him, his eyes tracing over Adam’s features, the way his face twists with guilt and sorrow. Adam’s like a live wire, all tense and trembling, and Nigel feels that pull inside him again—stronger this time, darker. He wants to fix it. 

"So maybe you’re right," Adam says, his voice barely above a whisper now, broken and hollow. "Maybe I am a waste of space."

Those words hit Nigel. It’s not just the words—it’s the way Adam says them, like he believes it with every fiber of his being. Like he’s accepted it as some kind of truth he can’t escape. And Nigel fucking hates it. He hates it with every part of himself.

Adam wipes his tears away with the back of his hand, but they just keep coming, his breath hitching in his chest. He’s angry now, glaring at the floor, at the entire world, at himself. 

And that’s when it hits him. All of it, all at once. This isn’t where they’re supposed to be. This isn’t what their lives are supposed to be like. Adam isn’t supposed to be here, hating himself, believing he’s worthless. Nigel isn’t supposed to be watching it happen, feeling helpless. None of this is right.

Nigel looks at Adam, really looks at him, and suddenly it’s so clear. Adam’s spent his whole life letting himself be pushed around, letting himself be treated like fucking dirt because he thinks he deserves it. He thinks he’s ruined someone’s life, so he’s ruined his own in return, punishing himself for something that wasn’t even his fault. He’s snuffed out his own light, trapped himself in this little shell, this trembling frame, because he’s too scared to live. Too scared to make a mistake, to hurt someone again.

But Nigel can’t take it anymore. He can’t watch Adam live like this, trapped in his own mind, hating himself. He wants to grab him, tell him that he’s wrong. That he’s not a waste of space, that he’s amazing, that he’s the only thing in Nigel’s life that makes sense.

Nigel’s chest tightens, and suddenly he knows what they need to do. This town—it’s done all it can for them. It brought them together, sure, but now it’s time to move on. To get out. To find something better. Something more.

"You said he’s back to teaching?" Nigel asks, his voice low, but there’s a spark of something behind it—something new.

Adam looks up, his eyes wide, still wet with tears. He nods, slowly, like he’s not sure where this is going.

"New York, right?" 

Adam nods again, more confused this time. 

"I don’t see why that matters.”

But Nigel just grins, a slow, wild smile spreading across his face.

 "Time to pack a fucking bag, doll."

Nigel stands. He feels it immediately—a sudden, desperate tug at his shirt, the fabric pulled taut against his back. He stops, the force of the tug freezing him in his tracks, and he turns.

Adam’s eyes are wide and wild, filled with a kind of frantic energy that Nigel has seen countless times before but never like this. There’s a panic in them that cuts right through the air between them, sharp and palpable, like the room’s suddenly too small to contain it all. Adam’s curls bounce with the rapid shaking of his head, each motion frantic, uncontrolled, as if by shaking hard enough he can undo the path they’re already on.

“Nigel, we can’t,” Adam’s voice cracks, barely more than a whisper, but every word feels like it’s dragged out of him, laced with raw desperation. 

Nigel pries Adam’s hand off his shirt, fingers uncurling with a quick, efficient motion. His voice is calm, almost bored in its simplicity. 

“We are.”

And with that, he turns away, his body already moving again, as if the conversation, the pleading, hasn’t even registered. He makes it a few steps, the hallway stretching out before him like a tunnel, every step echoing in the oppressive silence, before he feels it again. This time, it’s not his shirt, but his hand—Adam’s fingers latch onto his wrist, the touch frantic, almost clumsy, but so full of desperation it nearly burns.

Adam’s voice is there again, stumbling over itself, breathless and broken. 

“We don’t need to do this. It’s not—”

Nigel pulls his hand free with a sharp, fluid motion, cutting off Adam’s words mid-sentence. 

“I think I’ve got a better idea of what you need than you do, gorgeous.” 

Adam groans in frustration, the sound low and pained, and his hand flies up to his curls, tugging at them, fingers weaving through the strands as if pulling at his own hair might relieve some of the pressure building inside him.

 “You can’t take me to New York, Nigel. That’s miles away—it’s too far. I need to stay here. We can’t.”

Nigel’s shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, the movement almost lazy, dismissive. He doesn’t even turn around to look at Adam, doesn’t need to. 

“I don’t see why not.” 

The silence that follows is thick, suffocating, broken only by the sound of Adam’s stumbling footsteps as he struggles to catch up, each one a little too fast, a little too panicked. “Nigel, Nigel,” Adam’s voice is strained, almost a whine, as he calls out again, his breath hitching in his chest. 

Nigel turns into his room, and as he does, he glances back over his shoulder. Adam’s frozen in the doorway, hovering there like he can’t bring himself to cross the threshold. His eyes are wide, filled with something that’s part fear, part desperation.

“I’m telling you,” Adam’s voice cracks again. “We… we can’t do this. I don’t want to go.” 

Nigel lets out a long, slow sigh, his body relaxing as he reaches for the black duffel bag that’s been lying in the corner, worn and old, just like everything else in this room. He starts stuffing clothes into it with a methodical, almost mechanical motion, like he’s done this a hundred times before, like packing up and leaving is second nature to him. It is. 

“Relax,” he murmurs, voice low and coaxing. “Don’t you trust me?”

He doesn’t bother looking back, doesn’t wait for a response. Adam’s silence feels heavy behind him, a presence all on its own, filled with tension. Nigel knows Adam’s watching him, knows that Adam’s mind is racing, probably trying to come up with a hundred different ways to stop this, but none of them are going to work.

“I don’t know,” Adam’s voice is barely above a whisper, the words so quiet they almost get lost in the space between them. “But I can’t… please, Nigel. Please, don’t make me go. I need to stay here.”

There’s something about the way Adam says it—about the way his voice cracks and breaks, about the rawness of it—that settles deep in Nigel’s chest, hot and uncomfortable, like a flame that won’t stop burning. He doesn’t want to feel it. He shoves more clothes into the bag, his movements growing rougher, more aggressive, like he can pack away the feeling with every item he crams inside.

“Please, Nigel. He might not even be there, you’re not thinking logically. What are you going to do if we get there and find.. find nothing? ” 

Nigel laughs, a sharp, bitter sound that feels out of place in the quiet room. He grabs a crumpled pair of jeans from the floor, throwing them into the bag without a second glance. 

“I’ve never thought clearer in my fucking life, actually.”

Behind him, Adam makes a frustrated noise, and Nigel hears the soft, dull sound of flesh hitting wood. He doesn’t bother turning to check, but he knows Adam’s just smacked his hand against the wall, knows that frustration is coursing through him in waves now. 

But Nigel’s unmoved. He keeps packing, keeps moving with the same steady, determined motions. Because Adam doesn’t know what’s good for him. Because Adam doesn’t know what he needs. But Nigel does. 

“Nigel, please,” Adam’s voice breaks through the quiet again. “You—you can’t just manipulate other people’s lives.”

Nigel lets the bag drop to the floor with a heavy thud, turning on his heel in one swift, smooth motion. He crosses the room in just a few steps, closing the distance between them until he’s right in front of Adam, who’s still standing in the doorway, frozen in place.

Without a word, Nigel’s hand shoots out, fingers tangling into Adam’s hair, grabbing a fistful of the curls at the back of his head. His other hand cups Adam’s face, rough and firm, pulling him forward until their faces are inches apart, their breaths mingling in the heated space between them. Adam’s breath hitches, his hands fluttering up, like he wants to push Nigel away but can’t quite bring himself to do it.

Nigel’s voice drops low, a dangerous edge cutting through his words as he speaks directly into Adam’s ear. “I’m not fucking messing with anybody.” His grip tightens, his fingers digging into Adam’s scalp, forcing their gazes to meet. Adam’s eyes flicker, landing somewhere on Nigel’s forehead, unable to look him in the eye, but Nigel doesn’t care. He knows Adam’s listening.

“I’m doing this for your own good,” Nigel growls.

Adam nods, a small, reluctant motion, but it’s there. Nigel can feel the resistance melting, just a little, just enough. 

The air between them feels thicker now, heavy with an electric tension that thrums in his veins, sharper with every shaky inhale Adam takes. He feels it deep in his gut, the way Adam is practically vibrating under his hands—frightened, confused, but still there, still present, still letting Nigel do whatever he wants. Nigel revels in that quiet moment.

“I’m doing this for you,” Nigel says again, his fingers digging into the curls at the back of Adam’s head, twisting them tighter. “For your own good. You’ll see it when this is over.” 

Adam’s lips tremble, parted in a way that makes his breathing sound erratic, shallow. His hands flutter again, grazing Nigel’s arms before falling weakly back to his sides, as though every movement takes more effort than it should. He’s not fighting. Not really. There’s something heady in that realization—that Adam, despite everything, is right here in his grasp. Like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. 

Nigel leans in even closer, and whispers, “You think you know best, don’t you?”

Adam opens his mouth, maybe to protest, maybe to reason, but Nigel doesn’t give him the chance. He tilts Adam’s head back roughly, his grip almost possessive, demanding his attention.

 "Always in control, about staying calm, like it’s some holy thing. But what’s it gotten you? You’re still here, aren't you? With me."

There’s a sharp inhale from Adam, a small sound that’s swallowed quickly, but Nigel catches it. His eyes flick down to Adam’s parted lips, so close he can feel the warmth radiating from them, can almost taste the salt of Adam’s skin. Adam’s chest rises and falls faster now, and Nigel can feel it, the way Adam’s body is reacting, even if his mind is fighting it.

"W-why do you do this?" Adam finally breathes out, his voice shaky, but there’s something steady underneath it, a curiosity, a challenge almost. "What is it you’re trying to…to prove?"

Nigel smirks, but there’s something almost fragile about it. “I’m not trying to prove anything,” he says. “I’m trying to wake you up.”

"Wake me up w-what?" Adam murmurs, and this time, it’s almost defiant, like he’s daring Nigel to take that next step.

Nigel exhales sharply, his patience thinning. "To this," he hisses. "To what’s right in front of you. You keep thinking you can keep it all in, keep everything safe and fucking neat in your little world. But it doesn’t work like that. Not with me."

“You think you k-know what I want,” Adam whispers. “But maybe you don’t.”

"You think I don’t know?" Nigel breathes, his voice dangerous, quiet. "I know exactly what you want. You want someone who can drag it out of you, rip you out of that fucking safe little shell you’ve built." He’s closer now, his lips ghosting over Adam’s cheek, and his voice is barely a whisper, rough, possessive. “You just don’t want to admit it yet.”

Adam’s voice is barely audible when he speaks. “Nigel, please… don’t…”

Nigel doesn’t let him finish. He brings their faces even closer, his breath hot against Adam’s cheek, “You say nothing good comes from reacting. Well, how about never reacting at all?” 

His grip tightens on Adam’s curls, jerking his head just enough to make his point, watching the way Adam winces, his body going rigid under Nigel’s hands. “Do you think that’s safer?” 

Adam shakes his head, best he can with Nigel’s grip still tight in his hair, his lips parting in a soft, pained sound. 

Nigel’s voice lowers, and he brings their foreheads together, their skin brushing, and the sensation makes Adam’s breath hitch again. There’s something about this closeness, the way they’re almost touching but not quite, the warmth of Adam’s breath ghosting over Nigel’s lips, that sends a rush of heat coursing through Nigel’s veins.

 “Because it’s not,” he murmurs, soft now, deceptively calm. “Let me show you.”

Without warning, Nigel’s fist sinks into Adam’s stomach, the blow landing hard enough to make Adam double over, clutching at his midsection with a loud whimper. Nigel feels the resistance leave Adam’s body in an instant, his legs trembling as he tries to stay upright, the pain washing over him in waves. But Nigel doesn’t let him collapse—his hand is still tangled in Adam’s hair, still holding him up, keeping him right where he wants him.

Adam’s whimpering fills the room, soft and breathless, and it sends a jolt of something through Nigel’s chest. He runs his free hand through Adam’s curls, smoothing them down, almost tender, like he’s comforting him, though the intention is anything but. 

He leans down, voice loud. “Do you see what happens when you do nothing?”

Adam doesn’t respond, his breaths coming fast and shallow, body still trembling as he clutches his stomach, fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt like he’s trying to ground himself. His face is flushed, pain and something else like euphoria flickering behind his eyes, and Nigel can feel it, that hot rush of adrenaline flooding his veins, filling him with a dangerous kind of clarity.

Nigel exhales slowly, and his words come out soft, almost coaxing, “Now, I’ve spent hours listening to you come up with excuse after excuse for being the person that you are.” 

 He brushes his thumb over Adam’s cheek, feeling the heat of his skin, watching the way Adam’s eyes flutter closed for just a moment, like he’s trying to escape into the briefest moment of calm.

“And now,” Nigel continues, his hand still twisted in Adam’s hair, “we’re going to do something about it.” 

With a firm tug, Nigel pulls Adam up again, dragging his body upright until they’re face-to-face once more. He cups Adam’s cheeks with both hands this time, rough and steady, holding him in place as Adam’s shaky breaths puff out between them. He’s softer now, brushing the pad of his thumb along the line of Adam’s jaw, trailing it down the side of his neck.

Adam leans into the touch, instinctive, desperate, though the tremble never leaves him. He’s still clutching his stomach, his face tight with lingering pain, and Nigel watches him closely, every shiver, every sharp breath, committing it all to memory.

“We’re going to find this fucking cyclops teacher of yours, and we’re going to see if he’s really worth throwing your entire life away over.” 

He pulls back just enough to brush a stray curl from Adam’s forehead, tucking it behind his ear with a deliberate, calculated gentleness that feels entirely out of place.

“And I bet you,” Nigel says with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “he’s really not.”

Nigel leans back. “We’re already here, Adam. We’ve come all this way,” he says, his voice soft now, almost soothing in its simplicity. There’s a strange kind of finality to it, as though he’s stating the obvious, something that can’t be argued. “I’m going to make you see. And I’m not leaving until you realize what an amazing fucking thing you are.”

Adam doesn’t respond, not verbally, but his body language says it all. The tension, the fear, the pain—it’s all written in the way his shoulders slump, in the way he leans into Nigel’s hand, still trembling, still silent.

Nigel nods, satisfied with Adam’s quiet compliance, and he gives a small, almost affectionate tug on his curls before stepping back completely. He watches the way Adam’s body sags in relief, the way his breath hitches as he tries to steady himself, though the trembling doesn’t stop.

“Good boy,” Nigel murmurs, his voice low and warm. Adam shudders at the words, his body instinctively leaning into the praise, even if he doesn’t realize it.

Nigel turns, moving Adam towards the bed, and he grabs the worn blanket from the edge, pulling it up and wrapping it around Adam’s shoulders, tucking it tight around his trembling form. He steps back for a moment, watching the way Adam curls into the warmth, his body still shaking but somehow softer now, more pliant. He runs his knuckles along Adam’s cheek, down to his chin, tilting his head up gently, guiding his gaze.

“As much as I like it,” Nigel murmurs, voice soft and coaxing, “you’re still going to need more than just my shirt to wear if we’re going to New York.”

Adam’s shivering, his body still tense, but he nods, a small, hesitant movement, barely perceptible. Nigel smiles, satisfied, stepping away from him to pick up his duffel bag again.

He says, almost as an afterthought, “Your dad at home?”

“H-he’s at work.”

Nigel nods, turning back toward the bed, a small smirk playing on his lips as he watches Adam settle into the blanket, still trembling, still quiet.

“Think about what you want to pack,” Nigel says.

By the time they’re in the car, Nigel grips the steering wheel a little tighter than he should. The silence is suffocating in the truck, a kind of thick quiet that clings to everything, even the air. Adam’s next to him, stiff as a board, still cradling his stomach like he’s protecting it from the world—or maybe from Nigel. He hasn’t said much since they got in the car. Barely a word. His face is turned toward the window, like he can’t bear to look at Nigel, and it twists something ugly in Nigel’s gut.

Nigel glances over, just for a second, his eyes darting quickly to Adam before flicking back to the road. He’s trying to focus on the driving, but his mind keeps circling back, obsessing over that tight grip Adam has on his middle. He wonders if the skin under Adam’s shirt is a mess of bruises, all blotched purple and yellow, a roadmap of pain written in blotches and tenderness. 

He should check—should’ve checked before they even left—but something in him couldn’t do it. Couldn’t bear to lift Adam’s shirt and see the damage he’d done. He doesn’t want to think about how he’d react. So, instead, he keeps driving.

In the backseat, his bags rattle with every bump in the road. His shotgun’s propped up against the door, leaning casually like it belongs there, like it’s just another piece of their life. Among the mess of duffel bags and random junk, their stuffed animals sit awkwardly, thrown in last minute. That, and the large bag of cash from Darko, the one Nigel shoved in without thinking, though it’s been sitting untouched for God knows how long. The cash feels like a lead weight in the back of his mind, a reminder of all the things he hasn’t done with it, all the things he refused to do because of his pride. The money had always felt wrong—like charity, like pity, like something meant for someone weaker than him, someone who needed help. But now, with Adam curled up beside him, all twisted up in pain and silence, Nigel knows he’ll need it. They’ll need it.

Days. That’s how long it’s gonna take to get where they’re going. It’s not a short drive, not some quick escape. They’ll be on the road for days, with long stretches of highway and cheap, rundown motels in between. The kind of motels where the carpets are stained, the sheets smell like mildew, and the neon signs outside flicker, half-burnt out. Nigel’s been in enough of them to know exactly what they’ll be like. He knows Adam won’t handle it well, won’t handle the change—the constant moving, the unfamiliarity of it all. But it’s what they have to do. It’s the only way out, the only way forward. 

Adam’s been muttering the directions in short bursts, barely speaking above a whisper. Every time he does, it’s like he’s choking on the words, like they hurt to get out. He’s pissed off. Nigel knows that much without having to ask. Adam’s voice, his body language—it’s all screaming anger and hurt, but Nigel can’t bring himself to address it. Can’t bring himself to apologize, either, because if he does, if he says the words, then Adam’s gonna think Nigel didn’t mean what he said. And he did. He meant every word.

The road ahead stretches out, long and winding, framed by nothing but scrubby trees and flat land as far as the eye can see. The silence between them is thick, like a fog they’re both wading through, and it’s starting to grate on Nigel. He blows out a long, slow breath, the kind you take when you’re trying to convince yourself everything’s fine, that this isn’t as bad as it feels. They’re gonna be okay. A couple days on the road, just the two of them—it can’t be all that bad.

He’s telling himself that as much as he’s telling Adam. But the truth is, Nigel’s not sure. He’s not sure about a lot of things right now, and the way Adam’s body language feels like a closed door isn’t helping. He glances at Adam again, but Adam’s still turned away, still staring out the window at nothing. His lips move a little, mouthing the directions like they’re the only words he can manage right now. Nigel turns, following the curve of the road that leads them deeper into town, toward wherever the hell Adam’s house is.

They pull up to it eventually, and Nigel cuts the engine, the rumble dying out into the stillness. The house is… fine. It’s not what Nigel expected, but then again, nothing about Adam is what he expected. The place looks sturdier than Nigel’s own home, more modern, like it’s been plopped down in the middle of this dying town by mistake. It’s small, though, just like everything else around here. One floor, little windows that peek out like eyes, but there’s something about it that feels… wrong. It doesn’t suit Adam, doesn’t fit the picture Nigel has of him.

Nigel raises an eyebrow and looks at Adam.

 “This is it?”

Adam’s been staring at the house like it’s the last lifeline he’s got, his wide blue eyes glassy, a mixture of hope and something sadder that Nigel can’t quite place. He nods, his head jerking slightly like he’s afraid to give a full answer. Nigel shifts his gaze back to the house, trying to picture Adam living here, growing up inside these walls. It doesn’t fit. He can’t see it. 

The house might be sturdy, but the town around it is crumbling, falling apart at the edges, and the thought of Adam trapped here, suffocating under the weight of all this dying life, makes Nigel’s chest tighten. Adam’s too alive for a place like this, too full of nervous energy and that quiet kind of passion.

Nigel doesn’t move right away. He stares at the house for a moment longer, his thoughts drifting, before he finally opens the door and steps outside. Adam’s door opens a moment later, and Nigel hears the soft sound of his footsteps on the gravel as he moves toward the front of the house. He watches as Adam crouches down, reaching under a rock to pull out a spare key, and Nigel can’t help the small snort that escapes him.

Adam straightens, glances over his shoulder at Nigel. His voice is quiet, almost too quiet, when he says, “You don’t have to come in.”

Nigel shrugs. “I know.”

There’s a pause, a moment where Adam stands there, key in hand, looking like he wants to say something else. But he doesn’t. Instead, he turns back to the door and unlocks it, stepping inside with a hesitance that Nigel doesn’t miss. Nigel watches for a beat, then follows him in, his boots thudding softly against the floor as they move into the small house.

The living room is neat. Too neat. Nigel feels out of place, like some stray dog that’s wandered into the wrong house. The furniture’s all simple, nothing fancy, but it’s arranged so carefully, so perfectly, that Nigel feels too rough, too raw to be in the same space. 

He follows Adam down a narrow hallway, the walls lined with framed photos he doesn’t bother to look at. They stop at a door, and Adam hesitates again, his hand on the doorknob like he’s second-guessing himself. Nigel clicks his tongue, a small sound meant to hurry Adam along, and finally, Adam turns the knob and steps inside.

Nigel’s eyes widen when he steps into the room. It’s like stepping back in time, into some preserved memory of Adam’s childhood. The whole place is space-themed—posters of planets and galaxies plastered on every wall, the bed covered in sheets with stars and constellations, and tiny models of planets hanging from the ceiling, suspended like a miniature solar system. It’s like nothing’s changed since Adam was a kid. Like this room has been frozen in time, untouched by the years that passed.

Nigel takes a slow breath, letting it fill his lungs. This… this is Adam. This is the part of him that Nigel’s never really seen before, the part that’s all wrapped up in childhood dreams of stars and planets, in a fascination with worlds far away. It’s so different from the Adam he knows now, the Adam who’s always so damn anxious, so wound up. But at the same time, it’s not different at all. This room makes sense in a way Nigel can’t quite explain. It fits.

He steps closer to the bed, eyes drifting to a small model rocket sitting on the nightstand. It’s carefully built, detailed, like whoever made it took their time, pouring themselves into every piece. Nigel picks it up, turning it over in his hands with a kind of reverence. The plastic feels fragile, light. 

“Did you build this?” 

Adam moves closer, his footsteps soft. “Yes.”

Nigel doesn’t say anything right away. He just holds the rocket, looking at it, at the fine details, the care put into it. It’s like holding a piece of Adam’s soul, something he poured himself into when he was younger, something that still holds weight even now.

“It’s a Saturn V,” Adam says, his voice filled with pride.

Adam’s hands move as he describes, fingers tracing the invisible lines of the rocket’s structure.

 “The stages, they’re all separate. The first stage here,” he points to the base of the rocket, “is the S-IC. It’s the one that ignites and lifts the whole thing off the ground. It has five F-1 engines, really powerful ones. They burn a mix of kerosene and liquid oxygen.”

Nigel shifts his weight, still turning the rocket over in his hands, and something about holding it makes his chest feel heavy in a way he can’t really explain. The way Adam put it together, with so much care, so much detail—it’s not something you do if you don’t give a fuck. It’s not something you build if you’re not putting your whole self into it. Nigel feels his throat tighten just a little as he glances over at Adam, who’s standing close now, close enough that Nigel can feel his nervous energy radiating off him in waves.

Adam’s eyes dart from the floor to Nigel, then back again, like he’s not sure where to look, his hands twitching at his sides. He’s waiting for something—waiting for Nigel to say something, to do something, but Nigel doesn’t know what. Doesn’t know how to fix this tension hanging between them like a storm about to break. Instead, he lets out a low whistle, a soft sound that fills the quiet, and shakes his head.

 “You’re a fucking genius, you know that?”

Adam’s breath catches, just barely, and he shakes his head, his voice coming out in that low, half-mumbled way it always does when he’s feeling awkward or uncomfortable. “Not really. It’s just a model. I—I just followed the instructions.”

Nigel turns toward him fully, the rocket still in his hands, his eyes narrowing a little. “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re fucking smart, way smarter than you think. You don’t even see it, do you?”

Adam’s cheeks flush, a faint pink creeping up his neck and spreading across his face as he shifts uncomfortably on his feet. His hand comes up, fingers brushing over the back of his neck, a nervous habit Nigel’s seen a hundred times by now. 

“Not about things that matter,” Adam mutters, his gaze flicking away from Nigel, like he’s ashamed of the words coming out of his mouth.

Nigel can’t stop himself. He reaches out, his hand closing the small space between them, his fingers brushing against the side of Adam’s arm. It’s a light touch.

Adam doesn’t pull away, though his muscles tense under the light pressure. His lips press together, his brow furrowing. “I don’t feel human,” Adam admits quietly, his voice barely a breath. "I don’t feel like I fit.”

Nigel leans in closer, his hand sliding down Adam’s arm to give it a gentle squeeze. “You fit with me,” he says. “Nothing matters except you. You’re the only thing that’s real. All that other shit? It doesn’t matter. Just you.”

Adam’s eyes flicker up, wide and blue, shining in the dim light of the room, but they don’t stay there. He looks away quickly, his gaze darting to the floor, like he’s trying to hide the way his cheeks are burning.

Nigel pulls away and leans his weight against the wall, the rough, paint digging into the thin cotton of his shirt. His boots are scuffed, leaving dirty smudges on the worn-out carpet, but he doesn’t care. He’s too busy watching Adam, who’s doing a piss-poor job of packing his backpack. The kid’s fingers shake, clumsy as he fumbles with the clothes, trying to fold each piece with the kind of precision that feels all wrong in a moment like this. There’s too much tension in the air for neat little folds, but Adam’s trying—hell, he’s always trying, even when it doesn’t make sense.

Nigel doesn’t say anything, though. What’s there to say? So instead, he just watches, his arms folded across his chest, trying to pretend like he’s not paying attention to every single little thing the kid does. But he is, of course. Every nervous gesture, every quick glance toward him—Nigel notices it all.

The blue backpack Adam’s packing is old but in good condition, the kind of thing that doesn’t belong in Nigel’s world. The straps are still solid, no fraying or loose threads, and it’s clean, almost like it’s never seen a real rough day. It’s the clothes Adam’s packing, too. Sweaters, slacks, things that look like they belong on a teacher or a college student, all neat and proper.

Nigel can’t help but grin at the sight of it. 

His gaze drifts from the clothes to the room itself, a tiny little space that feels like a world unto itself. Adam’s got bookshelves—real bookshelves—packed tight with more books than Nigel’s ever seen in one place. All lined up, all in order, spines straight like they’re waiting for someone to pull them down and lose themselves in a world of words. It’s strange to him, the idea that anyone could find comfort in all those words. Nigel’s never been much of a reader—hell, he never had the patience for it. 

But Adam? The kid could probably spend hours buried in one of those fucking things, and it’s obvious, looking at the way the books are organized, that he does. Each one has its place, carefully slotted between others like they belong to some bigger picture only Adam can see.

The room itself is clean. Too clean, almost, but not in a way that makes it feel sterile or cold. No, it feels lived in, like every inch of it has been touched by Adam’s hands. There’s warmth here, in the colors of the blankets folded neatly at the foot of the bed, in the way the sunlight filters through the curtains, casting a soft, golden glow on everything it touches. It’s warm in a way Nigel’s never experienced before, not in a place like this. This room feels alive, like it’s breathing, like it’s got a heart all its own. And maybe that’s because it’s got Adam in it, with his nervous energy and that wide-open way he looks at the world, like he’s still trying to figure out where he fits into it.

Nigel shifts against the wall, feeling the warmth of the room seep into his bones, softening him in ways he doesn’t want to admit. It’s that familiar buzzing feeling, the one that always creeps in when he’s around Adam. He’s felt it before, this low hum in his chest that makes him restless, makes him want to do something—anything—but he never knows what. It’s like his body’s telling him to run, but his heart’s telling him to stay, to keep soaking up this warmth like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. And it is.

It’s the same feeling he had last night, that slow burn of something he won’t name because giving it a name would make it real, and he’s not ready for that. But it’s there, gnawing at him, tugging at the edges of his mind. It’s soft, like the touch of Adam’s hand when he’s not trembling, when he’s just there, close and warm. 

And this room—it’s magical in a way Nigel’s never experienced before. Not the kind of magic you read about in fairy tales, with spells and potions, but the kind that wraps around you, subtle and sweet, until you’re drowning in it. It’s in the way everything here feels like it belongs, like every single thing has its place, just like Adam. It’s innocence, pure and simple, and Nigel feels like a wolf in a lamb’s barn, out of place, dangerous. But he doesn’t care. He can’t bring himself to care about anything except for Adam, for the sweetness that radiates off him, seeping into the air like honey. He wants to take it in, let it soak into his skin, his blood, like some kind of drug that he knows he shouldn’t touch but can’t resist.

He’s on the verge of closing his eyes, of letting himself just drift in the feeling, when a sharp bang pulls him back to reality. His eyes snap to Adam, who’s standing there, trembling worse than before, staring down at a book he’s dropped. 

Sighing, Nigel pushes off the wall, his footsteps heavy as he walks over to where Adam’s standing, frozen. He bends down, picking up the book with one hand, glancing at the title before handing it back. It’s some thick, intellectual thing that Nigel wouldn’t even try to pretend he understands.

Adam takes the book, his eyes darting up to Nigel with this look that twists something deep inside him. The kid’s scared, like he’s bracing himself for Nigel to hit him, like he’s expecting it. And that—that hits Nigel harder than anything. Makes him feel like the lowest kind of fucking trash. He runs a hand through his hair, the motion rough, and lets out another sigh, this one heavier than the last.

Adam doesn’t say anything, just shoves the book into the bag, too forceful, like he’s trying to take out all his nerves on the pages. Nigel watches him for a second, then murmurs, “Adam.”

Before he can say anything else, Adam blurts, “I don’t want to leave.”

Nigel curses under his breath, not loud, just enough to let the frustration slip out. He moves closer, swatting Adam’s hands away from the pile of clothes with more force than necessary. He starts packing for Adam, the book, folding the sweaters himself, slower, more carefully than Adam was managing.

“It won’t be forever, doll.” The words come out low, almost a mumble, and Nigel isn’t sure if he believes them himself. But what else is there to say? He has to say something.

Adam’s frown deepens, his eyes dropping to the floor like he doesn’t believe a word Nigel’s saying. He probably doesn’t.

“I won’t let anything happen. Nothing’s going to hurt you.”

There’s a long pause before Adam finally speaks, his voice so quiet it’s barely there. 

“You hurt me.”

Nigel freezes, his hands stilling on the sweater he’s folding. The words hit him like a knife, and for a moment, he can’t think. He finishes folding the sweater, stuffing it into the bag, his movements stiff. “I hurt you because I care about you. We can’t keep having this conversation, Adam.” 

His voice is harsher than he means for it to be, but he’s tired—tired of trying to explain something that doesn’t have a simple answer.

Adam doesn’t say anything after that. He crawls onto the bed, pulling his knees up to his chest and burying his face in his arms. He peeks out, though, those big blue eyes staring at Nigel like they’re trying to see something that isn’t there. He wonders what the kid sees when he looks at him. A monster? Probably. 

He wouldn’t be wrong.

Nigel glances up, catches Adam’s gaze, and the kid quickly looks away, hiding his face again. That small, vulnerable move does something to Nigel, makes his heart ache in ways he’s not used to. He turns back to the packing but his mind’s racing.

“What’s New York like?” Nigel asks suddenly, the question popping out before he can stop himself.

Adam lifts his head slightly, blinking at the question. 

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never been.”

Adam tilts his head, thinking for a second before answering. “It’s loud.”

Nigel huffs a laugh at that. “That’s it? Just loud?”

Adam’s eyes drift to a distant point. “I used to go up to the roof of our apartment,” he murmurs. “It was my place to be alone, away from everything. On clear nights, I could see the stars, even though the city lights were always around. Orion was the one I could count on. No matter how much light pollution there was, Orion’s belt was always there.”

He pauses, as if replaying the scene in his mind. “I’d lie there on the roof. The stars felt like they were far away but also somehow close. It was like they were a secret, something just for me.”

Nigel stops what he’s doing, his hands still as he watches Adam. The kid’s face softens when he talks about the stars, like he’s letting himself get lost in the memory. Nigel’s chest tightens, something swelling inside him that he doesn’t quite understand.

“You miss it?” Nigel asks.

Adam shrugs, his expression a little sad. “Sometimes.”

“Why don’t you talk about it more?” 

Adam shifts in his seat. “It’s... hard to explain,” he murmurs. “When I’m there, it’s like I don’t need to say anything. I don’t have to explain why I’m feeling what I’m feeling. The stars, they don’t ask anything of me. It’s just quiet. Everything else—people, noise, expectations—doesn’t matter when I’m up there.”

Nigel watches him, feeling something stir again, that unfamiliar mix of empathy and curiosity. He tries to imagine it—Adam, alone on a rooftop, cradled gently by the rhythm of the world around him, while the distant hum of the city fades beneath the night sky. 

“Sounds... peaceful,” Nigel says after a moment.

Adam gives a small nod. “It was. Even the city felt... quieter. Like everything was far enough away that it couldn’t reach me. It was just me and the sky.”

A beat of silence passes between them. Nigel rubs a hand across the back of his neck, unsure why he feels the need to keep the conversation going but feeling like it matters. 

“What about now?” he asks softly. “Do you feel like that now?”

Adam glances down. “No. Not really.”

Nigel watches Adam’s fingers twitch, the subtle movements that seem to calm him in ways words never can.

“Maybe you’ll find somewhere else,” Nigel says, though the words feel inadequate. 

Adam offers a faint smile, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Maybe,” he says. 

Nigel clears his throat, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “I... I never had a place like that,” he admits, surprising even himself. “Never had a place that felt safe like that.”

Adam glances at him, curiosity flickering in his blue eyes. “You didn’t?”

Nigel shrugs, trying to play it off. “Didn’t exactly have the kind of life where peace and quiet were easy to come by. Always on the move, always... something happening.” He pauses, unsure why he’s sharing this. “Guess I don’t know what it’s like to have a place to escape to.”

Adam’s gaze softens a bit. “You should find one. Everyone needs a place like that.”

Nigel lets out a small, humorless laugh. “Yeah, maybe.”

There’s a long pause before Nigel speaks again. 

“There’ll be plenty of stars on the drive.”

Adam looks at him, curious, and Nigel focuses back on the clothes, his hands busy again.

 “I don’t… I don’t know the names of them. But maybe you can point them out to me. You know, if it isn’t too fucking cold.”

He glances up at Adam, and there it is—a small smile, tugging at the corners of the kid’s lips. It’s the kind of smile that makes Nigel feel like he’s done something right for once, like maybe, he’s not as much of a fucking screw-up as he thinks he is.

“Okay,” Adam says, his voice soft but certain. And just like that, the room feels a little warmer, the air a little lighter, as if the weight of the world has lifted just enough for Nigel to breathe.

It takes some coaxing—hell, more than that, it took everything Nigel had to get Adam in the car, convince him that leaving was the only way out. But now they’re finally here, cruising down some stretch of highway that looks like it hasn’t seen a decent car in years. The asphalt’s cracked, littered with old beer cans and cigarette butts, and the yellow lines down the middle are more a suggestion than anything real anymore. But Nigel doesn’t care about that. 

He’s got his foot on the gas, the engine humming under him like it’s just as desperate to leave that godforsaken town behind as he is. The car’s a piece of shit, sure, but it’s theirs now. It’s freedom wrapped in rust and peeling paint.

The goodbye sign flashes past them, crooked and faded, barely hanging on by a rusty bolt. It looks like the wind could knock it clean over any day now. Nigel watches it disappear in the rearview mirror, and something inside him loosens, like he’s finally shedding the weight of everything that place was, everything it did to them. That town was poison, slow and creeping. It sunk into their bones, leeching the life out of them day by day. And now? Now they’re gone. 

The sun’s setting low, sinking into the horizon like it’s tired of the day and just wants to rest. The sky’s this wild wash of pink and blue, the kind of colors you only see in postcards or cheap motel paintings, but out here, it’s real. The light hits the road, turning the cracked asphalt into something soft, almost glowing, and for a second, Nigel can’t help but think it’s beautiful in a way. 

The pinks are soft, like the blush on Adam’s cheeks when he’s flustered or embarrassed. That pale, rosy hue that spreads across his face when Nigel says something that catches him off guard. And the blues—Jesus, the blues remind him of Adam’s eyes. That clear, bright cobalt blue that always looks like it’s hiding something deeper, something Nigel can never quite reach.

He sneaks a glance at him now. Adam’s quiet, slouched in the passenger seat with his head leaned against the window, staring out at the fields of dead grass rolling past. His face is all sharp angles and soft lines, the way it always is when he’s lost in his head. His hair’s a mess, wild curls spilling down his forehead, some sticking to his skin where he’s been sweating. 

Nigel doesn’t feel like this is wrong, though. Not at all. In fact, he feels more right than he’s ever felt in his entire life. The weight of it, the certainty, sits low in his chest, heavy and comforting. He knows this is where they’re supposed to be. This road, this moment, this exact fucking stretch of highway—they were meant to find it. He’s never believed in fate or destiny or any of that mystical bullshit. Growing up in Romania, he got his fill of that—priests preaching about God’s plan, old women muttering about curses and blessings. Nigel never bought into any of it. But right now? Right now, with Adam beside him and the road stretching out like an open wound, he thinks maybe he’s starting to understand.

He remembers asking Adam, “But God might believe in you, you ever think of that?” Adam doesn’t believe in much, least of all himself. But Nigel? Nigel believes in him. He’s the only thing Nigel believes in anymore. 

But Nigel doesn’t think he’s God. 

He glances over at him again. Adam’s still lost in his thoughts, fingers now nervously drumming against the door. Nigel wishes he could reach over, take Adam’s hand and just hold it, ground him. But he doesn’t. Not yet. They’re not there yet, not in a way that would make sense. Instead, Nigel tightens his grip on the steering wheel and focuses on the road, the sun sinking lower.

He knows they’re going to come for them eventually. Adam will be marked missing, and when they find the bodies back at the diner, it’ll be all over the news. They’ll paint Nigel as the villain, the monster who dragged this poor, innocent kid into something dark. But Nigel doesn’t see it that way. Not at all. He’s saving Adam, giving him a chance at something real, something that’s not tainted by the shit lives they’ve been stuck in. But right now? Right now none of that matters. No one’s looking for them yet. They’re still ghosts, slipping through the cracks of the world, unseen. It’s just the two of them, out here in the middle of nowhere, Nigel feels like they’re the only people in the world.

Adam shifts in his seat, and that’s when Nigel notices the tremor in his hands. It’s small at first, barely there, but Nigel’s spent enough time with Adam to know the signs. The kid’s unraveling. His breathing’s picking up too, shallow and quick, like he’s trying to keep himself under control but failing miserably. Nigel bites the inside of his cheek, hoping maybe Adam’ll pull himself back together, but he knows better. He can see the way Adam’s fingers are twitching, the way his knee’s bouncing up and down like he can’t sit still.

The old Johnny Mathis song on the radio does nothing to calm him down, and by the time Nigel looks over again, Adam’s pulling at his hair, twisting his curls around his fingers so hard it looks like he’s trying to yank them out. His breath’s coming faster now, ragged, and his cheeks are flushed that same pink Nigel loves, but this time it’s not from embarrassment. 

It’s panic.

Nigel sighs, his shoulders sagging under the weight of it, and pulls the car over. They come to a slow stop on the side of the road, gravel crunching under the tires. There’s nothing out here, just miles and miles of dead grass and flat land, the horizon stretching on forever. No cars, no signs of life. Just them.

Adam’s still tugging at his hair, his face red and his chest heaving like he can’t get enough air. When a pained whimper slips out of him, it cuts right through Nigel. He reaches over, trying to touch Adam’s arm, to calm him down, but Adam jerks away, flinching like Nigel’s hand burns. His eyes are wide, wild, and before Nigel can stop him, Adam’s fumbling with the door handle, throwing it open and stumbling out of the car.

And then he’s running.

“Fuck,” Nigel curses, heart leaping into his throat. He shoves his door open and takes off after him, feet pounding against the cracked pavement. The car sits abandoned behind them, its headlights casting long, eerie shadows on the road. Nigel doesn’t bother closing the door, doesn’t think about anything but the fact that Adam is running, running like something’s chasing him, like he’s got somewhere to go. But there’s nowhere. There’s nothing out here.

The horizon’s endless, the fields empty, and Nigel knows that if Adam runs too far, he’ll just end up lost in the middle of it all, swallowed by the nothingness. Nigel can’t let that happen. Not now. Not after everything they’ve done, everything they’re about to do.

Adam skids to a stop up ahead. He’s hunched over, hands clutching his head, fingers still pulling at his hair, and his whole body is shaking. Trembling like he’s about to fall apart. Nigel doesn’t hesitate—he grabs Adam’s arm, yanking him toward his chest, pulling him close.

“Jesus, fucking—Adam, what the fuck?” Nigel breathes out, his voice rough and panicked, his heart still racing from the chase. Adam’s shaking his head, eyes squeezed shut.

“I hate you. I can’t do it, Nigel,” Adam whispers, voice breaking. “I can’t h-handle all of this. I was nothing before, and now you’re making me be something, and I—I can’t.”

Nigel curses softly, his arms tightening around Adam, holding him like he’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth.

“You can, gorgeous,” Nigel whispers, his voice low, urgent. “I know you fucking can.”

Nigel’s got Adam pressed tight against him, body folded up small in his arms, like he’s trying to disappear right into him. Nigel can feel the humidity pressing down on them, but Adam’s the one thing he doesn’t mind sticking to him. Not when he smells like Nigel’s soap, that cheap bar they both use, all lemon and something sharp, mixed up with the scent of cigarettes that seems to be soaked into everything Nigel owns.

On Adam, though, it’s different—there’s something sweeter underneath it all, like the soap’s clung to his skin, but the rest of him is still something soft and untouched, something Nigel can’t quite explain.

Those brown curls of Adam’s, they’re a mess against Nigel’s face, and he buries his nose deeper into them, letting the scent fill his lungs. 

Adam’s trembling, and Nigel feels every little shake, every shiver that runs through him. It’s like his body’s on the verge of giving up, like he’s holding himself together by sheer will alone. That makes Nigel’s grip tighten, his arms locking around Adam’s small frame like he could keep him from falling apart if he just holds on tight enough. He’s cradling him, almost, one arm wrapped around Adam’s narrow waist, the other hand splayed across his back, feeling the sharp lines of his bones beneath the fabric of his shirt. 

The music from the car radio is drifting through the air. It’s low and slow, the kind of tune that wraps around you, makes the world seem a little softer, even when everything else feels hard. 

Adam’s hands come up, fingers curling into Nigel’s shirt. His knuckles go white with the force of it, but Nigel doesn’t mind. He likes the feeling of Adam holding on like that, like Nigel’s the only thing keeping him steady. His hand spans Adam’s waist easily, fingers pressing into his soft skin through the thin material of his shirt, and it makes Nigel swallow hard. 

They’re different. So different it almost hurts. Adam’s all softness and warmth, like a star burning quietly in the night, its light steady and gentle. Nigel, though, he’s jagged, all hard edges and sharp lines, like a broken bottle left to weather in the sun. There’s nothing soft about him, nothing warm. And yet, here they are, pressed together in a way that shouldn’t make sense, but somehow does. It’s imperfect, but it’s real, and Nigel thinks this might be the first time in his life that he’s ever felt like he truly belongs anywhere.

He leans down, his breath brushing against Adam’s ear. “Just breathe, Adam.”

Adam listens, sucking in deep, shaky breaths that stutter in his chest. Nigel can feel the way his ribs expand against his hand, how his whole body seems to shake with the effort of it. But Adam’s trying, and that’s enough. 

Nigel keeps his voice low, soft. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you,” he says, his words firm. “If I can’t promise you anything else, I can at least promise you that.”

Adam pushes his face harder into Nigel’s chest, his breath hot and uneven against Nigel’s skin. His hands twist tighter in Nigel’s shirt, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, the whole world will come crashing down around him. Nigel just holds him, arms wrapped around Adam’s body like he’s trying to shelter him from something Nigel can’t even see. 

He shushes Adam softly, his hand coming up to thread through those soft curls again, stroking through them like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

“We need each other,” Nigel murmurs, his lips brushing against Adam’s temple as he speaks. “You know that, don’t you?”

Adam doesn’t respond. Doesn’t nod, doesn’t move, just stays tucked against Nigel’s chest, his breath still coming in uneven bursts. But that’s okay. Nigel doesn’t need an answer.

Adam’s body starts to relax, the tension slowly bleeding out of him as Nigel holds him tighter, his arms wrapped around Adam like he could somehow fuse them together if he pressed hard enough. He feels Adam sink further into his hold, the tremors in his body finally beginning to ease. 

“It hurts,” Adam whispers, voice muffled against Nigel’s chest. 

Nigel grits his teeth, his jaw tightening as he presses his face deeper into Adam’s curls, inhaling the familiar scent of him. 

“I just… I need you to understand. I need you to see what I see when I look at you.”

Adam lifts his head at that, those wide blue eyes looking up at Nigel with something close to wonder. Nigel stares back down at him, his chest tight, his heart beating too fast. Adam’s beautiful. Genuinely, devastatingly beautiful. It’s something Nigel’s thought before, but seeing him now, with the setting sun casting soft shadows across his face, it hits him all over again, harder this time. Adam looks like something out of a dream, something too good to be real, and Nigel can’t help but feel like he’s not worthy of it.

"Do you believe that?" Adam finally asks, his voice so soft it’s barely a whisper. His question isn’t sharp or accusatory—it’s more like a quiet plea. 

Nigel exhales, his breath trembling just enough that Adam feels it. He leans back slightly, and places a hand under Adam’s chin, tilting his face upward. "I do," Nigel whispers, his voice steady but raw. "I don’t… show it the way I should. But every fucking thing I do is because I care about you more than I know how to say."

Adam’s lips part slightly, pink and soft like strawberries just before they’re ripe, and Nigel finds himself whispering before he can stop the words.

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. I’d paint a hundred more stars in the sky if it meant you’d never fucking burn out.”

"But it’s too much," Adam says quietly. 

He’s silent after that, his head resting heavy against Nigel’s chest. Nigel’s fingers find their way back into Adam’s hair, stroking it slowly, methodically, like he’s trying to calm them both down. And for a while, that’s enough. 

But then Adam looks up again, those wide blue eyes fluttering open, and his gaze lingers on Nigel’s lips. Just the way Adam stares—uncertain, tentative—makes Nigel’s heart stumble in his chest. He knows this feeling, knows exactly where it’s going, but the last thing he should do is let it go there. He can’t. He shouldn’t. 

But still, Nigel finds his hand hovering near his pocket, fingers brushing the worn fabric. He can feel his pulse in his throat, every beat a reminder of the line he’s tiptoeing, the line they both are. 

Then, with a slow exhale, he reaches into his pocket, fingertips grazing the edge of the stickers he’s kept hidden away. They feel small, almost laughably so. He doesn’t speak yet, just pulls the stickers out, the stars catching a faint shimmer from the dim light, and gently places them in Adam’s palm.

“Here,” Nigel murmurs. “You…you like these.”

Adam’s eyes, wide and searching, flicker down to the stickers before looking back up at Nigel. His lips part as if to say something, but the words die in his throat. Instead, he simply stares at the stickers, fingers trembling as he traces the shape of a star.

Nigel watches him, trying to ignore the way his chest tightens, the way Adam’s presence seems to pull him closer without even trying. He should step back, give Adam space, but his feet stay rooted. Adam’s fingers curl around the stickers.

He speaks, barely audible, like he’s afraid the words might break the fragile thing they’ve built between them. “I shouldn’t—I shouldn’t feel like this,” Adam stammers, his voice cracking around the edges. “I shouldn’t want you to hold me. It’s wrong.”

Nigel tightens his arms around Adam, his grip firm but gentle. His voice is rough, but soft enough to soothe. 

“Fuck how you should feel, Adam. What do you want?” 

Adam looks away, his brow furrowing, his lips pressing into a thin line like he’s trying to keep something inside. Nigel can see it, though—see the war going on behind Adam’s eyes, the push and pull of desire and doubt. 

“Close your eyes,” Nigel says. He brushes a hand through Adam’s curls again, slow, deliberate. “Don’t think about how you should react. Don’t think about what you think you’re supposed to feel. Just… feel. Tell me what you want.”

Adam hesitates, but then he does as he’s told. His eyes flutter shut, and for a moment, everything is still. The only sounds are the distant hum of the music, the rustling of leaves in the breeze, and the quiet rhythm of their breathing, synced up like two halves of the same heart. 

Nigel can feel it—the shift, the moment when Adam stops fighting himself.

After a moment, Adam’s eyes open again, and when he looks up at Nigel, there’s something new in his gaze. Something soft and raw, something that wasn’t there before. It’s like he’s seeing Nigel for the first time, without all the walls, without all the fear. 

Just him.

Nigel tilts his head, his voice barely above a whisper. 

“How do you want to react, Adam?”

Adam’s breath catches in his throat, his chest rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts. For a split second, everything hangs in the balance. Then, before Nigel can fully register what’s happening, Adam surges forward, his lips pressing against Nigel’s.

Nigel freezes. His brain short-circuits for a moment, completely unprepared for the feeling of Adam’s mouth on his. It’s messy, clumsy, but it’s real, and it’s raw, and it’s everything Nigel didn’t realize he was waiting for. But just as quickly as it started, Adam pulls back, eyes wide and panicked, like he’s just broken something irreparable.

 He takes a step back, trying to free himself from Nigel’s grip, his voice trembling, “I’m sorry, I—”

Before he can finish, Nigel’s hand shoots up, grabbing a fistful of Adam’s hair and pulling him back. He kisses Adam, softer this time, slower, but with just as much intensity. His lips move against Adam’s in a way that feels deliberate, unhurried. Adam shudders under the weight of it, his body going still as he melts into the kiss.

Adam’s lips are softer than Nigel expected, warm and pliant, like they were made to be kissed. He feels Adam gasp into the kiss when Nigel’s tongue gently traces the bottom of his lip, brushing over a scab there. The soft, helpless sound Adam makes in the back of his throat feels like the world shifting beneath Nigel’s feet. It’s everything. 

Adam’s kisses are hesitant, fumbling, like he’s not sure what to do, but there’s something achingly beautiful about it—about the way Adam presses his lips to Nigel’s with the kind of cautious hope that makes Nigel’s chest ache. It’s unpracticed, unsure. 

It feels like a prayer, like something holy, even though Nigel knows there’s nothing holy about him. Nothing holy about the way he cradles Adam’s face, about the way he pulls him closer, about the way his heart beats out of rhythm.

