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The asphalt beneath his heavy body was wet, the rain having settled between the rocks into a large, shallow puddle that engulfed the entire road. His sleeved were wet, having neglected to put on a shirt, his hair and back were staring to become soggy with the dirty, cold water. But most of all, his pants were soaked. In fact, they were so soaked that they were dripping onto the asphalt, mixing with the rainwater puddles. He could smell it, that familiar metallic tang now making its way into his nose along with the dirt and grime from the road, the exhaust from the cars that kept hoking at him. Their lights blinded him, making him dizzy with all the colors and brightness against the dark night. He couldn’t find it in himself to move out of the way, merely mentally scoffing at the fuckers deciding to drive by him. Fuck, they were so fucking loud.
He couldn’t even move an inch if he tried, even breathing was a struggle when he slowly found himself losing sensation of his own body. He stared up at the night sky, those blinking stars, with blurred vision and knew if he had been able, he would have reached behind him to move the warm metal pressing into his backside and spine; the fucker, the cause of all of this.
Adam knew that walking around in new York at midnight could be dangerous. In theory. As bad as his catastrophe thinking could be, this generally wasn’t one of his fears. He knew that people here could be dangerous for him, of course, he had witness people do the strangest things here, even as a kid, especially at night. And he knew that he wouldn’t be able to do much in defense. He had been made fun of a pushed around before, and despite his physical advantages, all he'd been able to do was freeze. His panic state could definitely be used against him and it had been before. But he was used to walking around the streets at night. How else would he look at the stars? Most of his life he'd been wandering around at night, to and from the park, nose pointed at the sky, why should tonight be any different? He knew what to expect and his expectations hadn’t let him down before. Not when it came to this. Not his stars.
So why should he be caught off guard by a muffled voice in front of him? Cars honking at something in the road. What? What were they honking at? A trash bag? A figure? An addict passed out on the street? It was dark and unmoving, way too big to have been a stray animal, not his raccoons or a bird. Not that ostriches tended to hang out in central new York, but it was the first bird big enough to be recognized in his brain.
A body?
A shiver rolled down his spine and he froze. He froze like he had done all those other times he'd been afraid. Should he call the police? He should, right? Or maybe CPR was the right move, he could revive this person. If he even remembered how to. Chest compressions right? But he didn’t even know what was wrong with the person, they could have been hit by a car, probably hit by a car actually, seeing as they were in the middle of the road. He should do both, actually. It could have been an animal attack. He'd assumed it was an animal lying there in the first place, what if it had been one to do it? He looked around frantically. Should he call first and then start CPR or was it the other way around? God, what if another person had done this? His heart started to race, pressing up into his throat. He should run.
He should leave, find another route home.
Did he know another route?
His feet stayed planted on the ground.
His eyes scanned the environment violently.
Cars started honking. Louder.
He could hear the sound of his own breathing.
A painted groan sounded from the body.
A groan?
His eyes shot to the figure, now beginning to shift, though only slightly, like it was painful to even move, before another hiss was heard. His feet took a cautious step forward without his knowledge. Then another, and one more and then he was power walking toward the source, despite loud horns and bright flashing lights from the cars.
“Oh my God,” he whispered, despite never having been religious, voice cracking with his frantic pants, he was unsure if it had been from his rushed walk over or otherwise. His hands hovered over the body, eyes flickering across his figure, he was bleeding. It was so dark, so, so dark, and Adam was so unsure of how to help. “I need to call an ambulance,” he said firmly, more to himself than the other man.
“No, fuck no,” muttered the figure, wincing when he tried to sit up. Adam's hand shot up to push back against his chest, though he couldn’t bring himself to it. Instead, he scanned the puddle of blood forming on the wounded man’s pants after he got the hint and laid down again with a scoff. It was hard to see in the dark and Adam had to squint before he saw it, a sparkle of light. Blood, not yet dried, reflecting the lights of the street.
He had so many questions that he didn’t know how to ask. He ended up pressing harder against the wound, finding only more warm blood oozing out. “Why?,” he ended up asking instead, his voice only a whisper in the dark. Adam's gaze flickered to the other man’s again when he spoke, answering. “Not everyone,” he wheezed like he'd been kicked in the stomach, “Can afford your expensive fucking healthcare.”
