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Alright, they were moving kinda fast. They were two months into fucking each other and sorta, maybe dating. It was official in everything but name: They went out on dates, they spent the night at each other's places, and Lawrence called him after work if he wasn't already coming over. He didn't know or particularly care if he talked about him to other people, or what he called him if he did. When Adam mentioned him to anyone, he'd give the casual version and pray no one caught how dreamily he’d say, ‘This guy I'm seeing’.
Now they were moving in together.
They were at each other's places constantly, and Lawrence was already paying for a place with too much fucking space. It made sense, as awkward as it was to tell any of his friends he was moving into an apartment with the guy he'd been put in a Jigsaw trap with.
“The Bathroom guy?” They'd ask, and he'd watch their brows shoot up as they realized ‘bathroom guy’ and ‘guy i'm seeing’ were likely one and the same.
And every time he would laugh, and feel gross for calling him that when he'd grown to mean more to him than just the other guy in the trap. But he was too much of a pussy to correct them and call him his partner, or his boyfriend. “Yeah, the bathroom guy.”
Adam didn't have much to pack up, anyway. His old cookware, that mostly consisted of half-melted plastic mixing spoons and bottom-burnt pans, were decidedly not coming with him. Lawrence had better. His place was already furnished, and so Adam's beloved beat up couch that held him during so many days rotting or days in pain, was getting left behind too. He brought his clothes, his photography equipment, and not much else. A few decorations he'd gotten attached to and mementos.
Everything fit into their two cars in a single trip. It was moving the boxes that was the hard part, even with the hand truck one of Lawrence's colleagues had been able to lend them. They still had to load and unload the boxes from their cars, which wasn't ideal, with the doctor's brand new prosthesis and his own unsteady left foot and perpetually burning shoulder.
“Fuck, hold on.” Adam dropped the corner of the box and let it thunk into the trunk of his rusted-up beater. He bent at the waist as if putting his shoulder closer to the pavement would make it hurt any less. It was as if someone was trying to pull his shoulder out of its socket.
“Take your time.” His hand rested between his shoulder blades, and it didn't take the pain away, but the warmth of his hand wasn't an unwelcome comfort. He appreciated that he never asked ‘are you okay?’ or ‘what’s wrong?’, because, God, did those become annoyingly repetitive to answer. My shoulder hurts. No, I'm not fucking okay, I'm in so much pain, what isn't wrong?
More commonly he’d grit his teeth and say ‘fine’ anyway. But Lawrence was good about this stuff and knew how to check in without pissing him off with unhelpful questions.
“Okay,” he assured himself. “I got this.”
He wiggled his fingers beneath the box again and took a deep breath as he lifted it, plopping it ungracefully onto the hand truck. “My whole darkroom is in there. The rest shouldn't be as heavy.”
They were able to wheel everything in without many more issues, dumping the boxes on the far side of the living room and wordlessly agreeing they’d deal with those later. The spring sun was setting and Adam was exhausted. He plopped down on the couch, the thing far firmer than his own. Man, he was gonna miss that beat up piece of junk. It treated him well. It’d probably be the only thing he would miss from his old place. He certainly wouldn’t miss the water damaged ceiling, or the silverfish that showered with him, or the jam in the door that would trap him in his bedroom on occasion.
The doctor's flat was much, much nicer - duh. Two bedrooms with a big kitchen that had all new appliances and a full size bathtub, even. He felt out of place. His last apartment had been an upgrade from the one before, which had already seemed like moving into a ritzy new development after he turned eighteen and he stopped living in his dad's trailer. “I feel like a wet cat you took pity on and brought inside.”
“You were quite damp when I met you.”
Adam huffed out a laugh. “Not gonna neuter me though, are you?”
“Never.” He leaned down over him where he's splayed out, supporting himself on the back of the couch to kiss him. It's only a peck, and that’s what has Adam swallowing down the ‘what are we’ question. “I don't know how I'd keep you entertained if I did.”
“You calling me easy?” He teased.
He shook his head with a snicker. “Should I order us a pizza?”
“Hey, that’s not an answer. But. Yeah. Please, I'm starving. Pepperoni?”
“Pepperoni.”
He’d slept in his bed before, been fucked in it before, watched TV with him in it before, but that night was different. It wasn't just Lawrence's bed any more, it was theirs. He felt out of place in the rest of the nice apartment, but not here.
—
Lawrence was still working shorter days while he recovered physically and mentally, even a year and a half after the trap, and Adam worked even less. Photography moved to being strictly a hobby. Now instead of getting paid to be a stalker, he got paid to be a stocker at a grocery store for a few hours each week. Just enough to pay the bills.
He got antsy when his— the guy he was seeing—was at work and he wasn't. He found himself getting nervous and cleaning the place as best he could, afraid he'd bring the mess from his depression and pain-fueled garbage dump with him. He dusted. He'd never dusted once in his fucking life before moving in with the doctor, and here he was scooting around, using the man's office chair as a makeshift wheelchair so he could dust more. Something was fucking wrong with him.
The news didn't help his anxiety any. There'd been another fucking trap. Jigsaw—they'd identified him as a man named John Kramer but the moronic cops had failed to catch him—was still at it. Still out there. Whenever he was home alone, Adam waited for that pig-masked bitch to pop out and shackle him up again.
His restlessness and cleaning spree didn't aid him in kicking old habits, though. He got nosy quick. He peeked into the unpacked boxes that sat in his closet and found old medical textbooks and tax documents from years past (holy shit, did that man make money). He found an old photo album and sat on the floor flipping through Lawrence's life before he was in it.
It had pictures dating back to when he was in med school. Adam grinned like an idiot at the picture-filled pages. He'd never seen an old picture of him when he was younger, with his swooping blonde hair and bright eyes, and his pronounced cheekbones that carved his face into a different shape than it was now. He looked like a dork. He watched him grow older with each page. Through wedding pictures, him holding Diana the day she was born, their first vacation as a family. Lawrence was in fewer and fewer of the pictures, and then the photos stopped, despite there being plenty of blank pages. How depressing.
He shut the book and put it away.