Adam kisses him with that perfect, devastating mixture of uncertainty and need, Nigel feels like he’s been made for this. Like every sharp piece of him was meant to fit into the soft spaces of Adam.

For a moment, Nigel forgets everything. He forgets the rules, forgets the warnings, forgets that this is something he shouldn’t be doing. Because Adam’s lips are against his, and Nigel can’t think of a single reason why he should stop.

Nigel’s hand tightens in Adam’s hair, his other hand pressing firmly against the small of Adam’s back, keeping him close. There’s no space between them, no air, no room for anything but the two of them tangled together. Nigel thinks he could live in this. He could live in this feeling, this connection, this dangerous, impossible thing that makes him feel like he’s finally found something worth keeping.

When Adam breaks the kiss, it’s slow, reluctant, like he doesn’t want to pull away but knows he has to. His breathing is erratic, his chest heaving as he presses his forehead against Nigel’s shoulder, burying his face in the crook of Nigel’s neck. Nigel’s heart is pounding, his hands still gripping Adam like he’s afraid to let go. But the kiss is over, and reality starts to creep back in, little by little.

They don’t speak for a long time, just holding onto each other, still swaying to the music that neither of them can hear anymore. Nigel’s hand moves to the back of Adam’s head, fingers gently stroking through his hair, and his voice comes out low, rough, almost pleading. 

“Don’t run again.”

There’s a long pause. Nigel can feel Adam’s breath against his neck, feel the way he’s trembling again, but it’s different this time. It’s not fear. It’s something else. Something Nigel doesn’t quite have a name for yet.

Finally, Adam whispers, so quietly that Nigel almost doesn’t hear him, “I won’t.”

Chapter Text

Nigel leans back into the car. His body sinks into it like he’s part of it, the heat from the sun-soaked metal soaking through his skin. The cigarette dangles lazily between his fingers, ash collecting at the end. Smoke swirls around his head in thick, lazy curls, drifting up into the bright blue sky that stretches endlessly above them. It’s quiet except for the low buzz of insects in the grass nearby, a low, persistent thrum that seems to settle in Nigel’s bones.

He’s watching Adam.

There’s something about the way Adam kneels on the seat, hunched over. The way his skinny legs are all folded up awkwardly beneath him, his elbows resting on the dashboard as he concentrates on his stickers. His tongue pokes out just a bit between his lips, pressing up against his front teeth, those little rabbit teeth that Nigel always notices but never mentions. 

Adam’s got this look of complete focus, his brows furrowed just a little as he lines up each sticker with precision, placing them one by one on the dashboard. Nigel’s been watching him do it for the last fifteen minutes. 

Nigel shifts his weight, feeling the rough texture of the car’s roof under his palm. The car’s old, been through a lot, kind of like Nigel himself. But now, with Adam sitting there, kneeling like some kind of altar boy lost in his own little world, the car feels different. It feels like theirs, like something shared between them that’s bigger than the sum of its parts.

Adam doesn’t say much, but Nigel can see the way his shoulders are a little less tight today, the way his hands don’t shake as much as they did when they first started this trip. There’s a quiet calmness about him now, a soft relaxation that wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s the sleep he finally got, curled up in the passenger seat like a cat, or maybe it’s just the fact that they’re miles and miles away from everything that used to keep Adam all wound up. Nigel’s not sure, but he likes seeing him like this.

Nigel takes a slow drag on his cigarette, watching the way Adam’s fingers smooth over the latest sticker—a little comet. 

He leans forward, resting one arm on the roof of the car, bending down just enough to get a closer look at Adam’s handiwork. His lips curl into a lazy smirk, and he murmurs, “Looking good, doll.” 

Adam doesn’t respond right away, but Nigel notices the little twitch in his lips, the way his fingers hover over the next sticker for a moment before he sets it down, carefully pressing it into place. Nigel straightens back up, leaning his head back and looking up at the sky. It’s the kind of blue that’s almost too bright to look at for long, endless and open, like the road they’ve been on all night.

They’ve been driving for almost two days. Through the dark, through the early morning light, only stopping when they absolutely had to. Bathroom breaks, gas, nothing more. Nigel’s not even sure how far they’ve gone, doesn’t care much either. It’s just them, out here in the middle of nowhere, the road stretching on in front of them like some kind of promise. New York’s a long way off, but Nigel doesn’t mind. Days, maybe weeks, of just them and the highway. Just them, together, in this little world they’ve carved out for themselves.

There’s something different between them now. It’s been there since the moment they got in the car, but Nigel’s only just starting to feel the full weight of it. It buzzes in the air around them, thick and heavy like the heat of summer. It’s a feeling of change, of something shifting between them that neither of them wants to talk about but both of them can feel.

It’s not just about the kiss, though that’s a big fucking part of it. No, it’s deeper than that. It’s the way that kiss made him feel. It wasn’t just a kiss. It was something that reached down inside him and twisted, set something loose that he hasn’t been able to rein back in. Every nerve, every cell, buzzing with electricity. It was like being hit by lightning, like something inside him had been asleep for years and suddenly woke up, roaring to life.

He still tastes Adam on his lips. Still smells the soft sweetness of his curls, the warmth of his skin when they were pressed together, just for that brief moment.  Every time he looks at Adam now, that hunger flares up again, sharp and hot in his gut.

He shouldn’t have kissed him. He knows that. But he doesn’t regret it. Not for a second. How could he? How could he regret the soft press of Adam’s lips, the way he’d clung to Nigel? Just thinking about it now makes Nigel shift, adjusting himself in his jeans, trying to ignore the way his body reacts to the memory.

Nigel takes a deep breath, letting the smoke fill his lungs before he exhales slowly, the haze drifting around him. His eyes settle back on Adam. The kid’s still working on his stickers, but there’s a soft pink to his cheeks now, a faint blush that makes him look younger, more vulnerable. He’s still relaxed.

This is good, Nigel thinks. He can work with this.

The car is a space that holds the two of them together, in some strange, quiet way—Adam’s careful little touches alongside Nigel’s rough, lived-in marks. The cigarette burns, the rips in the fabric, the crumpled-up fast food bags stuffed under the seats—they all belong to Nigel. But now, with the stickers, it’s not just his. It’s theirs.

It doesn’t feel like a cage. It feels like… something soft, something warm. Like having someone who’s just there, not demanding anything, not asking for more than what Nigel can give. Just existing beside him, in this weird, quiet way that only Adam can.

He sighs, dragging a hand through his hair, the strands sticking to his sweaty skin. They haven’t talked about the kiss. They haven’t talked about anything that really matters since they hit the road. He doesn’t even know if Adam understands what that kiss meant to him, if he knows how much it’s fucked with Nigel’s head.

He hears a soft sound from the car, barely a whisper, and his eyes flick back to Adam, who’s looking at him now, his bright blue eyes wide and hesitant.

“Nigel?”

Nigel raises an eyebrow, his heart doing that stupid little fucking flip again just from hearing Adam say his name like that, all soft and uncertain. 

“Yeah, gorgeous?”

Adam’s cheeks are still pink, his eyes flicking down to the dashboard as he reaches out, setting another sticker carefully by the radio. 

“Why did you buy these for me?” 

Nigel shrugs, leaning back against the car again, crossing his arms over his chest. “I just did,” he says, trying to sound casual, like it doesn’t matter. “Reminded me of those stickers you had on your locker.”

Adam’s eyes flick up to meet his, surprise flickering in them for a moment before he blinks, his lips parting slightly. 

“You noticed those?” 

“’Course I did.” Nigel smirks, but it’s softer this time. “Thought they were cute. Only nice thing about that place, really.”

“Thank you,” Adam says, his cheeks flushing a deeper pink as he looks down at the dashboard again, his fingers brushing over the stickers. “I never said it.”

Nigel takes a deep breath, exhaling slowly as he leans back against the car, his eyes flicking up to the sky, the endless stretch of blue that feels too big, too wide for what he’s feeling right now. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know how to respond to the quiet gratitude in Adam’s voice, the softness in his eyes. So he just shrugs.

His fists curl, nails digging into his palms, but he forces his hands to loosen, rolling his shoulders like that’ll do anything to calm him down. He leans in, bending low, that steady gaze of his softening just a little when he speaks, voice gravelly but with an undercurrent of something else. Maybe affection, maybe something he hasn’t figured out yet. 

“Alright, let me see. Scoot over.”

Nigel drags his gaze away as he climbs in after Adam. He pulls the door shut behind him with a firm thud, the sound reverberating through the tight space, trapping them in their own little world. His eyes fall to the dashboard, and he can’t help but smile at the sight in front of him. The stickers, bright and shiny, covering every inch of his side of the car—planets, stars, rockets, all scattered across the dull gray surface like a messy little galaxy.

“Do you like it?”

It’s the kind of question that feels fragile, like Adam’s waiting for Nigel to tell him it’s silly, stupid even. Like he’s expecting the usual mockery that the world seems to dish out at every turn.

Nigel hums, drawing it out on purpose, pretending to think it over as if it’s not already making his chest swell. “I love it,” he finally says. “Could be in a fucking museum, gorgeous.”

It’s the truth, or at least close enough to the truth. But Adam doesn’t know how to take that, doesn’t know what to do with praise that isn’t laced with sarcasm or hidden barbs. A little noise escapes him, something halfway between a sigh and a huff, and Nigel watches as a frown pulls between Adam’s brows, his lips parting like he’s about to argue.

“You’re teasing.” Adam’s voice is small, uncertain, already bracing himself for the letdown. “I can take them off.” 

Nigel clicks his tongue, a sharp sound that makes Adam’s eyes snap up to his face, wide and a little startled. 

Before he even realizes what he’s doing, his hand moves, reaching out without permission from his brain, fingers slipping into the mess of curls atop Adam’s head. The hair is soft and it tangles around Nigel’s fingers like it belongs there. Adam leans into the touch, just the slightest bit, like his body is betraying him by seeking out the warmth of Nigel’s hand.

He wonders, not for the first time, how long it’s been since anyone touched Adam like this. How long it’s been since anyone touched him at all. 

Nigel doesn’t let go. He doesn’t pull back. His thumb brushes down, trailing a line over Adam’s jaw, feeling the sharp edge of bone under the softness of his skin. Adam’s lips part, just a little, and Nigel’s thumb almost—almost—moves to touch them, to feel the warmth of Adam’s breath against his skin. But he stops himself, barely. He doesn’t trust himself not to push too far, not to let that desire spill out before he can pull it back.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Nigel murmurs.

Adam frowns at that, confused, his wide eyes searching Nigel’s face for an explanation. “I’m not teasing, doll. I love it. Really.” 

His thumb moves again, rubbing gently against Adam’s jaw, feeling the way Adam’s whole body seems to relax under that touch, like a flower turning toward the sun. Nigel watches it happen, watches Adam’s lips part just a little more, his breath coming a little quicker.

Adam’s eyebrows relax, the tension draining from his face, and he looks up at Nigel with this soft, almost dreamy expression, like he’s floating.

 “Where are we going now?”

The question pulls Nigel out of whatever spell he’s under, and he pulls his hand away, fingers tingling from the loss of contact. He reaches for the keys instead, starting the car with a rough twist, the engine rumbling to life beneath them. 

“Why?” he asks, trying to keep his voice steady, his hands steady, like he’s not still thinking about how soft Adam’s hair felt between his fingers. “You hungry?”

Adam nods, his gaze drifting back to the window, as if the world outside holds something more interesting than the tension that lingers thick between them. Nigel sighs, pulling the car out of the parking spot, the wheels crunching over the gravel beneath them as they head back onto the open road.

The fields stretch out around them, endless and flat, a blur of green and gold whipping past the windows, but Adam’s eyes are fixed on it like he’s never seen anything like it before. Nigel watches him for a second, taking in the way Adam’s hands rest against his knees, the way his eyes follow the movement of the landscape like it’s some kind of magic.

“You can open the window if you want,” Nigel murmurs. 

Adam glances back at him, shaking his head softly. “It’ll be too loud.”

They drive for a while, the hum of the engine filling the space between them. Nigel grips the steering wheel, knuckles turning white as he fights the urge to reach out, to close that distance again. Adam, that quiet beauty beside him. He tells himself he can control it, that he can respect Adam’s boundaries, but it’s like trying to hold back a tide with bare hands.

He thinks about how this wasn’t supposed to happen—this pull, this need that seems to grow stronger the longer they’re together. He never planned on feeling like this, but Adam’s so damn pretty, like an angel dropped down from the fucking heavens just for him, and it’s almost unbearable. The kiss they shared lingers in the back of his mind, a key that unlocked a door he didn’t even know existed, revealing a world filled with blushed pale skin, soft lips stretched wide, teary cornflower eyes sparkling with something both innocent and knowing. 

Nigel sneaks a glance at Adam, catching that expression of wonder again. The sight ignites something deep inside him, and he thinks, light of my life, fire of my loins . The thought makes him chuckle to himself, though he quickly suppresses it, knowing it’s not exactly the best fucking reference given their current situation.

The silence hangs heavy in the car, a palpable thing that aches to be broken. He clears his throat, the sound almost deafening against the stillness, feeling like a piece of glass he desperately wants to shatter. 

“Y’know,” he finally says, “I never had road trips growing up. Not like this.”

He gestures vaguely to the highway ahead. Adam doesn’t look up right away; he’s still lost in thought, brow furrowed slightly.

“You didn’t?” Adam asks quietly, finally glancing up at Nigel, curiosity lighting up those bright blue eyes.

“No,” Nigel replies with a dry chuckle, his voice carrying a hint of bitterness. “My old man wasn’t the road-trip type. Mom was dead, so it’s not like we were packing up for Disneyland or some shit. Closest we got to a road trip was maybe driving to the store when the beer ran out.”

Adam tilts his head slightly, fingers tracing the stickers, his gaze focused and intent.

“I never had one either. We didn’t… drive anywhere. I always took planes.” 

“Fancy.” Nigel raises an eyebrow, trying to keep the mood light, but there’s a heaviness in Adam’s voice that gives him pause.

“I hated it. I still do, actually.” Adam’s fingers still against the dashboard, resting there as if the weight of his words is too much to hold. “Planes scare me. I don’t like not being able to see where I’m going. It feels… wrong.”

Nigel’s lips twitch into a smile, the image of little Adam on a plane flashing through his mind—small and scared, gripping the armrests like they were the only things keeping him from falling. 

“You, scared of flying? Can’t picture it.” 

Adam shrugs, the faintest blush creeping up his neck, and it makes Nigel’s heart skip a beat. 

“I was a kid. I didn’t know what was happening. I was trapped in this big thing, high up in the air, and if anything went wrong, there was nothing I could do about it. I know how planes work. But, still.”

Nigel leans his head back against the car, the cool leather pressing against the back of his skull, and he can almost feel that fear, that helplessness Adam must’ve felt as a child, cocooned in a metal tube soaring through the sky. 

“First time I flew,” Nigel says after a beat, “was when I was eighteen. Worst fucking two hours of my life.”

“You were scared too?”

Nigel shrugs, a sheepish grin creeping onto his face. “More like… didn’t trust the damn thing to stay in the air. Felt like it was gonna drop outta the sky any second. Spent the whole flight white-knuckling the seat in front of me.”

A soft laugh escapes Adam, the sound light and unexpected, and it sends a warmth flooding through Nigel’s chest. “I did that too. I gripped the armrests so hard, my dad thought I was going to tear the leather.”

Adam shrugs, still smiling a little, his eyes dropping back down to the stickers, tracing the edge of one with his finger like it holds all the answers. There’s a moment where he just sits there, still and thoughtful, the atmosphere shifting around them. “But… this is different. Being in the car with you, I mean. I don’t feel scared. Not a-anymore.”

Nigel’s grin softens at that. “Good,” he murmurs. “There’s nothing to be scared of out here. It’s just you and me, doll. Just you and me.”

Adam nods, his blush deepening. 

“What about rockets, then?” Nigel asks, tilting his head slightly. “You wouldn’t want to fly one of those? Go out into space?”

Adam’s face scrunches up slightly at the thought, and he shakes his head, his blue eyes earnest. “No, not really.” He shifts, settling back against the driver’s seat, a hint of excitement lighting up his features. “I’d much rather stay down here and study the stars. You can’t see anything in space anyway. Movies get that wrong.”

Nigel raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

Adam straightens a bit, the enthusiasm spilling out of him like a tide. “It’s black. Up there, it’s just… emptiness. In a vacuum, there are no particles to scatter light, which means you don't experience color or shapes like you do on Earth. The stars, which you see as distant points of light, are far away, and without an atmosphere, there’s no diffusion of their brightness. ”

Nigel listens, captivated by the clarity in Adam’s voice. “So you’d rather be down here, then?”

Adam’s fingers gesture animatedly, a small comet sticker getting a little too much attention as it bobs under his enthusiasm. “On Earth, we have atmosphere, weather, seasons. We can feel the sun on our skin, hear the wind. The stars are beautiful, but they’re more than just lights in the sky. They’re part of our history, part of our science. You can study them, understand them.”

Nigel can’t help but smile at Adam’s passion, the way his voice carries the weight of knowledge and certainty. 

“You really think about this stuff, don’t you?” 

“Yeah, I do.” Adam’s cheeks flush slightly, but there’s no embarrassment in his tone, just pure conviction. “I want to learn more about what’s out there, but I want to do it from here. There’s so much to discover without having to leave the ground.” He pauses, his gaze drifting back to the horizon, the way the sunlight glints off the asphalt. 

Nigel nods, taking in Adam’s words. He feels something stir within him, a sense of admiration mixed with warmth. “That’s a hell of a perspective, doll,” he says softly. “Makes sense to me.”

Adam shrugs, but the slight smile on his lips betrays his appreciation. “I just… see things differently, I guess.”

“Different’s good. We could use more of that.” 

The road blurs beneath them, the kind of road that feels like it could go on forever, like there’s no real end to it. And maybe there isn’t. Maybe that’s the part that’s driving Nigel insane. Because what the hell are they actually doing? Drive, sleep, drive—that’s all he’d planned for. He hadn’t thought of anything else, just getting them to New York. That was the goal, the destination looming in the distance like some big neon sign he couldn’t see yet but felt pulling him forward. But the spaces in between? The long, empty stretches where it was just him and Adam and the hum of the engine—that’s where Nigel’s fucking losing it. 

What are they even supposed to do when they stop? Nigel hadn’t thought that far ahead. A cheap motel room, maybe a couple hours of sleep, maybe... maybe nothing. Maybe just the two of them, trapped in some shitty room with the distant hum of an ice machine and too many unsaid things hanging between them. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know how the hell Adam’s going to handle all this. He doesn’t know how he’s going to handle it.

The panic builds, curling tighter and tighter in his chest, until he feels like he might explode from it. His breath comes faster, shallow, and he finds himself thinking it’s a damn good thing Adam suggested stopping for the night because if they didn’t, Nigel’s pretty sure he’d lose his fucking mind right there in the car. He needs to breathe, needs to get out of his head before he drowns in it. 

“There’s a map in the glove box, doll,” Nigel mutters, his voice coming out rough and low. His eyes flick to Adam, watching for a reaction, but Adam just blinks at him, his eyes wide and blue. 

“Okay,” Adam says, the word falling flat between them, and then he turns back to the window like Nigel didn’t even ask him to do anything. Nigel’s jaw clenches, a sharp spike of irritation flaring hot and fast in his chest. 

“Will you fucking get it?” 

Adam flinches—not like he used to, not that full-body jolt of fear that used to make Nigel feel like a piece of shit, but a smaller, more contained flinch, like he’s just been stung by a bee. He watches as Adam reaches into the glove box, fingers trembling slightly as he pulls out the old, crumpled map Nigel hasn’t bothered with.

The sound of paper crinkling fills the car, loud and uncomfortable, and Nigel feels a spike of tension shoot through him. Adam unfolds the map. The fucking thing unfurls like it’s about to take over the whole car, the edges fluttering close to Nigel’s face as Adam tries to make sense of it. Nigel’s hand shoots out, shoving it aside with a muttered curse, his patience wearing thinner by the second. Adam shifts in his seat, angling the map away from Nigel’s face, and Nigel watches the delicate curve of his fingers as they trace the lines and roads on the map.

“We near a town?” Nigel asks, his voice tight.

Adam nods, his finger tracing a line on the map, stopping at a little dot Nigel doesn’t bother to really look at. “Here.” 

Nigel barely glances at the map, his mind too tangled up in Adam’s presence to care. It’s close enough, whatever. He can handle stopping there, eating something, maybe knocking back a few drinks to drown out the noise in his head. Maybe that’ll get Adam out of his mind, even if just for a little while. He grabs the map, yanking it out of Adam’s hands and tossing it into the backseat, not caring where it lands. He doesn’t want Adam obsessing over how far they still have to go. Adam’s been calm so far, and Nigel’s determined to keep it that way.

A small noise pulls Nigel from his spiraling thoughts—just a soft sound, barely audible, but it’s enough to make him glance over. Adam’s curling into himself. Nigel feels a pang of guilt, sharp and bitter in his chest. Adam’s probably hungry. Of course he is. They’ve been driving for hours, and Nigel didn’t even think to grab any fucking food before they left. 

Nigel taps his fingers nervously on the steering wheel, the rhythm fast and uneven. 

Today’s going to be a long fucking day.

By the time they roll into town, the sun’s hanging high, making everything look hotter and dustier than it already is, and Nigel feels like he’s been shoved into a meat grinder and spit back out. His back’s screaming, shoulders knotted tight, and his neck’s got that dull, throbbing ache that’s been there since he woke up. He shifts in the seat, trying to stretch without moving too much, without looking too uncomfortable, but there’s no use. 

He doesn’t know why it gets to him like this, but it does, and if he looks at Adam for too long, if he really sees him, he knows it’ll be the end of him. It’ll kill him dead right here in this piece-of-shit car, on this piece-of-shit road. So instead, he keeps his eyes locked on the horizon, on the cracked asphalt stretching out in front of them like it’s never gonna end, watching the sad little town come into view.

It’s the kind of place that smells like failure. People shuffle along the sidewalks, moving slow like they’ve got nowhere to be, nowhere worth going. They’ve all got that same look: beaten down, worn out, like they’re just waiting for time to swallow them whole. 

Adam shifts beside him, curling tighter into the corner of the seat, tucking his knees up. It’s a small movement, but it draws Nigel’s attention, pulls his eyes away from the road for just a second. He looks over at Adam, catches that little furrow between his brows, the way his mouth’s drawn into a thin line like something’s bothering him.

Nigel swallows hard, turns his eyes back to the road, and lets out a slow breath as the motel sign comes into view. It’s big and gaudy, sticking out of the ground like a sore thumb on the side of the road. The sign’s lettering is half faded, cracked and peeling from years of neglect, but he can still read the words clear as day: “Love covers a multitude of sins.” 

He scowls at it, the familiar phrase scraping against his nerves. It feels like a joke here, slapped on this rotting, decaying excuse for a building. The red walls are chipped and faded, dust clinging to every inch, the stairs look like they’d fall apart if you so much as breathed on them.

Nigel rolls the car into the lot, feeling like they’re trespassing on something old, something forgotten. He figures no one’s stayed here in years. Maybe decades. It’s the kind of place you only end up if you don’t have any other options. And right now, they don’t. It’s the only motel for miles, and Nigel’s too tired to care how much of a dump it is.

He glances over at Adam again, watches the kid’s face scrunch up in something like horror as he takes in the sight of the motel. 

“This is where we’re staying?”

Nigel huffs a laugh, low and rough, pulling into the closest spot to the entrance. “You’re the one who wanted to stop, doll,” he says, throwing the car into park.

Adam glares out the window, but he doesn’t say anything else. Nigel shuts off the engine, yanking the keys out of the ignition with a sharp, metallic click, and pushes open the door. He hears Adam scramble out of the car behind him, his footsteps light and quick as he makes his way around to meet Nigel.

 “This place is dirty.” 

Nigel shrugs, turning back to the car, digging through the backseat for their bags. 

“There’s nowhere else.”

“It’s the worst place I’ve ever been,” Adam mutters. 

Nigel snorts, shoving Adam’s bag into his chest. “Then sleep in the fucking car.”

Adam sighs, taking the bag without a word, his fingers curling around the worn straps. He’s chewing on his bottom lip, like he’s trying to figure out if he should say something else, if he should push back, but Nigel can already tell he won’t. And Nigel wonders, just for a second, if Adam has any clue—if he knows that Nigel’s been thinking about him

for miles, wanting him so bad it’s turning him inside out. 

Probably not, based on the upset look on his face.

Nigel grabs his own bag, slams the car door shut with a loud thud that echoes through the empty parking lot. He clicks his tongue, the sound sharp and impatient. “Come on,” he says, voice low, reaching out to set a hand on Adam’s wrist, his fingers wrapping around the kid’s bony arm. 

He tugs Adam towards the motel entrance, not bothering to wait for him to catch up. The door creaks when Nigel shoves it open with his shoulder. He pushes Adam inside first, letting the door swing shut behind them with a loud jingle from the bell hanging above. 

The place smells like old cigarettes and dust. The carpet’s more stain than fabric at this point, the colors so faded and worn that it’s impossible to tell what it used to be. There’s an American flag hanging on the wall, right next to a couple of deer heads mounted on wooden plaques. Their glassy eyes seem to follow Nigel as he steps further into the room, staring down at him like they’re judging him, begging for help.

It’s not the worst place Nigel’s been. 

At the counter, an old man sits hunched over, looking like he’s about two seconds from keeling over himself. His eyes, dark and watery, flicker up as Nigel approaches, taking them both in with a slow, careful glance. Something about his gaze sticks to Adam longer than it does to Nigel, and it makes Nigel’s stomach clench tight.

Nigel watches the old man’s gaze linger on Adam, the way his eyes narrow just a bit too long over Adam’s skinny frame, the way he’s standing there, shifting from foot to foot, looking nervous as hell. And Nigel’s gut twists, that low, slow burn of something dark rising up in him. He steps closer to Adam, slipping his arm around that bony waist, pulling him in tight against his side.

Adam sucks in a sharp breath, his body tensing up immediately, like he doesn’t know what to do with the contact, but he doesn’t pull away. Nigel feels the heat from Adam’s skin even through the layers of baggy clothes, and it shoots straight through him, makes his grip tighten just a little more than it should. 

“How much for a night here?” 

The old man clears his throat, dragging his eyes back to Nigel, but his gaze keeps flicking back to Adam. “Hundred bucks,” he says.

Nigel scoffs, running a hand through his hair and shaking his head. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters under his breath. But he doesn’t have the energy to argue. He digs into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet, and slaps a crumpled hundred-dollar bill on the counter with a sharp smack.

The old man’s eyes flick to the money, then back to Nigel, one eyebrow raised like he’s waiting for something else, but he doesn’t say anything. Just takes the bill like he’s counting every second of their stay already.

Nigel feels Adam shift beside him, fidgeting with the strap of his backpack, and he knows the kid’s uncomfortable. It’s written all over his face, the way his eyes keep darting around the room, taking in every ugly detail. The deer heads, the grimy walls, the cigarette burns in the carpet.

Nigel clenches his jaw and slides his arm tighter around Adam’s waist, holding him close, like he’s making a point. He’s not sure who the point’s for—the old man, Adam, or himself—but it makes his chest burn less, makes that uneasy feeling settle for just a second.

The old man coughs, that raspy, phlegm-filled kind of cough that makes Nigel’s skin crawl. “Two beds?” he asks, his voice slick with something oily.

Nigel grinds his teeth, wanting to snap back with the truth—wanting to say one like it’s a dare. He wants to see the look on the old man’s face when he says it, see him squirm and make that same judgmental face all these small-town people do. But Nigel doesn’t. He just nods, sharp and curt, even though everything in him is screaming to do the opposite.

The old man gives a grunt, pulling out a rusty-looking key from the drawer behind the counter and sliding it across to Nigel. “Room 16,” he says, his eyes following Nigel’s hand as he picks up the key.

Nigel sighs, feeling the cool bite of the key as it switches from his right hand to his left, his fingers flexing like they’re tired of holding onto something for too long. He draws his arm back from Adam’s waist, like peeling away something that doesn’t want to come loose. As soon as he does, there’s a small, sharp noise—soft, pained. Nigel's eyes narrow, the slightest raise of his brow as he watches Adam for a moment, standing there, looking frail in the light. 

Nigel doesn’t ask; he just lets it hang there between them, like cigarette smoke in a stuffy room, figuring Adam will speak up if it’s anything serious. He’s come to learn that about him—Adam only says what’s necessary, and if he isn’t talking, then it’s probably nothing but hunger or nerves. Maybe both.

Without a word, Nigel reaches out and grabs Adam’s wrist, his fingers curling around the thin bone. He gives a light tug, guiding him outside.

They pass beneath the faded motel sign. The roof above them is stained with years of grime, watermarks painting ugly lines across the concrete ceiling. The steps creak under their feet as they climb, metal groaning. Room 16 comes into view—plain, uninspiring, just another door in a long row of identical rooms, as interchangeable as the people that pass through them. 

He slides the key into the lock, the door giving way with a heavy click. The room is exactly what he expected. Beige walls, dull and lifeless, catching the last orange light from the sun. The floor’s that fake wood laminate, probably sticky in some corners where the cleaning crew didn’t bother. There's a TV mounted to the wall, a relic from the late ’90s, with a remote that probably doesn't work half the time. Nigel’s eyes move over everything like a checklist, taking it in, committing it to memory. It’s the kind of room that never changes. A fucking purgatory. Some no-man’s land where lost souls lay their heads for a night and move on by morning.

Adam’s dragging his feet behind him, his shoes scuffing the cheap flooring as Nigel pulls him toward the bed furthest from the door. The mattress is covered in one of those ugly bedspreads, a faded paisley print that might’ve been blue once but now looks like a sickly gray. He plants Adam there, pushing him down with a little more force than necessary, watching the way he sits, shoulders slumped. Nigel places him as far from the exit as he can—habit, really. Adam would have to creep past him to get out, if it came to that. 

Adam shifts uncomfortably, dropping his backpack on the bed. He looks miserable, like the walls themselves are closing in on him, suffocating him with all the nothingness they hold. Nigel eyes him for a long moment, watching the way Adam’s fingers pick at the edges of his sleeves, that anxious, fidgeting movement that never seems to stop. But Nigel's feet start moving again before he can think too much about it. His hand pulls open the nightstand drawer, flipping it shut again when all he finds is an old Gideon Bible, its pages yellowed with age. He crouches down, checks under the bed, his fingers brushing against the dusty floor. Then he moves to the bathroom, pulling back the shower curtain in one sharp motion, his eyes scanning the corners for anything out of place.

It’s a routine, more than anything. A ritual he’s performed so many times it’s muscle memory now. He knows there's nothing to find, no cameras, no hidden threats. It’s a motel room in the middle of fucking nowhere, but the need to check, to be sure, is a constant hum in the back of his skull. He can’t let it go. 

He feels Adam’s eyes on him the whole time, tracking him as he moves from one corner of the room to the next. Nigel doesn’t look back at him, but he can feel the weight of Adam’s gaze, heavy and focused. Nigel's not surprised. Adam's always watching, always quiet, like he’s living two feet behind his own skin, observing everything but saying nothing. The kid’s sitting cross-legged on the bed now, his back straight, posture perfect, his fingers folded neatly in his lap.

Nigel pretends not to notice, but he wonders what Adam’s thinking. He’s probably wondering why Nigel’s pacing the room like a paranoid fucking lunatic. But Adam’s not questioning it, not calling him out. Maybe he gets it, in his own way. Nigel’s learned that Adam’s got his own rituals—his little quirks that keep him grounded. The way his fingers are always moving, always picking at something. It's not so different from the way Nigel needs a cigarette between his lips or the feel of cold steel in his hand.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Nigel's mouth, even as he finishes his check of the room. 

Maybe they aren’t so different after all.

Once he’s satisfied—once he’s convinced there’s nothing lurking in the shadows waiting to jump out at them—Nigel settles down on his own bed. It’s closer to the door, of course. His eyes flick to the space between their beds, just a single, flimsy nightstand separating them. It’s close enough that they could reach out and touch each other if they wanted to. The thought makes something heavy and uncomfortable settle in Nigel’s gut. He gets up, moving to the far side of the bed, positioning himself closer to the door, trying to shake off the feeling.

But then he hears the sound of shuffling behind him. His body reacts before his brain catches up, his hand shooting out and grabbing Adam’s arm. The kid freezes, his arm tense under Nigel’s grip.

"Where are you going?" 

Adam looks down, his eyes avoiding Nigel’s, a pile of neatly folded clothes in his hands. "I… I want to change," he says quietly, almost like he’s embarrassed to ask.

Nigel’s eyes trace over him, landing on the oversized shirt hanging off Adam's frame—his shirt. He’s grown used to the sight of it, used to seeing Adam in something that belongs to him. He doesn’t want the kid to change. Doesn’t want to lose that image of Adam wrapped up in something that’s his.

But there’s no good way to say that. Not without it sounding wrong. So he lets go of Adam. 

"Yeah, alright," he mutters, turning his head away as Adam slips into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him.

Nigel’s hand runs through his hair, a frustrated noise bubbling up in his throat, but he swallows it down. He grabs the brochure off the nightstand, flipping through it with idle fingers, eyes skimming over the list of places to eat. It’s the same shit as always—greasy diners, fast food joints, places that serve fried everything and call it a meal. Nothing special, nothing worth the effort. He tosses the brochure onto the floor.

The bathroom door opens, and Nigel glances up, one eyebrow raised as Adam steps out. The kid’s changed, of course. He’s in a blue sweater now, neat and proper, with a white button-up peeking out from underneath. The denim jeans hug his legs, every inch of him looking polished. He watches as Adam moves past him, but something in Nigel’s gut tightens. His hand reaches out again, grabbing Adam’s arm before he can walk too far away.

"Let me look at you.”

Adam swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat, but he steps closer, standing in front of Nigel like he’s being inspected. His posture is rigid, too upright, like he’s trying to be perfect, like he’s expecting Nigel to find something wrong. It makes Nigel’s chest ache a little, seeing him all tense like that. 

He takes his time looking Adam over, starting with the neat fold of his collar, the way it’s tucked just right beneath the sweater. His fingers twitch like they want to mess it up, pull the buttons loose, let the kid breathe a little. His gaze moves down to the sweater itself, that soft blue. Nigel swallows thickly, his mouth suddenly dry again, but he can’t stop looking.

He raises a hand, his fingers brushing lightly against Adam’s chin, tilting his face up. Adam’s lips part on a soft gasp, and Nigel feels the warmth of his breath against his skin. He’s so close now, all clean and warm. Nigel leans in without thinking, drawn to the heat, the softness.

But just as he gets close enough that their breaths mingle, he pulls back, catching himself before he does something stupid. Adam’s eyes flutter open, and there’s a look there—something soft, expectant, like he was waiting for Nigel to close the distance. It almost makes Nigel’s heart stutter in his chest, seeing that unspoken want in Adam’s eyes, but he pushes it down. He can’t—shouldn’t—give in to that, not yet. Not now.

Instead, he clears his throat, his thumb brushing lightly over Adam’s bottom lip as he says, "Keep your head up. People notice shy posture. Makes you look like you’re not confident."

Adam blinks, and he looks away, his chin still held gently in Nigel’s hand. There’s a long pause, the room thick with the weight of everything left unsaid, before Adam finally asks, "Is that what you first noticed about me?"

Nigel shakes his head, his eyes dropping to Adam’s lips again before he pulls back entirely, letting go of his chin. His thumb lingers for a second longer than it should before he rubs it against his own fingers. 

"No," he murmurs. He doesn’t elaborate. 

Adam stays silent for a moment longer, like he’s mulling over Nigel’s words. Then, out of nowhere, he sighs, a frustrated noise that breaks the stillness in the room. "I won’t be able to sleep.” 

Nigel’s brow furrows, and he turns to face Adam more fully. "Why the fuck not?"

Adam shifts on his feet, glancing down at the floor like he’s embarrassed. "I can’t sleep in places I don’t know," he admits.

Nigel smirks at that, his lips curling up in a lazy grin. "You slept fine at my house," he says, his tone teasing, but there’s a heat in his chest at the memory of it.

Adam shakes his head a little, just a small movement, but it’s enough to make his curls bounce. He glances up once, those blue eyes meeting Nigel’s for just a split second before he looks away again. "That was different.”

That one small sentence hits Nigel harder than he expects, a rush of warmth flooding through him at the idea that his place—his shitty little house with its creaking floorboards and cigarette-stained walls—was different for Adam. Safe, maybe. Comfortable. He lets go of Adam’s arm, running a hand through his own hair, fingers catching in the mess of it as he tries to shake off the feeling.

"Just fucking try," he mutters, his voice rougher than before. "If it doesn’t work, I’ll give you some sleeping pills or something."

Adam shifts again, his feet shuffling against the floor. Nigel watches him for a moment longer, then turns and heads toward the door, his hand brushing against the handle. 

"I doubt we’ll find any fucking macaroni and cheese here, but hey, you never know."

Adam’s voice is soft behind him, a quiet murmur that makes Nigel smile despite himself. 

"It doesn’t always have to be Annie’s."

​​The diner ends up having a crowd that’s spilling out the door. It’s loud. Plates clattering, voices blending into one endless murmur of noise. Nigel’s standing just outside the car, hands on his hips, head cocked slightly as he takes in the scene like it’s personally offended him. His lip curls, a sneer working its way across his face as he shakes his head.

"Fucking circus in there," he mutters under his breath, the words more like a snarl. 

Adam looks up at him. He doesn’t say anything, just nods, his eyes flicking nervously toward the diner, then back to Nigel. He shivers a little. 

Nigel doesn’t bother to wait for a reply. He’s already back in the driver’s seat, slamming the door harder than he needs to, the old car rattling with the impact. Adam hesitates for a second, then scrambles into the passenger seat.

 He looks relieved. 

They end up at a small grocery store. The kind of place that looks like it hasn’t changed since the 80s. It smells like old plastic and floor cleaner, the linoleum tiles scuffed and peeling at the corners. Nigel stalks down the aisles like he’s on some kind of mission, his boots thudding against the floor with each step. His eyes sweep over the shelves, narrowed in frustration, the muscles in his back tensing every time he doesn’t find what he’s looking for.

He stops in front of the boxed dinners, glaring at them like they’ve done something wrong, then snatches two boxes of instant Kraft macaroni from the shelf. The bright blue packaging is crinkled in his hand as he tosses it into the basket. Next stop, liquor. He grabs a bottle of cheap whiskey off the shelf without even looking at the label, fingers curling around the neck like it’s the only thing that’s going to keep him sane tonight.

At the register, the cashier doesn’t even bother to look up, her eyes glazed over with boredom, chewing gum slow and lazy like she’s counting down the minutes to her shift ending. Nigel slaps a few crumpled bills on the counter, doesn’t say a word as she rings him up, the sound of the register clicking the only noise in the otherwise dead-silent store. Adam stands a few steps back, arms crossed over his chest, eyes flicking around like he’s trying to make himself as invisible as possible. 

Once they’re back, the microwave hums to life in the corner of the motel room, a faint buzzing filling the small space. Nigel’s shoulders are tense, his back stiff as he leans against the counter, watching the noodles spin slowly in the microwave.

Adam’s quiet, sitting on the edge of the bed, arms still wrapped around himself, eyes fixed on the floor. He hasn’t said much since the grocery store, and Nigel doesn’t care to break the silence. When the microwave beeps, Nigel yanks the door open, tossing the hot bowls onto the counter without even bothering to check if they’re done. He grabs one, walks over to his bed, and sits down heavily, the springs creaking under his weight.

He doesn’t look at Adam. Doesn’t say anything as he digs into his bowl, the plastic fork scraping against the bottom. The room feels thick with unspoken words, tension hanging in the air like a weight pressing down on both of them. Adam hesitates for a second before scooting up beside him, sitting cross-legged, his own bowl held carefully in his lap. 

Neither of them acknowledge the empty bed beside them.

They eat in silence, the sound of their forks scraping against the plastic bowls the only noise in the room. It feels like the walls are closing in, the silence pressing in on them from all sides.

"I want the remote, please," Adam’s voice is quiet, hesitant, like he’s not sure he’s allowed to ask. His eyes dart toward the old TV. "I thought... maybe we could watch Inside the Actors Studio. I watch it when I eat."

Nigel’s hand tightens around his fork, the plastic bending under the pressure of his grip. He doesn’t look at Adam, just shrugs, tossing the remote toward him with a flick of his wrist. It lands on the bed beside Adam, bouncing once before settling against his leg.

"Do whatever the fuck you want.” 

Adam nods, biting his lip as he picks up the remote, his fingers fumbling over the buttons. The TV flickers to life, the screen buzzing faintly, casting a pale glow across the room as he switches through channels. Once he finds it, Adam stares at it for a second, his brow furrowing like he’s not really sure if this is what he wanted after all. He doesn’t say anything else, just keeps eating, his eyes fixed on the screen.

Nigel finishes his food, the empty bowl sitting on the nightstand beside him. The whiskey bottle catches his eye, and before he knows it, he’s reaching for it, the glass cool and heavy in his hand. He twists the cap off, takes a long swig, the burn of alcohol sliding down his throat, warming him from the inside out.

“What’s your process?” Adam asks, out of nowhere, his voice soft but serious.

Nigel’s head turns just a little, his eyes cutting sideways to look at Adam. “What?”

“Your process,” Adam repeats, still watching the TV. “They’re talking about acting processes. How people, um, get into character. I was wondering… what’s yours?”

Nigel lets out a low, humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “I don’t have a process, doll. I just… do things. Whatever needs doing.”

Adam doesn’t look at him, still focused on the screen. His brow wrinkles like he’s trying to piece together the answer, like it doesn’t quite fit into whatever equation he’s working through. “But you think about it, right? Before you do something. You think about what you’re gonna say. Or do.”

Nigel snorts. “Not really. I just act on instinct. Whatever feels right at the time. No thinking. Thinking gets in the way.”

Adam’s fingers twitch slightly in his lap, his knee bouncing in that nervous way Nigel’s grown used to. “I don’t know how to do that,” Adam admits, finally turning his head to look at Nigel. His eyes are wide, honest. “I… I think about everything. All the time. I don’t know how to stop.”

Nigel shifts. “Yeah, well… maybe that’s not such a bad thing.” He shrugs. “You think because you need to. Helps you make sense of shit, right?”

Adam nods, eyes drifting back to the TV. “I guess. But it doesn’t always help. Sometimes it just makes things… harder.”

Nigel sighs, running a hand through his hair, scratching at the back of his neck like he’s trying to shake something loose. “Yeah, I get that. But maybe it’s just how you are, y’know? Some people gotta think through everything. I just don’t.”

“I wish I could… do things without thinking,” Adam murmurs, his voice quiet, but the weight of the words hangs heavy in the air. “I wish it wasn’t so… loud. In my head.”

Nigel looks at him then, really looks, and for a second, he’s not sure what to say. His chest feels tight, like there’s something sitting heavy on it, something that won’t move no matter how much whiskey he drinks. He exhales slowly, the sound of it barely audible.

“I don’t know, gorgeous,” Nigel says, his voice softer than before, “Maybe it’s just different for people like us. You think too much. I don’t think enough. We’re both fucked, but somehow we make it work.”

Adam glances at him, and there’s a small, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I like that,” he says after a pause. “That we can make it work.”

Nigel nods, leaning back against the headboard, the whiskey bottle dangling loosely from his fingertips, his knuckles pale and stiff like he’s clinging to the thing for balance. He brings the bottle to his lips again, the glass rim catching against his teeth as he tilts his head back. 

One thing he likes about Americans? Their fucking liquor. Cheap and plentiful, just like everything else in this godforsaken country. 

Nigel drags his eyes from the bottle, glancing sideways at Adam sitting on the bed next to him, his small frame curled up, knees tucked tight against his chest, head tilted slightly to one side as his eyes flicker across the TV screen. He finished eating a long time ago. 

Adam’s been quiet all night, barely making a sound except for the soft, almost inaudible mumbles he lets out while watching. It’s some old episode, and Adam’s been mouthing along to the words like it’s scripture. 

Nigel can’t temper the want bubbling up in his chest, can’t get his mind off Adam. It’s ridiculous, really, but the liquor doesn’t help. If anything, it makes things worse, brings out every wild thought lurking in his brain.

He’s never wanted anyone like this before—not even Gabi, who he’d thought was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. But that was before. Now? Now he knows better. Gabi’s beauty was cold, untouchable. Adam? Adam’s alive in a way she never was, his eyes still full of hope.

Those eyes, they glisten like they’ve got stars trapped inside them, little bits of light that dance when Adam gets excited, or even when he’s just breathing. Nigel’s not a poetic man, never has been, but when he looks at Adam, it’s like something shifts inside him, something that makes him want to find the right words for once. To describe how it feels to watch Adam move, breathe, exist.

But he’s not good at words, so he just drinks more whiskey, hoping it’ll quiet the noise in his head. He lets his eyes drift down, tracing the soft curve of Adam’s jaw, the way it tightens slightly when he’s concentrating, the way his bottom lip is caught between his teeth, worrying the soft skin. 

Every once in a while, Adam will flick his eyes over to him, like he can’t help but steal glances, like Nigel’s gravity and Adam’s orbiting around him. It sends a shiver up Nigel’s spine every time. He hates how much he loves it.

Nigel wonders if Adam even knows how fucking beautiful he is, if he has any clue what he does to Nigel just by existing in the same space.

The tension is so thick it’s choking Nigel, pressing down on him with every second that passes in this oppressive silence. Then Adam makes that fucking sound again. 

He’s been trying to ignore it all day, but it’s impossible now, not with Adam so close, not with the way he keeps shifting, his body making those tiny, pained noises that dig under Nigel’s skin like splinters.

Finally, he can’t take it anymore. 

“What the fuck is wrong?”

Adam flinches, his whole body jerking at the sudden sound, like he hadn’t expected Nigel to speak. 

“W-what?” 

Nigel grinds his teeth, feeling the familiar surge of frustration welling up. He’s been patient all day, watching Adam squirm and shift, making those little noises like something’s eating at him, and Nigel can’t stand it anymore. He needs to know what’s wrong, needs to fix it or make it stop, whatever it is.

“You’ve been doing that all fucking day,” Nigel says, his voice low and rough, barely keeping his anger in check. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Adam hesitates, his shoulders hunching up in that way they do when he’s nervous. His lips part like he wants to say something, but nothing comes out. Nigel can see the struggle written all over his face, the way his fingers clench tighter around his knees, his breath coming in shallow, uneven bursts. 

He doesn’t want to tell Nigel.

That only makes Nigel’s frustration boil over. Without thinking, he reaches out, his hand latching onto Adam’s chin, fingers digging into the soft skin as he forces Adam to look at him. “Tell me”.

Adam shivers under his touch, eyes fluttering shut for a brief moment before they flicker open again, lashes trembling like he’s on the verge of breaking. His lips part, and he lets out a shaky breath before he whispers, “It hurts.”

Nigel’s frown deepens, confusion flashing across his face. “What hurts?” 

Adam makes a frustrated sound, tugging at Nigel’s grip like he wants to pull away, but Nigel holds him firm, his fingers tightening just enough to keep him still. After a long, tense pause, Adam finally drops his gaze to the bed, his voice barely above a whisper as he says, “Where you… hit me.”

Nigel freezes, the air between them going still as his mind races to catch up. His chest tightens, and his grip on the whiskey bottle slips, the glass thunking against the bed. It’s not the words themselves that get to him, though—it’s what they mean, what they drag out into the open. His fist clenches involuntarily.

The guilt hits him fast, but it’s tangled up with something darker, something he’s not sure he wants to acknowledge. Something that’s coiling deep inside him now, winding tighter with every second that Adam stays there, trembling under his touch.

He loosens his grip on Adam’s chin, fingers brushing against his skin, softer now, but he doesn’t let go. He can’t. He’s too wrapped up in this, too pulled into the mess of it all to even think about stopping. His gaze drops to Adam’s lips, parted in a soft, nervous way, like he’s expecting something worse to happen.

Nigel’s stomach twists, and his tongue darts out, wetting his own lips as he leans in just a little. He’s caught between wanting to apologize, to say something—anything—that might make this better, and the other thing, the thing that’s making his skin buzz with heat. He’s staring at Adam’s mouth, and there’s a moment where he wonders what would happen if he just—

No. He shakes the thought away, pulling himself back before he can act on it, before the wrong thing slips through the cracks and ruins everything. But the desire’s still there. He knows it’s wrong, knows it’s twisted, but it’s got him by the throat, and the whiskey’s only making it worse.

Finally, Nigel pulls in a breath, his voice low, rough, barely above a whisper. "Fuck." 

He wants to say something else, but the words don’t come. His hand drops from Adam’s chin, and he shifts, kneeling on the bed now, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. He runs a hand over his face, rubbing at the scruff of his jaw, his chest tight with something like shame, but it’s not enough to drown out the other feeling. The one that makes him want to take.

Adam doesn’t say anything, just curls up tighter. Nigel’s gaze drifts down to the hem of Adam’s sweater, where it rides up just a little, exposing the sliver of pale skin above his waistband. And that’s when it happens again—Nigel’s stomach lurches, and his fingers itch with the urge to touch, to press into that softness, to claim what’s in front of him.

Nigel’s voice drops, hoarse, raw. "Lay down," he says, more of a command than a request. He’s already reaching for Adam, his hands too eager, too fucking quick. His mind’s screaming at him to slow down, to think this through, but his body’s moving on instinct.

Adam’s eyes widen even more, darting up to meet Nigel’s, and for a second, it’s like he’s caught between fear and something else. Nigel can see the hesitation, the way Adam’s body is pulled taut, ready to flee, but then the kid shifts, slowly, nervously, obeying without a word. He lies back against the mattress, his body trembling as his curls spread out on the pillow like a goddamn halo. 

Nigel reaches out, his fingers grazing the hem of Adam’s sweater, giving Adam every chance to stop him. But the kid doesn’t. Adam’s trembling, his whole body vibrating with tension, but he doesn’t say a word. Nigel lifts the fabric with both hands, pulling it up, revealing the pale skin beneath, inch by agonizing inch. The bruise is there, purple and yellow, spreading across Adam’s skin. Nigel’s mark. His doing.

He swallows hard, his mouth dry as he stares at it, at the way the skin around it is still tender, still fresh. Adam’s shaking under him, but he stays still, obedient. Nigel curses under his breath, his fingers hovering just above the bruise, close enough to feel the heat radiating from Adam’s skin but not quite touching. 

His voice is low, hoarse, almost reverent. "It hurts here?" 

He knows the answer, but he asks anyway, his fingers twitching as they hover over the bruise.

Adam’s breath hitches, and after a long pause, he nods, his head barely moving but enough for Nigel to see it. His eyes are closed now, lashes fluttering against his cheeks, and Nigel can hear the way his breath is coming faster, more erratic.