Adam could only squeeze his eyes shut, nodding, thinking. Subconsciously he noted that the lisp from the voice hadn’t just been from the injury, but probably an accent. His fingers pressed harder into the man’s thigh, which gave a twitch in response, though no sound came from the figure as he continued to try and make sense of his disjointed thoughts. “I can treat you at my apartment,” he managed to stammer out despite the uncomfortable tingling he felt in the base of his spine at the thought of this stranger being in his home.
Forcing his eyelids to open, he bit at his bottom lip instead as he moved his hand to peek under his stained palm. It still looked as horrifying as it had moments prior.
There was no way he could carry this man all the way home. Not while keeping pressure on the wound.
He scanned his surroundings, looking for someone to come save him.
“Help!,” he screamed, voice cracking, unsure of what to do. “Hey!,” the other man attempted to call at him before Adam interrupted him again, “Help-!,” the figure reached out to him before the word could leave his lips.
He would have jumped back in fear if the other didn’t have a firm grip on the front of his shirt, instead he just stared back, wide eyed and afraid. “Shut the fuck up,” he said, sounding angry now and Adam trembled in his grasp. “I’ll walk.” The man let go with a push against his chest and Adam, having being crouched down, staggered before falling directly on his butt. In horror, he watched the other twist around on his side to get his hands planted on the ground before attempting to stand up. “You could have hit your femoral artery,” was all Adam managed to say in his shock. The other man clearly couldn’t balance himself, when he put pressure on the injured leg, he almost fell over and Adam shot up in an attempt to steady him, but he was only brushed off. “If I’d hit my femoral artery, I’d have bleed out minutes ago,” he winced when he tried to take a step and this time, when Adam swooped in to grab his arm and waist, he didn’t protest.
Pathetically, he ended up losing his balance when he stepped on his bad leg again, having to lean on the shorter man who was actually surprisingly strong despite his personality and caught him easily. “Fuck,” he said for probably the fortieth time and leaned on a nearby car for support. The brunette watched in horror as he full body slammed into the metal, probably afraid of a car alarm that didn’t come or his bones breaking at the force. “Unbuckle your belt,” Nigel managed to grit out, but was only met with wide eyes flickering to his face, mouth?
“What?”
“Do you see me fucking wearing one? Give me your fucking belt.” He watched expectantly with a hand held out to the other man who he'd freed himself from, already out of breath from the few steps and short sentences.
Quickly, fingers worked the belt around blue jeans and Nigel snatched it as soon as it was freed. “Do you want me to take off my pants too?,” asked the other man hesitantly. Nigel quirked a brow in response. “You a fucking fag?” He didn’t look up long enough to wait for an answer, instead wrapping the belt around his upper thigh, making sure to get it above the wound on the back of his thigh too even as he struggled to keep a firm footing.
“No?”
“Then how ‘bout you keep ‘em on for now and wait till we get to your apartment, yeah?” Securing the belt tightly, he winced slightly at the pressure before holding out his hand again. The other only stammered as he looked confusedly at Nigel, “Wha-?,” he sputtered, before seemingly reaching an epiphany, realizing that Nigel didn’t want anything more and he finally grasped around his waist again to lead them into step.
“I think you’ve misunderstood, I’m not interested in hooking up with you, I just wanted to help,” he said after a few agonizingly slow steps.
“Fucking lovely, then we’re on the same page.”
Somehow they managed to make it up the stairs, at which point Nigel's bleeding had calmed down somewhat, and the other could leave him to lean against the wall as he got out the keys to open the door. “I’m Adam,” he said while wrapping Nigel's arm back over his shoulder and guiding them into the entrée, then, “Try to not bleed on my carpet, please.” To which Nigel couldn’t help but snicker at. Respect for Adam, he supposed, always good to have your priorities straight. He was definitely the type to understand how hard blood stains were to get out, so he didn’t complain.
Adam closed the door with his foot before continuing to take them through the apartment. “Nigel,” said Nigel idiotically. Mentally shooting himself, and this time aiming a little higher. Well, after all Adam had done for him, he supposed he deserved a little bit of the truth. And even if giving his name away to this absolute pussy was a terrible fucking idea, at least he didn’t have to worry about someone calling 911 on him. Or, having to deal with his injury himself.
