Chapter Text
Nigel’s not stupid, but he’s starting to seriously fucking wonder about whoever hired the guys currently following him, because he’s had them pinned from the second they walked into the club yesterday.
Apparently they haven’t noticed that he’s very much noticed them, (or else they really are the stupidest fucks he’s seen in a long while) because they’ve been following him with the same close, nonchalance for two days now. There’s a decent chance they know where he lives already, but he didn’t go home last night just in case. Especially after having a pleasant run in with one of them in the back alley last night, cigarette lit and only half smoked. It had been an embarrassingly quick tussle that ended with the guy’s nose cracking satisfyingly against the concrete moments before Nigel was being shoved back, tripping over his own alcohol-unsteady feet, and knocking the wind out of himself, collapsed back in the grime of the alleyway.
Now, he’s sleep deprived and annoyed, and his clothes and hair smell like he bathed in cheap booze and marijuana from his impromptu stay at the club for his ‘safety’. All he really wants to do is go home and collapse into bed, maybe sleep for three straight days, but instead he has to watch his fucking back for a bunch of dumb fucks that he probably owes money.
Darko, for what it’s worth, has someone watching Adam’s apartment and his own apartment around the clock like he’s some kind of blonde damsel in a cheap film. They already shot two of the bastards point blank, and technically no one’s seen anyone else on Nigel’s ass since, but there’s still no sign of the guy whose nose he definitely bashed in, and there’s that feeling at the back of his neck that he can’t shake, the hairs on his neck pricking up and putting him on edge.
He’s pretty sure there’s still someone trailing him, and he’s told Darko as much a dozen times over, but even he can’t deny that they’ve all looked, and looked, and no one’s actually seen anything suspicious. Maybe the guy who’d taken a swing at him wasn’t even a related incident? It wouldn’t be terribly surprising. Regardless, there was only so long that they could wait around for something to happen, and so now he’s taking a tortuously long, familiar bus ride back to his apartment, phone long gone (he’s got a new one waiting at home, anyways) and his eyes burning from lack of sleep, with Darko’s obnoxious but probably not incorrect use of the words paranoid and sleep deprived bouncing around in his head.
He’ll take a few days off, whatever. They owed him a fucking vacation, anyways.
The rest of the bus ride goes infuriatingly slowly, especially with no phone to mess around on, or even text Adam with. He’d burn through half a dozen levels of Candy Crush in this time, easily.
When he finally gets off at his stop, he feels dead on his feet, walking on reflex more than anything. It’s getting dark out already, autumn taking a hold onto what was once warm, summer nights, now turning into shorter days, and longer, colder nights. It’s chilly enough that he’s glad for the jacket he’s wearing, even if it smells like cheap beer where someone (maybe himself, who’s to say, anyways?) spilled half a pint down the side of it last night. At least it’s dry now.
He fishes out his half empty carton of smokes from his pocket, lights one and watches the filter glow orange like the setting sun before he takes a drag.
The cigarette is practically burnt down to his fingertips by the time he arrives back at his shitty apartment complex, and he stubs it out on the brick wall as he goes inside. The elevator ride up to his floor feels like it goes on for approximately twenty fucking years as he leans back against the railing, trying to keep his eyes open. He’s so fucking tired, and his head is killing him, and frankly he’s not sure if he wants a beer or to just pass out more, but he’d take either right now.
He fishes his key out of his jacket pocket as he makes his way to his apartment, fighting with the four other keys on the ring that keep getting in the way. He almost has the key in the lock when he notices the light coming from underneath the door. He can only tell because of how poorly lit the hallway is, but there’s an unmistakable shine of lamplight coming from under the door, warm and usually inviting. Nigel’s hand goes to the gun at his hip while he scans the empty hallway. He’s too tired for this shit, and now his adrenaline is going all over again.
He draws his gun, clicks off the safety and cocks it before carefully slipping the key into the lock. The noise is barely perceivable, but if there’s someone already waiting for him, it’s hard to say what might alert them. His gun is ready at his side as he awkwardly unlocks the door with his left hand before pushing it open with his foot, letting it swing open unceremoniously. The next few seconds happen in a blur, seemingly all at once, as someone moves towards him in his periphery and Nigel spins, firing the gun off into the guy's shoulder before he can even reach him. The sound is deafening in the cramped space of his apartment, and he wonders how long it’ll take before someone calls the cops, his ears ringing as he kicks the door shut behind him.
The gun is ready and aimed again before he can even move out of dodge, but it doesn’t matter, because he’s not being attacked, and his finger wavers over the trigger.