Nigel grits his teeth, his jaw clenched so tight it hurts..

He lifts Adam’s shirt higher, revealing more of the bruised skin, the soft, pale flesh that’s marked by his hand. "Fuck," Nigel whispers, barely able to get the words out. "Why didn’t you tell me, gorgeous?"

Adam twitches beneath Nigel’s hands, his thin frame shaking as he mutters, “I didn’t want to u-upset you.” 

There’s something in the way Adam says it that pisses him off, something so goddamn pathetic and apologetic that Nigel can’t stand it. He doesn’t want this kid thinking he’s some fucking burden, and yet, here they are. His head shakes slowly, almost as if he’s disappointed, but his eyes are locked on the bruise. He knows it’s bad. It’s a nasty bruise, the kind that’ll take days, maybe weeks, to fade. 

But fuck if it isn’t beautiful.

“If something’s bothering you, you fucking tell me. Got it?” His tone snaps like a whip, sharp enough to cut through whatever pathetic self-pity Adam’s drowning in. “I don’t want to hear anything about you being an inconvenience or a burden, so stop fucking thinking it.”

Adam doesn’t answer, doesn’t even look up at him. Nigel’s eyes flicker over him, catching every little detail, every twitch, every subtle movement of muscle beneath skin. His ribs are visible under the skin, bones shifting with every inhale. The bruise on his stomach looks like it’s alive, rippling in time with each labored breath. It moves in waves, purples and blues mingling together in a hypnotic pattern.

He can’t help himself. His hand moves almost on its own, broad palm settling against the warm skin of Adam’s stomach, right over the bruise. The skin there is hot to the touch, feverish. Nigel feels the tremor in Adam’s body, the way his stomach flutters under his palm, muscles twitching uncontrollably. His hand is rough and calloused, spanning the width of Adam’s waist easily. He feels like he could break Adam in half if he wanted to. There’s something about how small Adam is.

Adam’s breath catches, a soft gasp escaping his lips. He shouldn’t like this. He should feel guilty for touching him like this, for pressing his hand against the bruise, for making Adam gasp in pain and surprise. But guilt doesn’t come. It’s fucking wrong, but Nigel’s always been wrong. 

His fingers trail across the bruise. He’s careful at first, but not careful enough. He presses just a little too hard, his fingers sinking into the tender flesh, and Adam makes this sound—this quiet, pained whimper that shoots straight to Nigel’s core. Adam jerks back involuntarily, his whole body tensing up, but there’s nowhere for him to go. He’s trapped between Nigel and the bed.

“N-Nigel, maybe—maybe ice would help,” Adam stammers, his voice shaking just as much as his body. His eyes are wide, glassy, staring up at Nigel like he’s waiting for something—maybe waiting for him to stop, or maybe waiting for him to keep going. Nigel isn’t sure, and that uncertainty pisses him off.

Nigel pulls his hand back, curling it into a tight fist at his side to keep from reaching out again. He doesn’t trust himself right now. He knows he’s hanging by a thread, barely holding on to whatever fucked-up version of control he thinks he has. He nods once, short and stiff, forcing himself to break the connection, to sever the tie that’s keeping him tethered to Adam’s shaking, bruised body.

“Yeah,” he mutters, his voice rougher than usual, like it’s been scraped raw. “Ice. I’ll get it.”

He pushes himself off the bed, moving like his body’s too heavy for him to control properly. His limbs feel awkward, clumsy, like they don’t belong to him. He grabs the ice bucket from the dresser, barely aware of what he’s doing, just going through the motions because it’s easier than thinking. 

The door slams behind him as he stalks down the narrow hallway, the sound echoing in his ears like a gunshot. His breaths come fast and shallow, and he doesn’t even realize it until he’s halfway down the stairs, his chest heaving like he’s just run a marathon. His heart’s pounding, his pulse thrumming in his ears, and he feels like he’s about to explode. He’s so wound up, so fucking on edge, he can barely think straight.

By the time he reaches the ice machine, he’s shaking. Not just a little, but full-body trembling, like he’s about to come apart at the seams. He slams his hand against the wall next to the machine, sucking in a deep breath and closing his eyes. His teeth are clenched so tight he can taste blood and whiskey on his tongue, and it takes everything in him to loosen his jaw. 

It doesn’t work. Nothing fucking works. Adam’s all he can think about, all he’s been thinking about for days. The kid’s fucking killing him. Those little breaths of his, the way his body shakes, the way he looks up at Nigel–it’s too much. Nigel can’t take it.

He shouldn’t have kissed him. He knows that. He knew it the second it happened, but goddamn if he doesn’t want to do it again. And more. So much more. He can’t stop thinking about what it would be like to be the one to take Adam’s virginity, to be the first man inside him. It’s sick, it’s twisted, but the thought sends a shiver down his spine, a thrill racing through his veins. He’d be inside Adam’s head forever, the one who took his innocence. He’d own him, in a way no one else ever could.

Nigel tries to push the thought away, to remind himself that Adam should be with some shy girl in the back seat of a car, not here with him. Not with a man half his age who’s killed more people than he can count. A man who’s selfish, who takes what he wants and doesn’t care about the consequences. But that thought doesn’t stick, either. Nigel knows he’s selfish. He’s always known that. But it doesn’t make the want go away. It just makes it worse.

After what feels like forever, he forces himself to move, to peel himself off the wall and scoop ice into the bucket. The metal clanks against the sides, louder than it should be, the noise echoing in the empty hallway. He shuts the lid with more force than necessary and turns back toward the room, walking on autopilot. His mind is racing, spinning out of control, but his body knows what to do. One foot in front of the other. Keep moving. Keep breathing.

As he gets closer to the room, the cicadas outside scream louder, a high-pitched whine that fills the thick, humid air. Nigel grits his teeth against the sound, thinking about how cicadas die after they’ve served their purpose. They spend their entire lives underground, waiting, only to live a few brief weeks above ground before they die.

He reaches the door and hesitates for a beat, his hand hovering over the handle. He feels stupid, standing there like this, but he can’t bring himself to just walk in. He knocks instead, feeling ridiculous but doing it anyway.

There’s a pause, a beat of silence, and then Adam’s soft voice comes through the door. 

“Nigel?”

The sound of his name on Adam’s lips sends a rush of heat through Nigel’s body, but he swallows it down, forcing himself to keep it together. He pushes the door open slowly, stepping inside like nothing’s wrong, like he’s not losing his mind just standing there.

Adam’s exactly where he left him, sitting up on the bed, shirt pushed up just enough to reveal that dark bruise. Nigel clears his throat, his voice coming out rough and strained. 

“Hey.”

He crosses the room in a few quick steps, setting the ice bucket on the bedside table. His movements are stiff, mechanical, like he’s not fully in control of his body anymore. He climbs back onto the bed without asking, without waiting for permission, because that’s what he does. 

He doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches down and grabs the hem of his own shirt, tugging it up over his head in one rough motion. His movements are quick, almost jerky. The air feels cooler on his skin without the shirt, and he tosses it onto the bed, already grabbing at the ice, wrapping a handful of it up in the fabric. 

As he wraps the ice in his shirt, his hands feel too big, too clumsy. The cold stings his fingers, and he can feel the chill of it through the thin cotton. His knuckles brush the fabric, damp from the ice starting to melt. For a second, he lets himself focus on the task at hand, the feel of the ice, the roughness of the shirt, because it's easier than focusing on Adam.

“I’m not, by the way,” Nigel mutters, not looking at Adam, his eyes fixed on the compress in his hand. “Upset. Not at you.”

Adam’s voice is soft, hesitant. “But you’re upset about something?”

Nigel huffs out a bitter laugh, shaking his head. His gaze drops to the bedspread, avoiding Adam’s wide, worried eyes. 

“I think I always am.”

Nigel’s presses the ice down, watching the way Adam’s muscles jump beneath the cold. Adam makes a noise, a sharp, broken gasp, and his whole body shudders. 

"Lie back," Nigel mutters, his voice gravelly, the words slipping out before he really thinks about them. Adam obeys without a word, like his body’s on autopilot, sinking back into the bed. His head hits the pillow with a soft thump, dark hair splaying out messily across the sheets. Nigel watches him, the way his throat works as he swallows, the way his eyelashes flutter against his flushed cheeks. 

He shifts closer, his knee pressing into the mattress between Adam’s legs. Nigel presses the ice to the bruise again, dragging it across the mottled skin, watching the way Adam’s body reacts, flinching and jerking under the cold. 

There’s no reason for him to still be here, pressing ice to a bruise that’s not his problem, but Adam isn’t telling him to stop, and Nigel sure isn’t about to pull away. The silence between them speaks louder than words. Adam’s not asking for this, but he’s not pushing him away either. 

The quiet gives him time to think, to let his mind wander to places it probably shouldn’t. His gaze fixates on the bruise again, the way it spreads across Adam’s ribs like a flower blooming in slow motion. Gabi never bruised like this. She was all sharp edges and fury, always ready to fight, to leave her own marks on him. But Adam? Adam bruises like ripe fruit.

Before he realizes what he’s doing, his hand moves lower, sliding over the curve of Adam’s waist. The skin there is impossibly soft, warm and smooth under his rough fingers. He can’t stop himself from squeezing, pulling Adam just a little closer, just enough to feel the way Adam’s body shivers in response. 

His other hand moves without thinking, dragging the ice down over Adam’s stomach while his free hand roams, tracing the dip of his waist, the sharp lines of his ribs, the way the skin flushes pink wherever he touches. It’s mesmerizing, watching the color rise under his fingertips, like his touch alone is enough to leave a mark. 

Nigel leans in, just a fraction, his lips parting as his eyes trail up Adam’s body. He’s never touched anything this soft before, never felt skin this smooth under his fingers. It’s like silk, warm and pliant, and it makes Nigel feel reckless.

If there were angels, real angels, Nigel’s sure they’d feel like this. Like heaven. But Nigel doesn’t believe in angels. He believes in broken things. In fragile things. 

Things like Adam.

His hand creeps higher, fingers trailing up Adam’s side, over the delicate curve of his ribcage. He tells himself it’s medical, that he’s just checking for more bruises, making sure Adam’s okay. But that’s a lie, and they both know it. He’s touching Adam because he wants to, because he can’t fucking stop. 

Adam squirms under his touch, his breath hitching as Nigel’s fingers skim higher, brushing over ribs that shift and shudder with every shallow breath. "N-Nigel," Adam whispers, voice trembling. His chest rises and falls in uneven, frantic movements, the soft sound of his breathing filling the space between them.

Nigel’s eyes snap up to Adam’s face, and what he sees sends a bolt of heat straight through him. Adam’s biting the collar of his sweater, lips pressed tight around the fabric, his cheeks flushed a deep pink. His eyes are wide, glazed, staring down at where Nigel’s hand has disappeared under the hem of his shirt.

Oh.

Adam’s not just tense, not just scared. He’s...feeling this. Feeling every touch, every brush of Nigel’s fingers against his skin. And he’s not stopping it.

Before he can stop himself, Nigel’s voice spills out, low and dangerous. 

"Do I scare you, Adam?"

Adam shivers, his eyes fluttering closed for a second before he manages to shake his head, letting go of the collar of his sweater with a soft exhale. 

"N-no. Not anymore."

The words send a surge of something hot and fierce through Nigel. His hand moves higher, barely touching but enough to feel the way Adam trembles beneath him.

" Did I scare you?" 

His fingers keep moving, tracing the lines of Adam’s ribcage, feeling the skin twitch and shudder under his touch.

Adam’s breath is shaky, the sound of it catching in his throat. "You pointed a gun at me, Nigel. You killed people." The words are soft, barely more than a whisper, but they vibrate against Nigel’s hand, low and warm. "Of course you scared me."

Nigel looks away, pressing the ice harder against the bruise, but his other hand stays where it is. The heat of Adam’s skin seeps into his palm, and it’s too much, too good. He doesn’t deserve to touch this. Doesn’t deserve to feel this. But he can’t stop.

"I never wanted to," Nigel says, and it surprises him how much he means it. "I wanted you to feel safe with me. I still do." His voice drops, rough and raw. "You know what I’d do to protect you."

Nigel presses the ice down harder again, drawing a soft, pained sound from Adam’s lips. Adam’s body jerks under him, but he doesn’t pull away. He never pulls away.

"I don’t want you to kill for me," Adam whispers, his voice small, almost ashamed.

Nigel’s lips curl, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "If I have to, I will." 

His voice is low, dangerous, but there’s a thread of truth in it that makes his skin prickle. He’d do anything for Adam, and that scares him more than anything else.

Adam makes a small, frustrated sound, but Nigel shushes him, leaning closer, his voice soft but firm. 

"Relax, doll. There’s no one here but us. I know you like it that way."

Nigel tightens his grip on Adam’s waist, holding him still, feeling like he’s about to snap. 

He looks up, catches the flush on Adam’s cheeks again, darker than before, and it makes something twist deep in Nigel’s chest. He can’t help but ask, voice rough and raw. 

"Do you like it when I touch you, Adam?"

Adam’s eyes flick away, his words stumbling out in a mess. "I.. Um, I—"

Nigel leans in closer, his grip tightening, his voice low and coaxing. "It’s a yes or no question. Do you like it when I touch you?"

The silence stretches out, heavy and thick, like the air before a storm. Nigel can hear Adam’s breathing, can feel the way his body shakes under his touch. Finally, after what feels like forever, Adam’s voice breaks the tension, barely a whisper.

"Y-yes."

Nigel’s eyes slam shut, his teeth grinding together as he fights the urge to give in, to lose himself in the heat and the want burning between them. 

"You’re fucking killing me, Adam," he breathes, his voice ragged and desperate. He pulls back, tries to regain control, to get some distance, but the second he moves, he hears it. A soft whine, barely more than a breath, but it freezes Nigel in place. Before he can react, Adam’s hand shoots out, wrapping around his wrist. Nigel stops dead in his tracks. Adam’s trembling, but he holds on tight, like he’s afraid Nigel will disappear.

“D-don’t go,” Adam pleads, voice so quiet it’s almost drowned out by the pounding in Nigel’s ears. His fingers tighten around Nigel’s wrist. He’s not looking at Nigel, his eyes fixed somewhere off to the side, but the grip on Nigel’s wrist says everything. He wants this. He needs this.

Nigel’s breath catches in his throat, his pulse thudding like a war drum in his chest. His eyes flick to Adam’s face, to the blush staining his cheeks, the way he trembles like he’s barely holding himself together. 

“Why, Adam?”

Adam shivers, his grip tightening just enough to make Nigel’s pulse race. His voice is shaky, almost afraid, but there’s something behind it, something braver than Nigel’s ever seen in him before. 

“I want you to… to touch me. More.”

Nigel’s whole body goes taut, a sharp breath escaping his lips as his head spins. He drags in a breath, tries to ground himself, but his voice comes out softer than he intends, rough and full of disbelief. 

“You… you want me to touch you?” 

Adam bites his lip, his eyes dropping down, but he doesn’t let go of Nigel’s wrist. “Please,” he whispers, the word breaking on his lips like it costs him everything to say it. "Please, Nigel. Y-you said all of this was for me, right? That everything we were doing was meant to help me? You told me it was good th-that I hadn’t…” He falters, his cheeks flooding with a deeper shade of red. "That I was still... a… a virgin."

The way Adam says it, the way his voice cracks and trembles—it’s enough to make Nigel’s heart jolt painfully in his chest. He’s got no fucking right to this. 

Nigel’s throat tightens, his voice dropping to a low murmur, barely more than a breath. 

“You don’t know what you’re really asking me for.”

Adam’s head shakes, his hair falling into his eyes, but he doesn’t let go. “No, no, you’re wrong. I do know,” His voice cracks, a mix of fear and determination, and he looks away, his hands still clutching Nigel. “I’ve… I’ve been on the internet before. I’m not…” He trails off, closing his eyes and shaking his head, his voice barely above a whisper. "Please, Nigel... I need you to show me. Help me.”

Nigel’s breath stutters, his heart pounding so hard he feels like it’s going to fucking break out of his chest. “Help you with what, exactly?”

Adam doesn’t answer right away, his fingers tightening just slightly around Nigel’s wrist. His chest rises and falls in quick, uneven breaths, and the blush spreads down his neck, disappearing beneath his shirt. 

“You know,” Adam whispers, voice so small, so unsure, but full of something raw and aching. 

Nigel leans forward, every muscle in his body tight with the warning that he shouldn’t, that this is the edge of something too steep, too dangerous, and one wrong step will send them both tumbling into a place they can’t climb back from. His heart though—it’s got a way of drowning out logic, screaming at him that he’ll die if he pulls away, that he’s spent too many years of his life on the outskirts of something real and this, this right here, is the closest he’s ever been to finding out what it’s like to be needed by someone.

He tells himself this is fine. Maybe even right, in some twisted way, that it’ll help Adam somehow. Kid’s been floating through life, head in the clouds, barely grounded in the real world, and maybe this is the thing that’ll anchor him. Nigel could be that anchor. He tells himself he’s doing something good, helping the kid figure things out, because Adam looks so fucking pretty lying there, flushed cheeks, lips parted like he’s already drunk on something dangerous. 

It’s wrong. He’s wrong. He knows that, always has. He’s never been able to control the stupid, reckless beat of his heart, got himself shot in the head over it once, nearly lost his damn life because he couldn’t walk away when he should have.

He wonders what this will cost him, this particular sin he’s about to commit. Wonders what kind of punishment the universe will cook up for him this time. Nigel figures it doesn’t really matter. He’d take whatever hell comes his way if it means having Adam just once.

Still, that small part of him, the part that knows better, tries to claw its way to the surface, forces him to say, “You’re not gay, Adam. You told me that, didn’t you? You said so.”

It’s a pathetic attempt to get out of his own head, but the words hang heavy between them, and Nigel don’t know who the hell he’s trying to convince—himself, or Adam.

Adam blinks up at him, face all twisted up like he’s trying to make sense of it too. “I... I said I didn’t know,” he stammers, voice breathy, catching on the words like they’re unfamiliar to him. “I didn’t let myself think about it. I just... pushed it away.”

Nigel’s heart thuds in his chest, hard and fast, and it’s all he can do to keep his hand from shaking as he finally reaches out, fingers slipping into Adam’s hair. He moves closer, shuffling awkwardly until his knee brushes Adam’s thigh, and his hand moves the melting ice from Adam’s stomach to the floor. He plants his palm on the bed, right beside Adam’s head, leaning over him, letting his shadow fall across Adam’s flushed face.

Adam squirms beneath him, his breath coming faster now, chest rising and falling like he’s trying to keep up with something bigger than himself.

“Relax, gorgeous,” Nigel says, voice low, rough like gravel. He’s trying to keep it steady, but it’s hard, real fucking hard, with Adam looking at him like that. “All you have to do is fucking relax.”

“I never really thought about it,” Adam admits, voice barely holding together, “but I know I like the way you say my name. The way you call me gorgeous, or doll, even though I’m not—I'm not any of those things. But when you say it, it feels... real.”

Nigel’s eyes move over him, slower this time, drinking in every detail like it’s something he might never get to see again. Adam’s got sweat gathering at his hairline, his messy curls sticking to his forehead, and there’s something about how wrecked he looks that makes Nigel’s chest ache. 

“What else?” Nigel asks, voice soft but commanding. 

Adam’s lip trembles, his teeth catching on it like he’s trying to hold himself back, but his hands are twitching by his sides, fingers curling in the sheets like they need something to hold onto. “Everything,” he breathes, the confession so quiet it’s almost lost between them. “I know I shouldn’t, but I do. You’re... dangerous. But I can’t help it. I like you. I really do.”

Nigel grins at him, wide and sharp. His teeth flash in the low light, and Adam’s breath catches in his throat, eyes going even wider. “I like that too,” Adam blurts out, words spilling out before he can stop them.

Nigel shifts, his hand sliding under Adam’s shirt, fingers brushing over the warm skin of his stomach. Adam jerks at the touch, a sharp gasp escaping him. Adam’s so fucking sensitive, every little touch setting him off like a live wire.

“Tell me to stop,” Nigel whispers, the words barely audible, like a prayer, like a plea.

Adam shakes his head, his voice trembling but sure when he says, “I-I can’t. I don’t want to. You said it’s about what I want—what I really want—not what I’m supposed to do. And I know what I want.”

Nigel’s grip tightens in Adam’s hair, and he tilts Adam’s head back just enough to watch his throat move as he swallows, the delicate line of it so fucking vulnerable. “You want me, doll? Is that it?” 

Adam nods eagerly, eyes shining with something raw and desperate. “Yes,” he whispers, like it’s the most important thing he’s ever said.

Nigel’s hand moves to Adam’s throat, feeling the soft pulse there, the way it quickens under his fingers. He squeezes just enough to draw out another gasp, the sound like gasoline on a fire that’s already burning too hot. He lets his thumb graze the bruises, the faint shadows of fingers that shouldn’t be there, and something inside him tightens. He’s not supposed to be the one marking Adam up, making him weak. But here he is, and Adam’s looking up at him like he’s the only thing that matters, like he’s willing to be broken in Nigel’s hands if that’s what it takes.

Nigel’s fingers trace down over the soft skin of Adam’s chest where his shirt is pushed up, revealing pale skin that seems to glow. He presses his palms flat against Adam’s waist, feeling the way his body shivers at the touch. 

"When you’re going to fuck someone, you need to take your time, move slow," he says, the words dragging out. "You can’t just rush into it. You have to be intentional, deliberate, with every touch. Sweet even. Careful." He pauses for a moment, his eyes narrowing as he speaks again. "It has to mean something, feel like something real. Not just… some cheap act, like the shit you’d see in those pornos everyone else watches to get off."

“So not like Chris and Jess, I guess,” Adam says, voice shaky.

Nigel lets out a low chuckle, his lips curling up in a grin that shows off his sharp teeth again. 

“Exactly. You got it. They’re fucking clueless, those two. They wouldn’t get it if it hit them in the face." He leans forward, his voice dropping to a softer, more intimate tone. "But you do, don’t you? You get it. You understand what I’m telling you… right, Adam?"

Adam’s eyes flutter closed for a second, his breath coming out in a shaky exhale as he nods. “Yeah,” he whispers, voice so soft it’s barely there, like he’s afraid saying it too loud might break the moment. “It’s… special. I know."

Nigel feels something crack open in his chest at that, something deep and painful and real, and before he can stop himself, he’s leaning down, closing the space between them. He kisses Adam, slow and soft. His lips press against Adam’s, just barely at first, just enough to feel the warmth of him, the sweetness. And then Nigel’s hand slides back up into Adam’s hair, fingers tangling in the curls, and he tilts Adam’s head up, kissing him deeper now, letting himself sink into the feeling.

Adam whines, a soft sound in the back of his throat that sends a shiver down Nigel’s spine. “That’s right,” Nigel murmurs between slow kisses, his hand tightening in Adam’s hair, tugging just enough to hurt. “It’s supposed to be special.”

Nigel finds himself believing it more than he ever thought he could. Adam’s breath hitches again, his tongue fumbling against Nigel’s like he’s trying to keep up, but it’s messy, uncoordinated. Adam’s not good at this, not practiced, but fuck, that’s part of what makes it so perfect. He’s so raw, so new.

Nigel deepens the kiss, slow and patient, guiding Adam, teaching him how to move, how to breathe through it. It’s nothing like anything he’s ever done before—this isn’t about taking, it’s about giving. About making sure Adam knows just how fucking important this is.

He pulls back again, just enough to look at Adam, to see his flushed cheeks, his messy hair, the way his chest is heaving with every breath. Adam’s lips are swollen now, and Nigel thinks, I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve any of this.

But here he is.

He feels like a train’s hit him, like something’s knocked the wind right out of him, but he’s never felt more alive. Adam wanted this. He asked for it. He was brave enough to say it out loud, to ask for something he was scared to want.

And that’s what matters. That’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.

Nigel’s lips hover over Adam’s, so close, but instead of going for another kiss, he veers left, his mouth landing on the sharp line of Adam’s jaw. He groans against the skin, kissing, sucking. 

The tension in Adam’s body is electric. Nigel can feel the way Adam’s shoulders tense under his hands, can feel the heat pouring off him like a living thing, all wrapped up in his flushed skin and needy, desperate noises. 

As he moves lower, Nigel’s lips trail along the curve of Adam’s jaw, tasting the faint salt of sweat mixed with the sweetness of his skin. The blush on Adam’s cheeks is so vivid, pink and pretty, like the petals of some delicate flower, and Nigel swears—swears—he can taste it. It’s a wild thought, but it lingers in his mind, blooming like something sweet. Strawberries. Adam tastes like strawberries, ripe and ready, soft on his tongue. It’s impossible, sure, but logic’s left the room a long time ago.

Nigel doesn’t care. All he knows is that Adam’s the most beautiful fucking thing he’s ever seen, ever touched. He mouths at Adam’s neck next, feeling the pulse there, rapid and fluttering like a little bird trapped under his skin. It’s intoxicating, that thrum of life, and Nigel can’t help it—he bites down, just a little, just enough to feel the give of skin under his teeth, the way Adam shudders beneath him, gasping for breath.

The little red mark blooms under his mouth, and Nigel leans back for a second, just to admire it, a dark smudge against all that flushed prettiness. It feels like staking a claim. Mine.

His free hand comes up to cup Adam’s cheek, thumb brushing over the flushed skin with a tenderness that feels almost out of place for him. He kisses Adam’s cheek again, soft this time, and murmurs against his skin, “Please, tell me to fucking stop.”

He’s begging for more, for something bigger, for all of Adam. He wants Adam to pull him back, to stop him before it’s too late, to give him one good reason to turn back from the edge. But Adam doesn’t.

Instead, Adam just shakes his head, breathless, eyes wide and dark as he turns his head, their lips brushing again in another maddening almost-kiss. And then they’re kissing again, full and deep, like Adam’s trying to swallow him whole. There’s nothing delicate about it. It’s raw, messy. Adam’s tongue drags across one of Nigel’s sharp canines, and Nigel pulls back with a hiss, cursing softly under his breath.

“From now on, you're going to fucking tell me whenever something’s wrong, whenever you’re hurt. I need to know these things,” Nigel says. He watches Adam’s face closely, making sure he’s listening, that he understands.  “This is important,” he says, slower this time, so every word sinks in. “You don’t go around hurting people just because you can. You do it because you care about them, because they matter to you." Nigel pauses, a strange intensity settling into his tone, before continuing. "And I need you to understand—I'm not going to hurt you, Adam. Not now , at least not during this."

Adam goes still at that, his breath catching in his throat, and for a second, Nigel wonders if he’s gone too far, if he’s said the wrong thing. But then Adam nods, the tiniest little movement, like he’s agreeing but doesn’t quite have the words for it yet. 

Nigel’s hand drifts up again, sliding under Adam’s shirt, his palm pressing flat against his chest, feeling the rapid thump of his heart beneath his skin. 

“You’re in control, alright? Say it.”

Adam squirms beneath him, his cheeks burning, and for a moment, Nigel thinks he might not answer. But then Adam’s breath catches, and he whispers, “I-I’m in control.”

Nigel smiles, slow and warm, a crooked little grin that’s all affection, all heat. “Good boy.” 

Without rushing, Nigel pulls Adam’s shirt over his head, stripping him down slowly. 

Nigel’s breath hitches as Adam’s shirt falls away, revealing the pale canvas of his chest, the way his skin flushes in patches of pink, his shoulders bony but so, so beautiful. He takes his time, just looking at him, every detail carving itself into Nigel’s mind like he’s engraving it onto stone. 

Nigel’s hand moves down Adam’s chest slowly, reverently. It feels like a privilege. His fingertips glide over Adam’s soft skin, brushing against the delicate pink of his nipples. Adam twitches under the touch, his whole body jerking slightly, he’s unused to it, like every nerve is hyper-aware of Nigel’s hands, of the way he’s being touched.

Nigel watches Adam’s face as he continues his slow exploration, the way his lips part with a sharp gasp when his thumb rolls gently over one nipple, the way Adam’s back arches just the tiniest bit, seeking more of that touch without even realizing it. 

Nigel leans in close again, murmuring against Adam’s throat, his voice low and rough, “You’re so fucking gorgeous, you know that?”

Adam’s breath hitches, a whine catching in his throat as his hands flutter at Nigel’s sides, not quite knowing where to hold, how to touch back. His fingers eventually find their way to Nigel’s chest, pressing against the warm, solid muscles there, his eyes wide as he takes in the contrast between their bodies—Nigel’s bulk and strength, the graying hair on his chest, the lines of his shoulders, all sharp and masculine. 

Nigel bends down, pressing soft kisses along Adam’s collarbone, each one drawing another soft whimper from Adam. Nigel’s lips travel lower, down Adam’s chest, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the delicate skin, his tongue darting out to taste the saltiness there. Adam’s skin is hot beneath his lips, his breaths coming faster, more ragged, and Nigel can’t get enough of it. His mouth finds Adam’s nipple, and he takes it between his teeth, just enough to make Adam gasp, to make his hips buck up off the bed.

“Nigel,” Adam breathes, his voice high and trembling, his hands gripping Nigel’s shoulders like he’s afraid he might float away if he lets go. 

“Shh, baby,” Nigel murmurs, his voice rough as he soothes Adam with another kiss, this one soft, lingering on the skin of his stomach as he moves lower, his hands slipping down to the waistband of Adam’s jeans. 

Nigel presses his knee between Adam’s thighs, feeling the way Adam’s body responds instantly, the way his hips jerk forward, seeking contact. Adam’s breath stutters out in a broken moan, and Nigel can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, wicked and full of teeth. He moves his hand lower, cupping Adam through his jeans, feeling the heat of him, the hardness there, and Adam lets out a choked whimper, his body going tense, his hips pressing up into Nigel’s touch.

“Pretty thing. Tell me I’m not fucking ruining you,” Nigel murmurs, his voice thick with lust, his breath hot against Adam’s skin as his fingers rub slow, deliberate circles over Adam’s jeans, teasing him, making him squirm.

Adam gasps, his body arching as he bucks into Nigel’s hand, desperate for more, for anything. “Y-you’re not,” Adam stammers.

Adam is raw and undone beneath Nigel, completely at his mercy. This—this is his. 

Nigel’s breath comes out in a harsh exhale, and he curses under his breath when he realizes he doesn’t have anything to properly take care of Adam, to prepare him. The frustration is immediate, a sharp, gnawing thing, but he forces himself to calm down, to think. He lifts his head, scanning the room quickly, looking for anything that might help.

“You have anything we can use?” 

Adam’s hands are in his hair now, soft and tentative, his fingers tangling in the graying strands as he blinks up at Nigel, dazed and flushed, still trying to catch his breath.

“For what?” 

Nigel leans in close, kissing the corner of Adam’s mouth, smiling softly against his lips before pulling back just enough to whisper, “I can’t just—” he makes a vague gesture, his grin growing wider, teeth flashing in the light, “—go straight in.”

It takes Adam a second to process what Nigel’s saying, and when it clicks, his eyes go wide, and he flushes even deeper, his cheeks burning a bright, vivid red. He stammers, flustered, “Oh. Oh. I—I think I have… vaseline? If that works…”

Nigel’s grin turns wicked, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly purr as he responds, “Perfect, baby.”

Nigel presses his lips to Adam’s, just once, and it feels like a promise made in secret. When he pulls back, Adam’s lips are left slightly parted, glistening like they've been kissed by honey. Nigel stares for a moment too long, his thumb brushing the corner of Adam’s mouth. “Pants off, doll,” he says, low and lazy like he’s got all the time in the world. But his body betrays him—his pulse is racing, hands already moving to climb off the bed like he’s on the edge of some wild fever.

Every step he takes is heavy with the weight of what he’s holding inside—this ache, this need that gnaws at him like an old hunger he can’t shake. Nigel bends down, knees creaking as he gets to Adam’s bag, squatting on his haunches like he’s ready to rummage through it like some scruffy, careless boy who never learned how to be neat. 

Sweaters. Books. Christ. The mess he’s making in the bag only fuels the sharp, reckless thrum beneath his skin. Sweaters spill out, soft and smelling like Adam, like clean linen. The scent fills the room, settling in Nigel’s lungs like a drug. 

His fingers finally brush against the smooth, familiar feel of the Vaseline. His fingers curl around it, knuckles turning white with the grip. 

He rises back up, the old bedframe creaking in protest as he leans over Adam again, his knees pressing into the mattress. He watches Adam, who’s trying to kick off his pants, legs tangling up in the sheets. Nigel’s too far gone in his own head, in his own body. Every part of him is alive with need, a pulse thrumming loud and insistent in his ears. He’s got the tub in one hand, his other moving to help Adam, to get those jeans off because God, he can’t wait any longer.

But Adam. “Nigel,” Adam says, voice soft, and almost pleading. “Fold them.”

Nigel chuckles, a low, rough sound that rumbles in his chest. He leans down, grabbing Adam’s jeans in one rough tug, yanking them free and tossing them onto the floor in a crumpled heap. The fabric flops with a careless thud, but Adam’s soft little frown is enough to make Nigel’s chest ache in that warm, tender way.

“I’ll fold them later. Promise.” He murmurs the words against Adam’s lips, hoping to distract him with the press of his mouth, with the taste of his breath. Nigel’s fingers brush Adam’s hips, slow and teasing, his thumb catching on the waistband of his boxers, pulling at the fabric just enough to feel the heat of Adam’s skin beneath.

The kiss deepens, slow and lazy. His teeth catch on Adam’s lower lip, a gentle nip that’s enough to leave a faint, red mark. He groans into the kiss, shuddering, his fingers brushing over the outline of Adam’s ribs, feeling the way his chest rises and falls in frantic, uneven breaths.

He pulls back, panting, his fingers slipping under Adam’s boxers now, slow and teasing, his calloused palm moving lower and lower. Nigel whispers against Adam’s lips, “Remember what I said, gorgeous. All you have to do is relax.” 

His voice is low, coaxing. And Adam—God, Adam nods, eager and desperate, his eyes half-lidded and hazy, trusting Nigel in that way that breaks something inside him. He wants to ruin him. 

Nigel’s hand slides further down, fingers dipping below the waistband of Adam’s boxers, his palm wrapping around him with a deliberate, slow touch. The moment he makes contact, Adam lets out a sharp, breathless sound that has Nigel's heart pounding like thunder. Nigel watches, mesmerized, as Adam fists the sheets in his hands, knuckles white, pressing his face into the pillow like he’s trying to hide from the intensity of it all.

“There you go,” Nigel murmurs. “Good boy.”

The praise hangs in the air, thick and sweet, and Nigel sees the way it affects Adam. A tear slips from the corner of his eye, tracing a slow path down the flushed skin of his cheek, and Nigel swears his heart might stop right there. 

Without thinking, Nigel leans down, his tongue flicking out to catch the tear before it falls, tasting the salt of it on his lips. He curses under his breath, the words slipping out like a confession. 

Adam shudders beneath him, a soft, broken sound escaping his throat. His shoulders shake, his body writhing in Nigel’s hands like he doesn’t know how to handle all the sensations coursing through him. It’s too much. Too good. Nigel feels like he’s on fire.

The way Adam moves, the way he arches up into Nigel’s touch, his hips lifting off the bed, needy and desperate—it’s enough to drive Nigel to the edge. He can’t believe this is happening, can’t believe he’s the one making Adam fall apart like this. Every little gasp, every whimper, it’s all because of him. And fuck if that doesn’t make him feel like a god.

His hand moves slow, teasing, dragging out every little reaction from Adam, savoring every second of it. He watches the way Adam squirms, his body arching off the bed, his breath coming in ragged, uneven bursts. There’s a wildness in Adam’s eyes, a desperation that makes Nigel’s heart race.

“Nigel,” Adam gasps, his voice shaky, barely a whisper. His fingers tangle in Nigel’s hair, pulling, urging him up. “Please…”

Nigel leans back up, his lips capturing Adam’s in a hungry, desperate kiss. Nigel’s hand tightens its grip for a second, and Adam whimpers into his mouth, the sound sending a spark of electricity down Nigel’s spine.

“Lift your hips for me,” Nigel murmurs, voice rough with need as he reaches for the pillow beside Adam. His hand is already trembling, barely able to keep steady, but his words are gentle, like he’s still trying to take his time. Adam does as he’s told, arching his hips off the bed, and Nigel slips the pillow under him, his fingers brushing the soft skin of Adam’s thighs as he does. 

Nigel grabs the waistband of Adam’s boxers, his fingers curling around the fabric as he drags them down, slow and torturous, letting them slide off Adam’s legs. The moment they’re gone, tossed to the floor in a forgotten heap, Nigel stops. 

And Christ, the sight of Adam like this, spread out for him, cock pink and aching and beautiful—it’s almost too much to bear. Nigel bites his cheek, hard enough to draw blood, trying to ground himself in the moment, trying not to lose his mind right then and there. He wants to take that pink, that sweet, aching blush, and paint the entire world with it, make it all his, make it all Adam.

Adam’s breathing is erratic, shallow, and Nigel’s hands move to his legs, gripping them gently at first, then firmer, guiding them like he’s positioning a doll. One leg curls around Nigel’s waist, the other he pushes up against Adam’s chest, his knee bending until his ankle rests on Nigel’s shoulder. Nigel swears he’s never seen anything so perfect in his life.

With one hand still holding Adam steady, Nigel grabs the tub of Vaseline, popping it open with his teeth in one swift motion. The sound of it feels deafening in the quiet room, the air thick with tension, desire hanging like a heavy storm cloud above them. He dips his fingers in, the cool, slick feel of it against his skin sending a jolt through him. He’s trembling now, barely holding it together, but he has to—he has to be careful. 

Nigel leans back, his eyes raking over the view in front of him. Adam—his Adam—laid out like some kind of offering, like something holy and untouchable, but here, in Nigel’s hands, to do with as he pleases. His breath hitches at the thought, and something dark and possessive flares up inside him, sharp and hot. 

He’d kill anyone who tried to touch him. 

His fingers trace slow, teasing circles around Adam’s entrance, feeling the way Adam trembles beneath him, the way his hands slip against the sheets as he tries to hold on.

Nigel bends down, his lips ghosting over Adam’s collarbone, his fingers still teasing, still circling, until he can’t hold back anymore. Slowly, carefully, he presses a finger inside, groaning at the sensation of the tight, warm heat wrapping around him. It’s better than he imagined—better than anything he could have dreamed. Adam’s breath hitches sharply, his body tensing, a soft whimper escaping his lips.

Tears spill from Adam’s eyes, his breaths coming in broken, desperate gasps. His arm lifts, shielding his face, but Nigel clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“No,” he murmurs, voice soft but firm. “I need to see your face.”

Adam nods, gasping, moving his arm away like it burns him, exposing his tear-streaked face, his eyes wide and dark with trust and want. Nigel smiles down at him, sweet and adoring, before he slips in another finger, anticipation blooming like fire in his chest as he searches for that perfect, sweet spot inside.

When he crooks his fingers, Adam’s whole body jerks, his arm flying up as he bites down hard, muffling his cry. He arches off the bed, trembling, and Nigel watches him like he’s watching a masterpiece come to life—raw, pure beauty. Tears streak down Adam’s flushed cheeks, his lips parted in soft, breathless cries, and Nigel can’t get enough.

He hears himself babbling, unable to stop the words from spilling out as his fingers move inside Adam, slow but relentless.

"Come on now, baby, hold yourself together. Just focus on your breathing—yes, that's it, slow and steady. I know it feels overwhelming, but trust me, this is fucking nothing compared to what you can handle, I promise." 

Nigel’s hand moves slowly, his fingers slick and insistent as they work their way deeper inside Adam. He watches Adam’s face, the way his lips tremble, parted just enough to let out broken little sobs, his lashes wet and clumped together from the tears. He doesn’t stop, though. Can’t stop. He loves the sight of it. Loves the slow, torturous motion of his fingers, pressing in and out, scissoring Adam open, even as his head swims with the whiskey still humming in his veins.

Adam’s hands twitch like he doesn’t know where to put them. They flutter in the air, ghosting over Nigel’s arms, his shoulders, never still. Nigel watches them with a fond, almost lazy kind of fascination. They remind him of butterflies, those fragile little creatures that never land anywhere for long, just fluttering from flower to flower, always restless. 

Adam’s chest rises and falls in sharp, uneven gasps, his body arching up against Nigel’s touch, his thighs trembling with the effort to stay open, to stay ready. 

He pulls his fingers out slowly, almost reluctantly, and Adam lets out a sob, high and broken, reaching for him with desperate hands. Adam’s fingers wrap around his wrist, trying to pull him back. 

“No, no, no—Nigel, please—” Adam’s voice cracks, raw and breathless. He hushes Adam gently, pressing a soft kiss to his trembling lips.

His mouth moves, tasting the salt of Adam’s tears.  The light filtering through the blinds makes Adam glow. His skin catches the thin beams of sunlight, turning him into something otherworldly. His hand moves to Adam’s hip, gripping hard as he pulls him closer, dragging him across the sheets with a kind of desperate reverence, like Adam might slip away if he’s not careful.

Nigel presses his forehead against Adam’s, his breath hot and ragged against his lips as he reaches between them, his fingers curling around his belt. He fumbles with the buckle, his hands shaking more than they should. His jeans are still on, clinging to him in a way that feels claustrophobic, but there’s a part of him that doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to break the spell. He pulls his belt free, the leather slipping through the loops with a soft hiss, and then he’s tugging down the zipper, impatient and rough.

Adam watches him with wide eyes, his lips parted. His gaze flickers down to where Nigel’s pulling himself free, his cock hard and aching in the warm air between them, and Nigel watches the way Adam’s throat bobs, watches the way his lips tremble.

He knows he’s big, knows that this is going to be intense, but there’s a part of him that relishes it, that wants to see how Adam reacts, wants to see how he takes it. He watches Adam’s eyes widen, watches the way his breath hitches, and the sight is so fucking beautiful it hurts. Nigel thinks he’ll carry that image with him forever, brand it into his memory until it’s the last thing he thinks about before he dies.

He reaches for Adam, his hand sliding over his trembling thigh, gripping hard enough to leave bruises, but there’s something almost tender about it too. “Tell me to stop.”

Adam shakes his head, his breath hitching, eyes wide and nervous but so fucking brave. His voice comes out in a shaky whisper, “Are–are you going to tell me to?”

Nigel closes his eyes, biting down hard on his lower lip to keep himself from groaning. The answer is no. It’s always been no. He presses his hips forward, guiding himself with one hand, the other gripping Adam’s thigh as he pushes inside, inch by inch.

It’s like fire. Like fucking perfection. Nigel’s whole body tenses as he slides in, as Adam tightens around him, and for a moment, he thinks he might break apart. Adam’s head falls back, his lips parting in a broken whimper, and Nigel groans, his resolve slipping as he bottoms out.

He stills his hips, letting them both adjust, letting Adam’s body get used to the stretch, to the heat. His hand moves to Adam’s stomach, pressing down gently, feeling the way his cock presses against Adam’s insides, the slight bulge beneath his palm. It’s too much. It’s not enough. Nigel feels like he’s going to come apart at the seams, shaking with the effort to stay still, to give Adam time.

But then Adam moves, his hands scrambling for purchase, fingers digging into Nigel’s shoulders, pulling him closer, closer than they’ve ever been. His eyes are wide, pleading, and his voice comes out wrecked, breathless, desperate. “Move. Please.”

Nigel doesn’t hesitate. He pulls out just enough to make the next thrust count, his hips slamming forward, hard. The sound that rips from Adam’s throat is sharp, like a gasp mixed with a sob, and Nigel’s vision goes white for a second, overwhelmed by the tight heat, the desperate sounds, the way Adam’s nails are clawing at his skin.

The bed creaks beneath them, an ominous sound that fades into the background as Nigel finds a rhythm, slow and heavy, each thrust deliberate and deep, shaking the cheap bed frame with every movement. The intensity of it, the heat, the pressure, the way Adam’s body is wrapped around him—it’s heaven and hell all at once.

Nigel drags his lips across Adam’s cheek, down to his neck, his scruff scraping over tear-streaked skin. He presses sharp, biting kisses into Adam’s skin, tasting salt and sweat, feeling the tremble of Adam’s pulse beneath his lips. His hand moves between them, wrapping loosely around Adam’s cock, feeling how hard, how heavy it is, how close Adam is. 

Nigel’s hand wraps loosely around Adam’s cock, his grip just firm enough to tease, but too loose to give the pressure Adam needs. It’s deliberate, this hesitancy, a slow torment that has Adam’s body tensing, trembling, every inch of him on edge. Nigel’s lips are still pressed to the side of Adam’s neck, mouthing at the delicate skin there, tasting the sweat and tears that mix together, dragging the tip of his tongue along Adam’s throat. His teeth graze over the pulse beating wildly beneath the skin, sharp and biting, but never too hard. He wants to mark Adam, wants to make him feel every second of this.

“No one’s ever laid their hands on you like this before, have they?”

Adam’s breath catches. “No.”

Nigel’s lips curl into a grin against Adam’s skin. “Tell me,” he demands, his grip tightening slightly, just enough to make Adam gasp, but still leaving him wanting. 

Adam shifts under Nigel’s hold, eyes squeezing shut. “No one... no one’s ever...” His voice cracks, struggling to push out the words under Nigel's scrutiny. “Touched me like this.”

“Tell me what it feels like. I want to hear you say it.”

“It feels... I’ve never...” Adam pauses, biting his lip as though searching for the courage to keep going. “It feels like—like I’m going to fall apart,” he admits.

Nigel hums approvingly, his hand moving with agonizing slowness. “Good,” he mutters. “I want you to.” 

Adam’s body jerks, his hips bucking up desperately into Nigel’s teasing hand, chasing any kind of relief he can find. Nigel can feel it in his own blood, a fire licking through his veins, driving him closer and closer to the edge, but he doesn’t give in yet. Not yet. He’s holding back, savoring every gasp, every sob, every desperate, breathless word that spills from Adam’s lips like a prayer.

Nigel bites down on the soft flesh where Adam’s neck meets his shoulder, teeth sinking in just enough to make Adam cry out. It’s not pain, not exactly. It’s the kind of pressure that burns, the kind that makes Adam’s back arch off the bed, his head falling back against the pillow as he gasps for air. Nigel’s hand tightens around Adam’s cock, just barely, still teasing, still holding back, drawing out every second.

Adam’s right there, on the edge, teetering between pleasure and pain, and Nigel’s keeping him there, holding him in that perfect space, that agonizing place where he can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but feel.

Nigel’s hips roll forward, slow but deliberate, pushing deeper into Adam with every thrust. The rhythm is maddening, heavy, like waves crashing against the shore. It’s relentless, but not fast. Each movement is controlled, like Nigel is savoring the feel of Adam wrapped around him, the way Adam’s body clenches and shudders with every inch he takes. He can feel the heat building between them, the slick friction, the way Adam’s thighs press against his hips, quivering with the effort to hold on.

Adam’s nails dig into Nigel’s skin, dragging down hard enough to leave angry red welts in their wake, but Nigel doesn’t care. 

He feels his control slipping, feels the tight coil of desire in his gut unraveling, fraying at the edges as Adam tightens around him. He doesn’t want to let go just yet. He wants to keep Adam like this—fragile, desperate, beautiful—for just a little longer.

But Adam’s voice breaks through the haze, shaky and wrecked. “Nigel, please. Please—”

That’s it. That’s all it takes.

Nigel growls, low and guttural, his hips snapping forward with more force, driving deep into Adam, over and over, the slow, torturous rhythm gone. Now it’s just raw need, the tension between them snapping like a rubber band stretched too tight. Adam cries out, his back arching off the bed as Nigel thrusts into him, each movement harder, more desperate. 

Nigel’s hand tightens around Adam’s cock, this time with purpose, with intent. He strokes in time with his thrusts, hard and fast, his thumb swiping over the head, dragging through the slick precome that’s pooling there. Adam’s gasps turn to broken moans, his body jerking with every stroke, every thrust. He’s close.

Nigel leans in, his lips brushing against Adam’s ear. “Come for me. I want to feel it. I want to see you.”

Adam’s whole body tenses, his head falling back, eyes squeezing shut as a choked sob escapes his throat. Nigel can feel it, the way Adam’s body locks up, the way his breath catches, the way his cock twitches in Nigel’s hand. And then he’s coming, hard, hot, spilling over Nigel’s fingers, his body shaking with the force of it. Nigel’s name falls from his lips in a broken, desperate moan, and it’s the most beautiful fucking sound Nigel’s ever heard.

“I knew you were special, Adam. I just fucking knew it.”

Nigel’s hips stutter, his own release building, the tight coil of need in his gut finally snapping as Adam’s body clenches around him, milking him for everything he’s worth. His vision goes white, his body shaking as he thrusts one last time, burying himself deep inside Adam as he comes, a low groan rumbling in his chest.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing, the creak of the bed as they both collapse into the tangled sheets, sweaty and spent. Nigel’s forehead rests against Adam’s, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. He presses a soft, lingering kiss to Adam’s lips, slow and tender, like he’s trying to say everything he can’t put into words.

Adam’s hands move lazily over Nigel’s back, soothing the welts and scratches, his touch soft now, gentle, like the storm between them has finally passed. Nigel pulls back, just enough to look at Adam’s face, to see the soft smile tugging at the corners of his lips, the way his eyes are still half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion.

“You okay?” 

Nigel’s voice is softer than a summer breeze, just a whisper in the still air. His breath is heavy, shallow. He hovers there, still half-connected, his body trembling from the aftershocks. His skin’s slick with sweat, clinging to Adam’s in a way that feels more intimate than even the act itself, a heat between them that hasn’t gone away yet. 

Adam doesn’t answer right away, doesn’t need to. His body speaks for him, the way he tilts his head up, lips ghosting over Nigel’s like it’s instinct, like he’s drawn to him without thinking. There’s a slowness to it, a kind of quiet passion that Nigel feels in his bones, in the deep parts of him he doesn’t let anyone see. Adam’s kiss isn’t rushed—it’s languid, sleepy, like he’s already drifting away. But it’s enough. It’s more than enough. 

But when Adam makes that sound—that quiet, desperate whine from deep in his throat, like he doesn’t want it to end—Nigel has to stop. He has to pull away, even though every fiber of his being wants to stay right where he is. He slips out, the loss of contact making him groan under his breath, but he laughs softly, almost like he’s trying to ease the tension, like he can’t help it. He leans in, pressing his lips to Adam’s jaw.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” His eyes search Adam’s face, looking for the slightest hint of discomfort, of regret. But all he sees is Adam, serene and quiet, blinking slowly like he’s already halfway to some dream Nigel can’t follow him into.