—
Lawrence pawed at his ass.
Adam laughed as he scrubbed shampoo against his scalp. He wasn't this handsy when they first started fooling around. He was getting brave. “Got a good view there, Gordon?”
“Mm,” Was the content hum of agreement he got in return. It was nice having a shower big enough for the two of them. Adam's hadn't been, so small it was difficult for Lawrence to bathe at his place without room for a shower chair. No shower sex, that's for sure. Not that he was feening for it—any time Adam had tried with previous partners it ended with soap in someone's eyes. Lawrence groping at his right asscheek had him rethinking that stance. He rinsed out his hair, dark locks wet and stringy and clinging to his face as he peered over his shoulder.
God, he was handsome. Staring up from his seat, hair pushed back and dripping water down his neck and the side of his face. Chest hair spread out against his wet chest that was flushed from the steam. His eyes were full of—well, fuck, Adam wouldn't describe it any other way than love. He was looking up at him like he loved him. Fuck. Fuck. He swallowed hard around a heavy lump in his throat, something stuck there that made him want to cry. Not the time. He forced himself to think about the hand on his ass, instead. “You gonna do anything about it?”
“Can I eat you out?”
It isn't often Lawrence can get him flustered. It's usually Adam saying the filthy shit to rile him up. Dirty talk didn't seem to come as easy for him. Seems like he was rubbing off on him. Good, because hearing him talk that way, words dirty and voice low - It went straight to his dick. “Jesus fuck, man,” He laughed again, this time more air than anything. “Anything to make you happy.”
He gave him a pat on the ass. “Bend over.”
“Say less.”
He leaned forward, bracing himself with his good arm on the tiled wall. The doctor's hand guided him to shift back, and to spread his legs. His spiky stubble met his skin before his tongue. Rough sandpaper against his skin chased with wet warmth on his hole, with Lawrence's big hands gripping his ass to keep him spread open. Maybe he had died in that bathroom—the bad one— and this shower was God's ironic version of heaven for him. He wouldn't make it into heaven if it were real, so he must not be dead, and how fucking thankful he was to be alive right now.
“That feels so nice,” He muttered. “Keep going. Please.”
He found out pretty quickly into them being… whatever they were, that he got results from asking for what he wanted, if he wanted it from Lawrence. He was eager to please and seemed to get off on being told he did it well. And he did, so Adam had no qualms letting him know. It always paid off. He lapped at him like a man starving, nails digging into the meat of his ass. One hand slid beneath to play with his balls, fingertips ghosting the base of his cock as his tongue dipped inside him.
“Yeah, like that. Eat me out, baby, you're so good at that.” It was easier for sweet things to roll off his tongue when he couldn't see the man he was speaking to, for one, and even easier when he had his legs shaking only from his mouth, and his hand circling around to grab his cock. He groaned a drawn out 'fuck’ and pushed his hips against his face. He looked down to watch him, his hand curled around the underside of his dick, stroking him.
“I'm already close.” He admitted sheepishly. Getting worked in the front and back, combined with the view, it was impossible for him to stamp down his building orgasm.
Lawrence pulled away long enough to encourage him. “Come on, love.”
“Oh.”
He came like that: rocking his hips onto his tongue as he spilled over the man's hand. “You should- You should do that more often.” He panted. “I'd return the favor and blow you right here, but the water is getting cold.”
—
Adam leaned halfway out of the window and blew smoke out into the damp May air. He swore he was trying to quit. Made him feel weird to be living with an oncologist and inhaling cigs the way he used to do. He was doing better, at least. He’d only had to buy a single pack since he moved in last month. “Lawrence?”
“Yes?” He faced away from him, the back of the couch providing a safe barrier between him and the window where the younger man stood fidgeting. He didn't enjoy bringing this stuff up. Hated talking relationship shit. It was easier if he didn't have to see Lawrence’s face, and he didn't have to see how Adam’s eyes darted around with anxiety.
“Does Alison know about us? I mean—that we’re living together?”
He heard the folding of paper behind him, the sound of him dog earring the book he was reading. The book closed. He assumed he set it down while he was thinking, because he was too quiet for too long for his liking. “She knows you’ve moved in, yes.”
He held his cigarette between his teeth, feeling the spongy filter give under his incisors. He hated this. He hated that he cared if she knew. Hated he wanted to know what Lawrence said and how she reacted, wish he could be a little fly on the wall with his camera again, catch the whole thing to review for later. “What did you tell her?”
“I told her that we're spending a lot of time with each other, and that since we both lived alone, this made sense.”
“Ah.” That was perfectly reasonable, and maybe the right thing to tell his ex-wife. Adam wasn't expecting to be disappointed by a good decision. He tapped his ash and watched it fall like dirty snow onto the grass beneath the window. “Do you think she'd take it well if she knew we were…”
Fucking? Intimate? Together? Partners? Dating? He didn't know what goddamn word to use.
“I don't know,” He answered honestly, quickly. “I never told her I was into men as well. I was too nervous. So I believe she would be surprised, but I don't think she would take it poorly.”
The words bubbled up and spilled out with a puff of smoke before Adam could swallow them down. “If we were together?”
He was about to climb out the window and run until his foot tripped him up. It was fucking obvious that they were. Lawrence called him ‘love’ yesterday. They lived together. The word was still so big, so new, and neither of them had spoken it out loud before. They were just ‘the bathroom guy’.
“Yes. If I let her know that we're together.”
—
It took him a while to set up the second bedroom as his darkroom, as grateful as he was to Lawrence for offering it up. When he got the apartment, he was expecting to have at least partial custody of Diana. That hadn't ended up being the case. He took an educated guess that filling up the empty bedroom was as much of a favor for Lawrence as the space for the darkroom was for Adam. It was completely empty when he moved in. There weren't any moving boxes, even.
The room made for a good, blank canvas. He picket up an old folding table from off the curb to set his equipment on. Then all he had to do was cover the window, and y'know... actually unpack his equipment. Photography wasn't the priority anymore. He wasn't about to pick up paparazzi work again after he’d gotten out of the trap, even if he could, and he wasn't interested in doing fucking wedding photography. So. Not a lot of money to be made, and not much drive to set up the darkroom, as much as he loved it.