Adam's bathroom was impressively clean, as was the rest of his apartment and Nigel couldn’t help but suspect he was hiding something. He'd only ever seen rooms this clean if they were used for stashing drugs. Though the only ones he could see were in a cupboard that Adam quickly opened before seemingly realizing that Nigel couldn’t sit down on his own and rushing back with the door to the pills fully open. He grabbed Nigel's arms to steady him while Nigel reached behind him to pull out his gun before allowing himself to be lowered onto the toilet seat. No need for two accidents in one night.
It clattered loudly on the bathroom counter, probably fake marble, judging by the bicolored swirls. Immediately, the smaller man jumped back, hands raised in the air while gesturing to the objects and their clanky collision.
“What is that?,” he asked steadily, in contrast to his apparent shock.
Nigel eyed the gun before looking back at Adam's face. “Revolver, I believe,” he answered casually, taking in Adam's frightened state, looking him up and down.
He was pretty sure Adam would have scoffed, had he been able to. “I mean what is it doing here,” he gritted out, taking another half step back, as if Nigel would execute him after all he had done.
“How the fuck ‘you think I got the wound?” He was sure it would have sounded a lot more threatening, had he not been placed on a toilet seat, unable to get up without assistance. “Amateur move, really.” Averting his gaze, he rubbed a hand over the fading tattoo on his neck.
Such a fucking amateur move. He'd seen reckless knuckleheads shoving their cocked and loaded guns into their pants, trying to seem tough, though they’d only handled a weapon a couple of times before, only to end up shooting their balls off. Easy castration, was his look on it. Took out the weakest links before they could copulate and lay their pitiful eggs. He would never had thought it would happen to him. In fact, had it been anyone else, he would’ve been dancing on their grave right now. Not so fun when it was his own flesh bleeding from a trigger happy pair of pants.
Adam exhaled heavily, though only to drive his shoulders higher around his ears. “Why do you have that?”
“None of your fucking business.” Nigel squinted at the man, showing his teeth, but Adam refused to meet his gaze, looking right past him. Well fuck him for judging, all he needed was some goddamn help, he'd be out within a matter of minutes if they didn’t need to do this fucking back and forth questioning.
“It’s my business when it’s in my home.”
Sighing irritatedly, he answered, “Protection.”
Adam hesitated, eyed flickering higher, as if in thought, and Nigel couldn’t help but feel his eyebrows shoot up, staring at him despondently. “I want you out - with the gun – as soon as we’re done here,” said Adam finally, eyeing the revolver as if it would go off on him at any point. “Yes sir.” Nigel raised his hands and lowered his head in a nod.
“Take off your pants,” were the final words shared between them for a long time as Adam got down onto one knee in front of him, helping him undo his pants and get them off his hips and feet. Any flush of his cheeks at that moment would have been from the embarrassment of shooting himself clean in the leg. It still hadn’t clotted, which wasn’t a good sign, and Nigel began to ponder whether he could have nicked the artery, although his bleeding had definitely calmed a lot. Reduced to only a slow trickle down the side of his thigh, leg hairs tangling in the sticky, drying fluid.
Standing back up again, Adam walked over to his sink, washing his hands effectively before drying them and looking inside the cupboard again. This time he actually reached inside to find a first aid kit, opening it to get out a tourniquet, a proper one, this time. He bent down again, lifting Nigel's foot in his hands to slide it on, fastening it just above the injury. “Do you need help taking off your shirt?,” he asked, huffing a little while twisting the final turns.
“Excuse me?”
Adam finally looked up from his thighs, resting a hand on the good one, clarifying. “You got some blood on the hem, probably from your hands or mine, and I didn’t think you’d want to risk it getting wet.”
“Wet??” Nigel narrowed his eyebrows, creating a crease on his forehead.
“When I hose you down. Thought it would be the most effective to get off all that dried blood.”
Looking at the mess that was his thigh, he realized he really was bloodied. The splotch, which reached just below his knee and right under his hip, probably spread further by the fabric of his jeans, was smudged the edges, making it a coppery orange colour. And where the liquid was most saturated, it had already turned brown and matte. Only a ring around the wound itself was still crimson in colour, glistening in the harsh bathroom lights from above. Though it was thickening, already drying.