Adam shakes his head, but it’s this small, delicate movement, like he’s too tired to put more effort into it. His eyes flutter shut, lashes casting soft shadows on his cheeks, his breathing evening out in that peaceful, sleepy rhythm that Nigel could get lost in. He watches him for a moment, just breathing in time with him, feeling the rise and fall of Adam’s chest against his own, and that’s when it hits him again, hard and fast—this feeling he’s been pushing down for what feels like forever.

It’s not just post-sex haze. It’s not just that floaty, weightless feeling that comes after. It’s dangerous, too, because Nigel knows himself. He knows that letting this feeling grow is like playing with fire, but there’s a part of him—maybe the biggest part—that doesn’t care. He wants it. He wants to feel it.

It feels good, like the kind of warmth that seeps into your bones on a cold day. It makes him feel light, like dust caught in a beam of sunlight, glittering and spinning, dancing in the air. Makes him feel like he’s standing in a field of wildflowers, the kind that push up through the cracks in the pavement, stubborn and beautiful. It makes him feel like summer.

Nigel moves then, slow and careful. He smooths Adam out, his hands sliding down his side, over the long stretch of his leg, feeling the heat of him, the tension still there in his muscles. Adam squirms, a sleepy little movement, like he’s not even fully aware of it, like he’s comfortable in the way only Adam can be—naked and unashamed, stretched out on the sheets like he owns them. There’s something about the way he looks right now, all vulnerable but so perfectly Adam, that makes Nigel’s heart do this weird thing in his chest. It’s like it skips, then stumbles, like it’s trying to keep up with something bigger than it knows how to handle.

He reaches for his tank top, the one he threw aside without a second thought earlier. He rolls it into a ball, using it to gently wipe away the mess between Adam’s thighs, the slick on his stomach. It’s not just cleaning, though. It’s more than that. 

When he’s done, he tosses the shirt to the floor after he wipes himself down quick and messy, and then he’s back, wrapping his arms around Adam and pulling him close. Adam fits against him perfectly, like he was made to be there, head tucked against Nigel’s chest, his curls brushing Nigel’s chin. Adam curls into him instinctively, pressing closer, his body melting into Nigel’s like they’re two parts of the same thing. There’s no space between them, no room for anything else, and Nigel wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Thank you, Nigel,” Adam mumbles, the words barely more than a breath, soft and slurred from exhaustion.

Nigel’s heart skips, this time harder, and for a second he forgets how to breathe. He wasn’t expecting that. He wasn’t expecting Adam to say anything. He swallows, his throat suddenly dry, and whispers, “For what?” 

Adam shifts, nuzzling into him, his breath warm against Nigel’s skin. “Helping me,” he murmurs, voice trailing off into a sigh.

Nigel jolts as Adam leans up, his fingers coming to hesitantly trace the scar on his forehead. The touch is gentle, almost curious, it makes him ache, but Nigel can’t let the question form.

"Don't ask," he murmurs.

Adam doesn’t pull away, his fingers stilling, but staying close. His carolina blue eyes flicker up, meeting Nigel’s, but he doesn’t speak. Maybe he senses it—the weight, the way Nigel’s chest feels tight like it might cave in under all the things he won’t say. 

His fingers find their way into Adam’s hair again, trailing through the soft curls, over and over.

The TV’s still on in the background, the faint sound of voices and music filling the room, but it’s all muffled now, just white noise. It’s like the rest of the world doesn’t exist anymore. All that’s left is this—Adam, warm and close, and Nigel, caught in the quiet aftermath of the collision between the Milky Way and Andromeda. 

Chapter Text

Nigel’s got one hand on the wheel, the other wrapped around Adam’s feet, the kid’s socks thin and worn, soft under his fingers. There’s something comforting about it—having Adam’s feet in his lap, like it’s casual, like it’s normal. The car hums beneath them, the engine’s low growl almost soothing in its constancy. The windows aren’t rolled down all the way, but the hot summer air is still rushing in, thick and heavy, sticking to their skin. It’s the kind of heat that makes everything slow down, like you’re moving through molasses, like time itself is bending under the weight of it. 

Adam’s curled up against the door, his long legs stretched out, his socked feet resting on Nigel’s thigh like he owns the place. He’s all lanky limbs and soft skin, pale under the golden glow of the sun. He’s got Nigel’s shirt on again, one of those old white button-ups that’s seen better days. Too hot for his usual nerd sweaters. It makes him look like some kid playing dress-up in his daddy’s clothes, but also makes him look like he’s marked. Claimed. Nigel likes that. Loves it, actually. It’s not just the possessiveness, though that’s a part of it—seeing Adam wrapped up in something that’s his, something that smells like him, that looks like him. No, it’s the way Adam seems free in them, like he’s shrugged off the weight of everything else and settled into something lighter, something easier.

And damn, if Nigel doesn’t want to keep him that way. Keep him loose, relaxed, like the world’s finally decided to give him a break.

They’ve been on the road for more days now, the scenery shifting from one sad little town to another, but none of it sticks in Nigel’s mind. It’s all just a blur of gas stations and fast food joints. The only thing that feels real is Adam, sitting next to him, his socked feet in Nigel’s lap, the faint sound of his breathing mixing with the low hum of the engine. Nigel’s fingers curl a little tighter around Adam’s ankle, the heat of his skin seeping through the thin fabric of his socks.

The kid looks like he doesn’t have a care in the world, his whole posture saying I’m yours to carry . Nigel glances sideways, the sun slanting in through the window, catching in Adam’s curls, making them look like spun gold, the kind of soft, golden light that turns everything into a daydream. His eyes trace the curve of Adam’s jaw, the soft slope of his neck. The kid’s got a lollipop in one hand, the stick of it turning slowly between his fingers, the candy itself stained bright blue. His lips are tinted too, the color smudged in the corners. 

The kid is fucking beautiful. Soft and sweet and entirely his.

Adam’s got a book in his other hand, something thick and dense, the kind of shit that Nigel’s never had the patience for. Right now, he’s deep into it, his eyes flicking across the lines of text, completely absorbed. His lips move sometimes, mouthing the words like he’s tasting them, savoring them. Nigel doesn’t know if it’s cute or if it pisses him off. There’s something about Adam being so focused on anything other than him that grates on his nerves, but at the same time, he likes the way Adam looks when he’s reading.

They haven’t talked about it much, not really. Not since that night in the motel, when everything between them changed. 

Ever since then, it’s been harder than hell to keep his hands to himself. He’s wanted Adam before, wanted him bad, but now that he knows Adam wants him too—really wants him—it’s a whole different ball game. It’s like the floodgates have opened and there’s no shutting them now.

They’ve kissed, a lot. More than Nigel’s ever kissed anyone in his life. Adam’s got a way of kissing that leaves Nigel breathless, desperate, like he’s gonna drown in it if he’s not careful. It’s not just about the sex, though Nigel can’t deny he’s thought about that more than a few times, especially when they’re pressed close, lips locked, and Adam’s making those sweet little noises in the back of his throat. 

Adam’s wormed his way into Nigel’s chest, into the spaces between his ribs, until Nigel can’t imagine a world where Adam isn’t right there beside him. It’s a dangerous feeling, one that sets off all kinds of alarms in Nigel’s head, but he can’t stop it. Doesn’t want to.

He glances over at Adam again, watching as the kid turns another page, the faint crinkle of paper barely audible over the sound of the wind rushing through the open windows. Nigel licks his lips. He shifts in his seat, his hand sliding up Adam’s leg a little, fingers creeping beneath the edge of his sock.

“What are you reading, doll?” 

Adam doesn’t even look up, doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s too focused on his book, too lost in whatever world he’s escaped into. Nigel’s fingers dig in a little, pinching the soft skin of Adam’s ankle, and finally, the kid jumps, his wide blue eyes snapping up to meet Nigel’s.

There it is. That spark, that connection that Nigel craves like a fix. He can’t help the grin that spreads across his face, slow and lazy, his eyes dropping to the lollipop still dangling from Adam’s lips.

“I asked what you’re reading,” Nigel drawls.

Adam blinks, flustered, his cheeks going a shade darker as he glances down at his book like he’s suddenly forgotten the title. 

“It’s… about space. But it’s wrong. The way they describe the orbital mechanics is completely inaccurate. They don’t even account for the gravitational influence of nearby celestial bodies, which would drastically change the trajectory of any spacecraft—basic Newtonian physics. And the distances between stars, they’re just… they’re off. They think you can just travel between systems without understanding the implications of time dilation, which would—” He pauses, his brow furrowing. "It's frustrating."

Nigel raises an eyebrow. "Sounds like a headache.”

“It is. I just don’t understand how they can publish something so… incorrect. It’s like they didn’t even research.” Adam glances up at Nigel before quickly looking away again. “Space isn’t just some vague concept you can make up as you go along. There are rules, laws. You can’t just ignore them for the sake of a…a plot.”

Nigel leans back, watching Adam with a hint of amusement. “You’ve got a thing for precision, don’t you?”

Adam shrugs, the movement small. “It’s not that. It’s just… if you’re going to write about something as incredible as space, at least get it right. It deserves that. Space is… it’s everything. It’s vast and chaotic, but there’s order. Structure. Patterns.”

“Guess I never thought of it that way.”

Adam glances up again, more cautiously this time. “Most people don’t. It’s not just about facts—it’s about the beauty in those facts. The way everything connects. Even the smallest forces can have massive effects. It’s… delicate. Fragile.”

Nigel tilts his head slightly, his lips curling into a small, lopsided grin. “Kind of like you?”

Adam stiffens. He presses his lips together, unsure how to respond to that.

And then there’s that damn lollipop again, slipping back between Adam’s lips, the candy gleaming wet and sticky in the sunlight. Nigel’s throat tightens, his fingers twitching on the wheel. He likes the way Adam’s fingers wrap around the stick, likes the way his lips cling to it, leaving a trail of wetness behind. He likes it too much, actually, and that’s the problem. 

Nigel clears his throat, dragging his eyes away, forcing himself to look back at the road. He shifts in his seat, pushing Adam’s feet away from his crotch before he loses the last bit of control he’s got left.

Suddenly, stopping somewhere can’t come soon enough.

Springsteen’s voice buzzes low from the radio, barely above a murmur, but it’s there. Nigel thinks that’s the gift, really. The way Adam’s not pulling away, not flinching like he used to back when they first met. Nigel thinks about that, how Adam used to be all twitchy and nervous, wouldn’t let anyone touch him unless they absolutely had to. It was almost impressive how he did it, but it pissed Nigel off, too—especially when that asshole Chris would barrel into Adam like a bull, knocking him back a step, every fucking time.

Nigel never saw Adam fight back. He’d stumble, straighten himself out, and keep going like nothing happened. 

But here they are now, in the middle of nowhere, far from that diner, far from Chris, far from anything that used to keep Adam tethered to that skittish, scared version of himself. And the best part? Adam’s letting Nigel touch him. It’s something Nigel never thought he’d get—this quiet, intimate touch. He gives the foot a squeeze, feeling the slight twitch as Adam reacts but doesn’t pull away. That, more than anything, sends a jolt of something warm and wild through Nigel’s chest.

He doesn’t think Adam’s really paying attention to the fact Nigel’s killed more people than he can remember, or maybe he just doesn’t care. Nigel’s dangerous—he knows that, and so does Adam. Adam had said, You’re dangerous. But I can’t help it. I like you.

That memory’s like fire in Nigel’s veins, burning slow and hot. It settles in his chest, warm and steady, as he looks over at Adam, his eyes drawn to the curls hanging loose around his face, the way his lips press together in concentration as he reads. 

Nigel studies him for a moment. “You ever think maybe it's not about making sense? Maybe it’s just... fantasy.”

Adam's lips press into a thin line. “Fantasy's fine, but if you’re setting something in space, at least try to get the basics right. It’s not hard to look it up.”

Nigel smirks, shaking his head. “You’d hate the stuff I watch.”

“Probably,” Adam mutters.

“So, what would you do differently? If you were writing it?”

Adam blinks. “I… I don’t know. Probably start with the math. Make sure the physics work out. Then maybe…” He hesitates. “Maybe build the story around that. Something that actually respects the laws of the universe.”

“You’d make a hell of a writer, you know that?”

Adam shakes his head. “I’m not a writer.”

"Could’ve fooled me," Nigel mutters. “What do you think about my favorite movies?”

“I don’t think I know what your favorites are.”

Nigel’s lips twitch into a small grin. “The Godfather. Fucking classic. There’s just something about the way it’s shot—every frame feels like a fucking painting, and the story… it’s about power, loyalty, betrayal. You can feel the weight of every choice they make. Plus, Pacino? Brando? You can’t get any better than that.”

Adam shifts slightly. “I’ve… never seen it.”

Nigel raises an eyebrow. “Never?”

Adam shrugs. “It didn’t seem like I would understand it.”

“Maybe,” Nigel says, his voice lower, more thoughtful now. “But it’s not just about crime or gangsters. It’s about control, how far people go to hold onto it. There’s this scene—Michael Corleone is sitting in a dark room, alone, deciding who lives or dies. And the camera just lingers on him, his face half in shadow. You see the weight of it, the darkness creeping in.” He taps his fingers against the wheel. “That kind of thing… it sticks with you.”

Adam's fingers twitch. “What was it like… growing up in Romania?”

Nigel’s grin falters, the easygoing air around him tensing. “Why?”

“I’m curious,” Adam mumbles, voice barely audible. "You don’t… talk about it much."

Nigel leans back. His posture closes off, the smile from before all but vanished. “Not much to talk about,” he says, voice clipped. “Just… a place I used to live.”

Adam glances up, just for a moment. “Was it hard?”

Nigel's jaw tightens, a flash of something dark crossing his eyes before he looks away, out the window. His voice is quieter now, the bravado drained from it. “You learn to live with things. Doesn’t matter where you’re from.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

Nigel waves it off, but his hand shakes slightly. “It’s fine. Romania’s not some big fucking mystery. It was just... home for a while, that's all.”

Adam shifts in his seat, his fingers twitching again, this time more deliberate, like he’s working through something in his head. “I just… I want to know more about you. You.. kidnapped me, but I don’t… I don’t really get to know anything about you.” His hands fidget with the edge of his sleeve, pulling at a loose thread. “It makes sense. That I’d want to? Know stuff.”

Nigel raises an eyebrow, his expression softening just a fraction, the tension in his posture easing slightly. “I thought you wanted to be here.”

“I do,” Adam says quickly, almost too quickly, the words tumbling out in a rush like he’s afraid Nigel will misunderstand. “I do want to be here, but… it’s–you know all this stuff about me—where I live, what I like, even the way I think sometimes—but I don’t get to know anything real about you. It’s not… balanced.”

Nigel pauses, watching Adam for a second, and something softens further in his tone. “I didn’t… take you to keep you in the dark, you know. I just… don’t talk about that stuff much. But I get it. You wanna know more.”

Adam glances up, and this time he doesn’t look away as quickly. His voice, though still soft, has a firmer edge to it. “I do. I want to know more.”

Nigel doesn’t say anything right away, just nods, a faint grin tugging at the corner of his lips. 

Adam goes quiet, but there’s a tension in his posture, his hands resting in his lap, fingers occasionally twitching like they’re itching to say something.

Finally, he speaks, his voice cutting through the soft drone of the car. “Do you think… people are good? Like, by default.”

Nigel’s eyes flicker over to Adam for a brief second before returning to the road. “That’s a hell of a question to drop out of nowhere.”

Adam shifts slightly in his seat, his voice still even. “I’ve been thinking about it. How people are. Some say… they’re born good. Some say… the opposite.”

Nigel huffs a little laugh, his fingers drumming a little faster on the steering wheel. “You asking if I think people are, like, naturally good? Or if we’re all just born bad and learn to play nice?” He shakes his head, half-smiling. “Depends on the day, gorgeous.”

Adam doesn’t seem satisfied with that answer, his gaze narrowing slightly as he watches the road ahead. “That’s not… an answer.”

Nigel shrugs, glancing at him again. “It’s not that simple. People aren’t just one fucking thing, you know? Some days you do good shit, some days you screw it up. I guess most people are somewhere in between.”

“So… you think it’s about what people do. Not what they are.”

“Yeah, maybe. You ever met anyone who’s just completely good? Or completely bad?” Nigel asks. “I fucking haven’t. Most people are trying to get by. Doesn’t mean they’re good or bad, just means they’re human.”

Adam’s brow furrows slightly, and he presses his lips together before answering. “I don’t know. Some people… they do things because they have to. Like… survival. But that doesn’t mean they’re bad, right? Just… practical.”

Nigel nods, his eyes still focused on the road. “Yeah, exactly. Sometimes you do things ’cause you don’t have a choice. Doesn’t make you a fucking saint, but it doesn’t make you evil either. You just… do what you have to do.”

Adam’s hands twitch in his lap again, more fidgety now. “But if someone hurts someone else… because they have to, or because they want to, does that make them bad? Or is it just… part of being human?”

Nigel glances at him again, this time holding the look a little longer, like he’s sizing up the question. “Depends on why they did it, I guess. Some people hurt others because they enjoy it. But if someone’s trying to survive, protect themselves or someone else… I don’t know. That’s different.”

Adam turns his head slightly, looking at Nigel, his expression unreadable. “So… intention matters. Not just the action.”

“I think so. I mean, you can do something bad with good intentions. Or do something good for shitty reasons. Doesn’t mean you’re one thing or the other. Like I said, people are fucking messy.”

Adam looks back out the windshield, his fingers moving in that repetitive rhythm, tapping lightly against his knee. “That doesn’t make sense to me.”

Nigel chuckles under his breath. “Yeah, well, life doesn’t always make sense.”

Adam’s frown deepens, but he doesn’t argue. Instead, he just keeps watching the trees blur by, his hands still in motion, like he’s working through the conversation in his head.

After a beat, Nigel speaks again. “Look, baby, I don’t have all the answers. But I do know this—people are just trying to figure it out as they go. Some are better at it than others, sure. But we’re all just… making it up as we go along.”

Adam doesn’t say anything at first, but after a long pause, he nods, almost to himself. “I guess that’s true.”

“See? You’re catching on.”

Adam's tapping pauses briefly before starting again, his gaze still fixed on the windshield. 

"But you… kill people. For me." 

Nigel’s grip on the steering wheel tightens. "Yeah, I know."

"Why?" 

Nigel exhales sharply, shifting in his seat. "You already know why."

"I want to hear you say it." 

Nigel looks away, jaw tightening. His breath comes out in a frustrated hiss as he stares at the road. "It’s not that simple."

"You said people do bad things for good reasons. Is that why? Are you… bad, Nigel? A bad person?"

Nigel's hand freezes mid-tap, his eyes narrowing slightly, but he doesn’t answer right away. His throat works, the muscles tense. 

"Yes.”

Adam shifts, running his fingers over the edge of his jeans. "But you won’t stop."

Nigel shakes his head slowly. 

Adam doesn’t look away this time, his voice quiet, almost like a whisper. "You’d… really do that for me? Again?"

Nigel glances at Adam—those blue eyes, the way his shoulders curve inwards. Nigel exhales, not able to keep the truth from spilling out. 

"Without a second thought."

"You’re serious," Adam says, his voice soft, but there's something else there—something like comfort.

"Dead serious." Nigel’s hand slides over to rest on Adam’s thigh, fingers curling possessively. “No one touches what’s mine.”

Adam shudders. "You’re not bad… sometimes," he murmurs, almost to himself, leaning just slightly into Nigel’s touch. “Not to me.”

The motel they end up at isn’t much better than the last—still rundown, still reeking of stale cigarette smoke and cheap bleach—but it’s an improvement. Barely. Maybe it’s the way the place smells less like mildew and more like they’ve actually tried to clean up after the last tenants that makes it tolerable. The walls are the same nicotine-stained yellow as everywhere else they’ve been, but at least here, the grime is subtle, not something you can feel under your fingers the second you touch a surface.

Nigel’s arm snakes around Adam’s waist as they walk in, his grip possessive, fingers digging lightly into the fabric of Adam’s shirt, tugging him just that little bit closer. Adam doesn’t fight it—he doesn’t even react, really. His gaze is distant, eyes focused somewhere past the counter, staring at nothing and everything all at once. The lady behind the front desk, middle-aged and tired-looking, glances up at them, her eyes flicking quickly between the two of them before her cheeks bloom pink. She tries to hide it behind her clipboard, but Nigel sees it. 

He smirks, the corners of his lips curving upward as he leans in a little closer to Adam, letting his grip linger. “One bed,” he declares, drawing out the words like honey. “I hope you don’t mind sharing, doll.”

She hesitates for a second, as if she might say something, but instead she just clears her throat, pushing the key across the counter with shaky fingers.

“Here you go,” she mumbles, avoiding eye contact now, like she’s afraid to look too long.

They head to the room in silence, the only noise the distant hum of a TV from another room and the faint buzzing of the old motel sign outside. Nigel drops their bags on the floor and stands there for a moment, taking it all in. The room is a carbon copy of every other shitty place he’s stayed in—same peeling wallpaper, same too-small TV bolted to the wall, same cheap bedspread that feels rough against your skin. But it’s cleaner, marginally. 

Adam sits on the edge of the bed, his hands resting in his lap, fingers nervously fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. He’s watching Nigel again, silent, those eyes tracking his every move like they’re cataloging each little thing he does. But Adam doesn’t speak. He never does, not during moments like this.

Nigel goes through his routine. First, the cabinets—he pulls them open one by one, looking for anything that might be hidden inside. Next, he crouches down, peering under the bed, his hand reaching out to swipe the dusty floor underneath. Adam’s eyes follow him, still silent, still watching, but there’s a tension in his posture, like he’s waiting for something—an explanation, maybe, or a reason. But Nigel doesn’t give him one. 

When Nigel finally stands back up, brushing off his hands, he turns to face Adam, catching the way the kid’s shoulders relax slightly, like he’s relieved the inspection is over. Nigel doesn’t say anything about it, though. 

“I want to shower,” Adam murmurs.

Nigel swallows, his throat tight, and nods. “Take as long as you need,” he says. 

Adam gets up, moving toward the bathroom, his fingers curled tightly around the strap of his bag. The door closes behind him with a soft click, and seconds later, the shower springs to life, the water a steady, rhythmic hum that fills the silence of the room. 

Nigel stands there for a minute, frozen in place, staring at the closed bathroom door like it’s something more than just a barrier between them. His jaw clenches, fists curling at his sides, knuckles going white from the pressure. 

His eyes land on the phone sitting on the small table next to the worn-out armchair. The thing looks ancient, the ashtray beside it overflowing with old butts. He walks to it, setting the things from his pockets down. Nigel’s fingers twitch, his hand reaching for the phone almost automatically. His fingers punch in the number before he even realizes what he’s doing.

The phone rings, the tone shrill and grating in the silence. One beat, two. He glances toward the bathroom door again, listening to the steady hiss of the water, the sound of it muffled but constant. Finally, the line clicks, and Darko’s voice barks through the receiver, sharp and impatient.

Nigel sits, legs stretched out in front of him, fingers tapping restlessly against the armrest. “It’s Nigel,” he says, his voice low, already bracing himself for whatever fucking lecture is coming.

There’s a pause, a sigh, and then, “What the fuck did you do this time?” 

Nigel’s jaw tightens, his grip on the phone tightening until the plastic creaks under the pressure. “Nothing,” he snaps, though the edge in his voice makes it sound like a lie. “I just need you to get me a place in New York.”

Darko laughs, the sound harsh, cutting through the static of the connection. “New York? Are you fucking serious?

Nigel runs a hand over his face, the rough stubble scratching against his palm. “I’ll keep a low profile, alright? I’ve got some shit to deal with.” 

“This about what we talked about last time?”

Nigel swallows, his throat dry. His gaze drifts toward the bathroom door, the steam starting to creep out from underneath it, curling like smoke. His fingers dig into the armrest. “Yeah.” 

Another string of curses, rapid-fire in Romanian, spills through the line. “Did you forget what happened last time?” Darko snaps, his voice sharp. “Or did that bullet to the face mess with your memory?”

Nigel winces, his free hand rubbing absently at his jaw, the phantom pain of old injuries flaring up in his mind. “Hard thing to forget,” he mutters.

Darko’s laugh is colder this time, more of a scoff. “You’re a fucking idiot, Nigel. I’m not pulling you out of the fire again. You get shot in the head this time, you’re on your own.”

Nigel shifts in the chair, grabbing his box of cigarettes. “It’s different now, Darko. He’s different.”

There’s a pause on the other end, long and drawn out. “He?” Darko says slowly. “You’re risking everything over an American boy? Just like that? I thought you hated puffy fish-faced Americans.”

Nigel’s teeth grind together, his hand curling into a fist. “Don’t ever fucking compare him to Charlie. You wouldn’t understand.”

Darko sighs on the other end, a sharp exhale like he's blowing out smoke, laced with the kind of disbelief only an old friend could get away with. “Nigel, you know I’m the only one who would understand,” he says. “I know exactly what kind of fucking idiot love makes you. Hell, I’ve been there. I’ve done worse for less.”

Nigel’s lip curls, the word catching in his throat. That four letter word, it hangs there, heavy, choking. His eyes flicker toward the bathroom again, the soft hiss of the shower still a dull background hum. He wants to snarl, wants to shout, to deny it, but the truth of it sticks to his ribs, wrapping around his chest like barbed wire. 

“It’s not that,” Nigel growls, but even as the words leave his mouth, he knows they don’t sound convincing. “It’s not like that.”

Darko chuckles. “Isn’t it?” Darko’s voice softens just a bit, probing, but there's still that hint of ridicule underneath it all. “Then tell me, my friend, what is it?”

Nigel doesn’t answer at first. He’s not even sure how to explain it to himself, let alone someone else. 

“Fate,” Nigel finally mutters, almost under his breath. “Destiny, maybe. I don’t fucking know.”

Darko isn’t laughing anymore. Nigel can almost hear him thinking, the cogs turning in his head, trying to piece together what little Nigel’s given him. And then, after what feels like an eternity, Darko says, “You’re out of your goddamn mind.”

Nigel lets out a harsh breath, something like a laugh but with none of the humor. 

There’s a rustling sound on the other end, Darko shifting in his chair, followed by a muttered curse. “You’re gonna be the death of me, Nigel,” Darko says. “But fine. I’ll help you. I always do, don’t I?”

A slow grin spreads across Nigel’s face, one of those rare, genuine ones that he hardly ever lets anyone see. “You know you love me,” he says, voice soft, teasing. 

“You’re a fucking nightmare.”

“I owe you one.”

“You owe me more than one, asshole,” Darko mutters, though there’s no real venom in it. He hesitates for a second, then says, “So…tell me about him. The kid.”

Nigel freezes for a moment, his eyes flicking again to the bathroom door, the soft hiss of the water still constant, soothing in a way. He doesn’t know how to talk about Adam, not really. There’s too much in his head, too much he can’t put into words. But Darko asked, and for some reason, Nigel feels like maybe he should try.

“He’s…” Nigel starts, but the words catch in his throat again. He swallows, staring down at the stained carpet. “He’s beautiful. Smart as hell, too. A fucking genius. He’s like the sun. I’ve never met anyone who had the sun for a soul.”

Darko lets out a low whistle. “You don’t say that about just anyone.”

Nigel nods, though Darko can’t see it. “It’s more than that, though,” he says, voice quieter now. “I don’t know how to explain it, but I know he means something. Something bigger than me. Bigger than either of us.”

“Jesus Christ, Nigel. You sound like you’ve found the fucking second coming.”

“Maybe I have.”

“Be careful, brother,” Darko says after a moment, his tone softer, more serious. “You’ve always had a…sensitive heart. I don’t want to see you get it broken. Again.”

Nigel scoffs, but he can feel the truth of it under his skin, sinking in like a knife he doesn’t want to admit is there. “I’ll be fine.”

After a few more brief words, they say their goodbyes, and Nigel hangs up, the phone feeling heavier than it did before. He tosses it back onto the table, scrubbing a hand over his face, his thumb catching on his lip where he bit it too hard earlier.

The bathroom door creaks open, steam billowing out in thick clouds, curling into the room like a ghost. Adam stands in the doorway, his hair damp and sticking to his forehead in dark, wet strands. He peers at Nigel, his eyes wide, curious, but not demanding. Always quiet, always waiting for something to make sense.

“Were you talking to someone?” Adam asks, his voice tentative, unsure.

Nigel glances at him, then back at the phone, still buzzing faintly in his mind. “Just myself,” he mutters, voice rougher than he intends, but Adam doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t question it.

Instead, Adam just blinks, nodding once, accepting the answer for what it is, even if it doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t realize how much of a relief that is. Or maybe he does.

Nigel slouches deeper into the worn-out motel chair. His gaze, however, stays locked on Adam. It's not just a glance—Nigel's eyes crawl over every inch of him like he’s trying to memorize him, like he’s trying to etch the image into his brain with more intensity than a Polaroid could ever capture. Adam's framed in the doorway of the bathroom, one arm raised, hand buried in those wet curls, tugging at them in a distracted, almost frustrated sort of way. His hair is still dripping from the shower, dark tendrils clinging to his pale neck, water slipping down over his collarbones and disappearing into the neckline of the shirt. Nigel's shirt, still.

The sleeves cover his arms down past his elbows, the hem flapping loose at his thighs, barely covering the tops of ridiculous red-and-white trunks that cling to his hips in a way that makes Nigel's breath feel like it’s getting stuck in his throat. 

The light pouring through the dirty motel window is that sickly orange. It splashes across Adam’s skin in patches, lighting him up in soft, uneven pools, making the damp skin of his neck glisten. The swell in Nigel’s chest grows, expanding with every second he watches Adam, something warm, something bright, blooming inside him. The way Adam moves, the way he tugs at his hair with that absentminded frustration, the delicate lines of his bones standing out against his pale skin—it all hits Nigel with a force he can barely handle. His fingers twitch on the armrest, itching to move, to reach out, to close that short distance between them.

He wants to know every part of Adam, every freckle, every scar, every little detail.

He wants to get inside his skin, to crawl into the spaces between Adam’s ribs and stay there, make a home for himself in the gaps where Adam’s heart beats. He wants to wrap his hands around that soft neck, to hurt him, to feel the pulse under his fingers, to remind himself that Adam is real, that he’s here, that he’s Nigel’s for as long as he can keep him. 

Nigel’s not a good man. He knows it. He’s never claimed to be. But maybe that’s what Adam needs. He looks at him, at the way Adam frowns into the mirror, frustrated with that curl that won’t stay in place, and something inside Nigel shifts. He wants to take care of him, yes, but in his own fucked-up way. He wants to give Adam something real, something hard, something that’ll shake him up and make him feel alive in a way he’s never felt before.

Nigel’s the one who gets to have him here, in this moment, where no one else can touch him. He watches the kid, watches the way his delicate fingers tug at that curl, how his lips purse when he’s frustrated, and he remembers that fucking lollipop, the way it looked between Adam’s lips. The memory sends a jolt through Nigel as he stares down at the Marlboros on the arm rest.

It’s wrong, he tells himself, feeling that familiar churn of guilt in his gut. It’s fucking wrong to want to corrupt Adam like this, to take something so pure and fill it with smoke and sin. But Nigel’s not good, and he’s never been. He can give Adam what he needs, what he’s never had. He can teach him things no one else will. That’s what he’s here for.

He looks back up at Adam. “Doll.”

Adam turns around slowly, eyes wide and curious, the kind of look that makes Nigel’s blood run hotter. He smiles, quick and sharp.

“Come here,” he says.

Adam hesitates, a little flicker of uncertainty crossing his face as his eyes drop to the floor. But then he moves, lowering his hands from his hair, taking those small, hesitant steps across the worn carpet until he’s standing in front of Nigel, so close Nigel can feel the heat radiating off his body. Adam fidgets, shifting from one foot to the other, looking anywhere but at Nigel. 

Nigel grabs him by the hips, fingers curling around bone as he tugs him in, pulling Adam between his legs. He’s close now, close enough Nigel can smell the soap on his skin, the fresh scent.

Adam stands rigid between his legs, his breath hitching, those wide blue eyes flicking nervously. He’s flushed, chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.

It’s like a game of patience now, waiting to see how far Adam will go, how much he’ll give without even knowing what Nigel wants. Nigel’s mouth quirks up at one corner as he studies Adam’s face, the way his soft lips part, his brow furrowed with that confused little look Nigel’s starting to love.

“Knees,” Nigel murmurs.

Adam blinks at him, frowning slightly as the word settles. “What?” 

Nigel raises an eyebrow, waiting, watching the gears turn behind those blue eyes, counting the slow beats of Adam’s pulse in the quiet space between them. He can feel the tension building, something electric in the air as Adam’s confusion slowly gives way to understanding. It only takes a few seconds, but it feels like hours to Nigel, his heart thumping heavier with each passing moment. Adam’s cheeks flush darker, and he bites his bottom lip, eyes flitting down to the floor before back up to Nigel’s face, searching for something—reassurance, permission, maybe even a way out.

But there’s no way out here. Not between them. Not with how far they’ve already gone.

Adam hesitates for a second more, his hands fidgeting by his sides, fingers twisting in the hem of Nigel’s shirt. He looks down again, lips parting, before he finally sinks to his knees, not gracefully but awkwardly, like he’s unsure if this is really happening. He kneels between Nigel’s legs, the soft thud of his knees hitting carpet echoing in the room, his body rigid, shoulders tense.

Nigel leans back slightly in the chair, taking it all in. The sight of Adam down there, looking so small and uncertain, is enough to make his chest swell with a kind of possessiveness that almost chokes him. Satisfaction rolls through him like a slow burn, settling in his gut. 

“Good boy,” Nigel says softly.

Adam’s reaction is immediate—he shivers, a full-body tremor that makes his breath hitch, his eyes squeezing shut for a moment before fluttering open again. His lashes brush his cheeks as he looks up, those wide, cobalt eyes shining, the blush on his face blooming even brighter. 

Nigel reaches down, his hand cradling Adam’s jaw, thumb brushing over the soft curve of his bottom lip. It’s smooth, warm, and Nigel’s thumb lingers there, pressing lightly, feeling the way Adam’s breath hitches again, his lips parting under the gentle pressure. Adam looks up at him, eyes half-lidded, and Nigel feels something twist inside him. Adam’s pupils are blown wide, his gaze soft, vulnerable, and there’s a trust there that makes Nigel feel both powerful and fragile all at once. He could do anything to Adam right now. Anything.

Adam’s lips quiver slightly under his thumb, and Nigel watches as that soft, tentative blush spreads down his neck, painting his collarbones a pale pink. The kid looks like he’s about to melt under his touch, his whole body trembling with a need he doesn’t even fully understand yet. It’s beautiful. Nigel’s breath falters as he pulls his thumb away from Adam’s mouth, the loss of contact making Adam’s lips twitch, like he misses the weight of it already.

Without a word, Nigel leans back in the chair, his fingers finding the pack of cigarettes on the armrest. He pulls one out, placing it between his lips, but he doesn’t light it. Not yet. He just holds it there, head tilted down at Adam, watching the way the kid fidgets under his gaze. Adam’s fingers twitch against his thighs, his breath uneven, his eyes darting between Nigel’s face and the cigarette.

“Don’t get shy on me now,” Nigel says, voice a little rougher, teasing, as he watches Adam squirm.

Adam’s lips part, and he stammers, “I’m—I’m not shy. I just don’t know what you want.”

Nigel hums deep in his throat, a rough, gravelly sound, as he flicks the lighter in his hand. He holds it out to Adam, arm stretched lazily. 

“Light it.”

“Why?” 

Nigel sighs, and his lips purse around the cigarette. “Because I fucking said so.” 

Adam’s shoulders tighten at the sharpness in Nigel’s tone, but he shuffles closer, careful, his knees creaking on the floor. He moves with that hesitant, clumsy grace, like he’s not used to being in control of his own limbs. His breath comes in shallow, uneven puffs, and his hands, pale and soft, reach out to take the lighter from Nigel’s rough fingers.

Nigel watches him with that steady, hawk-like gaze, eyes narrowing as Adam fumbles with the lighter. It slips once, his thumb not quite catching the wheel, and there’s a brief flicker of embarrassment in his eyes, his brows knitting together as he tries again. Nigel doesn’t say anything, but his brow arches slightly, just enough to make Adam feel it. The second time, the flame flares to life, a bright little flicker that dances between their faces.

Adam holds the lighter up, his fingers trembling as he brings it close to Nigel’s cigarette. He frowns, concentrating too hard, the tip of his tongue poking out between his lips like it’s taking all his focus just to get this one thing right. The flame catches, burning bright for a second before settling into a steady glow. Nigel inhales, slow and deep, the ember at the end of the cigarette flaring red as he sucks the smoke in.

Adam’s watching him the whole time, eyes wide and unblinking, like he’s seeing something sacred. He leans back once it’s lit, body sinking down again, like he’s trying to make himself small. But Nigel doesn’t let him get too far. He reaches out, snatches the lighter from Adam’s hand, the movement quick and rough, his fingers brushing against Adam’s knuckles as he tosses it back onto the armrest with a soft clatter.

Nigel’s eyes don’t leave Adam’s face, not for a second. He takes another slow drag, the smoke curling out of his mouth in thick, lazy clouds, drifting between them like a veil. His hand comes up again, fingers slipping through Adam’s curls, the strands soft and dark, curling around his fingers. 

“You know secondhand smoke’s just as bad for you, right, gorgeous?” 

Adam nods, biting down on his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth. His eyes stay locked on Nigel’s mouth, watching the way his lips move, the way the cigarette rests between them. 

Nigel’s hand moves again, quicker this time, grabbing Adam’s chin with firm fingers, tilting his head up so their eyes meet. His grip is rough. “And yet, despite knowing that, you never tell me to take it outside,” he says, “you never say it bothers you, not even once. So tell me—why is that?””

Adam swallows hard, his throat bobbing under the pressure of Nigel’s fingers. His eyes go wide, pupils blown, and there’s a flash of panic there, like he’s been caught in a trap he didn’t know was set. He knows he’s got Adam right where he wants him.

“I don’t want to make you mad,” Adam whispers.

Nigel shakes his head, taking another drag from the cigarette, the ember glowing bright. “That’s not it,” he says. “Maybe I would’ve believed that before, but don’t give me that bullshit now.”

Adam shifts, a frustrated noise bubbling up from his throat, but he doesn’t pull away. He knows better. He stays still, eyes darting up to meet Nigel’s before quickly looking away again. “I just… I just like the way it looks… when you do it,” he mutters, like it’s something shameful.

Nigel feels something shift, like hunger waking up, stretching its arms. “You ever do it before? Smoke?”

Adam shakes his head, just like Nigel figured. “No, not really. I mean, the kids at school, they did it a lot—behind the gym, in the bathrooms, anywhere they thought no one was looking. But my dad, he always told me how bad it was for you, and he’d say it in that way that made it clear it wasn’t just about health; it was about being the kind of person he could be proud of. So, I never even tried, not once.”

Nigel hums, thoughtful. “I smoked my first cigarette when I was ten, if you can believe that. My dad gave it to me himself. Said if I was gonna grow up to be a man, I’d better learn the hard way, like he did. No lectures, no warnings, just a pack of smokes on the kitchen table and the expectation that I’d get through it like a fucking rite of passage or something. But that’s how things were with him—sink or swim.”

Adam’s eyes go wide, scandalized, but he doesn’t say anything. Just watches Nigel tap the ash from his cigarette into the tray, eyes following every movement like he’s trying to commit it to memory.

“I know it’s bad,” Adam whispers, his voice softer than the smoke in the air. “But I like to watch you.”

The words hit him like a spark to dry kindling, lighting him up from the inside. He watches Adam, takes in the way his blush spreads over the bridge of his nose, the way his freckles stand out against the pale skin, the way his lips tremble with every breath. He’s too fucking pretty for his own good, Nigel thinks. Too pretty, too easy to break.

“Alright, baby,” Nigel murmurs, as he takes another slow drag, letting the smoke linger before blowing it out. “Your turn.”

Adam’s eyes snap up to his, wide and confused, like he didn’t hear him right. His lips part in a soft gasp, but before he can say anything, Nigel’s hand is on his chin again, dragging him forward, closer. The cigarette’s dangling from Nigel’s fingers now, still glowing faintly at the tip.

“Huh?” Adam stammers, blinking rapidly, trying to process what Nigel’s saying, what he’s asking him to do.

Nigel clicks his tongue, a sharp, impatient sound. “Come on.”

“I—I didn’t say I wanted to,” Adam protests weakly, his hands fluttering in the air, like he’s trying to find the courage to push Nigel away but can’t quite bring himself to do it. His fingers twitch, but they stay where they are, hovering uselessly at his sides.

Nigel laughs, a deep, rough sound that vibrates through his chest, and he presses the cigarette between Adam’s trembling pink lips, not giving him a choice. “Christ’s sake, Adam,” he mutters “Keep it lit.”

Adam’s hands falter, trembling, but they don’t move, don’t push Nigel away. They never do. 

“Breathe in.”

Adam coughs so hard his whole body shakes, his knees jerking up as he hunches forward, spluttering and gasping for air like he’s never tasted something so vile. His face is flushed, lips wet and trembling, and the tears that spring to his eyes—those glossy, fragile drops—Nigel watches them with a kind of fascination. Each cough, each shudder, rattles through Adam, his thin frame crumpling against Nigel’s knee, his breath coming in ragged bursts between the fits of choking.

Nigel lets him cough it out, keeps his hand loosely cupped around the back of Adam’s head, fingers tangled in his dark, messy curls. Adam’s coughing fit is pathetic but pretty, each little sputter sending a fresh wave of tears down his flushed cheeks. Nigel runs his thumb lazily over the curve of Adam’s ear, like he’s rewarding him, like he’s telling him he did a good job by just sitting there and choking on his first drag of smoke.

“You’ve really never smoked before, huh?” 

The smoke from his cigarette curls up between them, twisting through the air in slow, deliberate spirals, marking the space between them like it’s claiming it.

Adam doesn’t answer right away, too busy trying to clear his throat, trying to breathe. His hands are pressed to his mouth, still shaking, eyes wide and glassy from the tears. He looks wrecked, fragile, like he’s been shattered into pieces by something as simple as a puff of smoke. 

“Come on,” Nigel says, dragging the cigarette to Adam’s lips again, his fingers gripping his chin with that same firm, controlling touch. He presses the filter to Adam’s mouth, brushing it against the soft, trembling skin. “Try again.”

Adam’s head jerks back immediately, his hands coming up like he’s gonna push Nigel away. His cheeks are flushed red, a combination of embarrassment and panic, and his eyes are still watery, blinking away the tears that cling to his lashes. He shakes his head, lips trembling as he stutters out, “No—Nigel, I—”

“Stand up,” Nigel says. He doesn’t wait for Adam to respond, doesn’t give him a choice. His hand shoots out, grabbing Adam by the arm and hauling him to his feet. Adam stumbles, gasping at the sudden movement, but Nigel’s grip is strong, steady, pulling him close, close enough that he can feel the warmth of Adam’s breath against his skin.

Adam’s body is tense, rigid, like he’s caught between wanting to move away and wanting to stay right there, pressed up against Nigel’s chest. He’s so close now, close enough that Nigel can see every tear clinging to his lashes.

Nigel leans down, his mouth brushing against the wet trail on Adam’s cheek. “Now, Adam,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting over Adam’s skin, “you have to remember that when I tell you to do things, it’s for your own good. Right?”

Adam’s eyes dart back and forth, struggling to focus on Nigel’s face, or something—anything—that might give him an escape. His breath is short, shallow, like he’s drowning, but he manages a weak, “Uh-huh.”

“So when I tell you you’re going to smoke,” Nigel says, dragging each word out, savoring it, “that means you’re going to do what?”

Adam’s lips part, but nothing comes out at first. His teeth clench, his shoulders sag under the weight of Nigel’s words, and Nigel can see it—see the exact moment Adam gives up, lets himself sink deeper into the mess Nigel’s made of him.

“I’m going…” Adam’s voice is thin, breathless. “I’m going to smoke.”

Nigel’s lips twitch, his grin spreading wider, something dark and triumphant flickering in his eyes. He lets go of Adam’s arm, his hand moving to pat his cheek, firm and deliberate, once, twice, like he’s rewarding him. 

“That’s right,” he murmurs, his voice soft and sweet. “You’re so good to me, baby.”

Nigel's cigarette hits the ashtray with a soft sizzle, the ember dying with a final wisp of smoke curling up and fading into the air. His fingers close around the lighter and the crumpled pack, his other hand already reaching for Adam. He grabs him by the wrist, tugging him toward the bed with a grip that's all rough heat, no hesitation. Adam stumbles, his breath catching in his throat, eyes wide and wild like a deer about to bolt but frozen in place. He’s always like this at first—unsure, skittish. 

Nigel shoves him onto the bed, a little rougher than he means to, but Adam doesn’t complain. Instead, he falls back with a quiet sound, his body bouncing against the old, creaky mattress that groans under the sudden weight. He scrambles back, legs tangling in the sheets, pressing his back against the headboard as if he needs the support, as if the sheer force of Nigel's presence is too much for him to handle. His chest heaves, eyes wide and fixed on Nigel, those baby blues like twin pools of panic and desire. The soft pink blush dusting his cheeks spreads down his neck, and his lips part, trembling like he's not sure what to say or do. But he doesn’t have to do anything. Nigel’s already moving.

Nigel throws the lighter and the crumpled pack of cigarettes onto the bed next to Adam’s hip, then yanks his own shirt off in one quick, fluid motion. The fabric pulls tight over his broad shoulders before it finally comes free, and Nigel tosses it carelessly to the side. He’s been aching for this, the need clawing at him from the inside out. He knows Adam feels it too, sees it in the way his gaze sweeps over Nigel’s body—hungry, desperate, almost scared.

Nigel crouches down by the side of the bed, one knee digging into the worn carpet as he rifles through his bag, cursing under his breath as he shoves aside crumpled shirts and random junk. His fingers finally close around the small tube of lube he’d picked up at a run-down gas station they’d stopped at. He stands up, holding the tube between his fingers like it’s some kind of prize.

Adam’s watching him the whole time, wide-eyed and fidgety, the blush on his cheeks growing darker with each passing second. Nigel knows exactly what’s going on in that head of his—he can practically see the thoughts swirling around behind those anxious eyes. Adam’s always been like this, caught in his own head, overthinking everything. But that’s why Nigel’s here, to pull him out of it, to make him forget everything but the two of them.

Nigel crawls onto the bed, his knees sinking into the mattress as he moves closer, crowding into Adam’s space, their legs brushing together. He doesn’t give Adam room to breathe, doesn’t let him think. He leans in close, so close he can feel the warmth radiating off Adam’s skin, can hear the little hitch in his breath when their chests almost touch. Adam squirms, shifting beneath him, but he doesn’t pull away. 

Nigel presses his lips to Adam’s, intending to start soft, gentle even, but the second their mouths touch, that plan goes out the window. It’s too much, the heat of it, the taste of Adam’s lips, slightly chapped from nervous chewing. Nigel licks into his mouth, deep and insistent, tasting cigarette smoke and something sweet underneath. Adam tastes like Nigel. 

Adam’s always been so damn pretty when he’s red like this, cheeks flushed and breath stuttering, every little noise a soft plea for more. And when he coughs—god, when he coughs, it’s something else entirely. Nigel shouldn’t like it, knows it’s kind of messed up, but he can’t help it. Adam’s always been a pretty cougher, even back when they worked together. He remembers it like it was yesterday—Adam bent over a mop bucket, hacking up his lungs from the fumes of the cleaning chemicals. His face had gone all red, tears welling up in his eyes as he wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, coughing and sputtering like he couldn’t breathe. 

Now, here he is again, red-faced and gasping, only this time it’s because of Nigel, because of what they’re doing together. 

Nigel presses harder into the kiss, one hand gripping Adam’s hip, the other fisting in the fabric of his shirt, yanking it up and over his head in one rough motion. Adam’s bare now, skin flushed and warm under Nigel’s hands, and all Nigel can do is stare. His skin is pale but blooming with color, little blotches of pink spreading across his chest and neck, a few freckles scattered here and there like someone had carelessly tossed them across his skin.

Nigel’s hands roam over him, fingers pressing into soft flesh, squeezing, claiming. He can’t get enough. He leans down, brushing his lips over Adam’s collarbone, biting down just hard enough to leave a mark, then soothing it with his tongue. Adam gasps, his hands coming up to tangle in Nigel’s hair, tugging him closer, wordlessly begging for more. Nigel gives it to him, trailing kisses down his chest, over his ribs, stopping at his nipples to bite at one just to hear that sweet little whimper that escapes Adam’s throat.

“God, Adam,” Nigel breathes, his voice rough, like gravel scraping against the inside of his throat. “You’re so fucking gorgeous. I don’t understand it.”

Adam’s breath stutters, his lips parting in a soft, trembling gasp. His head tilts back, baring his throat in a gesture that feels almost submissive, and Nigel can’t resist. He presses his mouth to the curve of Adam’s neck, biting down just hard enough to leave a fresh bruise to add to the collection already littering his pale skin. Adam moans softly, his body arching up into Nigel’s touch, every movement a wordless plea for more.

Nigel doesn’t stop. He can’t. He moves lower, kissing and biting his way down Adam’s chest, stopping only when his lips brush the waistband of those stupid striped trunks.

Nigel’s breath hitches as he lingers at the waistband, his nose brushing against the soft fabric. It’s enough to make Nigel’s head spin, his thoughts clouded with nothing but the feel of Adam’s body beneath him, the soft give of his skin, the faint tremble of his legs as Nigel presses his lips lower.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband, tugging them down just enough to expose the curve of his hip, his bare skin pale against the sheets. He presses his lips to Adam’s hip, kissing the soft skin there, nipping at it just enough to make Adam squirm.

Nigel sits up just enough to yank the trunks the rest of the way down, tossing them to the floor without a second thought. Adam’s completely bare now, every inch of him exposed to Nigel’s gaze. He takes it all in—the soft curve of Adam’s hips, the pale stretch of his thighs, the way his chest rises and falls with each shaky breath.

“Look at you,” Nigel murmurs, his voice thick with something that feels like awe, but there’s something darker lurking beneath it. “You’re perfect.”

Adam’s breath stutters, his hands trembling as they slide from Nigel’s hair to rest on his shoulders. His eyes are wide, blue and glassy and there’s something so utterly vulnerable in the way he looks at Nigel, like he’s giving him everything, trusting him with everything.

Nigel leans down, pressing a kiss to the inside of Adam’s thigh, his lips soft against the warm skin. Adam shivers beneath him as Nigel trails kisses higher, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of Adam’s hips, holding him steady as his mouth moves closer to where Adam is already hard and aching.

He nips at Adam’s thigh, grinning when it earns him a soft, broken whimper, and then he pulls back just enough to reach for the lube.

The cap pops open with a soft click, and Nigel squirts a generous amount onto his fingers, the cool gel slick and smooth between them. Adam’s eyes flutter closed as Nigel presses his fingers against the tight ring of muscle, teasing, not quite pushing in yet.