But he kept thinking about the photo album, and its empty pages. The lack of any current pictures of Lawrence. The family man that was stuck in time within the pages. It was still him, obviously, but he knew that was an unhappy man in an unhappy marriage who worked too much and hated himself horribly. He didn't want that version of him to be stuck in time and left in the closet, in some box collecting dust. He deserved better. He was good at sticking his nose where it didn't belong, and maybe this was one of those times, wanting to fill out an old family photo album. But it seemed like the right thing to do.
Maybe he'd slip the first picture he ever took of Dr Gordon in there, too. He grinned wickedly at the idea.
He brought along his camera the next time Lawrence wanted to take him out for dinner. ‘For the scenery’ he’d said, knowing damn well his partner knew he didnt give a shit about photographing landscapes. Still, he didn't say anything about it until they were sat to eat.
Adam insisted on the outdoor seating. He was spending too much time indoors lately despite the weather being warm and dry and wonderfully sunny. The perfect sliver of the year where summer approached, but the mosquitoes and heavy humidity had yet to appear. And, the tables outside had better lighting. He grinned wildly as he adjusted the settings on his camera and split his attention between the man sitting across from him and the dials.
“Is this the scenery you wanted to capture so badly?”
“Yep. Smile.”
“Adam,” Lawrence shook his head with a chuckle. Adam held up his camera anyway, watching through the viewfinder as the doctor hid his smile behind his wine glass. He could still see it in his eyes, though, the corners crinkling above the rim of the glass.
“Beautiful.”
—
By some miracle of God, a true act of divine intervention, Adam manages to wake up before Lawrence. As equally as some higher power, he supposes he can thank the sex for that. He still feels worn out the next morning after and he wasn't the one doing all the work.
His face was sweetly peaceful in his sleep, and with the smallest amount of drool at the corner of his mouth, he looked cutely undignified. His hair was tousled. Imprints of his wrinkled blanket press into his arm. Adam enjoyed the warmth of Lawrence's bed, warmer than any bed he'd slept in years. The last partner he had was a girlfriend who worked early shifts at a twenty-four-seven diner. By the time he woke up, her side of the bed had long since gone cold. They'd broken up in June of 2004, and his bed had stayed cold until Lawrence started staying the night at his place. Now, in their apartment, the warmth was constant. That man generated heat like Adam's old space heater that had been pointedly against his lease.
He was always extra stiff in the morning. Typically not in the fun way. Sometimes he lucked out and got both, like this very morning. Regardless of either stiffness, he wiggled himself down the bed, set on being between his legs. He took it slow, guiding his body down the bed to where he could rest his head beside Lawrence's soft dick. How happy he'd be to put him in his mouth just the way he is now and feel him grow inside him. He doesn't, though, for now. He took him in with his sight rather than taste, and with his touch as he traced feather-light circles up the man’ thigh and to his hip bone.
“Mm…” Lawrence stirred and groggily lifted his head. He flopped down once he saw Adam resting against his thigh, close enough to feel his breath on his sex, looking up at him. “Oh, pretty boy.” He said, voice sleep-scratchy and mumbled.
“Wanna put my mouth on you. Can I? Please?”
He agreed with a hum, forcing his tired eyes to open once more so that he could watch. Adam propped himself up, though he knows it isn't going to last for long. He couldn't hold his upper body’s weight on his shoulder for long before that arm started to shake under the stress, or the pain got sharper and will stay long into the day. Adam happily mouthed at his cock, slipping his tongue beneath the head to take him into his mouth. He’s able to put all of him in his mouth while he's still soft, easily, until his nose is firmly pressed into the pretty tuft of curls.
He smelled so good. Last night's sex and sweat and his natural musk. He breathed him in deep, reverently enough to embarrass Lawrence and make him hide his eyes with the back of his arm. It was a damn shame. Adam liked those blue eyes focused on him.
He took longer to get hard than Adam would, and it's cute. And good for him, too, gives him more time to simply sit with his mouth enveloped around him, feeling as he slowly grew between his lips. When he pulled off of him for the first time, his pretty cock bounced at attention.
“Think we can roll on our sides so my weight is off my shoulder?”
“Of course.”
They both turn, a little awkwardly, so that they can both lay on their sides while facing each other. Lawrence's leg rested over Adam's chest and gave him a nice arm rest for extra support, while still giving him more than enough space for him to get in there. It was an odd angle, but the older man didn't seem to bat an eye at it.
“Adam…” He sighed. It made his whole body tingle, hearing his name said with such wanting. Pleasure dripped from his voice.
He bobbed his head, no longer able to take his entire length but eager to get as close to it as possible without gagging. His tongue dipped into every curve it could; around the tip and the frenulum, traced every vein, feeling all every crevice of him. He could lay here forever. Sometimes Lawrence had to bring some work home. Adam thought about doing this next time he did. Wiggle himself beneath his desk and sit with his cock in his mouth while he worked.
He pulled back to lap at the tip, to dip his tongue against his slit. “Where do you wanna cum?”
Lawrence gave an amused huff, cheeks flushed. “How much of a mess are we prepared to clean up?”
“Mm… I'm feeling pretty lazy this morning.” Adam drawled before taking him back into his mouth and hallowing his cheeks, illiciting a gorgeous moan and buck of his hips. “Mhm.”
“Oh, Adam—”
There wasn't much of a warning before Lawrence came. He kept his lips around his cock as it pulsed on his tongue, spurting salty, tangy warmth on his tongue that he swallowed dutifully. In a perverted, maybe a little fucked up way, Adam reveled in every load he took. Didn't matter if it was down his throat or in his ass, he took a part of him. Bound together, as if they weren’t already.
—
“My car won't fucking start.” He slapped the hood, as if it'd suddenly shake the right parts together and make the engine go. He was sure Lawrence could hear the resounding metal smack from over the phone.
“Are you at work?”
“Yes, I'm at work. I'm at work and I don't think I can walk home, because my foot fucking hurts and I didn't bring my cane, because I didn't think this junkyard piece of shit bucket of rust was gonna shit out on me.”