“No, I can take it off myself,” he grumbled finally, unbuttoning his long black long sleeved shirt and pushing it off his shoulders so he was completely disrobed, save for the boxers. Adam didn’t ask him to take those off, thank god, only guided him to the shower, pulling out a plastic stool for him to sit on.
Nigel purposely kept his mouth shut while Adam grabbed the shower head from the wall and gently rinsed him off, carefully angling it down when he got to Nigel's thigh, making sure not to get the tourniquet wet. Using his other hand, he caressed down Nigel's legs to get the sticky fluid off until it started to come off in chunks, washing down the drain. He then asked Nigel to spread his legs a little further to clean around the entrance wound on the other side. After he finished, and all that was left was only a pinkish stain on his legs, Adam dried him off with a fluffy towel, gently taking both feet around Nigel's slender ankle to dry them too. He might have had to stare at the wall in front of him to stop his face from feeling so warm, though he didn’t say anything.
When Nigel expected Adam to either leave him to collect his clothes – and bearings – and leave the house, or at least transfer him from the bath stool, he did neither. Instead, he grabbed the kit again and sat down to ease the pressure on the tourniquet, looking to see when the bleeding would pick up. When it didn’t, he twisted the handle all the way and slid it down Nigel's thigh, placing his foot on his knee, not putting it back down, even when the tourniquet clattered onto the floor.
Adam then grabbed antibiotic ointment from the box, unscrewing the lid to press a glob onto his fingers before rubbing it on Nigel's wounds before bandaging both sides with clean dressings. His hands seemed to hesitate on his knees, looking at the ground as he opened his mouth. “I think you should get actual help from someone. I, I know you can’t afford to go to the hospital, but this is serious.”
The words Nigel had planned died on his tongue when Adam looked up again, finally looking into his eyes. He licked his lips and cleared his throat, averting his gaze. “I know somebody who can help, don’t worry. I’ll see him tomorrow.”
Adam gave a nod and promptly left. “I’ll find you some clean clothes,” he said without turning around. And then there was silence.
Nigel didn’t look up from the floor until he heard the soft patting of shuffling feet coming his way. In Adam's hands were a pair of dark blue pajamas pants and a plain white t-shirt. “Do you need help getting it on?” he asked quietly.
“I’ll manage, thank you.” Nigel's voice sounded hoarse to his own ears as he rubbed at his neck before accepting the clothes. Adam hovered for a little while, fidgeting with the collar of his shirt while Nigel pulled on the pants. “You can sleep on the couch, just until tomorrow,” he finally got out, sounding quite soft while equally stern. “That,” he eyed the gun, “stays with me.” Nigel opened his mouth to speak but Adam beat him to it. “You can get it back in the morning.” And then he left, taking the dirty clothes and gun with him, underestimating its weight by quite a lot before getting a proper grasp on it. This time he shut the door to give Nigel some privacy.
When he came out again, the apartment was dead silent and he trudged to the living room, finding the couch done up for him and a couple over the counter painkillers on the table with a glass of water. Stretching, he went to lay on the wildly uncomfortable couch, somehow sleeping better than he could remember ever having slept before. Maybe it was the blood loss that made him pass out immediately upon placing his head on the pillow.
The next morning he found the same pills and glass on the table as well as his gun and a post-it note stuck to the table. He winced when he tried to stretch, the adrenaline from yesterday had probably already left his body and he struggled to sit up. On the note was a phone number and an excuse about ringing Adam if he ever needed it again. He chuckled and continued reading, laughing even harder when he read ‘Remember to lock the door,’ and realizing he'd actually left his spare key next to the gun Nigel owned, telling him to place it under the door mat. How idiotic should one have to be to let someone like Nigel spend the night at their apartment and then leave them alone after giving back their gun with a number and key? And how absolutely moronic should someone like Nigel have to be to follow the instructions, tucking an un-cocked gun into their freshly washed, now ruined jeans and safely locking the front door before placing it under the door mat without taking any valuables?
If he hadn’t been confirmed absolutely brain dead before…
He sighed heavily, grabbing a cigarette from the box that had carefully been placed back into his jean pocket after washing, lighting it as he walked home. “Fuck.”