“Relax,” Nigel murmurs, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate through the air between them. “You’re acting like this is your first time, baby.”

Adam’s lips part in a soft gasp, his eyes snapping open to meet Nigel’s gaze. There’s a flicker of embarrassment in his eyes, but it’s quickly swallowed up by the raw need that’s written all over his face, in the way his body shifts restlessly beneath Nigel’s touch.

Nigel grins, pressing a finger inside, slow and steady, watching the way Adam’s body tenses for a moment before relaxing, letting him in. Adam’s breath catches in his throat, his hands clutching at the sheets beneath him as Nigel works his finger in deeper, curling it just enough to brush against that sweet spot that makes Adam’s whole body shudder.

Adam’s moan is soft, barely more than a breath, but it’s enough to send a shiver down Nigel’s spine. He presses in another finger, stretching Adam open, watching the way his face twists with pleasure, the way his lips part in a silent gasp as Nigel crooks his fingers just right, hitting that spot again.

“Nigel,” Adam breathes, his voice shaky, barely holding it together as his body writhes beneath Nigel’s touch.

Without warning, Nigel wraps his hand around Adam’s thigh and hoists it over his shoulder, sinking down until his mouth is right there, close enough he can feel the heat radiating off Adam's cock. 

“Wait,” Adam gasps, his voice breaking like he can’t take it, like it’s too much, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t push Nigel off. If anything, his grip tightens in Nigel’s hair, dragging him closer, and Nigel gives in, finally letting his mouth wrap around Adam, sucking him in slow, deep, until he can feel Adam tremble beneath him. He’s not gentle about it—Nigel’s never been gentle, can’t be when he’s got Adam like this, falling apart for him, begging in his quiet, breathless way.

He groans around him, the sound reverberating deep in his throat, sending vibrations up through Adam’s body. It’s raw, unpolished, the way Nigel works his tongue, swirling it around the head before taking him in deeper, his lips stretched wide, spit slipping down his chin, filthy and perfect. 

Nigel hums, a low, satisfied sound as he pulls off and leans down, pressing his lips to the inside of Adam’s thigh, his teeth grazing the soft skin there. He slips in a third finger, watching the way Adam’s body arches off the bed, his breath catching in his throat as he moans Nigel’s name, his voice breaking on the last syllable. But he’s not done yet. Not even close.

He spreads him wider, palms rough, calloused in all the places that matter. Nigel’s hands are made for this, for digging in, for bruising, for leaving marks. He feels Adam’s muscles tense up underneath, the way his body fights instinctively to close up, to resist, but then there’s a sharp hitch in Adam’s breath, a shaky exhale that lets Nigel know the kid’s still trying to follow orders, still trying to relax, just like Nigel told him to.

Nigel flips Adam onto his stomach and leans over, cocking his head, lips already wet, and spits. It’s deliberate, slow and thick, the glob of spit hanging in the air for half a second before it lands with a wet splat right against Adam’s hole. He watches it hit, watches it spread like it’s alive, mixing with the sweat and lube that’s already making Adam’s skin slick and hot. The sound of it makes Nigel’s blood throb in his ears.

Adam’s reaction is instant—a sharp gasp tearing out of him, like he can’t help himself, like his body’s betraying him with its need. His hips jerk back, wild, like he’s lost control of them, like every inch of him is desperate to get closer to Nigel, closer to his hand, closer to whatever Nigel’s about to do next.

Nigel’s grin is slow to form but full of wicked amusement when it does, one corner of his mouth curling up into a crooked smirk. He’s got Adam’s legs trapped now, tangled up in his own so the kid can’t move much, not unless Nigel wants him to. He likes it that way—likes keeping him pinned down, likes the power of it, the way Adam can squirm and whine all he wants but can’t get anywhere. Not without Nigel letting him. Adam’s whining, that soft, breathless sound that’s barely more than a whimper, the noise catching in his throat, getting stuck there like a sob that can’t quite break free.

Nigel’s eyes travel down the length of Adam’s back, drinking in the sight. That blush—fuck, that blush—has bloomed across his skin like wildfire, like someone took a paintbrush to him and dragged streaks of red and pink across every freckle, every bump and dip. It spreads out along his spine, pooling in the hollows of his shoulder blades, creeping over his ribs, down toward his waist. Nigel thinks it looks like flowers blooming in the spring, soft petals unfurling in the sun, delicate and fragile but impossibly beautiful. 

Nigel pulls his fingers out slowly, dragging them free of Adam’s heat with teasing slowness. The second they’re gone, Adam makes this sound—this high, choked noise that spills out of him unbidden, raw and desperate. His face is buried in the comforter now, his cheek pressed into the rough fabric, trying to muffle that keening whine. Every part of him is reacting, like his body doesn’t know how to handle the absence, like it’s screaming out for more even when Adam’s trying his hardest to stay still, to be good, to do what Nigel says.

Nigel lines himself up, his cock aching in his hand as he presses the head against Adam’s entrance. The resistance is brief, just a moment of tightness before he pops through, that first push sinking into Adam’s heat with a low groan spilling from Nigel’s mouth. 

Nigel’s voice drops to a rough whisper, low and coaxing, “Relax, baby. Just relax. You know you like it.” Adam’s whimpering now, a soft, broken sound that makes Nigel’s cock throb, makes his blood run hot and thick. The boy’s body is arching up, pushing back, trying to meet him, to take him deeper, but Nigel holds him still, one hand pressing firm against Adam’s hip, grounding him.

And God, Adam’s so fucking pretty like this, so perfect in every way that Nigel needs him to be. Nigel’s fingers trace a line up Adam’s back, slow and steady, feeling every bump of his vertebrae, every muscle twitch under his skin. His other hand grips Adam’s hip so hard there’ll be bruises come morning, dark marks in the shape of Nigel’s fingers, evidence of how tight he held him, how much he needed to keep him right there, pressed back against him.

Adam’s shivering, his whole body vibrating with tension, and Nigel can feel his breath, hot and heavy against the bed, like he’s suffocating himself on the sheets, trying to calm down, trying to get his body under control. But Nigel’s not done with him yet, not by a long shot. He leans forward, pressing more of his weight onto Adam’s back, his chest flush against Adam’s spine as he reaches up, threading his fingers through Adam’s hair. It’s longer now, soft and curling around his ears, sticking to his forehead and neck in wet little ringlets from the sweat. Nigel likes it this length, likes the way he can get a good grip on it, likes how easy it is to hold Adam still by the hair alone.

When Nigel fists his hand in Adam’s hair, tugging just enough to turn his head, he feels Adam’s body tense under him, feels the way his breath hitches in his throat. And when Nigel pushes all the way inside, burying himself to the hilt, Adam moans loud and clear, the sound echoing off the cheap motel walls. 

For a moment, Nigel just stays there, buried deep inside Adam, his hand still twisted in his hair, holding him close. He likes the way Adam’s body feels around him, tight and hot and trembling. He likes the way Adam’s face is flushed red, the way his eyes are half-lidded, his lips parted as he gasps for breath. Adam’s so fucking beautiful, Nigel thinks. Beautiful in a way that makes his chest ache, makes something deep inside him twist and turn until he’s not sure where the lust ends and something else begins.

But then, through the haze, Nigel remembers his plan. 

He pulls back slightly, enough to let Adam feel the loss, just enough to make him squirm, and there it is—that desperate little arch of Adam’s back, the way his body instinctively tries to follow, tries to keep Nigel as deep as he was. A slow grin spreads across Nigel’s face, and he can’t help but let out a low chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest. He straightens up, releasing his grip on Adam’s hair, and as soon as he does, Adam presses back, desperate, like he’s begging silently without even knowing it.

Nigel’s chest warms at the sight. He likes it when Adam’s needy like this, when he’s too far gone to hold onto any of that pride or control. That’s when he lets Adam take a little bit of control—when he leans back and places a hand at the small of Adam’s back, a signal, letting him know he can move if he wants to.

Adam hesitates for just a second, and Nigel can feel it, the slight quiver in his muscles as he makes the choice, the shift in his body as he slowly, tentatively starts to slide forward. The movement is hesitant, unsure at first, and then Adam pulls back again, pressing himself onto Nigel, the drag of his body tight and hot around him, making Nigel’s breath hitch.

“Good boy.” He keeps his hand at the small of Adam’s back, just resting there, a gentle pressure reminding Adam that he’s still in control, even when he’s letting the kid think he’s the one calling the shots.

Nigel can’t resist for long though. As Adam fucks himself slowly, hesitantly, on Nigel’s cock, Nigel reaches for the crumpled cigarette pack beside them, his fingers fumbling to untuck a cigarette. The smoke’s stale but familiar, and it feels like second nature when he slips the filter between his lips and hunts for the lighter in the mess of sheets.

He strikes the lighter, the soft click and flare of flame casting a brief glow across Adam’s sweaty back before Nigel inhales deeply, the smoke filling his lungs with that sharp, bitter burn. Nigel’s lips part, letting the smoke slip out in a slow exhale, clouding the air between them. 

He can feel that familiar tightness winding up inside him, the need to take more, to push Adam past the edge of what he can handle. And with that thought, Nigel folds himself over Adam again, letting his weight press the kid down into the bed. His hand splays wide across Adam’s cheek and temple, thumb brushing the curve of his cheekbone as he turns Adam’s head slightly, enough to see that one wide blue eye peeking from the side.

Adam’s eye flicks toward him, that desperate, searching look trying to find something in Nigel’s expression, and Nigel can’t help but smirk around the cigarette still between his teeth. He pulls it free with two fingers, holding it in front of Adam’s mouth, the smoke curling lazily between them. 

“Smoke.”

Adam whines, high and tight, pressing his lips together like he’s trying to fight back the request, but Nigel’s grip on his face tightens. He presses Adam’s face down into the bed harder, the fabric of the comforter rough against Adam’s flushed cheek, his body jerking under the pressure. It sends a ripple through Adam, a tremor that Nigel can feel in the way his body tenses, and for just a second, something dark flickers in Nigel’s mind, disgust curling around the edges of his thoughts when he feels himself get harder for it.

But then, with a small gasp, Adam’s lips part, a soft, pitiful sound escaping him, and Nigel’s resolve hardens again. He digs his thumb into the soft flesh of Adam’s cheek, prying his lip up just enough to expose the gleam of his teeth, that sharp little canine that glints in the light. 

“Don’t start with me, doll,” Nigel growls, his voice a low, dangerous warning as he shifts his hips back, just enough to roll forward again, deeper this time, harder, pulling another choked gasp from Adam.

Adam’s head lolls to the side, his cheek smushed against the bed, and that’s when Nigel takes his chance, sliding the cigarette between Adam’s lips. Adam inhales reflexively, his body jerking as he takes the smoke in, but just as quickly, he’s choking on it, twisting his head away to cough into the sheets. His chest convulses, the cough mingling with a half-choked groan as Nigel thrusts into him again, pushing harder, deeper, forcing a broken cry out of Adam that makes Nigel’s head spin.

Nigel’s hand stays firm on Adam’s head, keeping him pinned down, keeping him in place, while the rest of him shudders under the weight of the moment. Adam’s visible eye is wide, blown-out and teary, the blue iris barely visible around the dark expanse of his pupil. 

Nigel falters, a rush of electricity shooting through him at the sight. It’s the expression that does it—the pure, unfiltered pleasure mixed with something helpless and wrecked, like Adam’s lost all sense of himself. Nigel’s breath catches in his throat, and for just a second, he can’t move. He’s frozen, struck by the sight of the kid beneath him, broken and beautiful. 

Adam fucking likes it.

“Again, baby,” Nigel whispers. He lets his thumb trace the edge of Adam’s cheekbone, the touch almost gentle, almost tender. “Be good for me.”

Nigel can feel every inch of himself pressed into Adam, heat pooling in every space where their bodies connect. His skin feels alive, every nerve lit up like it might burst through him and send him scattering across the room, all broken-up light and jagged breaths. He leans back slightly, just enough to get a better view of Adam's back, the way his muscles tense and ripple every time he shifts, his ribs visible under the thin sheen of sweat coating his skin. 

Nigel watches Adam’s fingers twitch against the sheets, desperation pulling at him like a thread unraveling. He’s still coughing, chest heaving with the effort, and there’s a wild glint in his blue eyes as he struggles to focus on the cigarette dangling from Nigel’s fingers. It’s as if Adam’s not just fighting for breath but fighting for a piece of control in this chaotic mess they’ve created together.

“Fuck,” Nigel breathes, feeling his heart race. “You wanna grab it, huh? You wanna take it from me?”

Adam nods, a shaky little movement that sends another wave of heat rushing through Nigel. He can’t help the smirk that curls on his lips as he teases Adam, holding the cigarette just out of reach. “Go on, then. Show me you can handle it. I want you to take it.”

With a sudden surge of determination, Adam pushes himself up, his fingers clawing at the air as he tries to reach for the cigarette, but it slips through his grasp, bobbing just out of reach. There’s a flicker of frustration on his face, the way his brows furrow together, and Nigel can’t resist any longer. He lowers the cigarette slightly, teasingly close to Adam’s lips.

“Here you go, gorgeous,” he murmurs. “Just don’t choke on it.”

Adam’s fingers curl around the base of the cigarette, and for a brief moment, Nigel lets him take control. Adam’s lips part, his breath hitching as he pulls in a deep drag, cheeks hollowing as he draws the smoke deep into his lungs. There’s a moment of pure ecstasy written across his face, a blissed-out expression that makes Nigel feel like he might explode right then and there, fireworks bursting behind his eyes.

But it’s short-lived. As soon as the smoke settles in his chest, Adam’s face twists, overwhelmed by the sensation. He tries to keep it down, but it’s too much. He gasps, the cigarette barely escaping his grasp as he coughs again, body convulsing with each ragged breath. The sight sends a thrill racing through Nigel, the way Adam’s throat works, the way his body shakes from the effort.

“Wait,” Adam chokes out, breath hitching. He lifts his trembling fingers, trying to reach for the cigarette again, his voice barely above a whisper. “Let me have it. Please.”

Nigel arches an eyebrow, surprised at the spark of defiance in Adam’s voice. He leans in closer, feeling the heat radiating off Adam’s back, the way his skin glistens with sweat. 

“Brave little thing.”

“Just give it to me, Nigel,” Adam pleads, his voice rough but tinged with that sweet, trembling eagerness. “I can do it.”

Nigel shifts slightly, adjusting his weight so he can get a better angle, his hips grinding slow against Adam’s ass, feeling every tiny twitch of Adam’s body as he struggles to breathe through the smoke. Nigel watches, transfixed, as Adam raises the cigarette to his lips again. Adam still brings it to his mouth, lips trembling as he pulls in another drag, his whole body shuddering like it might collapse under the weight of it.

Nigel wants him to cough. Wants to see him choke on the smoke, see the way his chest heaves and stutters, his lungs fighting against the intrusion. There’s something about it—about watching Adam push himself past the point of comfort, about seeing him suffer through something just because Nigel wants it. It’s not just power; it’s something more, something Nigel can’t quite put into words. 

Adam pulls on the cigarette, holding it a second too long, and Nigel can see the panic start to set in—the tightening of his shoulders, the way his body tenses, preparing for the inevitable cough. And then it happens, that sharp, wet sound that Nigel’s been waiting for. Adam coughs, hard, his whole body convulsing with the force of it. His back arches, his ribs jutting out, and his coughs rattle through him like they’re shaking him apart, every shudder rippling down to his spine and rocking him back into Nigel’s hips. Nigel grits his teeth, trying to keep himself steady, but the sensation is maddening—the way Adam’s body jerks and tightens, pressing back into him with each rough cough, like he’s trying to crawl out of his own skin.

The cigarette dangles from their fingers, nearly burnt out now, ash flickering and falling onto the sheets below. He watches the little flecks of grey scatter across the fabric, like dust on a grave, and he wonders, for a split second, if this is what it would feel like to die. If being with Adam like this, losing himself completely in him, would be enough to end him. It feels like it might. 

“Jesus Christ, look at you,” Nigel mutters, almost to himself, his voice thick with awe. “You’re so fucking pretty like this, Adam. Fuck, I could stay right here forever.”

Adam lets out a broken sound, somewhere between a gasp and a moan, his hand coming up to his mouth to try and steady himself. His fingers are shaking so bad the cigarette almost slips from his grasp, and Nigel reaches down, guiding Adam’s hand back to his lips.

“C’mon,” Nigel says, voice low, coaxing. “One more. Just one more for me, yeah?”

Adam’s lips tremble, his breath hitching as he nods, eyes glazed and unfocused as he brings the cigarette back to his mouth. He takes a shallow drag, but Nigel knows it’s too much. He can see it in the way Adam’s body tenses, the way his shoulders draw up, trying to brace himself. He lets out a shaky breath, smoke curling from his lips.

Nigel feels it all—the way Adam’s back arches under him, the way his body tightens, pressing down on Nigel like a vice. His cock twitches inside Adam, and it takes everything in him not to lose control right then and there. The heat between them is unbearable, Nigel’s stomach slick with sweat where it presses against Adam’s back, every inch of him hot and alive, pulsing with need.

“You like this, don’t you?” Nigel growls, his voice rough and dark, his hips grinding against Adam’s ass as he speaks. “Fucking look at you. Crying all over the place, can’t even breathe, and you still want more, huh? You still want me.”

“Please,” Adam chokes out, voice thin and shaky, barely audible through the coughing. “Nigel… I can’t…”

He’s got Adam babbling now, gasping and cursing his name with his free hand gripped tight into the sheets, his head turning away again to hide his tears and muffle his incoherent pleading for more, and please, God, and Nigel.

Nigel pulls back just enough to slam back into him, hard and fast, making Adam cry out. “Yeah, you can,” Nigel grinds out, his voice low, thick with lust. “You’re gonna take it, Adam. Every bit of it.”

Adam’s whole body shudders beneath him, and Nigel feels a rush of heat pool low in his belly, spreading out through his limbs, making him dizzy with want. Adam’s hair is a mess now, clinging to his forehead and temples in heavy, damp curls, plastered down by sweat. Nigel watches it, the way it glistens under the light, and he has this sudden, fleeting thought—he wants to lean down, bury his face in those curls, suck the sweat out of them.

It’d taste like honey, he thinks.

Nigel tightens his grip on Adam’s hair, fingers curling in the strands at the back of his skull. His other hand slides down, settling over Adam’s throat, feeling the delicate flutter of his pulse under his palm. Adam’s throat bobs under his touch, a reminder of how fragile he really is, how easily Nigel could crush him if he wanted to. 

“Finish it off,” Nigel growls, voice low and rough, the words more command than request. Adam hesitates, his body trembling under Nigel’s touch, and for a long moment, he doesn’t move. Nigel’s patience snaps. His grip tightens around Adam’s throat, just enough to make him whimper. “The entire thing, baby. Now.” 

Adam shudders, his chest heaving as he struggles to keep the cigarette steady. His fingers shake, the last drag of smoke barely making it past his lips before Nigel forces him up onto his hands. Nigel leans back, watching the way Adam’s ribs strain against his skin as he inhales. 

Nigel can feel the tension building, feel the way Adam’s body is straining to hold it in. He waits for just the right moment, waits until Adam’s breath is caught in his throat, and then slams into him, hard enough to knock the air—and the smoke—right out of his lungs.

Adam chokes, the sound wet and desperate, smoke spilling from his lips in a broken, jagged stream. His whole body convulses with the force of it, his back arching, his throat working against Nigel’s hand as he tries and fails to catch his breath. The coughing fit that follows is harsh and ragged, every breath in sending Adam into another violent spasm, the sound of it filling the room.

“Nigel,” Adam chokes out, his voice cracking under the weight of it all. “I’m gonna— I’m—”

Nigel growls, his voice thick with arousal, with the need to keep pushing, to keep going until they both break. His hand moves from Adam’s throat to his stomach, the other one still gripping the cigarette, the cherry barely alive.

Nigel pauses for just a second, the thought flashing through his mind, and then he acts. He takes the last tiny drag from the cigarette and presses the glowing tip to Adam’s skin, right between his shoulder blades. The soft hiss of burning skin is almost drowned out by Adam’s cry, the sound tearing from his throat like it’s been ripped from somewhere deep inside him.

Adam shudders, his whole body wracked with the force of his orgasm, and Nigel leans down, tongue laving over the fresh burn, soothing the sting with slow, deliberate movements. His hands are all over Adam’s body, one pressing him down into the mattress, the other sliding down to his cock, stroking him through the aftershocks, coaxing every last drop from him.

Adam’s body is so tight around Nigel that it’s almost impossible to move, but that just makes it better, makes Nigel push harder, makes him lose himself in the heat of it all. Nigel buries his face in Adam’s neck, breathing in the mix of sweat and smoke, biting down on the soft flesh beneath Adam’s ear. He sinks his teeth in, hard, marking him, claiming him, and with a final thrust, Nigel finishes inside him with a guttural groan, his body shuddering with the intensity of it.

The room is suddenly silent, the only sound ragged breathing. Adam’s body is still trembling, still shaking with overstimulation, and Nigel can feel the way Adam’s muscles try to push him out, the instinctive reaction to too much sensation.

Slowly, Nigel pulls away, peeling himself off Adam’s back, his skin sticking from the sweat. Adam collapses onto the bed, curling into himself, his body limp and spent. His eyes are closed, his face half-buried in the pillow, his hands ghosting over his mouth.

Nigel’s gaze drops to the mess beneath them—the cum leaking from Adam’s ass onto the comforter, the sheets stained and pilled from too many washes. 

Nigel rounds the bed, brushing the crushed cigarette off the sheets, ash scattering onto the floor. He grabs his pack and lighter, tossing them onto the bedside table next to the pistol he’d left there earlier. He mutters a low curse, committing the sight to memory before heading for the bathroom.

He doesn’t bother zipping up his jeans. The waistband hangs low on his hips, the denim rough against his skin as he moves. He wets a towel, the water lukewarm, and fills the cup there before heading back to the bed.

Adam hasn’t moved much, still curled up, his breathing shallow and shaky. Nigel slides back onto the bed, pulling Adam into his lap, holding him close, pressing soft kisses to his wet cheeks. Adam’s hair sticks to his forehead, damp with sweat, and Nigel brushes it back, his fingers gentle as they comb through the strands.

Nigel cradles Adam in his lap, his rough hands surprisingly tender as he runs his fingers through Adam’s sweat-damp hair, brushing it back from his flushed face. Adam's body is trembling, small shivers rolling through him like aftershocks. His eyes are still closed, his lips slightly parted, taking in shaky breaths. He leans down, pressing his lips to Adam’s temple, soft and lingering, like it’s a secret only they’re allowed to share.

“Shh,” Nigel murmurs, his voice low and gravelly as he strokes Adam’s cheek with his thumb. “You did so fucking good, doll. So fucking good.”

Adam makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, barely audible, but Nigel feels it more than hears it, feels the way Adam’s body melts into his, pliant and trusting. Adam’s hands find their way to Nigel’s chest, fingers curling into the hair, holding on like he’s afraid to let go. 

Nigel presses another kiss to Adam’s forehead, lingering there for a moment, feeling the heat of his skin against his lips.

Adam’s eyelashes flutter, his eyes still glassy and half-closed as he looks up at Nigel, his lips swollen and red, his face flushed. He looks wrecked, completely undone, and Nigel feels a surge of possessiveness rush through him, knowing that he’s the one who did this, that he’s the one who gets to see Adam like this.

Nigel grabs the towel, still damp, and gently wipes between Adam’s legs, careful and slow, his touch soft but thorough. Adam winces slightly but doesn’t pull away, his body too exhausted to protest. Nigel’s fingers linger, brushing over Adam’s stomach, his thighs, wiping away the sticky aftermath of their time together. He tosses the towel aside once he’s finished, not caring where it lands.

“Here,” Nigel says softly, reaching for the cup of water he’d set on the bedside table. He holds it up to Adam’s lips, guiding the rim against his mouth. “Drink, baby.”

Adam’s lips part obediently, and he takes a slow sip, the water dribbling down his chin, catching in the curve of his collarbone. Nigel watches the way Adam drinks, his throat working as he swallows, and it sends another wave of heat through him, something primal, something possessive.

“There you go,” Nigel says, his voice soft, coaxing, as he wipes the water from Adam’s chin with the back of his hand. “That’s it.”

Adam’s eyes flutter open, his pupils blown wide, still dazed and disoriented. His breathing is slow now, less ragged, but there’s a softness to him.

“You alright?” Nigel asks, his voice gentler now, a low rumble that vibrates through the air between them. He watches Adam closely, searching his face for any signs of discomfort, of regret, anything that might tell him he’s pushed too far.

Adam takes a long moment to respond, his breath still catching a little as he finally looks up at Nigel. His blue eyes are glassy, like he’s still floating somewhere between the present and whatever place Nigel took him to. His lips part, and for a second, he just stares, like he’s trying to find the right words.

“‘M okay,” Adam finally breathes, his voice barely a whisper, still hoarse from the strain of earlier. There’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, tired but genuine.

Nigel feels a weight lift from his chest, something tight that’s been coiling inside him finally loosening at Adam’s words. Relief washes over him, but it’s more than that—it’s a kind of quiet satisfaction, knowing that Adam’s still here, still his, still looking at him like he’s everything.

“Yeah?” Nigel murmurs. His hand is still in Adam’s hair, fingers curled gently at the base of his skull, holding him close. “You’re so fucking amazing, Adam. Did so good for me.”

Adam blushes, his cheeks turning an even deeper shade of red, and it makes Nigel’s heart clench. He leans in, pressing his lips to Adam’s, soft and slow, tasting the salt of his skin, the lingering traces of smoke and sweat. 

Adam sighs into the kiss, his hands sliding up to rest on Nigel’s shoulders, his fingers curling into the fabric of Nigel’s shirt. His touch is soft, almost hesitant, like he’s still figuring out how to be here, how to fit into this space they’ve carved out for themselves. But there’s no rush, no urgency. They have time—time to figure it all out, to get lost in each other over and over again.

Nigel pulls back just enough to look at Adam, his thumb brushing over Adam’s cheek, tracing the curve of his jaw. “You’re fucking perfect, you know that?” 

Adam blinks up at him, his eyes still glassy and wide, and for a moment, he looks like he’s about to say something, but then he just nods, his lips curling into a shy, tired smile.

“I’ve never...done anything like that before,” Adam admits, his voice small, almost like he’s afraid to say it out loud. 

Nigel huffs a soft laugh. “I fucking hope not. I’d torture anyone who touched you like that.”

Adam leans up slow, his movement languid and unhurried, like he’s fighting against the weight of sleep that still clings to him. His hand drifts up between them, fingers lazy but deliberate as they find their way into Nigel’s hair. His nails scrape softly against Nigel’s scalp, barely there, and Nigel feels a shiver start at the base of his spine, creeping up through his back. Adam’s fingers thread through the graying strands, gentle but certain, like he’s done this a thousand times and knows exactly how Nigel likes it. Almost too easy. Like he’s always belonged here.

Nigel’s eyes flicker over Adam’s face, watching the way Adam looks at him, studying him like he’s something worth figuring out. There’s that same intensity in Adam’s gaze, the one that always unnerves Nigel, like Adam is peeling back layers he didn’t even know existed.

He feels the words bubbling up before he can stop them, feels the need to break the tension. “I can hear you thinking,” he mutters.

“That’s impossible,” Adam says, his voice soft.

Nigel’s grip on Adam’s hip tightens for just a second, his thumb brushing over the curve of bone. “Maybe,” Nigel whispers. “But I still hear it.” His eyes flicker back to Adam’s, searching for something—an answer, maybe, or some clue as to what’s going on behind those sharp eyes. “What do you look for when you look at me like that?” ‘

The question slips out, unbidden, before Nigel can stop himself. It’s not the kind of thing he usually asks, not the kind of thing he even wants to ask. 

Adam’s brow furrows just the slightest bit, that subtle wrinkle forming between his eyebrows, like he’s confused by the question. Adam shakes his head, his eyes never leaving Nigel’s. “I don’t look for anything,” he says, his voice soft but sure. “I just like to look at you.”

The simplicity of the statement punches the air from Nigel’s lungs. He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, and before he can think too much about it, he leans in and presses his lips to Adam’s.

Adam responds, his breath hitching, but just as quickly as it started, he breaks the kiss, his head falling to rest on Nigel’s shoulder.  It’s hot enough in the room that neither of them are shivering, but there’s still a kind of chill in the air—a tension, an electricity that buzzes just beneath the surface of everything they do. 

“When I lived in New York,” Adam starts. “I used to people-watch.”

Nigel’s lips twitch into a half-smile. “Like a little creep?” 

Adam frowns against Nigel’s shoulder, his fingers twitching in Nigel’s hair like he’s irritated by the comment but doesn’t have the energy to argue. “I wasn’t creeping,” he mutters, his voice a little sharper now, a little more defensive. “It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t spying. I just... I liked to study people, to really understand them. To memorize their faces, the way their expressions shifted, the way they moved, so I could feel like I knew what they were thinking, what they were feeling.”

“Yeah?” Nigel asks, genuinely curious now. “You do that with me?”

Adam nods. “Yeah,” he whispers.

Nigel shifts, pulling back just enough to look at Adam’s face. “What’d you learn from watching me?”

Adam bites his lip, his gaze drifting downward as he thinks. “When you're upset," he starts slowly, his words thoughtful and measured, "you get this little furrow between your brows. And your upper lip twitches up a little.”

Nigel lets out a soft, self-deprecating laugh. “Guess I’m not as good at hiding it as I thought.”

Adam doesn’t laugh with him. He stays serious, his eyes flicking up. “And when you’re really upset,” Adam continues, his voice steady but soft, “your eyes... they change. They’re usually this golden amber color, but when you’re upset, they go darker. They turn more brown.” 

Nigel leans down, noses at Adam’s cheek, trying to distract himself. “You’re something else, you know that?”

Adam hums softly, but he doesn’t let it go. He whispers, “But sometimes, when you look at me... I can’t tell what it is you’re feeling. I can’t read you.”

"What do you mean?"

Adam leans back, studying Nigel’s face with that same intensity. “Like now,” Adam says, his voice soft but sure. “You look at me with something I can only see as awe.”

Nigel doesn’t know what to say to that. But the words slip out anyway, more honest than he intended. "I am in awe of you, Adam," he whispers. "Every fucking day."

Adam hums and he tucks himself back into Nigel’s neck, breathing him in, his body warm and solid against Nigel’s. 

"You’re like an angel," Nigel whispers, his voice barely audible, as if he’s afraid the words might break the spell between them. "I want to keep you. God, I want to keep you so fucking bad, I don’t even know what to do with it."

Adam’s breath hitches, his body tensing for just a moment, and Nigel wonders if he’s said too much. But then Adam presses in closer, his lips brushing against Nigel’s neck as he whispers, "You have me."

"You say that like it’s fucking simple.” His fingers dig in just a little more, enough to feel Adam's heartbeat through his skin. "Like it’s easy for you to just give yourself over, to say you're mine like it doesn't tear something apart in you too."

Adam shifts slightly, his forehead pressed into the crook of Nigel’s neck, his voice muffled as he replies. "It’s not easy. I didn’t say it was." His tone is soft but certain, a quiet strength that Nigel both admires and resents. "But I meant it. I don’t know how else to say it. I don’t even know how to stop feeling it—how to stop being yours."

Nigel’s lips are slow as they press into Adam’s forehead, lingering like they belong there. His lips drag across Adam’s temple, feeling the gentle curve of bone under skin, brushing against the sweat-damp curls that have stuck themselves to Adam’s face. He doesn’t pull back quickly, doesn’t snap away like a man who’s afraid of getting caught in something too tender, too intimate. 

Adam’s body is loose beneath him, boneless, pliant, and Nigel drinks in the way he looks like he’s falling apart at the seams, like the world could swallow him whole and he’d let it. But that’s not what Nigel wants. He wants to hold him together, to wrap him up tight, keep him close, keep him safe—even if the room’s damn near boiling, even if sweat is beading on both their skins, trickling down like rivers. He’s careful as he lowers Adam into the mess of blankets, pulling them up over his thin frame like it matters, like Adam needs the comfort even when the air is suffocating. Nigel knows it’s too hot, knows the summer’s beating down on the world like it’s punishing them both, but Adam’s different. Adam curls into the blankets, burying himself in them, making these little, breathy sounds that slip from his mouth, soft and secret, and Nigel feels his chest tighten with something he can’t name.

He sits on the edge of the bed for a long moment, fists clenching in his lap, trying to ground himself in something, anything, other than the way Adam looks right now. The room is quiet except for the sound of their breathing, except for the hum of some broken AC unit trying and failing to cool the air. Nigel stares at Adam like he’s something holy, something untouchable, but it’s not worship. It’s awe, sure, but it’s the kind of awe that roots itself in the bones, in the marrow. The kind of awe that makes him feel alive. Maybe Nigel’s been in awe since the moment he laid eyes on Adam, since the first second he saw him standing there with his shoulders hunched up, looking like he was trying to disappear into the walls.

It’s a terrifying thought, but not as terrifying as it would’ve been before. Not as terrifying as the thought of losing him, as the thought of that light snuffing out before it ever had the chance to burn bright.

Nigel’s sitting in a dingy motel room with cracked wallpaper and a leaky ceiling, and it smells like cigarettes and stale air. There’s nothing beautiful about the place. It’s the kind of room you walk into and feel like the world’s given up on it. But Adam makes it different. Adam makes it glow. Makes the whole damn world pulse with life, like everything’s just a backdrop for him, like he’s the center of it all. And Nigel can’t stop thinking about it—about how unfair it is that Adam has to carry all that inside him all the time. It’s too much for one person, too much for someone as small and fragile as Adam. But that’s why Nigel’s here. That’s why he’s always been here. To help carry it. To coax that light out when Adam can’t, to turn it into something bigger, something brighter. He thinks about the stars again, about how people look up at them and think they’re the most beautiful thing in the sky, and Nigel knows—that’s Adam. That’s who Adam is.

Nigel reaches out without thinking, brushing Adam’s curls away from his face, his fingertips light and careful like he’s afraid of disturbing the peace that’s settled over the kid. He leans down, presses another kiss to his temple, then his cheek, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of him. It’s stupid, he knows that. It’s a stupid idea to leave him alone in this room.

But he stands up anyway, pulls his jeans back on, zipping them up with a quiet sigh. He grabs his t-shirt from where it’s been tossed on the floor, shrugs it over his shoulders. His pistol’s still on the nightstand, and he tucks it into the waistband of his jeans, the weight of it comforting in a way nothing else really is. His wallet’s shoved into his back pocket, but the cigarettes stay on the table. He smiles at them. 

The smile doesn’t leave his face as he locks the motel door behind him and heads out into the hot, sticky air of the town. He walks down the cracked sidewalk, his boots scuffing against the concrete, and makes his way to a run-down convenience store, the kind with a flickering “Open” sign in the window that looks like it’s been there since the 80s.

Inside, the air’s thick and stale, but it’s cooler than outside, and Nigel feels the sweat on his back start to dry. He walks up to the counter, eyeing the old man standing there, and flashes him a grin.

“Hey, how you doin’?” the man asks.

Nigel’s grin widens. “Good. I’m great,” he says, rubbing a hand over his mouth like he’s trying to keep the smile in check. “You have hot chocolate?”

“Sure do,” the man nods, turning to start preparing it.

Nigel’s eyes drift over the display of cookies, something simple and homemade about them. There’s a star-shaped one, small and kind of crooked. Something bursts open inside him, warm and bright. "Give me two hot chocolates, large, and one of those star cookies," he says before he even knows what he’s doing.

The old man behind the counter is moving slow, like he’s got all the time in the world, and Nigel watches him carefully, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, like he’s got too much energy to stand still. His fingers twitch toward his wallet, and he’s already pawing for the cash when the man finally turns around, the two steaming cups of hot chocolate ready.

“You want that cookie too, right?” the man asks, his voice low and gravelly, like it’s been roughed up by years of smoking and talking too much.

“Yeah,” Nigel says, a grin splitting across his face again. “Give me the star one. How much?”

“Cookies are a buck fifty,” the man answers, sliding the little star-shaped cookie into a small wax paper bag, sealing it up like it’s something special. And to Nigel, it is. It feels important, like this little gesture is gonna mean more than it should when he gets back to Adam.

Nigel hands over the cash, but he’s barely paying attention to what he’s doing. He flashes another grin at the old man, nodding to himself, and then, without thinking, he turns to the other old guy sitting in a booth by the window.

“You got a lover?” Nigel asks.

The man looks up, a little surprised but not offended. He nods, and Nigel chuckles.

“Alright,” Nigel says, leaning one elbow on the counter. “I’m buying this cookie for her. Don’t you dare fucking chomp on it yourself. You save it for your girlfriend, yeah? I’m serious.”

The old man in the booth laughs softly, shaking his head like he doesn’t quite know what to make of Nigel, but there’s a warmth in his eyes that says he gets it. Nigel turns back to the counter as the guy behind it wraps up his hot chocolates. There’s something about the way people are tonight, something easy and good, like there’s no edge to the world anymore, just soft, rounded corners.

“Who thought of the star cookies?” Nigel asks, glancing at the little paper bag in the man’s hands.

The old guy shrugs, his thick shoulders lifting slow. “I dunno. Been makin’ ‘em since I bought the place. People like ‘em, so I kept ‘em around.”

Nigel nods, feeling that same burst of warmth flood through him again. It’s stupid. But he can’t help it. He feels like a kid again, grinning wide, heart light and stupidly hopeful. He hands the man a few more bills, more than he owes, just because it feels right.

“This is for you,” Nigel says. “I don’t know why, just fucking take it.”

The old man blinks at him, surprised, but he takes the cash without hesitation, pocketing it with a laugh. “Okay. Thanks a lot.”

Nigel nods, already turning to head out, his feet light, his heart even lighter. He pauses for a second, eyes catching on the old man in the booth again.

“Hey,” Nigel calls, pointing toward him. “Don’t forget your cookie. It’s for her, remember?”

The man nods, a crooked smile on his face, and Nigel feels that warm buzz again, like the world’s got some secret it’s letting him in on. He’s about to leave when something catches his eye, something bright and colorful, tucked into a rack near the door. Fireworks. Cheap ones, nothing special, but it stops him in his tracks.

“Something happening today?” Nigel asks, glancing back at the guy behind the counter.

The old man laughs, shaking his head. “It’s the Fourth of July, son.”

Nigel blinks, and then the smile returns, slow and wide, spreading across his face. He nods, tucking the cookie bag between his teeth as he pushes the door open with his elbow. Nigel might hate America but he doesn’t hate Adam. 

Nigel hurries along the gravel pathway leading back to the motel. His hands are full—two cups of hot chocolate balanced precariously in the crook of his elbow, all while he’s fumbling for the room key. He swears under his breath, muttering to himself like a fool because everything feels so goddamn important all of a sudden. His grip slips on the hot chocolate, nearly spilling the whole thing, but he catches it just in time. 

The key jams in the lock, and Nigel curses again, trying not to let the frustration creep in. It’s not like it matters, not like Adam’s gonna be jumping up to meet him at the door. Kid’s probably still fast asleep, dead to the world, curled up under those thin, scratchy motel sheets like he’s in the safest place on Earth instead of this run-down dive in the middle of nowhere. And for a moment, Nigel lets himself imagine that this is their life forever—late-night hot chocolate runs, shitty motel rooms, and quiet mornings waking up next to each other.

It’s a dream, a sweet little lie.

Finally, the door clicks open, and he pushes his way inside, the warmth of the room hitting him like a wall. The first thing he sees is Adam, still curled up on the bed just where Nigel left him. The sight stops him dead in his tracks, his breath catching in his throat. Adam’s body is a soft, rumpled silhouette against the sheets, his dark hair falling over his face in messy waves. His lips are parted, slightly chapped, a small puff of breath escaping with each exhale. 

Nigel sets the hot chocolate and cookie down on the nightstand, right next to his gun. It feels out of place in a moment like this, where everything feels too soft, too intimate. He stares at it for a second, that familiar weight settling in his chest. It’s strange, the juxtaposition of it all—the violence and tenderness, the death and the warmth. He’s spent his whole life caught between those two worlds.

Nigel’s eyes drift back to Adam, and a thought sneaks in, uninvited but undeniable: I want to give him everything.

He’s always been one for gestures—little gifts, big promises, stuff that shows he cares, even if he can’t always say it. But now, standing here in this motel room, Nigel feels like all of that isn’t enough. He wants to give Adam his whole heart. Maybe he already has.

The thought makes his stomach twist, his hands shake. He swallows hard, trying to shove it down, but it doesn’t go away. It sits there, heavy and real, and for once, Nigel’s not sure if he’s scared of it or not.

His hand trembles as he reaches out, slowly. His fingers find the edge of the sheet, and he pulls it down just enough to see the cigarette burn on Adam’s shoulder. The skin is raw, still healing. Nigel’s heart clenches as he stares at the small, angry mark. He knows it won’t fade like his bruises. It’ll stay, etched into Adam’s skin. A scar. A little moon-shaped mark that’ll be there forever.

Nigel bends down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to the burn. His lips are warm against Adam’s skin, and for a moment, he feels like he’s trying to kiss away the hurt. There’s something almost reverent about it, like he’s worshiping at an altar.

He kisses a path up Adam’s back, his lips brushing over every freckle, every inch of pale skin. He takes his time, savoring the way Adam’s body responds even in sleep—the way he shifts, the way his muscles twitch ever so slightly under Nigel’s touch. When he reaches Adam’s cheek, he lingers, his lips ghosting over soft skin as Adam stirs beneath him.

Adam makes a small noise and Nigel’s heart nearly stops. He smiles, just a little, brushing his thumb over Adam’s cheek as the kid nuzzles into him, instinctive, like he’s seeking out warmth in his sleep.

“Get dressed, doll,” Nigel whispers, his voice low, gravelly, filled with more tenderness than he knows what to do with. “I have something to show you.”

Adam’s eyes flutter open, still hazy with sleep, his lashes dark against his pale skin. He blinks up at Nigel, confusion clouding his sleepy blue gaze.

“What?” 

Nigel just shakes his head, pressing a kiss to his forehead. “It’s a surprise.”

Adam makes a small sound of protest, his brow furrowing. “I don’t like surprises.”

“Trust me.”

Adam sighs, a long, drawn-out exhale, and stretches beneath the covers. His body moves in slow, lazy waves, his long limbs shifting under the sheets, pale skin peeking out in places as the fabric slips down. Nigel watches, mesmerized, by the simple act of Adam waking up. He watches the way Adam’s ribs shift, the way his skin glows in the fading light from the motel window, the way his muscles ripple under his skin.

For a moment, everything else falls away—the violence, the fear, the ever-looming threat of New York. It’s just Adam, beautiful in his messy, unguarded way, and Nigel feels like he’s watching the sunrise for the first time. There’s a part of him that wants to run, to push this all away because it’s too much. Too good. Too real. But he doesn’t move. He just watches, caught in the moment, feeling like his whole life’s been leading up to this.

Nigel bends down, picking up Adam’s clothes from the floor. His shirt, Adam’s striped trunks. He moves closer, shuffling to the side of the bed and flipping Adam onto his back with a gentle hand.

“You’re going to make me do everything, huh?” 

Adam shakes his head, a sleepy denial, but he doesn’t make any move to get up. He just lies there, watching Nigel with those soft, ocean-blue eyes that seem to hold the whole damn world in them. Eyes that make Nigel feel like he’s drowning and floating all at once.

Nigel huffs a quiet laugh, sliding the shirt over Adam’s head, his fingers careful, reverent as they guide the fabric over Adam’s arms. As he does, he presses kisses to every inch of exposed skin. Each kiss feels like a promise, though Nigel’s not sure what he’s promising. Only that it’s something big. Something important.

Adam is a mess, bruised and battered, but somehow, he’s still the most beautiful thing Nigel’s ever seen.

Adam suddenly leans up, catching Nigel’s lips in a messy, eager kiss, and Nigel laughs against his mouth, the sound rough and warm.

“Your hot chocolate’s getting cold, gorgeous,” he murmurs, but Adam doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even slow down. He kisses Nigel like it’s the only thing he wants to do, like nothing else matters in this moment. And Nigel can’t find it in himself to pull away. Not after everything. Not after today.

When Nigel finally touches him again, it’s soft, slow, tender in a way that almost aches. There’s no rush in his movements, no urgency, like every touch means something. His fingers glide over Adam’s skin, tracing lines that feel like promises, silent vows whispered through the pads of his fingertips. It’s not about Nigel, not this time. It’s about Adam. About making him feel good, about showing him what he means without saying a word.

Adam lets out a soft, breathy sound and it makes Nigel’s chest tighten, like there’s too much inside him and not enough room to hold it all. He watches Adam’s face, the way his eyelids flutter, the way his lips part as he tries to hold back another noise. 

He strokes Adam’s cock with that same slow, deliberate tenderness, his touch light but firm, enough to draw out soft gasps from Adam’s lips but not enough to overwhelm. He doesn’t tease, doesn’t drag it out with any of his usual games. He just wants Adam to feel good, wants him to know that this moment is for him, that Nigel’s not asking for anything in return.

Adam’s body arches slightly, his breath hitching in his throat, and Nigel feels like he’s watching something holy unfold right there in front of him. The way Adam moves, the way his body responds to every touch, it’s all so raw, so vulnerable, and Nigel can’t look away. He’s entranced, caught in this moment like it’s the only thing that matters.

And then, with a soft, breathless moan, Adam comes. His body shakes, his lips parting in a soundless cry, and Nigel watches, mesmerized, as Adam unravels in his hands. It’s like watching something break apart and come back together all at once. Adam’s lashes flutter, his lips quivering, and for a second, Nigel can’t breathe.

He doesn’t let go right away. He strokes Adam through it, slow and gentle, wanting to draw it out just a little longer, wanting to keep Adam in this soft, quiet space where everything’s okay. Where they’re not running, not hiding, not fighting. Just this. Just them.

When Adam finally settles, his chest heaving with heavy, uneven breaths, Nigel presses a kiss to his temple, then to the corner of his mouth. Adam’s skin is flushed, his eyes half-lidded, and there’s this softness about him that Nigel wants to protect, wants to hold onto.

Nigel pulls back just enough to look at him, to take him in fully, and his heart clenches at the sight. Adam looks so vulnerable, so open, and it hits Nigel all over again how much he fucking cares for this boy. How much he needs him.

He leans in, kissing Adam on the lips, soft and slow, savoring the feel of him. Adam kisses back lazily, his hand coming up to cup the back of Nigel’s neck, fingers threading through his hair. 

Eventually, Nigel pulls away, resting his forehead against Adam’s, their breaths mingling in the small space between them. His thumb brushes over Adam’s cheek, a small, tender gesture that feels too big, too important for words.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Nigel mutters, half-joking, but there’s a truth to it, a weight that lingers between them.

Adam opens his eyes, blinking up at Nigel with that same sleepy, trusting gaze, and for a moment, everything feels okay. Like maybe, just maybe, they could stay in this moment forever. But Nigel knows better.

“Come on,” Nigel says softly, brushing his thumb over Adam’s bottom lip. 

Adam lets out a small groan, but there’s no real protest in it. He’s pliant, soft, and when Nigel moves to pull him up, Adam follows, shifting under his touch. He’s all long limbs and pale skin, his body moving with a slow, lazy grace that Nigel can’t help but admire. Adam stretches, arms reaching above his head, his shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin, and Nigel’s breath hitches, his eyes tracing the curve of his waist.

Adam catches him staring and gives him a small, sleepy smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “You’re staring,” he mutters.

Nigel huffs a laugh, shaking his head as he leans down to grab Adam’s discarded trunks from the floor. “Can you blame me?” He shuffles closer to the bed. “You’re too pretty for your own good, you know that?”

Adam’s cheeks flush, but he doesn’t say anything, just gives Nigel a half-hearted glare that doesn’t have any real bite to it.

Once Adam’s finally dressed, Nigel pulls him up and leads him outside, the cool night air hitting them as they step out onto the motel’s balcony. The sky above is painted with stars, the faint glow of the moon casting everything in soft, silver light. It’s quiet out here, the world feeling far away, like they’re the only two people left.

Adam looks up, his eyes wide and dark, the blue of them almost black in the low light. He stares at the sky, his lips parted slightly, and Nigel watches him, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Why are we here?” Adam whispers.

Nigel grins. He has their hot chocolates and he holds one out to Adam. “You promised you’d teach me the stars.”

Adam blinks, his eyes flicking back to Nigel, then to the cup of hot chocolate in his hand. He shuffles on his feet, hesitating for a moment before taking the cup, his fingers brushing against Nigel’s in the exchange. 

“Drink it,” Nigel says. “It’ll help your throat.”

Adam nods, taking the lid off the cup to sniff it. It’s such a simple thing, but watching Adam do it, so cautious, so careful, makes something inside Nigel soften even more.

Adam takes a tentative sip, his eyes blinking as he swallows, his lips curling into a quiet, content smile. “It’s better than the ones my dad used to make me on Christmas. He always made it taste burnt.”

“Told the guy to make it good for you.”

Nigel leans against the rusty balcony railing. The sky is that deep indigo, the kind you only get in the middle of nowhere, the stars punching through in clusters, scattered like a mess of broken glass on velvet. It feels almost too quiet, too still for what’s going on inside him, this storm that’s been brewing ever since Adam came into his life, ever since he started feeling things he didn’t want to feel.

He sets his drink down on the metal ledge. His eyes shift back to Adam, drawn to him like they always are. Adam stands a little off to the side, his head tilted up toward the sky, like he’s looking for something up there, something only he can see. The soft light from the motel sign casts a faint glow on Adam’s face, but it’s the stars that really make him glow—tiny pinpricks of light reflecting in his wide eyes, making them sparkle, making them look alive. He’s so fucking still, so quiet, it’s like the whole world has paused just for him.

“I haven’t looked at them in so long,” Adam says, his voice soft. 

Nigel moves toward Adam, crossing the short distance in a few long strides, like his body knows what it wants even if his brain hasn’t caught up yet. His arms come around Adam’s waist, sliding across the cotton of his shirt, and he pulls him back against his chest. 

Nigel buries his face in Adam’s curls, that mess of hair that always smells like something sweet. “I got you a cookie too,” Nigel murmurs, his lips brushing against the shell of Adam’s ear, barely a whisper. He can feel Adam shiver at the touch, a tiny tremor that runs down his spine. “It’s shaped like a star.”

“Can I eat it tomorrow?” Adam asks, turning his head just slightly to look up at Nigel.

Nigel presses a kiss to Adam’s cheek, letting his lips linger there, just a second longer than necessary. “Yeah,” Nigel says softly. “Tomorrow, baby.”