“I'll be right over to pick you up.”
Adam groaned. He was grateful. But it didn't fix his car, or the ache in his leg. It was hot as shit outside and he just wanted to be in his air conditioned apartment. The cold made Lawrence flare up, and for whatever reason, it was heat that drew up the ache in his bones. “Okay.”
He hung up and Adam tucked his phone into his jeans pocket before shuffling to sit on the dented up hood of his beater. He didn't have the money to fix it, even though he worked as much as he could and didn't even pay an equal half of rent. The doctor insisted on it.
He wished he could work more. He didn't enjoy living on doctor money and always felt guilty that he was always the one paying for dates and the majority of their groceries. Yet when he worked more, this happened. Shit always went wrong and his body gave out. He had to call out twice last week because his old wounds decided he couldn't walk. He slid around their apartment on the office chair for those two days, and he’d needed help whenever he wanted to transfer to the couch or the bed.
He saw his car coming down the road. A pristine 2002 BMW M3 in slick silver, a stark contrast to his own rusted-out, shit-kicker 1993 Sentra with a busted engine and a door that didn't match the body. Weirdly fucking fitting. He waved him down.
“I'm gonna rip the doors off this thing.” He deadpanned as Lawrence got out of his car. He held his cane in one hand, and reached back into his car to grab Adam's. “Thank you. Fuck.” He slid off the car, gripping his cane for extra support. He made do at work without it, but not without a price. Staying on his feet too long tended to make it flare for longer. Made it feel as if his own bones were stabbing the inside of his flesh.
“We can get it fixed up.” Lawrence nodded toward his car. “Is it the engine?”
“Think so. I don't know. I don't know shit about cars. One of my old buddies fixed this one up for me. Clearly didn't do a great job. Don't have the money to fix it.” He grumbled as he walked around to the passenger side of the BMW, leaning heavily on his cane. He was happy to slide into the seat and take his weight off his feet.
Lawrence joined him on the driver's side, and started home. He watched his little rust bucket sit alone at the edge of the grocery store parking lot and prayed it wouldn't be towed by the store before he could get a tow out there himself. “I can help with costs. You know that.”
“Yeah.” He wasn't trying to be snippy. He was trying hard not to be, in fact. Money stressed him out. He hoped his boyfriend wouldn't say anything more, not until they could get home and Adam could nap off his annoyance, or at the very least have a cigarette about it. He didn't saw anything for a long moment, and he thought he might just get away with it.
He spoke softly, cautiously. “I could easily cover your cost of living, you know. I paid rent on my own before you moved in.”
“I don't want to be your sugar baby, Larry.” The other man sighed, being called him that. Larry. Adam knew it was what his ex-wife and his colleagues usually called him, so he tended to avoid the nickname at all costs.
“You wouldn't be.”
“An older man paying for my apartment, my food, my car, taking me on dates, fucking me? Walks like a duck, quacks like a duck, looks like a duck, it must be a sugar baby. That's what everyone will think.”
"People are going to think whatever they want to, regardless of how we live. I'm sure our neighbors already have their opinions. If you—"
"I'd love to keep the little bit of dignity I still have, okay? Fuck, man."
He went quiet. His hands tensely gripped the steering wheel. He was so grateful he worked only a few blocks from the apartment complex.
He bolted for his pack of Marlboro reds as soon as they got through the door. He propped himself up in his designated smoking window and let himself breath, finally. He breathed in a few hearty puffs of nicotine before he dared to break the silence. Lawrence sorted through the mail in the kitchen. He looked nervous, too. A pang of guilt hit Adam. “I'm sorry. Didn't mean to get snappy with you, I— I appreciate the gesture.”
“I know.”
“I mean it. I'm just…” He waved his cigarette around, holding it between his index and middle fingers.
“Independent?”
“Yeah. That. I feel like a, a real fuckin—” He struggled to think of the right words, and to get them out once he found them. “—mooch. When I don't work for it. Lazy. My old man made real sure that got through my thick-skull.”
With a heavy sigh, he set the mail down onto the counter and turned to face him. His expression was serious, the kind he pictured him having as he delivered bad news to patients. “I understand that. But it's hard to watch you repeatedly hurt yourself by overworking rather than accept help. I love you, and I want to see you taken care of.”
Adam blinked. Gawked. Stared stupidly at him while his cigarette began to burn down in his hand. Twenty-seven years old and he's awestruck by the first ‘I love you’, even though he's lived with the guy for month. Get it together, loser, he thought.
“I love you too.”
Serious expression broken, Lawrence gave him the smallest, sweetest smile. “Would you at least let me pay for groceries and your share of rent while you focus on getting your car in order?”
“Yeah,” He nodded dumbly. “I can do that.”
—
Much to Adam's horror, he was invited to come with Lawrence for his visitation time with Diana. He said yes, of course, but god, he did not know how to talk to kids. Especially her. He was sure she knew he'd been involved, somehow, in the worst night of this poor kid's life.
Lawrence took them out to a diner. The old fashioned and kitschy kind, where the servers still glided around on roller skates to bring you burgers and malts. Black and white tiled floors, red tiled walls, the whole nine yards. Diana colored while they waited for their food, not making eye contact with him even once.
“How old are you again?” He finally hazarded to ask.
“Almost ten,” She murmured.
“Oh, cool. Cool.” He nodded. “What grade is that?”
“I'm in fourth.”
“Nice.” Adam looked pleadingly up at Lawrence, who was trying not to laugh. He nudged him under the table with his foot, a nonverbal ’not funny, man’. He was an only child with no nephews or nieces, and all of his friends were single, childless stoners. What the fuck did you talk to kids about?
Their tray of milkshakes was here to save him, though. Even for a few minutes. Diana put her crayons down in a neat line as the waitress came rolling over with tall whip-coated shakes and plastic red baskets stuffed with sandwiches and fries. He caught Diana staring where his and Lawrence's canes leaned against the table as she nibbled on a fry.
“Did your foot get cut off like Dad's?”