They stand there for a minute, just wrapped up in each other, the night pressing in around them, thick and heavy but in a good way. Adam’s eyes are still fixed on the stars, still wide with that same quiet wonder, like he’s trying to memorize every point of light. 

Nigel reaches out, plucking the hot chocolate from Adam’s hand, setting it down beside his own on the ledge. Nigel gathers Adam back into his arms, holding him close, his chin resting on the top of Adam’s head. 

“Alright,” Nigel says after a long pause. “Teach me.”

Adam’s grin lights up the night, this big, bright, beautiful thing. Adam’s always had this way of smiling, like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it, like it’s just the most natural thing in the world for him to be happy, for him to glow. 

"See that one?" Adam says, his voice soft but clear as he points upward, his finger drawing precise, invisible lines between stars. “That’s Orion. You can always recognize it by the three stars in a straight line—that’s the belt. It’s one of the most distinctive constellations because it’s visible from almost anywhere on Earth."

Adam’s gaze settles on a bright star near the edge of Orion. “See that one? That’s Rigel,” he says, his voice taking on a quiet intensity. Nigel smiles. “It’s burning through its fuel so quickly that it won’t last as long as a smaller star like ours. One day, it’ll explode as a supernova, but for now, it’s one of the brightest points in Orion.” 

Nigel swallows tightly, his throat constricting at the thought.

Adam’s gaze shifts slightly, finger moving with careful intent as he continues, “And over there, the Pleiades. It's a star cluster, technically. They're gravitationally bound, close enough that they almost blur together if you're not looking closely. Ancient civilizations used them for navigation—they’re not just random points of light. They’re a map, they have meaning."

There’s a brief pause as Adam adjusts his stance. “It’s strange how people say they feel small when they look at the stars. I don’t. I feel… connected. Like they’re a pattern, waiting to be understood. It’s just a matter of paying attention to the details.”

Nigel’s not looking at the stars. His gaze stays locked on Adam’s face, on the way his eyes light up when he talks about something he loves. There’s this glow to him, this light that seems to come from somewhere deep inside, like he’s got the whole fucking universe in his veins, and it’s spilling out through his skin. 

They stand like that for what feels like forever, the night wrapping around them, the stars flickering overhead, the silence between them heavy with things left unsaid. But then, Adam turns in Nigel’s arms, his body twisting so he’s facing him, his face just inches from Nigel’s. His eyes are wide, soft, and there’s this look in them, this quiet, vulnerable thing that makes Nigel feel like the stars aren’t in the sky at all—they’re right here, flickering in the depths of Adam’s eyes.

“Nigel,” Adam starts, his voice so quiet, so soft, Nigel almost doesn’t hear him. Almost.

But before Adam can finish, there’s a loud pop in the distance, and Adam flinches, his whole body jerking in Nigel’s arms. Nigel tightens his hold instinctively.

Fireworks. Bright, glittering bursts of color fill the sky, reds and blues and golds exploding overhead, reflecting off the motel windows, turning the night into a kaleidoscope of light. Adam’s eyes go wide, his lips parting in surprise, and Nigel can’t help but grin.

“Look at that,” Nigel murmurs, his voice low, full of something tender, something soft, as he holds Adam tighter. Another firework goes off, and Adam flinches again, his whole body pressing back into Nigel’s chest.

Nigel doesn’t even think about it—his hands come up, cradling Adam’s ears again, but this time he pulls him closer, tighter, like he’s trying to shield him from the noise, from everything.

“Shhh,” Nigel whispers, his breath warm against Adam’s hair. “I have you.”

Nigel wants to know Adam in ways words can’t explain. He wants to map out every inch of him, not just his body but his thoughts, his heart.  

Adam is something else entirely. He’s soft where Nigel’s rough, fragile where Nigel feels solid, that breakable thing Nigel can’t help but want to protect and ruin all at once. Adam is a kind of sweetness, softness that Nigel feels like he could crush between his fingers if he’s not careful. He’s a daisy in the middle of a wildfire, a patch of untouched snow in a storm, something pure and tender that doesn’t belong in Nigel’s world. It’s that sweetness that pulls at Nigel’s chest, that softness that makes him want to bury himself in Adam. 

Adam's like sugar—he’s all honey and flowers and soft summer evenings, the kind of thing that sticks to your teeth and makes you ache in ways you didn’t even know you could. He’s stars, and skies, and infinity wrapped in skin. And Nigel...Nigel’s the opposite. He’s smoke and leather, he’s the rough edge, the thing that snarls and bites. He’s the fire that scorches everything in its path. But Adam is the thing that makes him stop for just a second, makes him slow down long enough to feel something real. 

Another firework explodes overhead, this one sending a burst of blue across the sky. Nigel’s heart pounds in his chest, harder than the fireworks cracking. He’s never been good with words, never known how to say the things that matter, but right now, it’s all he can do to keep from spilling everything.

Adam’s still pressed close, his head tucked under Nigel’s chin, his breath soft and warm. His hands are still clenched in Nigel’s skin, knuckles tight, but he hasn’t moved away. He hasn’t asked to leave. 

He hasn’t asked to go home.

Chapter Text

Nigel never dreams.

It’s been like that since the day he got shot in the head. That moment, that sound—a gunshot that he couldn’t hear until it had already cut through his skull. The bullet did something. Maybe it rattled around in there, knocking loose the shit he didn’t need anymore. Whatever it did, it took his dreams. Stole them right out of his head. He could’ve asked someone—some doctor with a clipboard and a tired expression, telling him in clinical words why his brain went dark when he slept. But he didn’t care. He didn’t need a fucking explanation. The blackness, the nothingness, it was better than the dreams he used to have.

Before, his dreams had been bloody, violent as his waking life. Nights when he’d jerk awake, heart pounding. He used to dream about the things he’d done, the faces he’d mangled beyond recognition, the lives he’d taken with nothing but a squeeze of a trigger. 

And when he woke up from those dreams? It was just guilt. Thick and heavy, settling in his chest like a goddamn brick. He didn’t want to feel that, not when the real world didn’t bother him half as much as those dreams did. But then, after the bullet… nothing. Just darkness. He’d lay his head down, close his eyes, and there’d be nothing. No nightmares. No dreams. Just sleep.

It was peaceful. Like death. 

He’s never dreamed about Gabi, about her sad, broken eyes looking up at him. No Charlie Countryman, that dumb, naive fuck, with his idiot grin and hopelessness bleeding out of him. He doesn’t dream about any of the faces from before. Doesn’t dream about his past at all. It’s like that part of his brain shut down completely, like some switch got flipped and he’s never had to look back. Not in sleep, at least. 

Now, if he’s honest with himself, his life feels like one long, uninterrupted dream. The kind you don’t want to wake up from. Every day’s a blur, the road stretching out ahead of them like it’s endless, the world rolling by in a haze of sunsets, cigarette smoke, and Adam. 

Always Adam. 

Adam, with his soft curls and his even softer eyes, those pale blue irises that somehow make Nigel feel like he’s standing under a wide-open sky every time Adam looks at him. It’s like Adam’s gaze is endless, like it’s swallowing Nigel up whole, pulling him into some kind of world where nothing hurts and everything glows with this soft, golden light. He feels it every day. Every second Adam’s near him, Nigel feels like he’s floating, like the world’s been covered in this glittering sheen, and nothing’s ever been so beautiful. 

Nigel’s never felt this way about anyone before. And that’s a dangerous thing, isn’t it? To feel like you don’t want anything else out of life except the person sitting next to you.

He’s too far gone to care. Adam’s got him tangled up in this sweetness, and he doesn’t want to fight it. The rest of the world might be ugly, but Adam makes it beautiful.

They’ve been on the road for days now, but it doesn’t feel like days. It feels like one long, hot summer that never ends, like they’ve slipped out of time completely. Nigel’s been getting used to it, the way Adam curls up in the passenger seat, legs folded beneath him, his nose buried in a book. It’s a quiet thing, their days on the road. Sometimes they don’t talk for hours, the silence between them filled with nothing but the hum of the car engine and the rustle of pages turning.

But then there are moments—moments where Adam leans over, presses his lips to Nigel’s in that soft, slow way of his. And Nigel, well, he never says no. He kisses back, deep and long, until the air between them is thick and heavy, until he can’t breathe but he doesn’t care. 

At night, when they stop at whatever cheap motel they can find, it’s the same. He touches him slow, reverent. The sex they have in these moments isn’t as rough as when Nigel forced Adam to smoke. It doesn’t carry the same sharp edge of control, the same threat of domination. This is slower, more dangerous in its intimacy, like Nigel is afraid of pushing too far but also afraid of holding back. 

He feels like he’s on fire most of the time—burning, sizzling just beneath the surface, every nerve lit up like a fuse ready to blow. But somehow, Adam cools that desire, tempers it without even trying. It’s in the way he looks at Nigel, like nothing else in the world exists, like all the danger, all the filth around them just falls away. Adam’s eyes, those deep pools of endless blue, are the first sunset Nigel ever saw that made him stop running. Adam’s beautiful—so damn beautiful Nigel can’t even wrap his mind around it sometimes. 

But Nigel knows—he knows—that he’s not the kind of man who deserves this kind of warmth. He’s a demon in every sense of the word and he’s got a whole fucking host of those monsters inside him, clawing at the inside of his chest, gnashing their teeth, waiting for their moment to break out. 

Maybe Nigel’s always been a fucking idiot, walking around with his heart hanging on the outside of his chest like some rotting tumor, just waiting for someone to come along and rip it off. He can’t help it. 

And maybe that’s why, for the first time in months, Nigel dreams.

It starts sweet, soft. He dreams of an angel. He dreams of Adam. Of cornflower eyes and pale skin, of chocolate curls spilling over the pillow, of the way Adam’s body looks when he’s relaxed, stretched out next to him. He dreams of Adam’s smile, that little rabbit-toothed grin that makes Nigel feel something warm in his chest. He dreams of fireworks, bursts of color lighting up the sky, and the low, steady rumble of a car engine beneath them, like the road is theirs and theirs alone. In the dream, they keep driving, never stopping, never running out of gas, just going and going until they’re the only things left in the world.

He dreams of budding angel wings on Adam’s pale, bony shoulders, fragile and new like they’re still growing, like they’ve never been used. Nigel doesn’t believe in angels, doesn’t believe in any of that shit in the waking world, but in this dream? Adam’s one of God’s angels, sent down to earth, and Nigel’s stolen him. Stolen him and ruined him every night with the touch of his sinful hands. Adam is sunshine, he’s light incarnate, and in Nigel’s dream, he keeps him. He keeps this beautiful, broken angel all to himself. Because in the dream, there’s no one to take Adam away.

It’s perfect. Beautiful.

But then, it shifts. The way dreams always do, slipping from one thing to another without warning.

The road disappears, and instead, Nigel’s in a forest. The light filters through the trees, golden and soft, and there’s a stillness to it all, like the world’s holding its breath. Dust floats in the air, catching the sunlight like little flecks of heaven. And there, in the middle of it all, is a fawn.

It’s small, delicate, with soft brown fur speckled with white spots. It moves carefully, every step light, like it’s afraid to break the silence. There’s something almost innocent about it. Its big, wide eyes dart around, curious, but there’s a nervousness there too. A fear. It’s lost. Nigel can see that. Lost and alone, in a world it doesn’t understand. It’s got no idea what’s waiting for it out there, no clue how cruel things can be. Part of him, deep down, resents it for being so naive. So untouched.

He wants to shout at it, shake it out of its dreamlike haze. He wants to tell it, Wake up! Open your fucking eyes! The world isn’t going to hold your hand. It’ll tear you apart the first chance it gets.

And then, out of nowhere, there’s a crunch. That sickening, bone-deep sound that snaps through the air like a gunshot. The fawn’s leg is caught in a bear trap. The sharp metal teeth clamp down hard, sinking into its soft fur, tearing through muscle and bone like it’s nothing. Blood splatters the forest floor, dark and thick, and the fawn lets out this heart-wrenching cry, high-pitched and desperate.

Nigel just stands there, frozen. Part of him feels like that’s exactly what that little thing deserves. This world’s a brutal place, and if you’re dumb enough to wander through it with your eyes closed, well, you’re bound to get hurt. That’s just how it goes. Life’s a fucking meat grinder, and it doesn’t give a fuck how soft or innocent you are. It’ll chew you up all the same.

But the longer he watches, the more that anger fades into something else. Something like guilt, though he wouldn’t dare name it that. He wants to look away, wants to walk off and leave the thing there to bleed out in peace, but he can’t. He’s stuck. 

Because, despite knowing better, there’s a part of him that wants to save it.

That’s when he wakes.

His eyes snap open, heart hammering in his chest, the sound of that trap still echoing in his head. For a second, he doesn’t know where he is. His mind’s still stuck in that dream, still thinking he’s in the woods. But as his vision clears, he realizes he’s in a shitty motel room. 

Nigel groans, his body feeling heavy. He buries his face in the pillow, taking a deep breath, letting Adam’s scent fill his lungs. It calms him a little, that smell. Reminds him where he is, reminds him who he’s with. He lies there for a moment, his heart slowing, the memory of the dream still buzzing around in his head like a swarm of angry bees.

He tries to push it away, telling himself it doesn’t matter. It’s just a dream. A stupid, pointless fucking dream. Doesn’t mean anything. Doesn’t need to be picked apart and analyzed like some goddamn puzzle. It’s nothing.

Nigel’s still half-dreaming when the sound pulls him awake, that soft, almost-not-there shuffling of skin against fabric. It’s a sound he knows well, like the sigh of an old song humming in the background of his mind. He doesn’t open his eyes right away, sinking deeper into the scratchy motel pillow. Then it comes—the tickle of hair against his nose, messy, wild curls crackling with static from the cheap polyester sheets. 

“Nigel?” 

Whispered, gentle. It’s the kind of sound that wraps around your bones. Nigel’s eyes flicker open, lids heavy, and he has to work a little to drag himself out of the warmth of sleep. The room is still dim, lit only by the faint light of morning sneaking through the threadbare curtains. But Adam is already there, right beside him, cheeks kissed pink by the early sun, those perfect blue eyes soft.

Nigel rolls onto his back, his body still sluggish with sleep, and lifts a hand, fingers moving slow, as if they’ve forgotten how to work. But when his palm finally cups Adam’s cheek, the warmth is instant. Adam leans into it like he’s been waiting for that touch all night, nuzzling into Nigel’s hand like a cat, seeking out the heat, the contact. 

Nigel blinks hard, trying to shake off the last remnants of his dream. The details are already slipping away, drowned out by the way Adam glows in the morning light. There’s a radiance about him.  

Nigel moves to kiss him, but Adam dodges just enough that Nigel’s lips land on his cheek instead of his mouth. The warmth there is soft, familiar, and Nigel can’t help the chuckle that bubbles up from his chest. 

“You haven’t brushed your teeth,” Adam whispers. 

Nigel grins, wide and sharp, and nips at Adam’s ear, relishing the soft squeak Adam makes in response. It’s a sound Nigel could bottle up and listen to on repeat. Nigel feels like he’s holding something divine in his hands, like the universe itself is pressed up against his lips, trembling and fragile, waiting for him to do something with it.

Adam squirms under the sheets, naked and loose-limbed, like he belongs here, tangled up in these moments that feel too small for what they mean. Nigel can’t stop touching him, his hands roaming over soft skin, the smooth plane of his stomach, the curve of his waist. His fingers press against the bruises he left there the night before, dark marks that speak louder than words. Adam doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away. He never does. He just lets Nigel hold him, lets him take and take, as if there’s nothing else he’d rather do.

Nigel tugs him closer, pulling until Adam’s straddling his hips, knees pressing into the mattress on either side of Nigel’s body. The position makes Adam hesitate for a second, his eyes darting away, cheeks flushing an even deeper shade of pink. There’s something about the way the sun hits Adam in the morning, the way the light catches in his frizzy curls, turning them into a glowing halo. Nigel’s throat tightens at the sight.

His pretty American boy. His înger.

“What were you dreaming of?” 

“You.” Nigel figures it isn't a lie, not really. 

Adam’s hands come to rest on Nigel’s chest, fingers curling into the hair there, tugging lightly as his eyes flicker back down to the space between them. He looks like he’s thinking about something, his lips parting just a little, that small frown appearing between his brows that means he’s deep in thought. 

“What was I doing? In your dream?” 

Nigel’s hands trail up Adam’s sides, rough palms dragging over smooth skin, thumbs pressing into the soft dip of his ribs.

 “You were an angel.” 

Adam smiles at that, tilting his head like he’s heard it a hundred times before, because he has. 

“You say that a lot,” he murmurs. “That I’m an angel.”

“’Cause you are,” Nigel replies, the words falling out without thought. “You’re fucking gorgeous. Something out of a dream.”

Adam shakes his head, a small, almost sad smile tugging at his lips. His hand lifts to trace the tattoo on Nigel’s neck, fingers soft and hesitant as they skim over the ink. This time, Nigel doesn’t stop him, doesn’t grab his wrist to pull him away like he usually does. He tilts his head instead, baring his throat so Adam can touch, can explore. 

“I’m not an angel,” Adam whispers, his fingers pausing over the ink. “I’m human. I’m just... I’m just a person. Angels aren’t real.”

Nigel’s eyes meet his, a lazy smile curling his lips. “Could’ve fucking fooled me.”

Adam’s hand slips lower, down to the scar on Nigel’s stomach, the big one, the one that still aches sometimes if he thinks about it too much. Nigel’s muscles twitch under the touch, his hand itching to pull Adam’s away, but he doesn’t. Not this time. Instead, he presses his fingers harder into Adam’s hip, his thumb tracing the bruises that are already fading into shades of purple and yellow.

“Do you believe in angels?” 

“I believe in you. My lucky star.”

The words make Adam smile, a real smile, the kind that makes his whole face light up. He bites his lip, a shy gesture that makes Nigel’s heart beat a little faster. Adam’s still so shy, still so desperate for any kind of praise, any kind of touch. 

“I don’t understand..metaphors,” Adam starts, his voice thoughtful. “But I understand science. Science makes sense. Things you can prove.” His fingers trace the scar on Nigel’s stomach, feeling the uneven texture of the skin there. “But religion, angels, God…none of that makes sense to me.”

Nigel listens, his hands resting on Adam’s thighs now, thumbs moving in slow circles over the sparse hair there. 

“Religion’s always been hard for me,” Adam continues. “People want you to believe in something that doesn’t have any proof, something that changes depending on who you ask. It doesn’t fit in my head. I don’t get it.”

Nigel lets out a low hum, dragging his fingers up Adam’s thighs, feeling the warmth of his skin, the way his muscles twitch under the touch. “I never liked God much,” he says, voice gruff. “Prayed plenty of times, but he never answered. So, fuck it.” 

Adam frowns a little, his brow furrowing in concentration as he processes that. “We’re just energy, anyway,” he says slowly. “I don’t think people go anywhere when they die. They’re just… gone. Back to being matter. The brain dies, and the consciousness dies with it.”

Nigel’s quiet at that, letting the words hang between them. Nigel knows that for Adam, it’s all straightforward—like everything in his mind fits into a neat little equation, a formula he can solve if he just plugs in the right numbers. Nigel’s never been that way. His head’s always been a mess, full of unanswered questions, unspoken prayers, things that gnaw at him when the room goes too quiet, when the world gets too still.

He thinks about all the nights he spent on his knees as a kid, praying to a God who never spoke back. He thinks about how many times he begged for answers, for reasons, for some fucking explanation for why everything felt so broken. 

Adam shifts in Nigel’s lap. His fingers brush against Nigel’s hair, sweeping it back from his forehead, the way Nigel’s always done for him. It’s such a tender gesture that it pulls Nigel out of his thoughts, makes him focus on the way Adam looks at him, all soft and careful. He doesn’t fucking deserve to be looked at like that, but Adam does it anyway, every single time.

“My teacher…” Adam’s voice breaks the silence. “Mr. Keyes. He said people go to Queens when they die.”

Nigel snorts at that. “Like, the fucking borough in New York?”

Adam nods. “I never really understood it.”

Nigel can’t help but grin, leaning up to press a quick kiss to Adam’s wrist, right where his pulse beats steadily beneath the skin. “That’s a dumb fucking joke.” 

Nigel’s grin fades as he studies Adam's face, his voice softening as he asks, “Why’d you let everyone call you Raki at work?”

Adam shrugs, his eyes flicking down to where Nigel's thumb brushes his wrist. 

"No one ever asked. Mr. Hardy didn't bother fixing it when I told him the first time, so… I just let it happen."

Nigel's brow furrows, his jaw tightening slightly. "You have to fucking stand up for yourself, Adam. You shouldn't just let people get it wrong."

Adam shrugs again. "There was no point."

“I would've fucking liked to know your name.”

Adam tilts his head. “Why didn’t you ask?”

For a moment, Nigel doesn't respond. He runs his thumb in slow circles over Adam's wrist, staring at the pulse beneath the skin as if he’s afraid to look anywhere else.

 "Doesn’t matter," he mutters. “Why’d your parents name you Adam, anyway?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they thought I’d be perfect. Like the story.”

“God’s Adam wasn’t perfect. You are.”

Nigel’s fingers twist in one of Adam’s curls, tugging it out, stretching it until the hair is almost straight before letting it go, watching with amusement as it springs back into place, tight and wild like it’s got a mind of its own. 

“Your hair’s getting long,” he says, the words drawled out like he’s just noticing, though he’s probably noticed a hundred times by now, every time they’ve gotten close enough for him to tangle his hands in it.

Adam’s answer is a soft, hesitant whisper. “Do you not like it?” 

Nigel wonders when the kid’s gonna stop asking for permission to exist, stop second-guessing every little thing about himself like it matters what Nigel thinks. But then again, Nigel kinda likes that Adam looks to him for approval. He likes it more than he should, if he’s being honest.

Nigel shakes his head, letting his fingers drag through Adam’s hair, feeling the soft curls slip through his rough fingertips. 

“I do, baby,” he says.

Adam's eyes flutter closed for a second, like he’s savoring the feeling of Nigel’s fingers in his hair, and Nigel tugs just a little harder, just to see how the kid reacts. Adam’s body sways into him, lashes fluttering as his mouth falls open, a quiet gasp escaping his lips. Nigel watches him closely, the way his whole body seems to come alive under such a simple touch.

A warmth spreads in Nigel’s chest like fireflies lighting up the inside of him. He feels it creeping through him, making him feel young and stupid, like he’s some dumb fucking teenager again. He can almost see himself, carving their names into the bark of a tree somewhere, leaving behind a mark like it would mean something forever. 

N + A inside a jagged little heart, scratched deep into the wood. 

Adam’s hands are shaky as they make their way to Nigel’s chest, his slim fingers curling into Nigel’s chest hair. His voice comes out in a quiet mumble, soft and shy. 

“I want to try something.”

Nigel hums low in his chest. He rests a broad palm on Adam’s stomach, fingers splayed out, thumb rubbing gentle circles over the soft skin of his lower belly. The kid shivers at the touch, his whole body reacting to every little thing Nigel does. Those heavy-lidded blue eyes glance down at Nigel, full of heat and need. He’s learning how to read Adam like an open book, knows every little tick and tremble.

Adam is insatiable, always hungry for more, always curious, and Nigel’s more than happy to feed that curiosity. It’s one of the things he likes best about Adam—the way he’s always eager to learn, to try new things. Nigel's here for that, here to teach him whatever he wants to know.

“I saw a—a video…” Adam stammers.

Nigel quirks an eyebrow, his grin widening. “What kind of fucking videos did you watch, doll?” 

Adam looks away, eyes darting off to the side like he wants to hide, like he’s too embarrassed to even look at Nigel. But Nigel doesn’t let him off the hook that easy. He reaches up, grabbing Adam’s chin roughly and tilting it back towards him, forcing the kid to meet his gaze. 

“Answer.” 

Adam swallows hard, his breath coming out shaky, almost gasping. “V-videos w-where… there was two men.” His face is a bright shade of pink now, embarrassment painted all over him like a sunrise. 

Nigel’s smile turns into a slow, wicked grin. “Is that so?” he drawls. “You been watching those kinds of videos, huh? My little innocent boy, watching men get off in his spare time?” He laughs softly. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”

Adam bites his lip, eyes darting away again, but Nigel pulls him back with a sharp tug of his chin, keeping him close. 

“You gonna fucking show me, then? Or were you just planning on keeping all that to yourself?” 

Adam’s breath is shaky, and he whispers, “I’d rather show you, Nigel. Please?”

Nigel watches him for a moment, watches the way his breath quickens, the way his eyes dart nervously between their bodies, his hand still trembling at his side. 

“Alright,” he says, voice softer now. He sets his hands on Adam’s hips, tugging him closer, pulling him right against him so they’re pressed together, skin on skin. “Show me.”

Adam’s hand hovers between them, shaking slightly as he lowers it, eyes wide as he glances down at their cocks, half-hard and almost touching. He hesitates, biting his lip as he lifts a trembling hand to grasp them both, but before he can, Nigel grabs his wrist, stopping him.

“Not so fast,” Nigel says. “Lick your hand. Make it easier.”

Adam’s eyes widen at the instruction, but he obeys without question, bringing his palm to his mouth and licking it with small, tentative strokes, like a kitten. It’s slow, careful, and it makes Nigel’s cock twitch, a surge of heat rushing through him at the sight. When Nigel’s satisfied, he lets go of Adam’s wrist, nodding his approval.

“Good boy,” he murmurs. Adam shudders at the praise, and Nigel can see the way it lights something up in him, a flush creeping down his neck. Adam lowers his hand again, this time managing to wrap it around both of them, though it’s awkward, clumsy. His hand is too small to really grip both, especially with Nigel’s size, but he tries, and the effort alone is enough to make Nigel’s breath hitch in his throat.

Nigel props himself up on his elbows, glancing down at the sight of their cocks pressed together. Nigel’s is bigger, uncut, thick and heavy, while Adam’s is slimmer, the skin soft and smooth and pink. Nigel grits his teeth, watching the way his cock presses up against Adam’s stomach, the head brushing the soft skin there, giving him an idea of just how deep he can go. 

Adam lets out a whimper, hips jerking in little, uncontrolled thrusts. Nigel can’t help but smile.

“You really watched videos like this in your room? Late at night when your dad was asleep?” He slides his thumb against Adam’s lip, feeling the soft skin there, dragging it along his front teeth, wet with spit. Adam shudders under the touch, his whole body shaking, his breath coming in quick gasps. Nigel’s hips jump in response, the heat between them almost unbearable now.

“Maybe you’re not as innocent as I thought,” Nigel drawls. Adam’s breath hitches as he whines, high and desperate.

“Nigel… please…” Adam’s voice is a broken plea.

“You’re so fucking needy, aren’t you? My pretty baby.” 

Adam’s chest is heaving, those pretty blue eyes glazed over with need, and Nigel can see the way his lips quiver, like he’s not sure if he should say more or just give in to the feeling that’s overtaking him. He drags his thumb down from Adam’s mouth, tracing the spit-slick line along his jaw, tilting his chin up higher to force Adam’s gaze back to him. 

“You’re so easy,” Nigel murmurs, voice low and almost affectionate in the way it drips like syrup, sweet. “All I have to do is touch you a little, and you fall apart like this?”

“I... I can’t help it,” Adam stammers, his breath hitching as the words tangle in his throat. “You’re… it’s just—”

Adam’s face flushes deeper, and Nigel can feel the tremor in his body, the heat coming off him in waves. It makes Nigel burn too, like a bonfire’s been lit inside him. He watches the way Adam’s breath shakes, eyes unfocused but still locked on Nigel, those big blue eyes wide with something vulnerable and hungry all at once. 

Nigel chuckles softly, dragging his hand down to rest on Adam’s hip, fingers spreading wide, pressing possessively into his skin.

 “Thought you’d impress me with all the shit you’ve been watching alone in your room? Is that it?” 

Adam shudders. “No, I—” He sucks in a shaky breath. “I wasn’t trying to—”

He bites his lip, looking down at their bodies again, where his hand is still clumsily wrapped around both of them, slick with spit and precome. His fingers tremble as he moves, trying to stroke them both, but it’s shaky, unsure, like he’s too overwhelmed to get it right.

“You’re a mess, Adam,” Nigel says softly, almost gently. 

“I k-know.” 

Adam whimpers, the sound raw and needy, and Nigel can’t help the growl that rumbles low in his throat at the sight of him. 

“Fuck, you’re so desperate,” Nigel says, his voice rough now, hoarse with want. 

“I don’t— I don’t feel like I’m doing it right.”

Nigel bats Adam’s hand away, the movement quick and decisive. “Let me take care of it.”

Without waiting for a response, Nigel wraps his own hand around both of them, his grip firm but slow, guiding the pace. He watches Adam’s reaction, the way his mouth falls open, his hips jerking forward involuntarily. It’s sloppy, messy, their cocks sliding together, wet with spit and precome, and Nigel loves every second of it.

Adam’s body trembles above him, shaking so hard Nigel can feel the vibrations through his chest. 

“Look at you,” Nigel mutters, voice thick with lust. “My pretty boy. So fucking perfect like this.” 

He strokes them both together, his hand big enough to control the motion, and he can feel Adam’s smaller cock twitching against his, the kid’s whole body responding to every touch like it’s too much for him.

Adam gasps, hips stuttering as he loses control, and Nigel keeps his eyes on him, watching the way his muscles tense and tremble. 

“You wanted this? Wanted me to teach you?”  

Adam gasps, his hips stuttering as he loses control. "Yes," he chokes out, eyes closing like he wants to hide.

But Nigel doesn’t let him. “Look at me,” he commands, and Adam’s eyes snap open, wide and bright, his lips parted and wet, breath coming in shallow, desperate gasps. 

“I’m trying,” Adam whimpers.

“Good boy.”

Adam’s body jerks again, and Nigel can feel how close he is, can see it in the way his face contorts with pleasure, his hands grasping at Nigel’s chest, fingers digging into his skin like he needs to hold onto something before he loses himself completely.

Nigel’s hand moves faster now, stroking them both in sync, his own breath growing ragged. He grits his teeth, the pleasure coursing through him like electricity, making his muscles tense and burn.

“Fuck,” Nigel groans, his free hand sliding up Adam’s body, fingers finding their way to his hair again, tugging at the soft curls until Adam’s head tilts back. He drags the kid down, forcing their mouths together in a bruising kiss, their lips crashing against each other with a heat that’s almost violent. Adam moans into Nigel’s mouth, his hips bucking uncontrollably now, thrusting against Nigel’s hand like he’s lost in it, like nothing else exists but this moment between them.

Nigel’s grip tightens in Adam’s hair, keeping him close as their lips move together, messy and hot, tongues sliding against each other. Adam’s still trying to pull away, still fucking fussy about Nigel not brushing his teeth like he always is, but Nigel doesn’t let him go. He holds him there, kissing him harder until Adam stops fighting and melts into it, letting Nigel take what he wants.

Nigel feels it first, the way Adam’s whole body tenses up, muscles going tight and rigid, a loud, broken cry spilling from his throat as he finally loses control. Adam’s cock jerks in Nigel’s hand, and Nigel feels the wet heat spill across his chest, a mess of white that smears between them. Adam’s shaking so hard Nigel thinks he might break apart, but he keeps his hands steady, guiding him through it, stroking him until he’s spent.

The sight of Adam coming undone like that, all flushed and trembling, is enough to push Nigel over the edge too. He groans deep into Adam’s mouth, his own body going rigid as the pleasure rips through him, stars exploding behind his eyes. He comes hard, his release mixing with Adam’s, slicking their bodies with heat and mess, and for a moment, everything goes white, everything blurs into a single point of sensation.

They break apart, breathless and shaking, their bodies slick with sweat and come. Adam’s head drops against Nigel’s neck, his breath warm and uneven against Nigel’s skin, and neither of them move, too lost in the aftermath, too tangled up in each other to care about the sticky mess between them.

Nigel’s fingers are still tangled in Adam’s hair, holding him close, and he whispers, “Was it all you dreamed of, baby?”

Adam nods weakly against Nigel’s neck, his breath still coming in soft gasps. “Uh-huh.”

They stay like that for a while, tangled together, the room thick with the scent of sweat and sex, but neither of them care.

The days pass in a kind of haze, like time’s not real anymore, like the world’s decided to pause just for them. The days and nights blend together, everything bleeding into one long stretch of nothing and everything all at once. Nigel feels it in his bones, this strange, suspended reality where there’s no one but Adam, and nothing but the way they talk, the way they eat, the way they fuck, and the way they sleep. It’s like some kind of quiet perfection. A limbo of their own making, but to Nigel, it’s heaven. Pure, undiluted heaven, and it’s all because of Adam.

Nigel doesn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but Adam’s got him wrapped around his little finger. Hell, he’s more than wrapped—he’s tied up, twisted, caught. It feels like Adam’s taken something from him, some part of his soul, and now he’s just a shell, chasing after whatever Adam will give him next. He’s hungry for it.

There’s still so much Adam doesn’t know, still so much Nigel wants to teach him. About the world, about people, about the things no one talks about. The ugly parts of life, the parts that scar you and turn you into something harder, something sharper. Nigel knows he can make Adam feel things he’s never felt before. He’s already started. Every time he touches him, every time he drags his fingers across Adam’s skin, he can feel the kid melting, just like Nigel melts for him. It’s like some kind of symbiotic thing, this need they have for each other.

And it’s not just about what Nigel can teach Adam. There’s so much he can learn from Adam too. Adam knows things, things Nigel never bothered to think about. He talks about the stars, about space, about gravity and black holes and things Nigel doesn’t really get but loves to hear about because it’s Adam saying it. 

But then, just like everything good in Nigel’s life, he feels the pull to ruin it. To break it. 

It's always been like that. Every time something good happens, he gets that itch, that need to destroy it before it gets taken away from him. He’s a fuckup. Always has been. Gabi tried to fix him once, tried to smooth out the rough edges, but it didn’t work. She gave up. 

The night the car breaks down, that’s when the dreams really comes back. They’re stuck on the side of the road, miles from anywhere, the sun blazing overhead like it’s trying to cook them alive. There’s nothing around but fields of dry grass, stretching out forever, and Adam’s sitting on the roof of the car, his legs dangling, staring out at the horizon like it’s the most fascinating thing he’s ever seen.

Nigel’s working under the hood, cursing under his breath, but his mind isn’t on the car. It’s on the dream. That fucking dream that’s been eating at him ever since it happened. He doesn’t know what it means, doesn’t know why it’s stuck with him, but it feels like something dark is crawling inside his chest, something heavy and suffocating.

That leg snapped in a bear trap, all because it was curious, all because it didn’t know any better. Nigel can’t shake the image. The little thing wanted to leave, wanted to explore, and it ended up trapped.

"You ever see a deer, Adam?" Nigel finally asks, his voice rougher than he meant it to be. "Out there, in the woods?"

Adam shifts slightly, pulling his gaze away from the grass. His fingers twitch, tapping rhythmically against the side of his leg. "Mhm," he says, his voice soft but clear. "They’re quiet. Until they’re not."

"Ever watch them run?"

A small smile flickers at the corner of Adam’s lips, like he’s caught in a memory. "Once. One ran right across the road in front of me." He pauses, eyes distant, as if he’s seeing something far off. "They look free."

Nigel swallows hard, fingers gripping the wrench even tighter. Free. That word digs into him, right where the dream had left its mark. "You think they know when something’s watching them? When something’s... coming for them?"

"Maybe. Or maybe they just… run because they have to. Because staying still would be worse."

Nigel wipes his hands on his jeans, trying to get rid of the grease from the car, smearing black streaks across the faded denim. He glances up at Adam. The sun’s high and brutal, beating down on them like a punishment, but Adam doesn’t seem to care. His pale skin is already turning pink.

Nigel shakes his head, muttering to himself as he pulls a tube of sunscreen from the glove box. Adam doesn’t even look his way, lost in whatever thoughts are spinning around in his head. Nigel leans against the car door, twisting the cap off the sunscreen.

“You’re gonna burn like hell, doll,” Nigel says, squeezing a glob of the stuff into his palm. He steps over to the car, reaching up to swipe the sunscreen across Adam’s cheeks. Adam squirms immediately, flinching away, but Nigel grabs his chin, holding him still.

“Stop it,” Adam mutters, wrinkling his nose as Nigel smears the sunscreen on his face. “I hate that stuff. It smells. It just sits there and it never really dries, and then I can feel it on my skin all day.”

Nigel just grins, rubbing it in with more pressure than he needs to, smirking as Adam squirms again, trying to pull away. 

“Yeah, well, I hate watching you turn into a fucking lobster. You’re too pale for this kind of sun, gorgeous.”

“I don’t care. I’d rather burn. It smells like chemicals mixed with coconuts.”

“It’s either this or you’re going to be fucking scratching at your sunburn and whining for a week. I like your blush, gorgeous, but not if it’s gonna peel off by tomorrow.” 

“I don’t whine.” Adam tries to dodge Nigel’s hand again, but the movement’s half-hearted, more for show than anything else. “And I don’t scratch. I just… pick at the skin when it starts peeling because it’s there.

Nigel rubs his thumbs over Adam’s cheeks, feeling the warmth of his skin beneath his fingers. He works the sunscreen in, maybe taking a little longer than he should, his touch lingering as Adam huffs in frustration.

Adam shifts a little on the roof, pulling his legs up and wrapping his arms around his knees, but he doesn’t push Nigel away anymore. “Will it start soon?”

“Hell if I know.” Nigel wipes the excess sunscreen on his pants, then leans against the car, looking up at Adam with a crooked grin. “But hey, worst comes to worst, we’ll just sit out here and turn into jerky together.”

He watches as Adam’s face scrunches up again, confused, the sun catching in his wild hair, making it shine.

Adam mutters, resting his chin on his knees. “This place is horrible.”

“Yeah, no shit. But I’ll take what I can get. At least you’re out here with me.”

Adam’s smile falters, but he doesn’t look away. Nigel reaches up again, his fingers brushing Adam’s cheek, this time softer.

“You’re cute when you’re all sunburned.” 

He glances at Adam again, sitting up there with his bright blue eyes fixed on the grass now, on the nothingness. 

It reminds him of Gabi. The way she used to look at him when she was thinking about leaving. That far-off look, that quiet longing. It’s the same. He fucking hates himself for comparing the two of them, but he can’t help it. He’s seen that look before, and it always led to one thing—Gabi walking out the door, leaving him behind.

He clenches his fists, trying to shake it off. Adam’s not like her. Adam’s different. He said he wanted to be here. He said he wasn’t going anywhere.

But that night, when they’re cramped together in the back seat of the car, his paranoia creeps back in. The bags are crammed around them, barely any space to breathe, and Nigel tries to pull Adam close, but then he hears it.

“Don’t touch me.”

Nigel’s heart drops, and before he can stop himself, he grabs Adam’s wrists, shoving him down, hard.

Nigel’s hands tighten around Adam’s wrists, fingers pressing hard into the soft skin. He feels Adam’s pulse under his grip, fast and frantic, like a bird trapped in a cage. He knows he’s hurting him, but something inside him doesn’t care, can’t care. Adam squirms beneath him, panic in his wide blue eyes, trying to twist away, but Nigel doesn’t let go.

"I can fucking touch you if I want to.”

Adam's struggling under him now, his chest heaving with shallow, rapid breaths. Nigel’s weight presses him down, holding him still, and he can feel the heat radiating off Adam’s body, the tremble in his limbs. It’s like he’s a live wire, buzzing with electricity, and it makes Nigel’s stomach twist with something ugly and sharp.

"Stop," Adam chokes out. He loosens his grip on Adam’s wrists just a little, but he doesn’t let go. He can’t. If he lets go, if he loosens his hold too much, he’s terrified Adam will slip right through his fingers.

"Why won’t you let me touch you?" Nigel demands, voice low. "You let me before. What’s changed? What the fuck happened?"

Adam turns his face away, pressing his cheek into the worn seat cushion beneath him, his hair falling into his eyes. He’s not crying—yet—but Nigel can see the tension in his jaw.

All at once, Adam goes still, breathing hard, his chest heaving up and down as he opens his eyes and looks right at Nigel. There’s something in his gaze, something wild but soft, something that makes Nigel’s grip loosen. His anger dissolves into a strange kind of ache, something he doesn’t know how to name but can feel like a weight sitting heavy on his heart.

Adam’s voice comes out in a rush, cracked and breathless. “I’m sorry,” he mutters, his lips trembling. “It’s just—it’s too hot. I can’t stand it. It makes me feel like I want… I don’t know, like I want to hit something. I hate it, Nigel. I hate it.”

Nigel blinks, his grip loosening even more, and suddenly all that tension he’d been holding drains away. Nigel understands that kind of rage, the kind that builds and builds until it feels like your skin’s about to split open, until you just want to break something, anything, just to make it stop. He understands Adam more than anyone ever has.

He releases Adam’s wrists and drops his head, his lips pressing soft and quick against the side of Adam’s neck.

“I know,” Nigel whispers against Adam’s skin. “I know, baby. I didn’t mean to—fuck. We’ll find somewhere cool soon, I promise.”

Adam shudders under the touch, his body still tense but not fighting anymore. He looks up at Nigel, his breath steadying, and something shifts between them. Adam doesn’t push him away this time. He doesn’t pull back. Instead, he lets Nigel touch him, lets him lean in closer, lets his body relax into Nigel’s.

“You’re right,” Nigel murmurs, his forehead resting against Adam’s. “It’s too fucking hot. It’s driving both of us crazy.”

Adam swallows hard, nodding, his eyes closing for a second like he’s letting himself trust Nigel’s words, letting them sink in. He lets out a shaky breath, his hands reaching up to rest on Nigel’s shoulders. 

“Yeah,” he whispers. “It’s too hot.”

Nigel holds him then, pulling Adam’s small frame into his chest, wrapping his arms around him. Adam doesn’t resist, doesn’t fight. He just lets himself be held, lets Nigel’s arms offer whatever comfort they can. 

“I’m sorry,” Adam whispers again, but this time, his voice is softer, less frantic. “I don’t know why I get like that.”

Nigel presses his face into Adam’s hair, feeling the dampness of sweat against his cheek, and he tells himself it’s going to be okay. It’s the heat. It’s just the fucking heat.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Nigel murmurs, his lips brushing against Adam’s temple, leaving little kisses there. “It’s just the fucking heat, that’s all. It gets to you. I know how that feels.”

He holds Adam tighter, whispering again, “I’ll make it better.”

Adam melts into him, just a little. “I know,” he says, his voice small, softer now. He buries his face against Nigel’s chest, and they don’t speak for a while. Nigel doesn’t need him to. They’ll figure it out. They always do.

He keeps repeating it in his head, over and over like a prayer. Adam doesn’t want to leave. It’s just the heat. It’s just the fucking heat. 

That night, they sleep like that, tangled together in the cramped back seat of the car, their bodies pressed close until their skin sticks together.

Nigel lasts a few more days, a pathetic string of nights before the paranoia comes slithering back like something oily and alive. It’s not subtle, not the kind of creeping fear you can shake off with a drink or a quick fuck; no, this is the kind that wraps around your brain like barbed wire, tightening every time you breathe. Ugly as sin. 

He catches himself fantasizing about chains, cold metal biting into skin, something real and unbreakable. Handcuffs, maybe. 

He’s supposed to be doing something different here. He’s supposed to be teaching Adam, showing him how the world works, passing on all the shit he’s learned from the years of dirt and blood and survival. Instead, he’s hoarding Adam like he’s some rare fucking jewel, a treasure only he gets to keep. It’s selfish. It’s wrong. But Nigel’s always been selfish. Always been the kind of guy to take more than his share, to hold onto things until they rot in his hands.

But this—this thing with Adam—it’s worse than anything before. He wants to lock him up, cage him behind his ribs, keep him hidden from the world because he knows that Adam’s too bright, too fucking good to be out there. Someone else might see that light, someone else might take it. 

Sometimes, Nigel feels like roadkill. Like a dead animal left to rot on the highway, body broken and twisted, forgotten. And Adam’s the one who’s picked him up, like some fucked-up art project. He imagines it sometimes, Adam finding his mangled body and carrying him home, laying him out on a table. The boy’s got a way of looking at him like that—like Nigel’s something worth keeping, worth preserving. Like all his bruises and scars are beautiful in some tragic way. 

But Nigel knows better. He’s not something that can be fixed. He’s just broken.

And it’s getting worse, the way he clings to Adam, the way he watches him like a hawk. His hand always finds that burn, the cigarette scar he left on Adam. That perfect little moon-shaped mark. It’s still there, hasn’t faded a bit. Proof that Adam’s his.

But even with that mark, even with Adam lying right there beside him, Nigel can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. Like the universe has made some kind of fucking cosmic mistake.

The dreams don’t help. They gnaw at him, eating away at whatever’s left of his sanity. He dreams about Adam leaving. He dreams about waking up one morning and finding the bed empty, cold sheets where Adam used to be. The thought terrifies him. It makes him touch Adam harder, makes him grab on too tight, makes him fuck him rougher.

Every time they stop somewhere, Nigel’s on edge, glaring at anyone who looks their way, yanking Adam closer, like he’s daring someone to make a move. He doesn’t trust the world. He doesn’t trust anyone with Adam. He wonders sometimes if the cops have found the bodies yet. If they’re getting close. He hates when Adam looks back at people, like he’s trying to communicate something with his eyes, like he’s begging them to see what’s been happening. What Nigel’s made him look at.

The blood. The bodies. The fucking brains splattered across walls.

Adam never says a word, though. Not about the way Nigel’s been getting rougher. He doesn’t flinch when Nigel wraps a hand around his throat, doesn’t make a sound when he’s pushed face-first into the mattress, when Nigel’s hands dig into his hips like he’s trying to carve himself into him. Adam just lets him. He lets Nigel take.

He doesn’t want Adam thinking. Doesn’t want him getting lost in his own head. If Adam starts thinking too much, he might realize how bad things are. He might start wondering if he should leave.

He said it, didn’t he? He said he was Nigel’s. That should be enough.

But then, there’s Gabi.

The thought of her hits Nigel like a punch to the gut. She’d been like that, too. Quiet. Too quiet. She used to let him do whatever he wanted. No questions, no complaints. He’d thought she was fine with it. He’d thought they had an understanding. One night, he hit her—harder than usual—and she just took it. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t cry.

So, he didn’t think anything of it. He figured they’d do their usual routine—the apologies, the empty promises, the rough makeup sex. It had always been like that. Until it wasn’t.

One morning, she was gone. Just fucking gone. Left a note on the kitchen table, like that was all it took. Just some scribbled words on paper. “I can’t do this anymore.” Like she’d rehearsed it. Like she’d been planning her escape for months.

Rage had never burned hotter in Nigel’s chest than it did that morning. He still remembers the fire of it, scorching everything in its path. They were married, for fuck’s sake. She’d promised. She’d said vows. Till death do us part.

She thought she could just walk out after one bad night?

Nigel had gone after her, of course. Kicked down the door at her father’s place, dragged her back by her hair, her screams echoing in his ears. She came back. She always came back.

Until one day, she didn’t.

That thought alone—that fear—makes Nigel squeeze Adam so hard in his sleep the kid stirs, murmuring something soft and half-awake. It scares him.

Fear makes him angry.

Fear makes him dangerous.

It’s in another dingy little motel that Nigel finds the money. 

Nigel’s sitting on the floor. His jeans hang low on his hips, unbuttoned, the waistband crinkled and soft from years of wear. He’s shirtless, the warm air sticking to his skin, beads of sweat forming along the nape of his neck, but he barely notices it. It’s late, past midnight, maybe. The time slips away in these places, hours blending together like watercolors in the rain. 

He’s rifling through his duffel. Adam’s in the shower, and Nigel can see him from where he’s sitting, just past the half-open bathroom door. The thin plastic curtain is pulled back, and the water streams down over Adam’s body, over his bare shoulders, his back, his arms. His head is tilted back, eyes closed, his fingers working shampoo through his dark curls in slow, lazy circles, his mouth mumbling as he counts.

His cheeks are a deep pink, sunburned, peeling in little patches at the edges. Nigel’s kissed those cheeks more times than he can count. 

But there’s nothing soft about the bruises. They’re everywhere. His hips, his wrists, the inside of his thighs, his neck—Nigel’s favorite places to leave marks, little love bites he’s planted with his mouth, with his hands. His teeth. Adam doesn’t cover them up, doesn’t shy away from the marks like Gabi used to. She used to flinch at every touch, pull away, wrap scarves around her neck, long sleeves over her wrists. She hid every trace of him, like she couldn’t bear the thought of anyone seeing what he’d done. But Adam—Adam wants the bruises. He leaves his neck bare, rolls his sleeves up, asks for more even when he’s already sore, already marked. And Nigel gives it to him because how could he not? 

“Adam, gorgeous, where’d you put my dachshund shirt?” 

He doesn’t look up from the bag, but his eyes flick toward the bathroom, catching the movement of Adam’s arm as he rubs soap over his chest, his other hand trailing slowly along his stomach. 

Adam cracks one blue eye open. “It's in my bag, maybe. I’ve been wearing it.” 

Nigel snorts softly under his breath. Adam loves it. Says it’s loose and cool, perfect for the heat, but Nigel knows the real reason. Adam just likes the way it smells, likes to wear something that’s his. 

Nigel pushes himself off the floor, his bare feet padding softly against the cheap carpet as he crosses to the bed. Adam’s bag is organized, as usual. He digs through it, fingers brushing over Adam’s sweaters and a couple pairs of jeans, before something catches his eye—a little corner of something sticking out from under the pile. 

A flash of green. Money.

Nigel freezes, his hand hovering over it for a second before he moves, slowly pulling out the wad of cash. It’s not much, maybe a couple hundred at most, but it’s there, hidden under the clothes like it was never meant to be found. His stomach drops, a cold, sinking feeling washing over him like a wave. 

His mind flashes back to when he was a kid, to nights spent stashing away every dollar he could find, slipping it under his mattress, under the loose floorboard in his room. Back then, it was his ticket out. His escape plan. He remembers the way his heart used to race when he thought about it, the way he’d rehearse it in his head—how he’d run, where he’d go, how far he could get before his old man found him. 

This doesn’t mean anything, he tells himself, his jaw clenched tight. It doesn’t fucking mean anything. Adam might not even know it’s there. Maybe he put it there and forgot. Maybe it’s from before. But the thought won’t settle, won’t stop clawing at him, digging in like a starved dog gnawing at a bone. 

He stares down at the money for a long minute, his breathing heavy, his chest tight. Then, with a sharp breath, he shoves it back into the bag, burying it under Adam’s jeans like it was never there. His hand trembles as he pulls it away, and he swallows hard, trying to force the knot in his throat down. 

He’s not his fucking father. He’s not. 

Later that night, Nigel does what he promised himself. He’s gentle, takes his time with Adam. He cradles Adam in his lap, their skin sticking together in the heat, sweat pooling in the curve of their bodies as he traces his fingers over every inch of him. Adam’s breath hitches as Nigel’s hands roam, ghosting over the bruises he’s left behind. He feels the weight of it in his chest, the weight of Adam against him, the way his body folds into his, trusting, pliant, like he’s willing to be whatever Nigel wants, to give whatever Nigel asks.

But Nigel can’t keep the tenderness for long. He never can. His hand finds its way to the back of Adam’s head, fingers curling into his damp curls, tugging hard enough to make Adam gasp. It’s not a sound of pain, not exactly, more like surprise, like he wasn’t expecting it but he’s not pulling away either. He never does. Nigel bites at his neck, harder this time, his teeth sinking into the soft skin just above his collarbone, leaving another mark, another bruise to add to the collection. Adam’s body arches beneath him, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, his fingers clawing at Nigel’s back, leaving red streaks in his skin.

“Tell me you’re mine.” 

“I’m yours, Nigel,” Adam breathes. “I’m yours.”

Nigel grits his teeth, his fingers tightening in Adam’s hair. “No one else could make you feel like this, could they?”

Adam shakes his head. “No one,” he whispers, his voice trembling. “Only you.”

And Nigel believes him. Nigel can’t help but believe him, can’t help but take his words as gospel. But there’s a part of him that can’t quiet the noise, can’t shake the feeling that something’s wrong. That money. That fucking money. 

He pushes the thought down, buries it deep, focuses on the feeling of Adam’s body beneath him, the sound of his soft whimpers, the way his hands cling to Nigel. And for a little while, it works. 

When it’s over, Nigel holds Adam close, their bodies still pressed together, the sweat cooling on their skin. The cicadas are still going, louder now, their noise filling the silence that stretches between them. Nigel’s hand trails absently over Adam’s back, his fingers tracing the line of his spine, but his mind is miles away.

He swallows hard, his throat suddenly dry, and the words bubble up inside him before he can stop them.

"If you wanted to go home," he says, "you’d fucking tell me, right? You wouldn’t keep that from me. Don’t lie to me, Adam. Don’t fucking keep something like that from me." 

Adam freezes in his arms, his body going stiff for just a second before he squirms, turning in Nigel’s grip so he can look at him. His blue eyes are wide, searching, even half-asleep. 

“I don’t want to go back there. I don’t want to go home,” he whispers.

“Do you miss it?” 

Adam is quiet for a moment, then he shrugs, his voice small. “I miss my room.”

Nigel’s jaw tightens at that, something ugly rising up inside him, but before he can say anything, Adam tucks himself back into Nigel’s body. 

"But I like you better," Adam whispers, his voice soft, almost sleepy. "Even when it’s too hot. I’d still rather be here. With you."

Nigel holds him tighter. Adam’s always so blunt, always says what’s on his mind without hesitation. He doesn’t lie, doesn’t hide anything. Nigel should believe him. He does believe him. But when he wakes up in the morning to find Adam’s side of the bed cold and empty, that old doubt comes roaring back.

It doesn’t hit him at first. He’s still half-asleep, blinking in the too-bright light, brain sluggish and heavy, like it’s wading through mud. But then, piece by piece, it settles over him like a cold hand on his throat—the fact that Adam isn’t there.

It’s stupid, the way Nigel’s heart kicks up in his chest like a trapped animal, clawing at his ribs, but he doesn’t try to stop it. He just stares at the empty bed, like if he stares hard enough, Adam might materialize out of thin air, might just be there the way he’s always been. But there’s nothing. No soft rustling of sheets, no quiet breathing, no groggy half-smile Adam always gives him in the morning when he’s still too sleepy to be annoyed at how rough Nigel is around the edges.

A thought slithers into Nigel’s mind, and it’s ugly, jagged like a broken bottle. He half-expects to see a goddamn note lying there on the pillow, like, “I can’t do this anymore,” scrawled in Adam’s handwriting. Adam wouldn’t do that though. 

And for some reason, that scares the shit out of Nigel.

A knot tightens in his chest, thick and choking, but it’s not fear for long. No, fear doesn’t stick around with Nigel—it festers, it curdles into something hotter, something that burns its way through him until it’s too much to handle. Rage. Rage comes easier. Rage doesn’t make him feel like a pathetic little kid all over again. It’s sharp and clean, and it blots out everything else. He doesn't register Adam’s shoes still by the door, his bag still dumped on the floor. 

That’s when he hears it—soft, muffled talking, barely audible over the pounding in his ears.

Nigel’s head snaps toward the balcony door, and there’s a split second where he doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe, just listens. The voice is quiet, but it’s there, familiar. He knows it too well.

He’s up on his feet before he even realizes it, moving on autopilot, jeans hanging loose around his hips, not bothering to zip them up. His hand is already pulling back the grimy curtain just enough to peek out onto the balcony, and there he is—Adam, standing out there in the blazing sun, phone pressed to his ear, talking in that low, soft voice like he’s trying not to wake the whole world.

Adam’s wearing Nigel’s shirt again, the sleeves hanging down past his wrists, and he’s got on his boxers, too, legs pale and skinny in the harsh sunlight. From this angle, Nigel can’t see Adam’s face, but he can see his shoulders, the way they’re hunched up to his ears, tight with tension, nervous. It’s been a long time since Nigel’s seen Adam like that.

The anger comes rushing up, burning hot and fast through his veins, blurring out the edges of everything else. He’s on the move before he even knows what he’s doing, throwing open the door and stepping out onto the balcony.

Adam’s eyes are wide, his face pale, and he stammers out, “Nigel—” but it’s too late.

Nigel’s already grabbing the phone out of his hand and hurling it over the balcony railing. He doesn’t even watch where it lands, doesn’t care. His hand is around Adam’s throat before either of them can blink, and he’s hauling him inside, slamming him against the wall so hard that Adam’s head knocks back with a thud.

Adam makes a small, pained noise. Nigel doesn’t even realize how hard he’s squeezing, fingers digging into the soft flesh of Adam’s neck, holding him there, pinned against the wall like some kind of fucking insect. Adam’s toes barely brush the floor, and Nigel can feel the tremor in his body, the way his hands twitch at his sides like he wants to reach up and grab at Nigel’s wrist, but he doesn’t. 

“Do you think I’m fucking stupid?” 

Nigel's face is so close to Adam’s that he can feel the heat of his breath, smell the faint scent of sweat and soap clinging to his skin. “I knew it,” he spits. “I fucking knew you didn’t want to be here.”

He releases Adam’s throat, but only to grab him by the shoulders, his grip hard and unforgiving. He slams him back into the wall again, harder this time, his nails digging into Adam’s skin through the fabric of the shirt, and Adam’s eyes squeeze shut, tears welling at the corners.

“Nigel, stop,” Adam pleads.

“Who the fuck were you calling? The cops? Were you calling the fucking cops on me?”

Adam’s head shakes weakly, lips trembling as he tries to speak, but the words don’t come out at first. His voice is thin, breathless, like it’s struggling to push through the grip Nigel’s left around his throat. 

“N-no,” Adam finally stammers. “I wasn’t—Nigel, please, I wasn’t calling the police. I was—I was calling my dad.”

A sneer curls up on Nigel’s lips, his mouth twisting into something mean. 

“Your dad?” Of course it’s his dad. Of course it’s the guy that’s always waiting in the fucking wings, ready to swoop in and take Adam away whenever things get a little too rough. “You fucking lied to me.”

“I didn’t—” Adam tries but Nigel’s not hearing it. 

“What’d you fucking tell him, huh? Tell him I took you? Tell him I’m holding you here? Is that what you said?”

Adam’s shoulders shake, his whole body trembling like a leaf. He’s full-on sobbing, tears running down his flushed cheeks, eyes red-rimmed and panicked.

“No—no, I didn’t,” Adam finally chokes out. 

“You’re fucking lying.” He leans in close, so close he can see every tear-streaked line on Adam’s face, see the way his lower lip trembles, see the way his eyes squeeze shut like he’s bracing for something worse.

His hands are still at his sides, hanging limp like he doesn’t even know what to do with them, but Nigel knows that look. He knows the way Adam wants to cover his ears, wants to curl into himself like he’s trying to make himself small, invisible.

“You called him while I was asleep, didn’t you?” Nigel sneers, pushing Adam again, just enough to make him stumble against the wall. “You fucking waited until I was out cold, and you called him behind my back. You’d take advantage of me like that?”

“No, I didn’t—I wasn’t—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” 

Adam’s eyes fly open at that, and there’s something in them that looks different—something sharp, something defiant. Despite the fear, despite the trembling, there’s a fire there that Nigel hasn’t seen in a while. Adam glares up at him through the tears, his hands finally moving, balling into fists at his sides as his chest heaves with sobs.

“I don’t lie,” Adam snaps, his voice trembling but strong. “You know I hate liars.”

Nigel’s hand is around Adam’s arm, yanking him away from the wall and slamming him into the dresser this time. The crash of Adam’s body hitting the wood is loud, the drawers rattling with the impact, and Adam crumples to the floor, his knees giving out under him. 

“What about the fucking money?” 

Adam shakes his head, gasping through his sobs, his hands pulling at his hair in desperation. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about, Nigel—p-please,” he whimpers, his voice breaking as his whole body shakes.

Nigel lets out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his own hair. He crouches down in front of Adam, crowding into his space, his face inches from Adam’s.

“What was your plan, huh?” Nigel asks, his voice quiet now, cold and mocking. “Were you going to play the part of the sad, battered wife? Were you going to tell him how big, bad Nigel hit you? Were you gonna call up your daddy and tell him his poor little boy’s all scared and broken ‘cause of me? Tell him you don’t know what to do, that you’re afraid of the man you’re sleeping with? You might be better at it than she fucking was.”

Adam’s sobs catch in his throat, his body going rigid at Nigel’s words. He shakes his head weakly, “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Nigel’s hand slams into the wall beside Adam’s head, and Adam flinches, curling in on himself, knees drawn up tight to his chest, his hands shaking.

“You told me you wanted to be here, Adam,” Nigel says. “You looked me dead in the eye and said you wanted this. That you wanted to be mine. And now you’re sitting here, crying, acting like you didn’t know what you were signing up for? What the fuck is that? Did it mean nothing to you?”

Adam’s hands tug at his hair, his chest heaving with sobs as he cries harder, hiccuping through the tears. His face is a mess of red blotches and streaks of saltwater.

“I d-don’t know why you’re mad at me,” Adam finally manages to choke out. “I don’t—I don’t know what I did wrong, Nigel, I promise. I don’t know what you want me to say. I’m trying. I’m trying to understand why you’re mad, but I don’t—I don’t know.”

But Nigel doesn’t let up. He leans in closer, his breath hot and ragged, his fists trembling with the need to grab Adam, to shake him until the answers come spilling out.

“Don’t fucking play innocent with me,” Nigel snarls, his voice venomous, dripping with bitterness. “I know you want to leave me. Just fucking admit it.”

Adam’s eyes flash with something sharp, and before Nigel can react, Adam’s pushing him hard in the chest. It’s not much—it doesn’t hurt—but it’s enough to knock Nigel back a step, just enough for Adam to scramble to his feet, trying to crawl toward the bed like he’s going to run.

But Nigel’s faster. He grabs Adam by the ankle, yanking him back, and Adam cries out, his body crashing to the floor with a heavy thud.

Nigel pulls Adam up by the wrist, dragging him off the floor with brutal, almost careless strength. It’s like Adam’s weight doesn’t even register to him. Adam lets out a sharp, pained sound, his bones creaking under the pressure, but he doesn’t fight anymore. His legs buckle, and Nigel hauls him up. His body presses into Adam's, their chests flush, and there's this unbearable closeness that tightens the air between them. 

“You know,” Nigel murmurs, “I’d almost be proud of you if you weren’t so fucking sloppy about it.” His mouth is so close to Adam’s neck now, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “You lied well at first, I’ll give you that. But did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

Adam’s whimpering now, his body shaking so hard it feels like he’s coming apart. “I didn’t lie,” Adam chokes out, his voice cracking with desperation. “I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t…”

Nigel grabs Adam’s chin, forcing him to look up.

“You’re scaring me,” Adam whispers. 

Nigel’s fingers tighten in Adam’s hair, pulling him closer, close enough that their foreheads almost touch.

“I told you not to fucking lie to me, Adam,” Nigel says, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. “You don’t get to do that to me. You don’t get to leave me.”

“I never tried to leave,” Adam mumbles, his voice hoarse from crying, his throat raw. I never—I didn’t want to leave, Nigel. I didn’t mean to—”

But before Adam can finish, Nigel’s hitting him. Hard. The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoes through the small room, sharp and jarring, like the snap of a whip. Adam’s head snaps to the side, his cheek instantly blooming red, the skin raw and hot and bleeding. For a moment, there’s this awful, dead silence, like the whole world’s holding its breath.

Adam doesn’t move. He doesn’t cry out. He just stays there, frozen, his chest heaving with shallow breaths, his eyes wide and dazed, like he’s trying to process what just happened. His lips part, but no words come out, just this soft, broken gasp, like he’s struggling to find air.

Adam’s lip trembles, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks as he stares up at Nigel, his eyes full of something raw, something that looks almost like… pity.

“Nigel?” 

The sound of it—soft, almost tender, but laced with something that makes Nigel feel like he’s already lost—makes him freeze. It’s the way Adam says it, with that heartbreaking tone that digs into Nigel.

 “Don’t fucking say my name like that.” 

Adam’s eyes go wide, startled. That look—it’s fear, it’s hurt, it’s disappointment.

And then Adam moves. He twists away from Nigel like he’s been burned, his feet slipping as he stumbles back, nearly falling. He’s always so clumsy when he’s scared, when he’s trying to get away. 

“The people next door are going to hear us,” Nigel spits out, pacing in tight circles like he’s trying to keep himself from exploding. “Maybe they’ll call the fucking cops for you, Adam. Maybe that’s what you want.” 

Adam’s breathing is loud, ragged, and broken. He’s crying, but there’s so much anger in it, so much rage underneath the tears. And then, without warning, Adam moves. He lunges, his hand shooting out toward the bedside table, fingers trembling as they grasp at the base of the lamp. His movements are frantic, desperate, and Nigel doesn’t even have time to think before Adam’s arm swings wide, and the lamp is flying through the air.

Nigel ducks, barely registering the sound of the lamp smashing against the wall, shards of the base scattering across the floor. It shatters on impact, a loud, violent crack that reverberates through the room. 

“Shut up, Nigel,” Adam’s voice is a mess, raw and hoarse, broken apart by sobs. “Just—just be quiet for once, just for a second. You’re never quiet. Never. You’re always talking, always—always assuming things that aren’t even true. You think you know everything. You’re just saying things like they don’t matter, like you’re not—” His voice breaks again. “You’re hurting my ears, and I—I hate it. I hate when you do that.” 

Nigel takes a step toward Adam, hands reaching out like he’s trying to soothe him. “Baby—”

“No!” Adam’s scream cuts him off, high-pitched and frantic. ““No, don’t touch me! You’re calling me a liar. I’m not—I’m not lying, and I hate liars. You know that. I hate them more than anything. Don’t—don’t you understand?” His hands fly up, pressing hard against his ears, fingers digging into his scalp as if he’s trying to block out every word, every sound Nigel makes. “I hate you—I hate this—I hate everything you’re saying, Nigel. I hate you.”

Nigel’s eyes dart to his belt, lying discarded on the floor, and before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s grabbing it, his fingers curling around the worn leather. He’s stomping toward Adam, his mind a blur of anger and adrenaline.

Adam doesn’t have time to react. Nigel’s on him in a second, grabbing him by the shoulders, shoving him face-first onto the bed. Adam squirms, his little fists flying, trying to fight him off, but Nigel’s bigger, stronger. He straddles Adam’s hips, pinning him down with his weight, grabbing his wrists and yanking them together behind his back. The belt loops around Adam’s wrists, tight, too tight, and Nigel pulls it snug, securing Adam in place.

Adam thrashes beneath Nigel, trying to wriggle free, but he’s trapped. He’s completely at Nigel’s mercy.

Nigel grabs a button-up shirt from the floor, rolling it into a thin strip, his hands shaking as he stuffs it between Adam’s teeth. “Don’t ever fucking say that,” Nigel begs. “You can call me an asshole, a monster, but never say you hate me, Adam. Never.”

His hands brush against Adam’s wet cheeks as he ties the shirt behind his head, securing it tight, making sure Adam can’t spit it out. 

“Do you know what would happen if I got caught, baby?”

Nigel flips Adam onto his back, the belt cutting into Adam’s wrists as his arms twist awkwardly beneath him. Adam’s chest heaves, breaths coming fast and shallow through his nose, and his eyes—they’re wide and full of something Nigel’s never seen before. Fear, maybe. Or something darker, something twisted up with the kind of raw need that Nigel can feel thrumming in his own veins. 

“I won’t ruin your pretty head by telling you the details,” Nigel says. “You couldn’t handle them. But where I’m going? It’s not a fucking joke.” His fingers tighten on Adam’s chin, nails digging into the soft skin there, not enough to leave marks but enough to make Adam’s eyes widen even more. “It’s ugly, it’s violent, and it’ll chew me up and spit me out in pieces if I’m not careful. Is that what you want? To watch me get torn apart?”

Adam shakes his head frantically, curls bouncing against the pillow, his chest rising and falling like he’s gasping for air. He’s still tilting into Nigel’s touch, even after everything, like he can’t help it, like his body doesn’t know how to do anything else but crave Nigel’s hands on him. 

He leans down again, his lips brushing against Adam’s cheek, soft and almost tender in a way that feels wrong, but also too right to stop. 

“You can’t hit yourself like that,” Nigel whispers against Adam’s skin. “I can hit you. I can do whatever I want. But you can’t hurt yourself. That’s not your fucking job. Understand?”

Adam’s eyes are wide, shimmering with tears, and he nods, his whole body shaking with the effort. He looks up at Nigel with this heartbreaking expression—something like fear and longing and maybe a little bit of affection. It's there, in the way he trembles, in the way he tilts his head just enough to feel Nigel’s breath on his skin, in the way he’s still pressing up into Nigel’s weight, still giving himself over completely.

“I just want you to listen to me,” Nigel says. “That’s all I’ve ever fucking wanted, Adam. Just listen, obey. Follow the goddamn rules.” He leans in closer, his lips brushing the edge of Adam’s ear as he speaks. “Didn’t you say you’d work with me, huh? Not against me? Didn’t you say that?”

Adam nods, his whole body shaking with the effort, tears slipping down his cheeks. His lips quiver, and his breath is coming fast through his nose, but he still manages to nod.

“You’re mine,” Nigel says, his voice barely above a whisper. “You know that, don’t you? No matter what you say, no matter how much you fight me. You’re mine.”

Adam makes a sound, muffled by the gag, something between a whimper and a moan, and Nigel’s grip tightens on his chin, forcing him to keep looking at him, to see the way Nigel’s eyes darken with want. He’s trembling now, just like Adam, his whole body thrumming with the weight of it, the need, the hunger.

Nigel moves his hand down, trailing his fingers along Adam’s throat, down to his chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his breath, the way his skin is hot under his touch. He can feel the way Adam’s body reacts to him, the way his breath catches every time Nigel’s fingers brush against his skin, the way his hips shift ever so slightly, pressing up into Nigel’s weight like he’s trying to get closer, trying to feel more.

“I’m going to leave you for a bit,” he murmurs.

Adam makes a frantic noise, shaking his head, his body tensing beneath Nigel, but Nigel’s already pulling back. 

“We both need to calm down,” Nigel says. “We’ll talk things out when I get back. But I want you to think about what you fucking did.”

Adam’s sobs grow louder, more desperate, his whole body trembling beneath Nigel as tears continue to pour down his flushed cheeks. His hands, still tied behind him, pull weakly against the belt, like he’s trying to reach for Nigel, trying to hold onto something, anything. But Nigel ignores it, pushing himself off the bed with a heavy sigh. 

“It’s for your own good, baby, you know that,” Nigel says. He reaches out, brushing his thumb across Adam’s cheek, wiping away one of his tears. “You always have.”

Adam makes this broken little sound and Nigel’s heart clenches so hard it feels like it’s going to stop. He leans down again, presses a soft kiss to Adam’s forehead, lingering for just a moment, savoring the warmth of his skin. 

“Will you be good for me?” 

Adam nods, his head tilting up slightly, his wet curls brushing against Nigel’s chin. He’s still crying, still shaking, but he nods. That’s all Nigel needs.

“There’s my sweet boy.” 

He pulls back, standing up straight, his eyes lingering on Adam’s trembling form for a moment longer before he turns away. Nigel walks over to his bag, grabbing a t-shirt from the pile of clothes spilling out onto the floor. He pulls it on, the fabric rough against his skin, then zips up his jeans.

Nigel grabs his gun from the night stand. He checks the chamber out of habit, making sure it’s loaded, before tucking it into the waistband of his jeans. He doesn’t look at Adam as he turns toward the door, doesn’t trust himself to. If he does, if he sees the way Adam’s still trembling on the bed, tied up and crying and so fucking beautiful it hurts, Nigel knows he won’t be able to leave.

He steps out into the hallway, the door slamming shut behind him.

Nigel leans against the car like he’s trying to melt into it, like if he presses hard enough, he might just disappear. He takes a long drag from the cigarette, holds the smoke in his lungs until they ache, until it feels like he might choke on it, then lets it out slow, watching the thin stream curl up into the air.

The parking lot of the bar is as run-down as the rest of the town, full of cracks and weeds, with that layer of grime that never really goes away, no matter how many times it rains. But tonight, the idea of going inside makes his stomach turn. He’s already carrying too much weight on his chest—he doesn’t need to drown it in booze. 

Nigel’s knuckles are still throbbing, the skin raw and tender from where they’d collided with Adam’s cheek. He flexes his fingers, watching the way the light from the bar plays across them, casting long shadows. It’s almost like the bruises are blooming right there in front of him, spreading out in dark, ugly colors, like they’re something alive, something that feeds on the violence he can’t seem to keep under control. 

He wonders if Adam’s face looks the same. 

His eyes flick up to the church across the street, the peeling white paint almost glowing under the streetlight. It stands there like a silent monument to all the things he’s not—good, pure, deserving of redemption. The irony isn’t lost on him, that the bar and the church sit right across from each other, two paths laid out in front of him, neither of them offering any real comfort. 

He thinks about walking into that church, about getting down on his knees and confessing, letting all his sins spill out of him like blood. But what the fuck would he say? What could he possibly tell a priest that would make any of this right? Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. He can already picture the look on the priest’s face when he says the next part. Your God gave me one of his angels, and I hurt him. I tied him up, hit him, and left him in a motel room.  

They’d call him fucking crazy. Maybe he is.

But what does it matter? It’s not about him. It’s about Adam. He feels stupid, and there’s no better word for it. He always does this—gets mad, lets his temper take control, and then regrets it when it’s too late to fix anything. He thinks back to the money, to the reason he’d gotten so angry in the first place, and it all seems so fucking pointless now. What the hell did it matter? If Adam was going to tell someone, if he was going to rat him out, the cops would’ve shown up by now. But they haven’t. Adam hasn’t said a word. 

Nigel takes a deep breath, the air burning his lungs as he tries to shake off the thoughts crawling through his mind. He knows what he needs to do. He needs to stop fucking this up. He needs to stop tearing Adam down, stop trapping him, stop turning that light into something scared and small. He needs to protect him, needs to teach him how to be free, how to shine without Nigel’s fists weighing him down.

He’s fucked everything up, smothered Adam in his own doubts and fears, when what Adam deserves is devotion, unwavering and pure. Nigel can give him that. He knows he can.

The cigarette’s burnt down to the filter now, and Nigel flicks it away, grinding it into the dirt with the heel of his boot. He runs a hand through his hair, rubs at his face, and then he walks to the back of the car, popping the trunk open. There’s a roll of duct tape sitting there, silver and gleaming under the dull light from the bar. He grabs it, slams the trunk shut with a metallic thud that echoes through the empty lot. His hands itch, his skin crawling with the need to do something, to make this right. He can’t go back empty-handed.

Across the lot, a man stumbles out of the bar, drunk and swaying, barely able to keep himself upright. Nigel watches him, his eyes narrowing, calculating. The guy’s a waste of space, just another piece of shit in a town full of them. Nigel moves before he even realizes it, his body acting on instinct, his hand slipping to his waistband, fingers curling around the grip of his gun. He follows the man, silent and sure, closing the distance between. The gun’s pressed to the guy’s temple before he can even blink.

“Scream and I’ll fucking kill you.” 

The guy freezes, his breath hitching in his throat, eyes wide with fear. But Nigel doesn’t care. He’s already got the tape over the guy’s mouth, binding his wrists behind his back, shoving him into the trunk like it’s nothing. It’s easy. Too easy.

Nigel makes it back to the motel faster than he should. He’s out of the car before the engine’s even fully cut off, boots hitting the gravel hard as he strides up to the door. His fingers fumble with the key, almost like they don’t want to unlock it, but the door finally gives with a low groan. 

Adam’s still there, just where Nigel left him, curled up on the edge of the bed, barely moving. His whole body shivers like he’s cold, even though the air’s warm and thick. His cheek is the first thing Nigel sees, that deep purple bruise spreading across the pale skin, angry and raw, a small cut just beneath it, still fresh, still red. 

Adam whimpers, a weak sound that breaks the silence. Nigel’s knees hit the bed before he even realizes he’s moving, crawling toward Adam on all fours like a dog. His hand reaches out, shaking slightly as he touches Adam’s knee, a soft, tentative touch, like he’s afraid Adam might flinch away from him.

But Adam doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull back. He just whimpers again, body curling tighter, his face turning toward the pillow, away from Nigel’s eyes, like he can’t stand to look at him. The sight of it, the quiet rejection, makes Nigel’s throat close up, makes something sharp and hot crawl up his spine.

“Shh, baby,” Nigel murmurs.

He reaches up, fingers brushing the edge of the gag. The fabric’s wet, soaked through with spit, and it falls away with a soft squelch. Adam’s mouth is raw, lips chapped and trembling as he sucks in a shaky breath, his chest hitching like he’s still trying to catch it, like he’s been holding it in for hours.

“Nigel…” Adam’s voice is hoarse, barely a sound at all, like it hurts just to say his name. 

Nigel’s hands move fast now, quicker than his thoughts, untying the belt around Adam’s wrists with a jerky, almost frantic motion. The leather’s worn, rough around the edges, and when it falls away, Nigel sees the skin underneath, pink and raw, rubbed red from the tightness of it. Adam’s wrists tremble as they’re freed, his fingers twitching, trying to shake off the pain, the stiffness.

Nigel braces himself, his body tensing, expecting Adam to lash out, to shove him away, to scream at him, call him every name he deserves. He expects Adam to hate him, to want to hate him. But instead, Adam moves slow, almost tender, curling himself up into Nigel’s lap, his thin arms wrapping around Nigel’s chest.

It feels wrong. It feels right. It feels like everything Nigel’s ever wanted and everything he’s terrified of, all wrapped up in Adam’s shaking hands and the soft press of his face against Nigel’s neck.

Adam’s breath hitches, and Nigel feels the wetness of tears soaking into his skin, the soft tremor of Adam’s body pressed up against him. 

“Please,” Adam whispers, “don’t leave me like that again. Don’t make me feel like I’m nothing.”

The words slam into Nigel’s chest like a sledgehammer, knocking the breath out of him. He grits his teeth, his arms tightening around Adam’s waist, holding him like he might disappear if Nigel lets go for even a second. 

“I won’t, doll,” Nigel says, the words rough, scraping out of his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Nigel presses his face into Adam’s hair, the scent of him filling his lungs, that familiar mix of sweat, cheap motel soap, and something softer, something uniquely Adam. It’s comforting in a way that makes Nigel feel sick.

His fingers brush over Adam’s wrist, the skin still warm, but rough, marked by the belt that held him down. He sighs, pressing his lips to the raw skin, his mouth moving softly over each bruise, each red line, like he’s trying to kiss the hurt away. 

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” Nigel whispers.

Adam’s lips part, and his breath hitches as he whispers, “I scared you.”

I scared you. Adam, sitting there bruised and battered, with tear tracks staining his cheeks, is saying he scared Nigel. It doesn’t make sense. None of it makes sense. Adam should be screaming at him, hating him, hitting him, but instead, he’s looking at Nigel with this soft, broken understanding, like he gets it, like he’s already forgiven Nigel for everything. 

“There’s something I want you to do for me, baby.”

Adam hesitates, his body going stiff for a second, and Nigel feels it, the fear, the uncertainty. But then Adam nods, his voice soft, almost fragile as he whispers, “Okay, Nigel.”

Nigel’s hand moves to Adam’s cheek, brushing a thumb over the bruise there, gentle, careful. He leans down, pressing a kiss to the bruised skin, his lips lingering there for a moment before pulling back, just enough to look at Adam’s face. Even with the bruise, even with the tear-streaked face, Adam’s still the most beautiful thing Nigel’s ever seen.

The drive is silent, the only sounds coming from the old engine rumbling under them and the occasional creak of the suspension as the road stretches out into emptiness. Adam’s face is turned toward the window, watching the world blur by in shades of brown and green, but Nigel can see his reflection in the glass, the way his eyes flicker to Nigel every now and then, cautious, quiet.

“Where are we going, Nigel?” 

Nigel doesn’t answer right away. He grips the wheel tighter, fingers drumming against the worn leather. His eyes stay on the road, but his mind’s racing. He knows what he’s about to do, what he’s about to ask Adam, and there’s a part of him that’s screaming at him to stop, to turn the car around, take them back to the motel and just leave it alone. 

“Just a little longer,” Nigel says finally. 

His hand reaches out, finding Adam’s and squeezing it tight. It’s a rough touch, not soft like it should be, but it’s all Nigel knows. It’s all he can give right now. Adam’s fingers curl around his, trembling slightly. He doesn’t argue. He just holds on, and Nigel’s heart clenches so hard it feels like it might burst.

 He tells himself this is the right thing to do. That Adam needs this. Nigel needs this.

They pull off onto a quiet stretch of road, nothing but empty fields on either side, the tall grass swaying lazily in the evening breeze. Nigel kills the engine and sits there for a moment, staring out at the nothingness, trying to steady his breathing. Without a word, he steps out of the car, the door creaking as he swings it open. He goes around to Adam’s side, opening the passenger door with a soft click. 

“Come on, gorgeous,” he says. 

Adam hesitates, his blue eyes flicking from Nigel to the open field beyond, like he’s weighing his options. But when Nigel holds out his hand, Adam takes it, his small fingers slipping into Nigel’s rough palm. 

He leads him around to the trunk, the air between them thick with something unsaid. Nigel opens it, the heavy lid creaking as it lifts, revealing the man inside. He’s bound, wrists tied behind his back, duct tape over his mouth, his eyes wide and wild with fear. His blonde hair is matted, dirty, and his face is smeared with sweat and grime. He’s writhing, trying to move, but there’s nowhere for him to go.

Adam gasps, the sound sharp and ragged, his hand squeezing tighter. “Nigel?” 

Nigel doesn’t answer. He lets Adam go and grabs the man by his shoulders, hauling him out of the trunk with a grunt, his muscles straining as the guy struggles in his grip. The man’s muffled screams fill the air, but Nigel ignores them, throwing him onto the ground in front of Adam, forcing him to his knees.

The gun’s heavy in Nigel’s waistband. He pulls it out and Adam’s breath catches in his throat. 

“Nigel, please—don’t. You don’t have to, please.”

Adam’s eyes are wide, glowing in the fading light, and there’s so much sadness there, so much hope that Nigel might listen to him. Nigel cups Adam’s neck, fingers curling in the soft strands of his hair, tugging him forward until their noses touch. 

“I’m giving you a choice, gorgeous.” 

Adam shakes his head, eyes wide with confusion, panic. “W-what?”

Nigel holds him tight, fingers digging into the back of Adam’s neck. 

“I’ll let you go. If you kill him.”

What? No—no, that’s not—I don’t—”

Nigel turns Adam around, forcing the gun into his hand, closing Adam’s trembling fingers around the grip. 

“What’s more important, doll?” Nigel murmurs. “Think. Your life, your freedom, or this fucking guy? Don’t think about what you should do. Just think about what you want to do.”

He moves up behind Adam, wrapping his arms around him, not with tenderness but with the kind of force that says there’s no going back from this. His fingers close over Adam’s hands, guiding the gun upward, lifting it like it’s a part of him.

Adam’s breath is hitching, the sobs catching in his throat, choking him. His head jerks sideways, as if the tears are too much, as if they’re drowning him where he stands, and he wipes his nose on his shoulder. 

“I don’t want to. I’m not you. I—I can’t. I’m not—I can’t do what you do. ”

Nigel’s hands move, wrapping tighter around Adam’s, the gun heavy between them. He’s guiding, pulling, forcing. 

“Look,” Nigel whispers, his breath warm against the back of Adam’s neck, the skin there sensitive, goosebumps raising along the curve of his spine. “Just line it up. Look down the sight. You see him? Right there. Look at him. Aim for the chest—or the head. It fucking doesn’t matter.” 

His fingers tighten around Adam’s, pushing the gun forward, forcing Adam to face it, to stare down at the man lying in the dirt, bound and helpless, eyes wide and terrified. Adam squeezes his eyes shut, his lashes clumping together with the wetness of his tears, his face scrunching up like he’s trying to block out everything—everything except the sound of Nigel’s voice in his ear.

“You want to be good, don’t you? You want to make me proud?”

“I can’t,” Adam whispers.

“You have to make a choice,” Nigel murmurs. “You can go if you want. You don’t have to stay with me. You don’t have to fucking deal with me anymore. You can take the car, leave me here, and go back home.”

Adam’s eyes snap open, red and raw, and there’s something burning in them—something deep and dark, flickering like embers at the bottom of a fire. It’s not just sadness anymore. It’s not just fear. It’s hurt, sure, but it’s also rage. It’s betrayal. 

For a second, just a second, Nigel thinks Adam’s going to do it. He thinks Adam’s going to pull the trigger, let all that anger and pain explode in a single shot. He thinks Adam’s going to choose himself, gonna take that gun and make the choice that’ll set him free. And there’s something in that thought that twists Nigel’s gut, something that feels like pride, like he’s about to watch Adam become something more than he’s ever been.

But then Adam’s hands drop, the gun slipping from his fingers, falling in Nigel’s hand. Adam turns, his body twisting as he grabs fistfuls of Nigel’s shirt, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping him from falling apart. His face is buried in Nigel’s chest, tears soaking through the fabric, his whole body shaking like he’s about to collapse. Nigel stands there, stiff for a moment.

“I can’t… I can’t go, Nigel. I don’t want to. Please—please don’t make me. I can’t do it.”

Nigel swallows hard. He wraps his arms around Adam, pulling him in close, holding him tight like he’s never gonna let go. Adam’s breath catches, his lips trembling as he presses them to Nigel’s, soft and desperate. Nigel kisses him back, hard, like he’s trying to pull Adam inside of him, like he’s trying to keep him there forever.

Nigel brushes his lips against Adam’s and whispers, “Cover your ears.”

Adam blinks up at him, confused, but he does what he’s told, hands coming up to cover his ears. Nigel doesn’t hesitate. He pulls the gun from his pocket, turns, and fires a single shot over his shoulder. The sound is deafening, even with Adam’s ears covered, and the man’s head jerks back, blood splattering in an arc, warm and wet, across Nigel’s face, across Adam’s neck.

Adam flinches, a soft whimper escaping him as he buries his face in Nigel’s chest again, shaking like a leaf, his eyes squeezed shut tight, tears running in steady streams down his cheeks.

Nigel slides the gun back into his pocket, arms wrapping around Adam’s small, fragile body.

Nigel has to carry Adam back to the car, his legs wrapping around Nigel’s waist, his arms tight around his neck. Adam’s still trembling, his small frame shaking with every breath, but there’s something peaceful in the way he clings to Nigel. Nigel’s arms are strong, steady, holding Adam. All that brightness, all that fire, wrapped up in this small, breakable body, and Nigel knows—he knows without a doubt—he’s doing what he was meant to do.

Carrying him. 

Nigel’s breath catches as he looks down at him—his blue-eyed boy, more angel than man. The bruises on Adam’s pale skin bloom like wild violets, delicate and vivid, the same color as the heart of a saint—deep, pure, and aching.

He wishes he could promise Adam brightness, like the warmth of the sun is something he could offer, something he could hold in his hands and give to him. Adam makes him soft like a fucking ripe nectarine.

I’ll never make him flinch again. 

He knows its a fucking lie. But still, he’ll give up anything, everything. His canine teeth, his quiet Monday nights and his restless Thursday afternoons. He’d give them all up, throw out every knife, every blade he’s ever held, just to keep Adam here, just to hold onto him a little longer.

The door swings open, the soft creak almost swallowed by the thick silence between them. Adam steps inside first, but he doesn’t say anything—hasn’t said a word since the car. His face is still pale, streaked with dried blood and sweat, and he’s trembling, hands shaking like they don’t belong to him. But his shoulders are looser now, less hunched, less like he’s about to fold in on himself. 

Nigel follows, every step heavier than the last. He feels drained, hollowed out. Like someone’s taken a siphon to his chest and drained him of everything—blood, life, soul—all of it gone, leaking out and spilling into Adam instead. Maybe Adam’s the one who needs it more, who deserves it more. 

They step into the tiny bathroom, the tiles cold and cracked beneath their feet. But Adam doesn’t seem to care about any of it. His hand tightens on Nigel’s wrist, and he pulls him gently. He gestures for him to sit on the closed toilet seat, and Nigel’s body feels like it’s about to give out. He sits, slumping down like a ragdoll, shoulders sagging. 

Adam moves to the sink, twisting the faucet handle with a soft creak, the pipes groaning as water sputters out. He wets a hand towel, the water turning lukewarm as it soaks through the fabric. Adam kneels down in front of him, the cold tile pressing against his knees, and Nigel has to fight the urge to pull him back up. Adam shouldn’t be kneeling like this, not after everything. Nigel’s the one who fucked up, the one who should be on his knees begging for forgiveness, but here Adam is.

Adam hesitates, holding the towel in his shaking hands, his blue eyes wide and uncertain. His gaze flickers to Nigel’s face. Slowly, he lifts the towel, the warm fabric brushing against Nigel’s cheek as he starts to wipe the dried blood away. It’s a gentle touch, soft and tentative, but it feels like fire against Nigel’s skin.

Nigel watches him, watches the way Adam’s face is still pale, still drawn tight with exhaustion, but calmer now. There’s blood smeared on his cheek. 

Nigel sighs, the sound low and rough in his throat, and gently swats Adam’s hand away. He takes the towel from him, his other hand reaching up to cup Adam’s chin. His fingers press into the soft skin there, feeling the slight tremor that runs through Adam at the touch. Adam leans into it, his eyes fluttering shut for a second.

Nigel pulls the towel up to Adam’s face, wiping away the blood. Adam’s lashes flutter, his breath coming out in soft, shallow puffs.

"Why did you kill him?" 

"I had to. He saw our faces."

Adam bites down on his lower lip, the skin there already swollen and tender, but he doesn’t argue. Nigel runs his thumb along Adam’s jaw, marveling at the fact that Adam’s still here, still in his hands. He should be miles away by now. Hell, Nigel should be six feet under, buried and forgotten. But here they are, tangled up in this tiny motel bathroom.

Adam’s hands clench in his lap, his knuckles white as he curls into himself for a second. But then, slowly, he lowers his head, resting it against Nigel’s thigh, his cheek pressing into the worn denim of Nigel’s jeans. His breath is warm, shaky, but steady enough that Nigel feels it through the fabric. Adam nuzzles against him.

Nigel’s chest tightens as he runs the towel along the back of Adam’s neck. 

"Were you testing me?" 

"No," Nigel says quietly, shaking his head. "Not really. I just didn’t want to doubt you."

Adam’s blue eyes are glittering, the raw emotion in them too much for Nigel to take, but he doesn’t look away. 

"I want to be with you. I told you. But I never asked to be here, like this. I never asked for any of this. I want you to remember that."

Nigel’s teeth grind together, the soft clench audible in the small, suffocating bathroom. He drags a hand through Adam’s messy curls, twisting the soft strands between his fingers.

Adam looks up at him, waiting. Nigel can see it in his eyes—Adam’s not asking for anything. He’s not accusing him of shit, not holding him hostage with that simple statement. But there’s weight behind it, like a boulder sitting on Nigel’s shoulders.

“Why did you say hi to me, then?” 

Nigel watches as Adam blinks, frowning a little, like he doesn’t understand the question at first. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You know,” Nigel presses, the hand in Adam’s hair tightening ever so slightly. “When you came in for work that day. You said hi. You’d never done that before.”

Adam’s frown deepens, and he pulls away slightly, sitting back on his heels as he considers the question. His eyes drift to the side, as if he’s trying to recall something buried in the back of his mind. 

“I thought you were like me,” Adam finally says.

“Like you?”

Adam sighs softly, a little breath that escapes his lips as he looks down at his hands, clenched in his lap again. 

“I thought you understood how I felt,” Adam says. “You always kept to yourself, stayed quiet like me. You never really looked at anyone—like, really looked. Not unless you had to. And that made me think… I don’t know. It made me feel like we had something in common. Like you were different from everyone else. You didn’t need to make eye contact to get your point across, and I… I liked that. You didn’t make me feel like I was weird for being the way I am. I liked—I liked you.” His voice catches a little, and he quickly bites his lower lip, as if he’s said too much, but then he presses on. “I liked you then, too.”

Nigel feels a sharp pang in his chest, like a needle piercing straight through his ribs. He didn’t know what the hell he’d expected Adam to say, but it sure as hell wasn’t this.

“Why didn’t you say anything?” 

Adam looks back down at his hands, his fingers twitching slightly, picking at the skin around his nails.

“Why didn’t you?”

Nigel opens his mouth, but no words come out. He doesn’t have an answer for that, not one that he can give Adam right now. Not one that would make any sense. He’s been running on autopilot for so long, following his instincts, his anger, his confusion, and he never really stopped to ask himself why. 

Adam leans into Nigel. “I was talking to my dad about you,” he says, and Nigel’s hand stills, his fingers frozen. “I told him how you smoke and drink more beer than I’ve ever seen anyone drink. How you pet my hair sometimes when I can’t sleep. How you don’t say anything when I count my strokes while brushing my teeth.” Adam’s voice trembles, but he doesn’t stop. “He called me reckless, and for once… for once, I didn’t care.”

Adam lifts his gaze, meeting Nigel’s eyes, and his expression is soft, vulnerable. “I felt free.” 

Nigel’s heart stutters in his chest. He doesn’t think—he can’t. He just reacts, bending down and capturing Adam’s lips in a kiss that’s more desperate than he intended. 

When he pulls back, breathless, his forehead presses against Adam’s, their noses almost touching. “God, I fucked up,” he mutters, his voice hoarse and broken. 

Adam doesn’t say anything, just shakes his head, his eyes closed tight. His hands reach up, gripping Nigel’s wrists, holding onto him like he’s afraid if he lets go, Nigel will disappear.

“I used to run away,” Adam murmurs. “Not far, though. Just to the edge of the neighborhood. I'd sit at an old swing set by the park… the one no one really used anymore.”

He lets out a soft, almost nervous sound. “I liked… I liked knowing I could still see my house if I looked hard enough. I wasn’t really running away.” His thumb presses down slightly on Nigel’s arm. “It was more like… hiding. When things got too loud, or I got too frustrated, I’d just... disappear for a little while. It made everything feel smaller. Like I could breathe again..”

Nigel’s chest tightens as Adam speaks. The way Adam talks about running away—not in the bold, reckless way Nigel had as a kid, but in quiet, small escapes. 

Adam says, “I feel safe with you,” his voice soft but firm. “I just need to see you to feel like that now. Even after everything. I still feel safe.”

“Adam,” Nigel breathes. He shakes his head slowly, marveling. “You’re—”

But Adam cuts him off, his voice coming out sharper than Nigel expected, slicing through the haze between them. 

“Who were you talking about? When you said that—that I was better at it than she was?”

Nigel doesn’t want to tell him. He doesn’t want to rip open that part of himself, not now, not like this. But Adam—Adam deserves the truth. Adam, who had looked at him so earnestly, who had said he wanted to know Nigel, really know him. And Nigel, for once in his life, can’t bring himself to keep lying. 

His hand trembles slightly as he reaches for the towel again and begins to wipe away the streaks of blood that still cling to Adam’s pale skin.

“I was married,” Nigel finally says. “Before I met you. Back in Romania. It wasn’t… it wasn’t a long marriage, but it was there. We had a life, or at least we fucking tried to have one. I thought… I thought that was what I was supposed to do. I was different back then. A lot different. Maybe a little lost. Maybe a lot lost.”

Adam doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares at Nigel, eyes wide and thoughtful, his lips pressing together in a thin line like he’s weighing the weight of that revelation in his mind. 

“Did she leave you?” 

Nigel swallows hard, trying to ignore the lump forming in his throat. His eyes flick away from Adam’s face, unable to hold his gaze any longer. He doesn’t want to answer that question. 

But Nigel nods, because he can’t lie. 

“Yeah,” he finally says, the word coming out thick and bitter. “She just…” His voice cracks. “I wasn’t enough for her. Never was. I think maybe I knew that all along, but I tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend like we could make it work, like we were something fucking real.”

“I’m not going to leave you. I’m not going to—”

Nigel cuts him off, his voice rough, almost desperate. “Adam, you don’t fucking understand. You deserve someone who—”

“I understand more than you think.”

Adam’s breath catches slightly, and he takes a deep, steadying breath, as if absorbing the weight of Nigel’s answer. 

Then, after a moment, he whispers, “I’m not like her, Nigel.”

Nigel’s eyes snap back to Adam’s face, searching, needing to see the truth of it written there. And it is. 

“No,” Nigel says, his voice breaking a little as he shakes his head. “No, you’re not.”

It feels like worship, those words. Like a confession ripped from the deepest parts of him, offered up on the altar that is Adam’s body, his skin, his soul. And in that moment, Nigel knows it’s true. Adam is nothing like her. He’s something else entirely. 

He can’t help himself. He bends down and captures Adam’s mouth in a kiss, not rough this time, but not gentle either. It’s somewhere in between, a kiss filled with passion and reverence, with teeth and tongue and the faint metallic taste of blood. Adam melts into it, his body arching up into Nigel’s, his hands clutching at Nigel’s shoulders, his fingers digging into the skin there.

Nigel guides him up as they kiss, his hands moving over Adam’s skin. He doesn’t break the kiss as he leads Adam to the bed, their mouths still connected, their breaths mingling in the space between them. The sheets are a mess beneath them and Nigel pushes Adam down onto them, watching as he sinks into the softness, into the chaos they’ve created together.

Adam’s whimper is soft, almost pitiful, and it goes straight to Nigel’s heart. He’s begging, his voice shaky, his body trembling as Nigel’s hands move over him. 

Adam is hard already, his cock pressing against the waistband of his pants, and Nigel’s hands move down, trailing along Adam’s sides, his fingers ghosting over the sharp line of his hip bones, over the ridges of his ribs. Adam lifts his hips in silent permission, and Nigel yanks off his pants and underwear in one rough motion, tossing them carelessly to the floor.

Once, Adam would have complained about the mess, about the clothes left in a wrinkled heap on the floor. He would’ve fussed over the way the bed looked, over the state of the room, always wanting everything to be just so. But now, as Nigel kneels between his legs, gripping his ankles and spreading him wide, Adam doesn’t seem to care about any of that. 

There’s blood on them still—on Nigel’s hands, on Adam’s skin—and neither of them seem to care. He leans down, kissing Adam again, softer this time, slower. 

But Nigel doesn’t want sex tonight. Not like this. 

He wants it to feel like repentance.

He slows their kisses even more, until it feels like they’re barely moving, until it feels like time itself has stopped. Nigel’s lips trace a path down Adam’s neck, across his collarbone, over the bruises that litter his skin. He kisses across every inch of Adam’s chest, down his stomach, until he’s tasting the freckled skin. No one but him has ever touched Adam like this, tasted him like this. 

“Angel,” Nigel whispers between kisses. 

Adam’s breath hitches at the words, his body arching up off the bed, his legs trembling as they wrap around Nigel’s waist. He’s so sensitive, every touch making him shiver, every kiss drawing soft, helpless noises from his throat. His hands find Nigel’s face, pulling him back up, their mouths meeting again in a kiss that’s desperate and messy. 

Nigel’s hands move lower, sliding between Adam’s legs, fingers brushing over the inside of his thighs, over the places where the skin is softest, where Adam is most vulnerable. Adam whimpers, his hips jerking up, his body begging for more even as he shakes his head, as if he doesn’t know how to ask for what he wants. 

There’s no lube, but neither of them are patient enough to care about that. Nigel presses his fingers into Adam’s mouth, letting him wet them with his tongue, and Adam moans around them, his eyes fluttering shut.

When Nigel finally pushes a finger inside him, it’s slow. Adam’s body tenses, his back arching off the bed, his hands clutching at the sheets, at Nigel’s shoulders, at anything he can reach. 

“It’s okay,” Nigel murmurs. “I’ve got you, baby. You’re okay.”

But Adam’s hands are shaking, his eyes squeezed shut, tears leaking from the corners as he bites down on his lip to keep from crying out. Nigel’s hand trembles slightly as he pulls back, dripping more spit onto his fingers. He presses a second finger inside, slower this time, gentler, and Adam’s breath hitches, his hips jerking against the bed, trying to escape the pressure.

Nigel looks down at him, at the bruises blooming across his cheek, at the sharp jut of his collarbones. Adam’s bones are too sharp, too visible, his skin stretched too thin from not eating enough.

But to Nigel, he’s beautiful. He’s perfect in his brokenness, in the way his body trembles beneath Nigel’s touch, in the way he fights to stay present, to stay with him, even when it’s hard. He’s Nigel’s. He’s always been Nigel’s, from the moment they met, from the first time Nigel laid eyes on him.

Nigel bends Adam’s body, folding him until his legs are around Nigel’s shoulders, until Adam is bent in half, his ankles digging into Nigel’s back. It’s intimate, the way their bodies fit together, the way Nigel’s mouth finds Adam’s again, the way their lips meet in soft, breathless kisses as Nigel’s fingers work inside him.

Nigel kisses the sounds out of Adam’s mouth when he finally presses inside him, swallowing every moan, every whimper, every breathless cry that slips past his lips. He moves slowly, grinding into Adam, their hips flush together, their bodies moving in a rhythm that feels like something carved into the bones of the earth itself.

Adam bites down on Nigel’s arm, hard enough to leave a mark, hard enough to keep himself silent, to keep from crying out as the pleasure builds and builds inside him. But Nigel doesn’t stop. He keeps moving, slow and steady, grinding into Adam.