Adam's eyes widened and he glanced at the other man, who looked as astounded as he did. “Diana,” Lawrence chided.
“I, I mean- it's a good question, I guess. No, I didn't. But it did get hurt. I don't have a prosthesis like your dad does, but I still need help walking sometimes. So that's why we both have canes.”
“Oh, okay.” She nodded, looking reassured by his explanation. “Did you have to have surgery?”
Oh, Jesus. This kid shouldn't have to know any of this. But she did, and she was curious, not stupid. Memories from her age were fuzzy, but he definitely knew a lot more about what was going on than his dad gave him credit for. And again—she'd been part of this, too. Adam had bashed her abductor’s head in with a toilet lid, for fucks sake. He nodded cautiously. “Yeah, I did. I had to get two, actually. Pretty badass, huh?”
He got an actual, real laugh out of her, the first time he'd seen her smile since they picked her up from Alison's place. She nodded her agreement and soon returned to her coloring page.
Before they left, he stopped the waitress and held up his camera. “I'm sorry, but—do you think you could take a picture of us really quick? I'd really appreciate it.”
“Of course, Hun!”
Adam wasn't often in his own pictures. He wasn't terribly comfortable in front of a camera, funny enough. He smiled awkwardly at the camera, while on their side of the booth, Lawrence put his arm around Diana's shoulders with a twinkle in his eye. As the camera clicked, he thought about the photo album and how few pictures of just him and his daughter were in it.
—
Metal is chafing his ankle. Little cuts form where the hard edge of the shackle dug into his skin. Zep Hindle is under him with a gun. Get it away from him. Take it. You're going to get shot again. He's going to kill you and he’s going to kill Lawrence and no one will come for you. The Gordon family will have an empty coffin and old man Stanheight is gonna think he's some layabout little shit who refuses to talk to him.
His skull crunches. A wet squelch echoes into the blank walls of the bathroom as the toilet lid collides with the man's skull. He hits him until he can't see his face anymore, until all he sees is the flood of red from his veins and grey matter mixed with shards of off-white. He slams the lid down, screaming, until his face is pulp and that pulp turns into his own foot. Crushed between tile and ceramic, bent in ways it shouldn't be. The off-white that used to be shards of Zep's skull is now his own bones protruding from the end of his leg.
He's going to bleed out and die here, in horrific agony. He's going to shrivel up and become a skeleton in this fucking bathroom, never even knowing the comfort of a casket or the warmth of an incinerator turning him to dust. He is stuck, eternally, to haunt the dank dark room where no one came looking for him.
Adam woke up to a dreadfully quiet bedroom, with his face feeling tingly and his t-shirt stuck to his sweat soaked back. It was four in the morning. The sweat in the palms of his hands was like cold blood and he felt fucking sick, and if he focused on his body too hard he could feel the scar where they’d sewn his foot back together from the inside out. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He thought about getting up, taking a piss and washing his face, then coming right back to bed. Maybe changing his shirt. His body didn't move, though, so he stayed frozen. He stared down at his legs in the dark, lit only by the ambient light of the streetlight.
His stomach was heavy and twisting as if he were about to throw up, but the bile never came.
By the time Lawrence stirred behind him, the clock had ticked to four-twenty-two. “Adam?” He croaked. “Adam? What’s wrong?”
His voice snapped him out of his haze enough for him to rub his face. His hands were dry and pointedly not blood soaked. They were numb, though, pins and needles like he'd slept on them. “Nothing, had a nightmare.” The bed dipped behind him and his hand laid between Adam's shoulder blades.
“About—”
“Yeah. Of course.”
“I have to be up in an hour for work, anyway, do you want to have breakfast now? I'll make you eggs.”
“Yeah.” He sounded like a broken record, some Ghost-Dream-Adam (maybe the one that no one came back for) that was floating around haunting Lawrence's flat. “That'd be good.”
“Alright.”
He felt slightly more real once he turned the light on, and he saw him up and about in their room. Not crawling on his belly across the tile dragging core behind him like a perverse snail, looking like a ghost himself. He helped him stand, and shuffled toward the kitchen. Adam followed mindlessly, sliding onto his stool at their breakfast bar. He watched his partner go through the motions of making breakfast; pouring coffee grounds into the maker, pulling ingredients from the fridge and a pan from the cabinet.
This fucking sucked. He felt stuck in time, the ghost of a shackle around his ankle to this day. He didn't have these vivid nightmares as often as he used to, in the months following the trap. They hit harder now, the further away he was from the gore and the smell of wet rot and mildew. He could forget them well enough once he was awake. The earthy aroma of fresh coffee began to replace the foul stench of his nightmare. “Fuck.”
“Are you back?”
“Mostly.” He rubbed his face again. The numb tingling in his face and in his hands had finally faded, and he could feel the cool stone of the counter beneath his elbows. “It was bad. It was really bad, Lawrence. Shits never gonna leave my mind.”
Lawrence grimaced. He was preaching to the choir. They didn't talk about it as often as they probably should, it was nicer to pretend they were a normal couple that met at a bar or through mutual friends, but it was obvious Lawrence struggled too. Even if he never told him when he did. The collection of orange and white bottles in the bathroom cabinet, filled with Lexapro and Klonopin, was proof enough.
He brought him a plate of scrambled eggs and a mug of coffee, with the smallest hint of cream and cinnamon sprinkled on top. The way Adam always made it for himself. “Thank you. Appreciate you getting up early with me.”
“Of course. Will you be alright home alone today?”
“Yeah, yeah. I'll get out of the apartment for a bit.” His car was finally out of the shop, so it opened up the possibility of going into town just to get out of the house. One of his old buddies told him after the trap that he owed him a free eighth of weed, something of a 'congrats on being alive still' gift. Maybe he'd take him up on that and hot box his car today. That sounded like a solid plan.
—
Lawrence bent over to pick dirty laundry off of the floor. His slacks are taut around his ass. He can imagine himself grinding against him, fingers hooked in the belt loops to pull him hard against his cock. They'd fallen into the routine of Adam bottoming. It was how they got started, and Lawrence had only ever topped. They'd never talked about flipping. But Adam was thinking about it, now. His mouth watered at the idea of him splayed beneath him on the bed, at making his pretty, composed Lawrence fall apart.
“Would you ever let me take your virginity?"
He straightened up and turned to look at him with the befuddled expression of a man who, for one, had been inside of him not even twelve hours ago, and two, had a biological daughter. “Excuse me?”
Adam laughed, rolling over on the bed to lay on his stomach and face him. “Y'know, popping your cherry? Getting deflowered? Giving me the keys to the back door?”
“Yes, sure,” It was endearing to see this man in his forties with a doctorate get all flustered and shy. He looked anywhere but at Adam, turning to keep tossing clothes into the basket. “I would be curious to try.”
He lit up like a kid on Christmas. “Really? You’d let me?”
“I'd let you after work tonight, if you'd like.”
“Hell yes.”
Lawrence hopped in the shower as soon as he got home from work. Adam made a show of the whole thing, making the bed and lighting candles on the bedside table. He'd have laid rose petals down around the bedframe if he’d thought of it in time. He figured bringing some humor into this would calm the other man's nerves, or at least make him laugh. He was all fidgety when he got back to the apartment.
The doctor had this stupid, silk bathrobe he liked to wear on his days off. He'd stumble out of the bedroom in the morning and find him standing in front of the coffee maker wearing the gaudy, red-purple-burgundy thing. Adam stripped down and put it on. It was too big around the thin frame of his torso and hid next to nothing, the front hems parting to expose his chest. He splayed himself across the bed, and snickered at himself and how fucking stupid he must look right now. All he needed now was a bottle of champagne.
Lawrence took his sweet fucking time in the shower, leaving Adam to lay there and stare at the ceiling while he imagined what pretty sounds he'd make while he got fucked. He finally emerged from the bathroom with a towel around his waste and the bottle of lube already in hand. Sneaky fucker, he hadn't even realized it was gone. He stood in the doorway and stared, eyebrows raised when he saw Adam on the bed. He leaned on one of his crutches. No use going through the trouble of putting his leg back on when he'd be taking it off in bed, anyway.
“What?” He grinned wickedly and held his arms out. “Wanted to make your first time special, baby.”
He shook his head with a laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Too much? Was it the candles or the robe? Shit, now I'm happy I didn't buy you roses.”
“So am I.”
He looked absolutely fucking delectable. His hair was wet and tousled against his forehead. Drips of water still slid down his fuzzy torso until they were absorbed by the towel that barely clung on to his waist. He tugged at it like the ribbon on a present when he joined him on the bed. His skin was warmer than usual, hot from the steamy shower and flushed from—well, what had surely taken him so long in the bath. The towel fell away to give Adam one of his favorite sights; his half-hard cock jumping to life, just for him. He motioned for him to lay down, and Lawrence followed his lead.
He looked exactly as he’d imagined him being this morning. Legs splayed, open only for him. He folded his hands over his stomach, obviously not sure where else to put them.
“You look good like this.” He said as he climbed up to straddle one of his thighs. He hadn't yet done the mental calculations of positioning. Missionary would be great to start - he so desperately wanted to watch his face while he fucked him, but he doubted either of them would be able to hold it for long. The thought of Lawrence riding him made his cock twitch with definite interest, but—maybe not tonight. He wanted to stay on top.
“I wish I could say the same to you,” He tugged at the matching satin tie around Adam's waist.
“Hey.” Adam mock pouted at him, but was more than happy to allow him to untie him and let him shrug the oversized robe off his shoulders. “Were you fingering yourself in the shower? Is that what took you so long in there?”
“I- yes.”
“Aw, man. You should have let me watch.”
“Ever the voyeur.”
“Yeah,” Adam breathed out, petting over the soft hair of his chest before his hand landed on his cock. Just resting there appreciatively. What a pretty fucking picture this would make. “Hard not to be. Look at you.”
“I’m nothing special.”
He scoffed, absolutely offended. His hand traveled lower, taking his time to grope his beautifully plump balls and to press his thumb beneath them into his perineum. The pressure brought a pretty gasp from his man's lips. “Yeah you are. Gonna fuck you so good you’ll think you’re the hottest shit on the whole east coast.”
He reached for the lube and got his fingers slick with it, pressing them to his hole. He took two fingers easily, and he pressed his head into the pillow at the intrusion.
“Fuck… got yourself good and ready for me, huh? You're already all open for me.”
He savored the moment, whether it was needed or not. Watching his fingers cause each little twitch of the older man's mouth, every little breath that fell out of rythym. “Lemme know if it hurts or gets too uncomfortable, yeah? The first time can feel pretty weird.”
Lawrence nodded his understanding, so he slid a third finger into him. He pressed his thumb against his taint again as he fucked him, bringing his fingers in and out to give him an idea of what his cock would feel like inside.
“Adam, please.”
He grinned impishly. “Please what?”
“Fuck me, please.”
“Ugggh, yes.” He groaned. He reached again for the bedside table to grab a condom, until his wrist is intercepted. Lawrence looked up at him, cheeks a splotchy pink and eyes wide. “What?”
“I'd like to take you as you are. If that’s alright with you. I want you to finish inside me.”
The concept of fucking raw was no new concept for them. Though they didnt do it often, he’d taken more than one or two loads up the ass. Hearing the words out of Lawrence’s mouth did something to him regardless. He went right to lubing himself up, stroking his cock in his fist and imagining it was his tight hole around him, instead. “Fuck, I'm gonna bust before I even stick it in you, if you keep talking like that.”
“Please don’t. Just—”
“Put it in. Yeah, yeah, I know.” He scooted back on the bed, looking over him one more time before pressing the tip up against him. “I’m gonna put it in, okay? I’ll go slow. Just relax and take my cock, baby.” He babbling like a porn star, sweet nasty words tumbling out of his mouth at the sight of him. He exhaled a shaky breath and pressed his cock into him, so slowly it felt like torture. He studied his face. The way his eyes fluttered shut and his pretty mouth fell open. If Adam sounded like a porn star, he looked like one.
He stopped about halfway in to massage Lawrences's thigh. “You good?”