Nigel slows, just enough to drive Adam crazy, just enough to make him whine, long and pretty, his body writhing beneath Nigel’s weight, his legs tightening around Nigel’s shoulders. Nigel brushes Adam’s hair out of his face, his fingers gentle as they tuck the damp curls behind his ears, and Adam looks up at him, eyes wide and glowing.

“I told you,” Adam says, his voice barely audible, shaking with every word. “I don’t u-understand God. But when I picture him, I picture him with his hand around my neck, just like you. Angry–ah–powerful. I picture him telling me to relax, to do what I want to do, not what’s–what’s expected of me. Not what the world says I’m supposed to be. Just what I want .”

Nigel feels his breath hitch in his throat at Adam's words, his hips stilling for a second inside him. Nigel isn’t sure if he’s hearing right. But he knows Adam’s not one for lies. Adam says things plainly, brutally, the way they are. There’s no metaphor with him, no games. When he says something, it’s because he means it.

Nigel’s eyes trace the bruises blooming across Adam’s throat, the delicate skin darkening where his hand had been earlier, the marks fresh and stark against Adam’s pale skin. The memory of it—of his hand around Adam’s neck, of the way Adam had gasped, of the sharp crack as his knuckles connected with Adam’s face—flashes through his mind, vivid and raw. 

Then, after a long beat, he murmurs, “Thought you didn’t believe in God.”

“I don’t,” Adam says. “But I saw stars when you hit me.”

Nigel leans over him, their faces close enough that Nigel can see every freckle, every bruise, every drop of sweat clinging to Adam’s skin.

“You saw stars,” Nigel repeats, his voice rough. “When I hit you?”

Adam’s eyes flutter open, those dark, almost-black irises locking onto Nigel’s face. His chest is still heaving, the remnants of pleasure and pain mixing in his expression, but there’s something else there too—something soft, something almost wonderstruck. 

“Uh-huh,” Adam whispers. “I saw them. It was... it was beautiful.”

“Didn’t it hurt you?” 

“It doesn’t matter.”

It doesn’t matter. How could it not matter? Adam’s lips twitch into something like a smile, small and faint, but real. His hands reach up, shaking slightly, to cup Nigel’s face, pulling him closer until their foreheads are touching.

“I didn’t know I could see them from so close.” Adam’s fingers tighten in Nigel’s hair, his legs still trembling slightly. “They were right there, Nigel. I thought—I thought they were only something you could see from far away, but I was wrong. They were so close, I could almost touch them.”

“Adam,” Nigel breathes. 

He doesn’t know what to say. All he can do is stare at Adam, at this boy who’s been broken and rebuilt so many times that Nigel doesn’t know where the cracks begin and end anymore. 

Adam’s hands slide down from Nigel’s face to his chest, resting there, right over Nigel’s heart, feeling the steady, heavy thud of it beneath his skin. 

“It doesn’t matter,” Adam repeats, softer this time. 

“I don’t want you to hurt,” Nigel whispers. “I don’t want to hurt you, Adam.”

“It’s not about that,” Adam whispers, his breath warm against Nigel’s mouth. “You gave me the stars, Nigel. That’s all I’ll ever want.”

Nigel keeps fucking Adam. Their bodies move together, slick with sweat, sticking, pulling apart, then pressing back again like they’re magnetized. Nigel’s cock moves inside Adam, filling him completely, every inch sinking in until there’s no space left, nothing but the two of them, molded together, fused like molten metal.

His hand slides down Adam’s body, fingers rough. He wraps those fingers around Adam’s cock, not to tease, not to drag this out, but to make him feel everything, every inch of skin, every pulse of blood. Adam’s cock is hard, aching, leaking onto Nigel’s fingers, the heat of it burning into his palm as he strokes in tandem with his thrusts.

Nigel reaches down, palms broad and strong, and slides a hand beneath Adam’s ass, lifting him up just enough to angle him, to change the tilt of his hips, and Adam shudders as it hits different, as Nigel finds the spot that has him writhing, arching off the bed. Adam keens, body shaking, hips jerking to meet every thrust, desperate.

“I’ll fucking die without you, Adam. There’s nothing else for me. Nothing without you. ”  

The words are dark, sliding over Adam’s skin like honey, sticking, seeping into his bones. His hands fly up to his face, hiding, covering his eyes like he could block out the heat of the words, like he could pretend they don’t affect him the way they do. 

“Don’t say that,” Adam gasps, but the tremble in his voice betrays him. 

He likes it. He loves it.

“Why not?” Nigel whispers against Adam’s ear. “It’s true.” 

Adam whimpers, his hands dropping from his face, one of them flying to grip Nigel’s forearm, fingers digging into the hard muscle there, the other clutching the sheets beneath him, twisting the fabric in a fist. His neck is stretched back, mouth wide, and every sound that spills from his lips is raw, unfiltered, the kind of noise you make when you’re beyond control, when you’ve given yourself over to something bigger than you. Something that swallows you whole.

If God Is watching, Nigel thinks, eyes flickering over Adam’s body, taking in the flush of his skin, the trembling in his limbs, if he’s listening to the way Adam’s whimpering, Nigel hopes he knows. Nigel hopes he understands what this is. 

Nigel slows, pulls out just long enough to flip Adam, gentle, guiding him like they’ve done this a thousand times. Adam moves easily, fluidly, letting Nigel guide him until he’s on Nigel’s lap, straddling him, back pressed tight to Nigel’s chest. The shift in position makes Adam gasp, a high, broken sound, his hands scrambling for purchase, one grabbing Nigel’s hand, the other bracing himself on the bed.

Nigel wraps his hand around Adam’s throat, feeling the pulse beneath his fingers, the thrum of life there, so fragile, so real. Adam moans at the contact, his hand flying up to press Nigel’s tighter around his neck, his body arching into it, needing the pressure, needing the control. 

“How can I make you see the world the way I do?” Adam’s voice cracks, desperate. “How can I make you see me—see yourself the way I do? And I don’t… I don’t know how to get you to understand that, how to get you to feel that. But I want you to. I need you to.”

“You don’t have to make me believe,” Nigel mutters. “Just stay with me. That’s all I need.” His thumb presses gently against the pulse in Adam’s neck again. “Just… stay.”

He tightens his grip on Adam’s throat, just enough to make Adam cry out, a sharp, high sound that makes Nigel’s head spin. Adam moves faster, grinding down on Nigel’s lap. He thinks, God knows. He must. He must know what starlight does to him, the way it illuminates Adam’s blue eyes. He knows how the thought of Adam’s touch, the brush of his fingers, lights Nigel up from the inside, like fire igniting every nerve, burning him in ways that no fucking pyre ever could. 

Nigel presses his face into Adam’s hair. He thinks, God, I’m giving you this. He’s offering this raw, tender part of himself, this piece of him that’s never belonged to anyone else. Except now, there’s no jagged wound, no sharp pain tearing him apart. 

There’s just Adam. Always Adam.

Chapter Text

“Where did you get this one?” 

Adam’s voice is a murmur, barely more than a ripple in the air between them, soft as the breeze that sneaks through the half-cracked motel window. His fingers brush over Nigel’s skin, tracing the thin line of a scar with that tender, curious touch of his. 

Nigel glances down, catches sight of Adam’s hand there, just a soft pressure against his chest. 

“Fuck if I know.” 

Adam hums, a quiet little sound, and Nigel knows it’s not forgotten to him. 

His fingers tangle themselves in Adam’s curls, those soft chocolate strands that are wet from the shower, clinging to the nape of Adam’s neck. 

The smell of the soap they’re using is sharp, that cheap, industrial kind that doesn’t smell like much of anything, but it sticks to their skin, mingling with the warm, humid air. 

They’re close, so close that Nigel can see every detail of Adam’s face, can count the freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose, tiny specks of brown like someone dusted cocoa powder there. The sunlight from the bathroom window is slanting in just right, catching Adam in that soft, golden glow that seems to follow him everywhere. It makes the bruise on his cheek stand out, a fading mark that’s gone from deep purple to a soft lavender.

Nigel’s eyes trace the lines of bone on Adam's back, the sharp angle of it as it dips. Nigel still can’t help but wonder if Adam’s hiding wings under that thin layer of skin. Feathers ruffled, but still there, still capable of flight if only Nigel could set him free. 

“If you keep squirming around like that, you’re gonna get soap in your fucking eyes, and then what will you do?” 

Adam blinks up at him, his face serious, like he’s actually thinking about it. “Wash it out.” 

Nigel grins, can’t help it, the expression tugging at the corners of his mouth as he leans in, biting gently at Adam’s earlobe, his teeth scraping against the soft skin there. Adam squirms again, more of a reflex than an actual attempt to get away. 

They’re only in the shower because Adam wanted to wash off the fucking sweat that’s been sticking to his skin, but now that they’re here, he’s more interested in Nigel than in getting clean. He’s happy to let Adam do it, happy to let him explore, to let him look.

Things between them haven’t changed much, not really, not since Nigel’s little…freak out. But at the same time, everything’s different now. There’s no more pretending, no more walls between them, no more barriers.

Sure, there are things Nigel hasn’t told Adam yet, things he hasn’t confessed, but he will. 

One day. Someday. 

Adam’s seen enough of him already and he’s still here. He’s felt Nigel’s violence in the way Nigel’s hands have left marks on his skin, in the sharp, cutting edge of Nigel’s rage. But he’s still here. He still curls up next to Nigel every night, lets Nigel pet his hair until he falls asleep, still whispers, “I’m yours,” every time Nigel asks. It’s something Nigel’s never had before, never even dreamed of—someone who sees every ugly part of him and stays anyway.

And Nigel thinks about that day sometimes, the one where Adam had looked up at him, dazed and breathless, and said he saw stars when Nigel hit him. That moment is burned into Nigel’s mind, seared into his knuckles. There’s no guilt when Nigel thinks about it, no shame, no regret. Not when Adam had called it beautiful. Not when Adam had looked at him with that glint in his eyes, said it was all he wanted.

Adam’s a marvel, a fucking wonder. 

Ever since then, the nightmares are gone. When he dreams now, it’s of Adam. Always Adam. Pink cheeks, soft skin. His boy. 

New York’s getting closer, the reality of it creeping in around the edges of their little bubble, but Nigel doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t let his mind wander to the bodies they left behind, doesn’t care enough to check the news or make a call to Darko. There’s nothing but Adam in his head now, filling up every corner, every space. 

Adam, with his knobby knees and awkward arms, his skin like warm milk under Nigel’s touch. Adam’s this gangly little thing but to Nigel, he’s something else entirely. Nigel’s convinced of it. Adam’s like a little star that fell from the sky and landed right in front of him, all spun out of honey and sharp hip bones.

He runs his hands down Adam’s arms, rubbing the soap into the skin, working it in slow and lazy, because they’re not in any rush. They never are, not when it’s like this. He likes the way Adam feels under his hands, the way his body is this perfect canvas for Nigel to mark up, claim, make his.

Adam’s eyes are curious again, though, fingers still trailing over Nigel’s skin.  

"What about this one?" 

“There was this guy. Fucking psycho. Ran with a bunch of boys out there, did all kinds of dirty shit. Drugs, guns, whatever they could get their hands on. I got in deep with them—too deep. They thought I was good for business, y’know? I have a knack for...persuading people.”

Adam hums, encouraging him to go on, but his fingers are back on Nigel’s scars, waiting for the story behind it.

“So, one night, we’re doing a job. Supposed to be simple. Go in, shake some people down, get the cash, get out. Except it wasn’t simple. It never is with these fuckers. Turns out, the place belonged to some rival group, one that didn’t take too kindly to us walking in uninvited.” Nigel’s voice lowers, gets rougher around the edges. “Shit went south fast. There was this old guy—grizzled bastard with a face like a wrinkled boot—pulled a fucking hunting knife on me. Caught me right here.” He taps the scar on his side, lips twitching into a grim smile. “Took me by surprise, I’ll give him that. But I got the knife from him after that.”

Adam’s fingers pause, his brows drawing together as he looks up. “What happened to him?”

“‘Killed him. Right there on the floor. I had to. Or he would’ve gutted me like a fucking pig.”

Adam’s silent for a moment, processing the words, but his fingers keep moving, tracing another mark, this one near Nigel’s bicep. He looks up again, eyes questioning. 

“You didn’t… feel bad?”

“I grew up learning real quick you either fight or you die. You don’t get to feel bad when it’s you or them, doll. People are animals, and when you’re in the middle of it, you can’t afford to get soft.”

There’s a pause, and Nigel waits for Adam to say something, to react. But Adam just keeps looking at him, those blue eyes wide and steady, like he’s seeing right through Nigel, right into him. 

“You’re covered in them,” Adam murmurs, his voice soft, almost sad. “All these scars.”

“Comes with the territory, gorgeous. You live like I do, you get marked up. That’s just how it is.”

“Does it hurt?” 

Nigel huffs a soft laugh, shaking his head. “Not anymore. You get used to it after a while.”

Adam’s quiet for a second, his thumb brushing absently over the skin just above Nigel’s heart. 

“I don’t want you to get any more.”

Nigel’s hands move slow, sliding over the curve of Adam’s neck as he shields his eyes, thumb brushing lightly over the slope of his nose to keep the water out. Adam leans into him, like he always does, his nose grazing the ink that curls across Nigel’s neck. The kid’s quiet, in that way that means he’s feeling something heavy. Like the world is small and big all at once and the only place that makes sense is pressed right up against Nigel’s skin.

There’s silence now, except for the steady patter of water against tile, but Nigel’s thinking about what Adam said. He hadn’t planned on telling Adam that—about Romania. He should be scared, should be panicked that Adam now knows something about him that he’s kept hidden from everyone else. But there’s no fear here, not with Adam.

He can know everything about Adam. He already does, every little tic, every ramble, every shy glance. But Adam knowing everything about him? That’s different. It doesn’t make Nigel feel vulnerable—it makes him feel powerful. Like Adam knowing his darkest secrets gives him a claim over the kid. It’s a kind of ownership.

He’s not scared of it. He’s past that now. 

Adam tilts his head back slightly, just enough so that his eyes catch the light. His eyes blink up at Nigel, wide and curious as ever, water clinging to his lashes like tiny crystals. His cheeks are flushed from the heat, a soft pink that starts high on his cheekbones and spreads down his neck. Nigel notices the sunburn still lingering, the peeling edges of skin that frame his face, raw but healed. 

“I’d chain you to me if I could,” Nigel murmurs.

Adam blinks, his face shifting as he processes the words, and then he replies, “That’d be.. that’d be inconvenient,” his voice soft. 

Nigel’s lips twitch into a grin as he reaches over to turn off the water. The sudden quiet that follows is filled with that same electric buzz they’ve gotten used to in all the motels they’ve stayed at. 

“It’d make me happy,” Nigel says, as he steps out of the shower and grabs one of the towels hanging on the rack. He wraps it around his waist, the rough fabric soaking up the water from his skin, but his focus is already on Adam again.

He grabs the other towel and steps back towards him, tugging him gently but firmly out. Adam stumbles a little, caught off balance, but he lets Nigel manhandle him without complaint. Nigel rubs the towel over Adam’s head, drying his curls with more force than necessary, but Adam doesn’t protest. He just stands there, letting Nigel take care of him, letting him handle him the way he likes to. Once he’s satisfied, Nigel wraps the towel around Adam’s waist, tugging him forward by the hips and planting a kiss on his lips.

Nigel walks to the mirror, catching sight of himself in the foggy glass. He looks like a fucking mess, like he’s been running on fumes for days, but there’s something else there too. 

Something lighter.

He grabs the can of shaving cream, squirting a dollop into his hand and spreading it over his face. The foam clings to his skin, cool and smooth, and he reaches for the razor, gripping it firmly in his hand. As he starts shaving, the blade gliding over his cheek, Adam appears beside him, curiosity lighting up his face. Nigel can feel him peering over his shoulder, standing on his tiptoes to get a better look in the mirror, his blue eyes bright.

“If you were in space—without a suit, I mean—your blood would boil,” Adam says, his voice soft but carrying that familiar tone he uses when he’s explaining something. “It’s not like in the movies. You wouldn’t just freeze or explode. The vacuum of space means there’s no pressure, so there’s nothing to keep the liquids in your body from vaporizing.”

Nigel hums, dragging the razor down his jaw, rinsing it under the running sink water. Adam leans his head against Nigel’s shoulder. 

Nigel hesitates, the razor in his hand hovering just long enough for Adam to notice. His eyes flicker between the blade and Nigel’s face, that soft, wide-eyed look of his. He doesn’t have to say a word; Adam knows when he’s being asked for something, knows when Nigel is giving him that unspoken permission. Adam’s fingers wrap around the razor, tentative.

Adam moves slowly, lifting the blade with delicate precision as he brings it to Nigel’s cheek. His lips are pulled into that focused little pout Nigel finds so damn cute, his brows furrowed in concentration like this moment is something sacred. And it is, in its own way. Adam’s holding a razor to his skin, a blade that could slip, could nick him, could draw blood—but Nigel’s not worried. Not even close.

“Careful,” Nigel murmurs, as he tightens his grip on Adam’s waist. “Don’t wanna mess up that pretty face of mine.”

Adam’s lips part again, and this time it’s not concentration—it’s that quiet, thoughtful voice of his, always ready to spill out some fact or piece of knowledge he’s been storing up. 

“Your lungs would probably collapse first,” Adam says, and Nigel knows it’s about to be one of those science lessons. He settles in, listens, because hell, he likes hearing Adam ramble. “There’s no air pressure inside or outside your body to keep them open. And your body would swell, too—not enough to burst, but enough that it’d feel like your skin was stretching, like everything inside was being pulled in different directions.”

Nigel grunts, the corner of his mouth pulling up in that crooked, half-smile he always gets when Adam’s talking space shit. “Sounds pleasant.”

“You’d be dead before you really noticed,” Adam says, his voice soft. He drags the razor down another section of Nigel’s jaw, and Nigel tilts his head back just slightly, giving him more room to work. “It only takes about fifteen seconds for everything to go wrong.”

Nigel shakes his head. “That’s brutal.”

Adam’s eyes flicker up from Nigel’s face, soft and serious. “It’s just science,” he says quietly. “Your body needs pressure to stay… in one piece. Space doesn’t have any. So everything inside you tries to get out.”

Nigel can’t help the laugh that rumbles up from his chest. “You telling me I’d explode in space?”

“Not exactly,” Adam says. “You wouldn’t explode. You’d just… swell up. Your blood would boil, and your skin would stretch, but it wouldn’t be like…” He waves his hand around, mimicking a slow, exaggerated expansion, his fingers spreading wide like he’s imagining Nigel puffing up like a balloon. “…boom.”

Nigel snorts, and his hand moves on its own, sliding up Adam’s ribs. “You think I’d look cute like that, huh?” His voice drops low, teasing, as he leans in even closer. “All puffed up and boiled over?”

“No,” Adam mumbles.

Nigel chuckles low, his hand squeezing Adam just a little tighter. Adam’s still standing between Nigel’s legs, their bodies too close in this fucking heat, and there’s a kind of comfort in the way their skin sticks together, in the way they’ve been pressed against each other like this for days now. Adam always complains about it, about the sweat making everything sticky and uncomfortable, but he never actually pulls away. He never moves to the other side of the bed. 

“And… um…” Adam pauses, his voice dipping low, unsure now. “Am I… am I talking too much?”

“What the fuck did I tell you about apologizing for that?”

Adam’s wide blue eyes blink up at Nigel, searching his face.

“You said…” Adam swallows hard. “You said you wanted to hear what I have to say.”

“Exactly,” Nigel says, his thumb brushing roughly over Adam’s lower lip, dragging across the soft skin in a way that makes Adam’s breath stutter. “So don’t apologize. I like hearing it.”

Adam stands there, almost trembling under Nigel’s touch, his breath catching in his throat like it’s snagged on a wire. 

“If you’re so into all this space shit,” Nigel says, “why didn’t you go to school for it? You could’ve done something with all that. Got out of that sad little town you were stuck in. Could’ve gone off, learned about all that big universe you’re always reading about. So why didn’t you?”

Adam’s face shifts, that brightness in his eyes dimming a little, like something heavy’s just landed on his shoulders. He looks down, avoiding Nigel’s gaze, his fingers fidgeting.

“I… well,” Adam starts, his voice quieter now. “At first, it was because of my dad. He needed me after his injury. I couldn’t just… leave him. He couldn’t work, couldn’t take care of the house, so I stayed.”

Nigel watches him, doesn’t say a word. Adam’s voice is steady, but there’s something in it, something quiet and sad, like he’s telling a story that doesn’t belong to him anymore.

“And then the years just… kept going,” Adam continues. “One after another.  It felt like time wasn’t moving anymore. Like the world was still spinning, but for me and my dad, everything had stopped. I know—I know that’s impossible. I didn’t leave because… it didn’t feel like I could.”

Nigel thinks about that. About being stuck, about the world moving on without you. He knows what that feels like. He knows it all too well.

“How’d your old man get hurt?” Nigel’s thumb brushes against Adam’s skin again, coaxing the answer out of him, even as Adam’s breath hitches.

Adam hesitates, his hand dropping to the edge of the sink, the razor set down carefully like he’s buying himself a second to think. His face shifts again, something heavier settling into his features. 

“It was a work accident,” Adam finally says. “He was an engineer, he worked on construction sites sometimes. One day, he… he fell. It wasn’t even from that high up, but it messed up his back. After that, he couldn’t work. And, uh, things got harder.” Adam pauses, swallowing hard, like the words are sticking in his throat. “He started drinking more. He got—he got meaner. But I stayed. Because that’s what you do, right? You stay with family.”

Nigel doesn’t say anything at first, just looks at Adam. The kid’s been carrying all this weight for so fucking long. 

“You should’ve gone,” Nigel says finally, his voice rough but not unkind. There’s something deeper in his tone now, something that’s not just about Adam—it’s about Nigel too, about both of them. “Could’ve gone and looked at your stars, done something more with that big brain of yours. Instead, you stayed.”

Adam’s jaw tightens, his eyes flicking down to the floor, like the words hit harder than he wants to admit. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—regret, maybe. Guilt. Pain. It’s all mixed together, tangled up in everything he’s kept locked up for so long. 

“I know,” he whispers, his voice small. “But I couldn’t just leave. I… I couldn’t.”

Nigel reaches out, his fingers sliding up to cup Adam’s cheek, the rough pads of his fingers brushing over the soft skin there. 

“You’re too fucking smart for that place,” Nigel mutters. “Should’ve been looking at stars, not stuck looking after your old man. You deserved better than that.”

Adam leans into the touch, his eyes soft, the corners of his lips tugging into a sad, small smile. “Maybe,” he whispers. “But it’s where I was. It’s where I thought I needed to be.” 

Nigel’s thumb brushes over Adam’s cheek, slow and tender. “You can’t keep letting other people hold you back. Your dad, all that shit—it’s not an excuse to just let your life slip by. What about what you wanted? Did you ever think about that? Or did you just let him and that miserable fucking town keep you stuck?” 

Nigel's chest tightens, and memories start creeping in before he can stop them—memories of his own dad, gruff and cold, the weight of the man’s expectations pressing on his back like a goddamn anvil. That house, the smell of grease and cigarettes and the endless, bitter complaints about life never giving him what he deserved. 

A fucking cycle. A trap. Nigel spent years trying to break out of it, feeling like he was suffocating in the same rusted-out city, trying to outrun the shadow of his dad’s bitterness. But no matter how hard he fought, it was like the man’s voice was always there, a chain around his throat, dragging him back down every time he thought he’d found some air.

Nigel blinks back to the present, the pressure in his chest squeezing tight.

Adam’s voice comes out soft, almost pleading. “But… I’m staying with you now. Doesn’t that count? I’m here, with you. I’m not stuck anymore, am I? Isn’t that enough?” 

Nigel exhales sharply. Adam’s lips part slightly, and Nigel’s thumb brushes over the corner of his mouth. 

“You belong here now.” 

Adam’s eyes flicker with curiosity, his brow furrowing just a little. 

 “Nigel,” he starts, his voice hesitant. “Did you… did you ever go to school?”

Nigel huffs. “Yeah,” he mutters. “I finished high school, barely. But after that? No. I was more interested in fucking drugs than I was in anything else. Life outside that place didn’t really seem like an option. I was getting high, getting into trouble—same shit, different day. Things got bad, and I didn’t care enough to stop it. My story isn’t unique, baby. Not by a long shot.”

Adam’s eyes widen at that. 

“That’s not true,” he says. “You’re not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

Nigel can’t help the dry chuckle that escapes him. “I don’t know if that’s a good thing.”

Adam’s gaze doesn’t falter, though, his expression earnest. “It is.”

Nigel blinks at him, the weight of Adam’s words settling in. There’s something about the way Adam says it, like he truly believes it, like Nigel is something more than just another lost soul who fucked up and never looked back.

“You’re a fucking sap,” Nigel mutters, though there’s no bite in his words. 

Adam’s lips twitch into a small smile, his breath catching as Nigel’s hand lingers on his skin. Nigel can see it in his eyes—the way Adam holds onto those words, how much he means them, even if Nigel doesn’t fully believe it himself.

“Maybe you’re right,” Nigel says softly. “Maybe I’m not like the rest of them. Maybe it’s because I have you.”

Adam’s lips are soft, raspberry-tender. His brown curls are flecked with gold in the light, shining like something straight out of a dream, and Nigel can’t help but run his fingers through them again, feel the way they coil around his hands like they were made to be touched. Adam’s wild, bright, and everything Nigel never knew he needed, never knew he could have. When Nigel thinks about the word awestruck , it’s Adam that comes to mind, the way he moves, the way he talks, the way he feels under Nigel’s hands.

They’re still driving through the forgotten parts of the country, still avoiding cities, still staying in small towns that won’t remember them after they’re gone. It’s still heaven, Nigel thinks. Every bit of it. Heaven wrapped up in the heat, in the sweat, in the smoke, in the sex, and in Adam.

“Are you… are you my boyfriend now?”

Nigel stares at Adam for a second, like he didn’t hear him right, and then a laugh bubbles up from his chest, deep and warm, spilling out into the room. Adam’s so fucking smart sometimes, too smart for his own good, but when it comes to things like this Nigel forgets how young he really is.

Adam’s face falls a little at the laugh, his lips pressing together in a small frown. But Nigel’s not cruel, at least not right now, and he leans in, pressing a soft kiss to Adam’s cheek. 

“You’re asking me that now? After everything?”

“Well… I don’t know. We haven’t been on a date.”

Nigel’s smile fades a little, his expression turning thoughtful as he slides his hand down from Adam’s waist to his thigh, his fingers gripping the soft flesh there, squeezing just enough to feel the muscle beneath the skin. 

“Sure we have,” he says.

Adam shakes his head, those blue eyes of his still wide and searching. “Eating macaroni in motels and watching TV doesn’t count as a date, Nigel.”

“Who fucking said? And boyfriend sounds immature,” he mutters. “I’m over forty, baby.”

Adam bites his lip again, his hand coming up to touch the corners of Nigel’s eyes where the fine lines have settled in, evidence of time etched into his skin. Nigel catches Adam’s hand in his own, his fingers wrapping around those delicate, slender ones, pressing a kiss to the palm.

“Then what are we?”

Nigel’s eyes darken, the softness in them replaced by something harder, something fiercer. He grabs Adam’s chin roughly, his fingers digging in just enough to make his point clear, enough to hold him still. The suddenness of it makes Adam freeze but there’s no resistance. Nigel holds him there, forcing Adam to look at him. 

“You fucking belong to me,” Nigel says. “That’s that.”

“What if someone asks?”

Nigel sighs, long and heavy. His hand slips lower, fingers teasing just below Adam’s towel, brushing against the soft skin there. He leans in close, his lips brushing against Adam’s throat, kissing and nipping at the tender skin in a way that makes Adam shiver, makes him squirm in Nigel’s grip. 

“Fine,” Nigel mutters into his neck. “Say I’m your fucking boyfriend. Just make sure everyone knows you’re mine.”

“Boyfriends…” Adam pauses, swallows hard, and then tries again, “Boyfriends take their boyfriends on dates.”

Nigel groans, leaning back just enough to look at Adam. 

“You serious about this?” 

Adam nods, his curls brushing lightly against Nigel’s chest, the soft strands tickling his skin. He leans in a little closer, nuzzling into Nigel like he’s trying to burrow himself into the warmth of him, seeking out that safety.

 “Yeah,” Adam whispers, his voice still soft, still shy, but there’s a certainty to it now. “I… I want to go on a real date.”

Nigel huffs out a breath, shaking his head a little, but there’s a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, something soft and resigned. 

“Alright, gorgeous. Have it your way,” he says. “I’ll take you on a real fucking date.” 

Adam’s reaction is immediate. His smile spreads slowly, soft and sweet, like the sun rising after a long, cold night. It’s the kind of smile that presses right into Nigel’s chest, like a warmth that seeps into his bones, chasing away every shadow, every cold, hard edge he’s built up over the years. 

He thinks he could write a goddamn love letter to that smile, could fill oceans with how it makes him feel. 

But then Adam’s eyes move, following the lines of Nigel’s body until they land on the scar that cuts across his forehead.

Nigel swallows hard, his throat working as he tries to push back the familiar weight that settles in his chest. That scar isn’t a pretty one, not like the others that he can spin a story around, make them seem like something earned, something that gives him an edge. 

“That story isn’t as exciting, doll.” His eyes glance up. “It’s as ugly as the fucking scar.”

Adam shakes his head immediately, like he’s rejecting the idea. His hands reach up, and his fingertips hover near Nigel’s forehead, like he’s waiting for permission, waiting to see if Nigel’s gonna pull away. But Nigel doesn’t. Adam’s hand comes up and finally touches him, a finger tracing the rough, uneven edges of the scar.

“It’s not ugly,” Adam whispers, and there’s something soft, something reverent in his voice, like he’s talking about a miracle. 

“See this part here?” His finger traces the circular edge of the scar gently, as if he’s outlining it for Nigel to feel, even though Nigel’s felt it a hundred times before, under his own rough hands. But it’s different now, under Adam’s soft touch. “This is like the head of a shooting star. The part that bursts first. The brightest point, where it breaks into the atmosphere.”

Nigel doesn’t know what to say to that. Hell, he doesn’t know how to respond to the way Adam’s looking at him. 

His boy, his golden boy with a heart so pure and bright that it feels like Nigel can see it shining right there in front of him. 

Nigel leans back against the rattling laundry machine, letting the vibrations roll through his spine as he sucks in a long drag from his cigarette. The smoke fills his lungs, thick and acrid, and he holds it there for a second before exhaling slow, watching the lazy cloud drift into the bright light of the laundromat. 

His eyes slide over to Adam, crouched on the floor with his knees drawn up, perched like some kind of bird. Adam’s staring, wide-eyed, at the clothes swirling around inside the machine, the rhythmic spinning holding him captive. 

He’s wearing that NASA t-shirt Nigel had grabbed for him from a cheap gift shop in some backwater town. Adam’s legs are bare, long and pale, and he’s wearing denim shorts that fold up in the middle of his thighs, leaving too much skin exposed. He looks so young like this, the soft curve of his shoulders, the way his hair falls in his face. Too young. But Nigel doesn’t care. He knows what they look like together. 

He’s careful, keeps Adam close, doesn’t let people in far enough to start asking questions. Not that he thinks Adam would listen to them if they did. What they have is theirs, something too big, too beautiful for anyone else to understand. It’s not something you can explain with words. It’s something you fucking feel.

He glances at Adam again, can’t help it, really. The kid’s mesmerizing, even when he’s doing nothing at all. Nigel pushes himself off the machine, rolling his shoulders as he crosses the small space between them.

Adam looks up when Nigel stops in front of him, those wide eyes blinking up at him, all innocent and trusting. His hair’s fallen in his face, and his lips are parted like he’s waiting for something, like he knows Nigel’s about to give him something. Nigel tilts his head down, smirking a little, and without a word, he lowers his hand, pressing his cigarette to Adam’s lips.

Adam’s eyes go wide, like they always do when Nigel does this. There’s that moment of instinctive surprise, his lashes fluttering before he parts his lips, slow, tentative. He inhales, his lips brushing against the filter, and for a second, it looks like maybe he’s got it, maybe this time he won’t choke. But then, almost immediately, he pulls back, coughing into his arm, his shoulders shaking with the effort. His cheeks flush, sweet and embarrassed, and Nigel can’t help but grin.

Nigel reaches out, his fingers threading through Adam’s soft hair, and he gives him a gentle, almost absentminded pet. Adam’s getting better at this, getting better at everything Nigel asks of him, but Nigel kind of likes that he still coughs. Nigel only lets him smoke when they’re together, only when he can control it, can watch him, because he doesn’t want the kid getting hooked. He just likes the way it looks.

Adam rises to his feet, the machine and its hypnotic spin forgotten the second Nigel’s attention is on him. 

Adam’s eyes flicker up to meet Nigel’s, searching, like he’s looking for something—permission, maybe, or comfort. His fingers curl into the hem of his shirt, fidgeting with the fabric, and there’s this small, almost imperceptible tremor in his hands.

“Nigel?”

Nigel doesn’t answer right away, just hums around the cigarette, his gaze heavy-lidded and lazy. He leans back against the machine again, one arm draped casually over the top, smoke curling from his lips in lazy tendrils.

Adam hesitates, biting down on the inside of his cheek, his eyes flicking to the side, then back to Nigel. He looks like he’s thinking too hard, like the words are getting stuck somewhere in his throat. 

“What will we do? After—after New York?”

The question hangs in the air, heavy and thick, and Nigel squints at Adam, letting it settle. 

“I don’t know,” Nigel says finally, his voice rough. 

Adam’s waiting for something, for Nigel to say more, to offer some kind of reassurance, and Nigel knows he should. He should have the right answer, should tell Adam that everything’s going to be fine, that they’ll find a way to keep going like they always have. But the truth is, Nigel doesn’t know. He’s been running on gasoline, pushing forward without a plan, just the two of them against the world, and somehow, it’s worked so far. But for how long? That’s the question he tries to shove down every time Adam looks at him with those hopeful eyes.

He blows a stream of smoke out of the side of his mouth, watching it dissipate into the empty room. 

“I haven’t really thought about it,” he admits. “Figured we’d handle what we need to in New York and just… keep going.”

Adam’s eyes flicker with something—maybe relief, maybe uncertainty, it’s hard to tell. He nods, his lips pressing into a thin line, but the tension in his shoulders doesn’t ease. Nigel can see the questions still swimming in his head, the doubts, the fears. 

“What if… what if they find us? The police, or my dad, or anyone who’s looking for us… what if they know where we are? What if they’re already looking? What if—what if we get caught?” 

Nigel’s jaw tightens at the mention of getting caught, his teeth grinding together. He hates that word. Caught. It feels like a threat. He pushes off the machine, flicking his cigarette to the floor and crushing it. 

“We fucking won’t,” he snaps, his voice sharp, biting. He doesn’t want to hear that word, doesn’t want to think about it. They won’t get caught. They can’t. He won’t let it happen.

Nigel looks away, eyes drawn back to the washing machine, watching the clothes spin endlessly. Round and round, like a wheel that never stops turning.

“When I said this was for you,” Nigel says after a long pause. “I meant it. I still mean it.” He glances back at Adam, his eyes dark, intense. “I’m going to take care of you.”

Adam swallows hard. “I know.”

Nigel nods, more to himself than to Adam, trying to reassure himself that he’s doing the right thing, that he’s keeping his promises. 

“I didn’t really think…” Nigel clears his throat, the words sticking in his chest, thick and uncomfortable. “I didn’t think we’d get this far. Not this easy.”

Adam’s quiet, his eyes downcast, thoughtful. 

“You do deserve a home, Adam,” Nigel says, his tone low. “Not the back of my stupid piece-of-shit car.”

“I built a shelf once,” Adam says, out of nowhere.

Nigel huffs a laugh, the sound abrupt and unexpected. “Really?” 

Adam nods, shy, like he’s embarrassed to bring it up. “Mhm,” he says. “I built a shelf. I mean, it wasn’t… it wasn’t anything complicated. Just a shelf. But I built it. By myself.”

Nigel tilts his head. 

“I don’t know how I’d do with any… real construction,” Adam adds, scratching the back of his neck, like he’s suddenly unsure of himself. “Renovations. I always got kind of… scared in hardware stores. When I was a kid. Just… too much stuff. Too many people.”

Adam’s fingers trace over his thigh, nails leaving faint, pink marks as they drag over the skin. The small, delicate lines fade almost instantly, but Nigel’s eyes linger on them for a moment before shifting back to Adam’s face.

“But you built a shelf,” Nigel says, like he’s holding onto that fact, like it’s important somehow.

“Yes,” Adam replies, his voice barely above a whisper. “I built a shelf.”

Nigel nods, more to himself than to Adam. He’s already thinking, already planning, even if it’s just vague ideas in the back of his mind. The thought of settling somewhere, of building something—even something as simple as a shelf—sticks with him. It means something. Adam isn’t just spitting out random facts for no reason. 

Nigel tells himself it means something. 

“That’s good,” Nigel murmurs. “That’s really fucking good.”

Nigel knows—if, when, they find a place to call their own, he’ll let Adam build their shelves. 

Nigel can already picture it. He can see Adam there, maybe in their kitchen, the one they’ll share, barefoot, his curls a mess, all warm and soft from sleep. He’ll be standing by the stove, maybe, still a little out of it, maybe still smelling like their sheets, their bed, that they’ll sleep in every night. Nigel thinks about that for a second, thinks about how good it’ll feel to come home to that—Adam, sleepy and tousled, his eyes half-closed but bright, all for him.

He wants that. Fuck, he wants it. 

Nigel’s eyes drift lazily from Adam back to the far wall of the laundromat, where a patchwork of missing posters clings to the chipped plaster like a morbid mosaic. 

Nigel’s not dumb. He knows they can’t outrun this forever. The longer they’re out here, skirting through forgotten towns and rundown motels, the closer they get to that line. And yeah, Adam’s been careful, quieter than he used to be, but Nigel’s seen the eyes on them sometimes, the way people look twice when Adam’s bruises are too fresh, when his hands tremble just a little too much.

The thought of Adam being lost like that, a face on some wall in a town that doesn’t give a shit, should scare the hell out of him. It should make his blood run cold, should make him want to pull Adam out of here, stuff him in the car and drive until the road ends. But it doesn’t. It doesn’t terrify him the way it used to when they first started this whole thing.

Maybe it’s because Nigel knows now—really knows—that no matter where they end up, no matter how far they run or how close they get to that line, Adam belongs with him. 

And no missing poster is going to change that. They can keep their little slice of heaven, tucked away from the rest of the world, hidden where no one’s ever gonna find them. 

Nigel remembers that bullshit Charlie spouted to Gabi that one night, something about the world being their oyster and them being the pearl. It sounded stupid then, but now… now he gets it. The world can do whatever the hell it wants—it doesn’t matter. They’ve got their own thing going, something no one else can take. 

Even if they need to keep their heads down, there’s something to that. 

But one thing about Nigel, is that he can’t control his temper. It follows him, leaving a trail behind him like a shadow. 

And Nigel’s been real fucking proud of himself, hasn’t he? Not once since they got here has he let himself snap, not even at the parade of stupid fucking Americans who seem to line the streets like they’re waiting for him to go off. He’s kept his mouth shut, kept his fists to himself. 

But.

One morning, Nigel and Adam are trying to get a room just like any other day. They’re both running on fumes, too many days of hard driving with no rest, no real sleep. The kind that sticks to your bones and makes your eyes sting, dry and red-rimmed. Nigel wants to hold his boy and sleep for fucking days, wants to bury his face in Adam’s hair, forget the road for a little. 

The guy at the counter looks like the kind of person you’d expect in a place like this. Old, greasy, with a stained shirt that might’ve been white once but now’s more of a yellowish brown, sweat stains under his armpits like dark rings of filth. His hair’s slicked back, but not in the way people do to look good. More like he’s trying to keep the grease from dripping into his eyes. And his eyes—those beady little fuckers—dart up and down at them like he’s sizing them up for a fight.

But they just need a place to crash. A bed, a shower, maybe just a few hours of rest. Nigel can almost taste the relief he’d feel sinking into a shitty mattress, Adam’s body warm against his, everything quiet. 

Nigel’s the one who speaks up first. “Yeah, we’re looking for a room. Just for tonight. Got any vacancies?”

But the guy doesn’t even look at him. Doesn’t even fucking acknowledge him. His beady eyes flick to Adam, standing there all quiet and fidgeting, fingers twisting at the hem of his shirt, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like he’s not sure where to put himself.  His hair’s a mess, too—brown curls sticking to his forehead in the heat. And that’s where the guy’s focus lands, zeroes in on Adam. And something changes in the guy’s face. Something ugly.

Adam’s noticed the staring, of course he has. He always notices. He knows about his bruises, the ones that trace over his pale skin. And he doesn’t hide them, doesn’t try to explain them away. Nigel fucking adores him for it.

“We don’t sell to your type.”

Adam’s face goes pale, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag, knuckles turning white. Nigel feels something sharp twist inside him, something mean and hot that’s been brewing for far too long. A flash of memory hits him so hard it’s like someone’s slammed a door in his face.

Nigel clenches his jaw, teeth grinding together so hard it feels like they might shatter. He’s been good lately, hasn’t he? 

But then the guy’s eyes linger on Adam again, linger like he’s worth nothing, and Nigel’s restraint snaps in half like a rotten piece of wood. His fists ball up before he even knows what’s happening. 

“You heard me. Don’t need your faggot hands all over our stuff, spreading your disease or whatever the hell it is you people do. You want to touch something, go play house somewhere else. We don’t sell to your kind,” the guy says, his voice thick with disdain. His eyes narrow, focusing on Adam. "Especially that one. Look at him. Bet he doesn’t even know which way’s up, does he? What’s the matter, sweetheart? Can’t figure out how to talk to real men?"

The guy barely has time to react before Nigel’s on him, grabbing the collar of his grimy shirt and slamming him into the wall behind the register, hard enough that the old wood groans under the pressure.

“You don’t fucking talk to him like that,” Nigel growls, his face inches from the man’s. “You don’t fucking look at him, you don’t even fucking breathe near him, you piece of shit. Don’t think I won’t crush your goddamn windpipe and leave you twitching on the floor.”

The guy’s too stunned to respond at first, mouth hanging open like a fish out of water, eyes wide and panicked. The guy tries to squirm out of Nigel’s grip, his hands coming up to push against Nigel’s chest, but it’s pathetic, weak, and Nigel doesn’t even feel it. His fingers tighten around the guy’s collar, twisting the fabric so tight it cuts into the guy’s throat, and he yanks him forward.

The guy finally finds his voice, a choked, gasping sound, pathetic as it gets. “I—I didn’t mean anything by it, man. I don’t make the rules here. I’m just doing my job—”

Nigel cuts him off, slamming him back into the wall again, the crack of the wood behind him loud and sharp. 

“Fuck your job,” Nigel hisses. “You looked right at him. You knew exactly what the fuck you were doing. I’ll fucking rip your throat out and let you bleed out on this floor if you ever look at him again. You think I won’t?” 

There’s a sick satisfaction that comes with the look of terror spreading across the guy’s face, the way his hands tremble as he tries to push Nigel off. The guy’s pathetic, weak, just like every other small-town bigot Nigel’s ever had the misfortune of running into. 

“You don’t get to look at him,” Nigel says again, his voice sharper this time. He gives the guy another rough shake, just to drive it home. “He’s worth more than this whole fucking town, and you don’t even come close to deserving to breathe the same air as him. You’re nothing.”

The guy sputters, trying to speak again, but the words come out garbled, fear choking the breath in his throat. “I… I didn’t know, man, I—” His gaze darts to Adam, then back to Nigel, like he’s looking for an escape that’s not coming.

“You didn’t know what?” Nigel snaps, leaning in even closer, his forehead nearly touching the guy’s. “Didn’t know he was with me? Didn’t know I’d fucking kill you for talking to him?”

The guy swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly under the pressure of Nigel’s fist at his throat. His breathing’s shallow, chest heaving in short, quick bursts like a caged animal. “I didn’t mean it like that—”

Nigel’s free hand comes up, knuckles cracking against the guy’s jaw in one quick, brutal motion. The sickening crunch of bone echoes in the small, grimy room, and the guy lets out a strangled cry, blood already dripping from the corner of his mouth. It’s not enough, though. Not by a long shot.

Nigel’s fist swings again, and this time it’s harder, knuckles connecting with the guy’s cheek, sending his head snapping back against the wall. The blood comes faster now, spilling down the guy’s face, thick and dark, staining the front of his already filthy shirt. Nigel’s fists keep moving, one after the other, like they’ve got a mind of their own. Each punch lands with a satisfying crack, each blow a release, a way to break off the jagged pieces of the past that still stick in his throat like broken glass.

Nigel’s hand moves to his waistband, fingers curling around the cold metal of his gun. He pulls it free in one swift motion, the weight of it grounding him for a split second before that same fire lights up his veins again. He presses the barrel against the guy’s lips, hard, forcing his jaw to open.

The guy's eyes go even wider, his trembling becoming full-body shakes, like he can already feel what's coming. His mouth opens wider under the pressure of the gun, and Nigel shoves it in further, the metal scraping against the guy’s teeth, cutting at his gums. The fear is pouring off him now, thick in the air, and Nigel fucking loves it.

"Suck it," Nigel says, voice like gravel, his hand pressing harder on the gun, forcing it deeper. "Go on. Suck it."

The guy hesitates for half a second, eyes darting to Adam, who’s standing frozen, pale as a ghost. But Adam doesn’t move, doesn’t say a damn word, and Nigel feels something dark twist inside him when the guy finally obeys, lips closing around the barrel of the gun.

Nigel’s heart pounds in his chest, blood roaring in his ears as he watches the man’s mouth move, the barrel of the gun slick with spit now, and it’s fucking disgusting, but it’s also exactly what Nigel wants. 

“Good boy,” Nigel mutters, his voice a low rumble, his thumb hovering over the trigger. 

Before the guy can even blink, Nigel pulls the trigger. The shot echoes in the small, grimy room like a bomb going off, and the guy’s body jerks violently, a spray of blood and brain matter exploding from the back of his head, splattering the wall behind him in a dark, wet mess.

Nigel pulls the trigger again. And again. He can’t stop. Over and over, until the guy’s head is barely recognizable, just a pulpy mess of blood and bone.

Blood sprays across Nigel’s face, warm and thick, splattering his shirt, his hands, even his mouth. The smell of it, the taste of it—it all feels familiar now, like something he’s always known, something he’s always been.

Adam reminds him too much of himself. Of the way he used to be, all gangly limbs and wide eyes, skin bruised and mottled for entirely different reasons. And his father—the way his old man would loom over him, fists clenched, a bottle of cheap bourbon sloshing in one hand.

He can still hear his old man’s voice, calling him names that cut sharper than any belt ever did. “Goddamn pussy, always crying about something. You’re crying cause you like it? You like it when a man shows you how it’s done?”

That word— cock sucker —it used to sting, used to hang in the air like poison. Nigel’d start using it too, before he even knew what the fuck it meant. Just threw it around like his old man did, spitting it at anyone who seemed smaller than him, weaker, anyone who looked at him the wrong way.

It wasn’t until now that he started to realize just how fucking beautiful boys could be. 

Nigel’s gun clicks. 

He turns his head, looks at Adam. His boy’s standing a few feet away, trembling, hands hovering above his ears like he doesn’t know whether to reach out or run, like he’s caught between wanting to pull Nigel back and wanting to disappear altogether. 

Nigel drops the guy, his chest heaving as he stumbles back, the rage still buzzing under his skin, but the energy’s gone, spent. His fists ache, knuckles split and bleeding, but he wipes the blood on his jeans like it’s nothing. His head’s spinning, but Adam’s already moving, already coming closer, grabbing his arm with trembling fingers and pulling him toward the door, and Nigel lets him. 

They don’t say a word as they pile into the car, the air between them thick and heavy with unspoken things, with fear and anger and whatever the hell this was. 

Nigel’s knuckles are still dripping blood, the red mixing with the grime on his hands. Adam opens his mouth, his voice hesitant, like he’s trying to find the right thing to say but doesn’t quite know how to start. Before he can get a word out, Nigel cuts him off.

“If you ask, I’ll give you the same fucking treatment. Just say thank you.”

Adam hesitates for a moment, his lips parting, eyes flicking over Nigel’s bloody hands. He swallows hard, and then, in a small, barely-there voice, he whispers, “Thank you.”

Once he’s calmer, Nigel finds himself wondering, for maybe the thousandth time, if there’ll ever come a day when Adam stops surprising him. 

He’s thought about it before—hell, he thinks about it a lot, especially when he’s behind the wheel like this, cruising through another stretch of empty road. For all Adam’s fussiness, for how rigid he is about keeping his routines—same brand of toothpaste, same breakfast every morning down to the number of bites, same precise way he folds his clothes—it always hits Nigel how the kid manages to be so fucking unpredictable. 

Adam is a walking contradiction. A creature of habit with a mind that veers off into unknown territory at the drop of a hat. Nigel doesn’t think he’s ever met anyone who thrives on routine as much as Adam does, and yet, he’s never known someone whose thoughts take such wild turns. 

Not that he minds. Hell, it’s one of the things he likes most about Adam. It’s a kind of brilliance Nigel doesn’t have, a kind of brilliance he’s in awe of, even if sometimes it drives him fucking crazy. Adam’s questions… Jesus, his questions. They come out of nowhere sometimes, like sharp little bullets fired from a gun with no warning. 

“Will you ever hit me again?”

Nigel’s fingers stop cold. He turns his head, slowly, like he’s not sure he heard right, like maybe the hum of the engine and the drone of the tires on the road are playing tricks on his ears. Adam’s sitting there, his blue eyes wide and unblinking, his face as calm as ever, like he’s asking the most casual thing in the world. 

“Repeat that for me, baby.”

Adam swallows, and Nigel watches the way his throat bobs, the way his cheeks flush pink, that embarrassed blush creeping up under his skin. 

“Will you—will you ever hit me again?”

“If you gave me a reason to.”

Adam’s silent for a second, just chewing on that, processing it in that quiet, thoughtful way he has. His lip pulls between his teeth, and Nigel can’t help but watch the way those lips part, the soft, pink skin dented where his teeth bite down, the tiny flash of white as he worries at it.

“Did you have a—a reason when you did it before?”

Nigel bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, the taste of iron mixing with the memory.

“It was a misunderstanding, gorgeous. We talked about it.”

Adam sighs, his shoulders slumping just a little, fingers fidgeting in his lap like they always do when he’s uncomfortable.

“I know,” he says.

Nigel thinks that’s the end of it, thinks maybe Adam’s finally ready to let it go, to drop it and move on. But Adam, in his unpredictable way, never stops where Nigel expects him to. His next question comes quiet, shy.