“Yes. Yes. It feels—different. Good different. You can keep going.”
“Heard, Doctor Gordon.”
He pressed into him to the hilt. It'd been so long since he'd been inside someone. He pawed at Lawrence's thighs, breathing through the initial rush of pleasure of being fully enveloped by him. When he finally started moving, he rocked rather than giving him full thrusts, letting him get used to the feeling. He braced himself with a hand on Lawrence's chest, and the man pawed at his wrist desperate for something to hold on to. “You feel so fucking good. So fucking tight, holy shit.”
His cock bounced against his abdomen while he fucked him and went a little harder, just to watch his pretty dick move with him and dribble pre-cum onto his happy trail. He couldn't help himself, wrapping his free hand around his shaft. He didn't have the best range of movement stroking him with his right hand, but that may be for the best. Lawrence moaned, sweet and whorish, as his fingers grasped him. He thumbed over the head, collecting the warm pre there and using it to lube his cock up for his hand.
“That feels amazing—” He breathed out.
“Yeah? What does?”
“You—stroking me while you fill me up.”
“Fuck,” Adam muttered. Anything dirty out of Lawrence's mouth was intoxicating, the first hit of a cigarette or the last sip of booze. “My cock feels good inside you, huh? I fill you up good?”
“Perfectly.”
“That's what I like to hear. Keep talking. Please.”
It usually took some coaxing, or a lot of edging, to get him to let loose and tell Adam how he really felt. That must not be the case with Adam hovering above him.
“Your cock feels so good, I feel so full. Please,” he begged earnestly, “Fill me. Fill me.”
“Oh my god, i'm not gonna be able to keep fucking you if you beg. Gonna cum so fast if you do.”
“That's alright, Adam. Please, i'm—i'm close too.”
“Okay,” He panted. He felt stupid in hindsight, thinking he was going to have to prepare different positions. Yeah, he couldn't fuck long in missionary, but he wasn't going to be fucking for long at all. Seeing him underneath him, dripping, begging, all the while his ass enveloped him so tightly… he was fucking done for. No amount of thinking about baseball or sad puppies would be able to undo how turned on he was. He jerked the man off in with chaotically frenetic motions. “Beg me? Please. Please? Let me hear you, baby, please.”
“I want you to cum inside of me, please. Use me and fill me up with your cum. Take me.” Lawrence prattled on, words falling out of his mouth without thought, waxing poetic about Adam's cock and how full he was and how he wanted to make Adam feel good, words meshing together until he can hardly tell them apart from each other. He doesn’t stop once he climaxes. Begging turned into chanting Adam’s name like a prayer. “Adam, Adam, Adam, Adam,” Muttered over and over again as if it was the only word he knew.
He didn't know if it was that or the way his hole tightened and spasmed around his cock that tipped him over the edge. He pushed all the way inside of him to fill him as deeply as he could. His nails dug into the man's chest. His orgasm hit him with such a hurricane-force that his body trembled with effort to hold himself up and not collapse on top of him. He did, anyway, as soon as he pulled out. He winced, the impact of torso-on-torso not the best feeling on his aching shoulder. It'd be worse later. He didn't care right now. That was so fucking hot.
“Holy shit,” He panted. “I didn't know you had that in you. Do that again. Please.”
—
He missed being in the darkroom. And it admittedly felt better to do as a hobby, processing pictures of his boyfriend instead of developing images of strangers he got paid to stalk. It was far more peaceful. Whatever he'd photographed, the process was always meditative. The red safelight became calming, and timing each step was a largely consistent ritual.
He'd already processed the film into negatives last week when Lawrence was at work and he had the day off. It was time to make prints now, maybe his favorite step. Getting to place the photo paper into the tray of developer and watching the full sized image bloom on the page. He placed the sheet into the fluid and waited, watched as the faint image of Lawrence at the restaurant fade in, black and white and red with the safelight's crimson glow. He couldn't help but laugh at himself. The absurdity that his first moment with Lawrence had been in a darkroom exactly like this, hanging a print of him up to dry. And here he was again.
After a minute, he used tongs to remove the print into the stop bath, then into the fixer before it got rinsed. He hung the new print up with a small clip on a piece of twine that hung from wall to wall and left it to dry while he printed the others. Once they were all finished and strung up, he flipped the safelight off and flicked the ceiling light on instead. He hoped Lawrence liked the end result as much as he did.
Once they were dry, he snuck off to that photo album. He'd grabbed the first ever images he'd developed of Lawrence, too, while he'd been in the darkroom with all of his photography equipment and old prints and negatives. Adam chose the one of him in his stupid oval sunglasses because—well, he looked funny. He picked up one of a blissfully unaware Lawrence enjoying a smoothie as well. That one looked like it could have been from a date of theirs. And that was pretty fuckin’ hilarious to him.
He slid the photos into the protective sleeves of the album. He put the stalker-y, voyeuristic images at the very back for him to find later. But the nice ones, the new ones, those went in the pages that picked up where the old family pictures left off. There were still plenty of empty pages. At least now there was room to grow, to add more, instead of feeling like an absence.
—
Shelving can after can after can of green beans made you go a little insane after awhile, at least that was the effect it tended to have on Adam. Otherwise, the gig was good. The store knew about his whole situation and was more accommodating than he'd expect retail work to be.
What a sight he must be: hobbling along towing his pallet cart behind him stacked with inventory and his walkman shoved into his hoodie pocket, spinning Placebo's 1998 album Without You I'm Nothing. He bought the album at nineteen and he was still huffing the fumes of new adulthood independence, spending any cent he had left over after rent on weed and CDs and booze he got with a fake ID. It seemed so distant now. A different lifetime entirely.
One where he felt fucking untouchable. The immortality that came with youth. Smoking a pack and a half a day because you’re nineteen and you feel fine, so there’s surely no consequences to it. Jigsaw snatched that away from him. He didn't stop doing freelance photography because he suddenly saw the errors of his ways. He didn't skip through life whistling a pretty tune because he was soooo grateful for Jigsaw showing him how to appreciate life, he changed because he was fucking traumatized. He was shown death up close and personal, been made a murderer, been fucked up for life because of a stupid game.
He gave him Lawrence, though, and that was something. Maybe that piece of shit should have taken up matchmaking instead of a career as a serial murderer.
His life at nineteen was lifetimes ago, but this album stayed evergreen, more relevant to his life now that it ever could have been then, with lyrics like ‘we gamble to be born again, you know I never wanted to.’ and ‘You've never seen the lonely me at all’.
‘Pictures of my lovers chest, get through this night, there are no second chances, this time I might, to ask the sea for answers.’
‘My body's broken, yours is bent.’
Jesus. How on the nose.
He's on the last twenty minutes of his shift when his phone vibrates in his pocket. It's Lawrence. He never called him when he knew he was working. It might be nothing. Maybe just calling him for opinions on dinner plans. His intuition said otherwise. Adam's heart fell into his stomach, wanted to be fucking sick seeing his name on the little screen. He yanked his earbuds out and held his phone there instead.
“Hey, what's up?”
“Have you seen the news?” His voice was shaky on the other end, breathy as if he'd run a marathon.
“No, no, I'm at work. Why? What happened, what’s wrong?”
“They found John Kramer, and he’s—He's gone, Adam, he’s dead, Jigsaw’s dead.”
“What? Holy shit.” Adam got lightheaded, all at once, like some fear settled deep in his bones was exorcised. The looming anxiety that he wasn't ever really safe, because what if Jigsaw decided to play god again? Decided he wasn't doing good enough? Gone. In a couple of words. “I was just thinking about him. Holy shit. Are you still at work? I'm gonna- I'll be done at one-thirty.”
“I'm leaving early. I'll pick you up.”
“Okay,” Adam sounded as breathless as he did, now, lightheaded and desperately needing to sit down. The words that felt like they'd have killed him a mere couple of months ago when we was horrified to call Lawrence his boyfriend, flowed freely: “I love you.” He hadn't known why they hadn't before, but he thinks he knows now. ‘Don't leave me’ pulled at him, constantly. He realized that a part of him fully believed, unwavering, that Lawrence would be yanked from his grasp again. That Jigsaw would somehow snatch him away and he'd be alone again.
“I love you.” He echoed, and hung up.
Adam told his boss he had to clock out a few minutes early, and waited outside with a lit cigarette and a shaky hand. His bones wanted to flee his body, so buzzed with energy that he could run a mile, bad foot or not. Their puppeteer was fucking dead. The man who'd laid there while they suffered. He's stood and peeled the latex-gore from his head and told him with horrific indifference, ‘the key to that chain is in the bathtub.’ The fuck it was. He escaped with pain and desperation and a wound that would never quite heal.
And he was dead. Both of them had survived and out lived the fucker. They'd live and go on to be happier than that miserable fucker ever could have been.
The BMW parked in front of the curb where he sat. He jumped up, meeting him on the driver's side to capture him in a hug as soon as he opened the door. His nose nuzzled into the shoulder of his tweed jacket, and Lawrence's hands gripped the back of his shirt. As soon as they were both sat in the car, he handed Adam the day’s newspaper. John Kramer’s face was plastered on the front page, old and wrinkly and generally unpleasant, accompanied by a headline in bold ink.
BODY OF INFAMOUS JIGSAW KILLER FOUND IN THE CARNAGE OF HIS LATEST GAME
The details were thin, but apparently another trap had been set up in the abandoned Gideon Meatpacking Plant building, and in the fray Kramer had his throat slit. Someone had taken him out. They found his body in a workshop filled with all sorts of unspecified devices and blue prints. It sent a cold chill down his spine.
They stopped by the liquor store to buy a good bottle of wine. Lawrence splurged on a vintage more expensive than they'd normally get. If there was ever a time for it, it was now. He couldn't imagine a better occasion. Adam felt floaty. It was different than the out of body haze he felt after his night terrors. He was in shock, but was overwhelmed by the sense that he could do anything. He could start flying if he really wanted to, he was sure of it.
While Lawrence poured them generous glasses of pinot noir, Adam dug the photo album out from the closet. He was going to wait for their anniversary (or, what he figured was the closest thing to their anniversary, that first time they hooked up in February) and hopefully fill it out a little more before then, but something in him urged him to show him now. He carried it under his arm out to the kitchen.
“I have a surprise for you.” He watched as Lawrence's eyes flitted to the book tucked beneath his bicep. “I—I may have done some snooping after I first moved in. You know me. I found your old mementos and it, it kinda made me sad, so I wanted to update it.” He sat the book down on the counter and slid it over to him, hands still shaking. He pretended, for the sake of his own dignity, the tremor was from the nicotine buzz mixed with the excitement of good news.
The doctor opened to the first page, looking unsure.
“Keep flipping through. You'll see.”
He flicked through the pages, through the start where pictures of him in college were tucked away, through wedding pictures and newborn memories, until he got to the end of the polaroids and got to Adam's prints. The images he'd taken starting in the spring. Lawrence at their favorite little restaurant downtown. A sneakily taken candid of Lawrence making coffee on a Sunday morning. The three of them when they went to the diner during Diana’s summer break. A poorly framed picture Adam had taken of the two of them in bed.
“Oh, Adam.”
“You like it?”
He held the album in both hands, running his thumb across the protective plastic of the page. “Yes, of course. Of course I do. This is—incredibly thoughtful of you.”
“Don't get all choked up on me, now.”
“Come here.”
He joined him on the other side of the island, where Lawrence tenderly snaked his arm around his waist and brought him close, pulled snugly into his side. The peace wouldn't last forever. Kramer’s soul was burning in hell, but the nightmares would remain. Adam would still buy a pack of cigarettes once a month. Lawrence's phantom pain will continue to pop up. But right now, they were here, and maybe the bundle of dread that had been floating about in his stomach would be gone for good.
“My sweet boy,” Lawrence whispered into the crown of his head, into the mess of dark and oily hair. Adam idly wondered if he'd still have called him that if he looked at the back of the album and saw the creeper pics of himself. “I am so grateful to have you.”