No, No, No-
“Nigel-?” Adam says, wide eyed and trembling where he’s standing, only a few paces from the door, just in Nigel’s periphery.
Nigel feels the air leave his lungs, feels his heart leap up into his throat and choke him. His blood is rushing in his ears, thunderous and overwhelming.
Adam hasn’t looked away from Nigel, that same confused, doe-eyed look on his face. His hand is clasped tightly over his shoulder where the material of his sweater is quickly going dark with blood, fingers trembling.
Everything has a dream-like quality to it, and Nigel finds himself reaching out to Adam with an eerily steady hand before he even knows what’s happening. “Adam,” Nigel says, and his voice doesn’t sound right in his own ears, like it’s someone else’s voice, coming from far away.
“I’m sorry,” Adam croaks, knees buckling under him at the same moment.
Nigel darts forward, catching Adam carefully around the waist and easing him down onto the floor of his apartment. The gun isn’t in his hands anymore, and he isn’t sure where it’s gone, where he put it. He doesn’t care. “No, no, hey,” Nigel says, choking on the air forcing itself into his lungs. Adam leans into him, lets him move them onto the floor until he’s practically laying in his lap.
Adam’s hand is still clasped tightly over the entry point, and part of Nigel feels like if he doesn’t look- if he doesn’t see it, maybe it’s not real, maybe it isn’t happening-
“You shot me,” Adam says, eyes moving sluggishly from Nigel’s face to his shoulder. There’s blood bubbling up between his delicate fingers, and Nigel feels sick. He’s trembling against Nigel, but his face is strangely calm if not ghostly white.
“I know,” Nigel says, -gasps, really- hands shaking uselessly at his sides, hovering. “I know- I’m- I didn’t mean to… I didn’t want to hurt you.”
The space between Adam’s eyebrows creases like it does when he’s confused, or when he’s thinking particularly hard, and it’s everything, even just seeing that look. He loves him so much-
“I don’t understand,” Adam says, and his voice doesn’t sound right when he says it. His hand isn’t pressing down on the wound anymore, instead just laying limply on top, letting the blood soak his sweater and his skin.
Nigel shakes his head, swallows down the bile in his throat as he finally forces his hands to move even though they feel like lead. He presses his hand over top of Adam’s, presses down on the wound and tries not to scream at the soft, pained sound that Adam makes in response.
“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Nigel says, barely able to breathe around the suffocating feeling growing in his chest, crushing him. “I didn’t know it was you, Adam, I didn’t know.”
Adam is looking up at him, head in Nigel’s lap, hairline wet with sweat. He can’t tell which one of them is shaking more, but between the two of them it feels like they’re going to vibrate apart. Adam is so small under him, and he’s so pale, and quiet, and Nigel doesn’t know what to fucking do.
Adam nods, eventually, a small little thing. It’s delayed enough that Nigel isn’t even sure it’s a response to what Nigel had said. “S’okay,” Adam says, words thick and syrupy.
Fuck, fuck, fuck-
Adam’s eyes are glassy, and his breathing is shallow, and he’s quickly going pliant in his arms. His hair is a mess, his usually perfectly combed back hair coming free, little chocolate curls falling onto his face. Nigel brushes them back with his other hand, but even that hand is slick with blood, and it smears across the soft, pale skin above his brow line. Nigel swallows back the rush of saliva flooding his mouth.
“Where’s- where’s your phone, Star? Huh?” Nigel asks, frantic. He’s looking around the room, but it’s impossible to see anything from the floor by the front door, and he doesn’t want to put Adam down, he doesn’t want to leave him. “You got your phone?”
Adam blinks at him, and a tear rolls down his cheek, shiny and wet.
“Shh, no, no, you’re okay, I’ve got you,” Nigel says, words tumbling out of him, things he’s never said to anyone before, things he’s never needed to. “It’s okay.”
“I’m okay,” Adam says softly, and he sounds so similar to when he first wakes in the morning, still half asleep and soft, curling into Nigel’s side and burying his face into his neck to soak up any warmth he can find from him. Nigel always falls back asleep to the feeling of Adam’s soft, even breath against his throat. “It doesn’t hurt.”
Nigel wants to scream, wants to tear his skin off and make everything fucking stop, but instead he just sobs. It’s a wrecked, throaty thing that bubbles up in his chest and spills over, tears blurring his vision and making Adam look like a painting, all soft, hazy lines. “I love you,” Nigel chokes out between ragged sobs, shaking so much he feels like he’s going to come apart. “I love you so much, my star.”
Adam smiles at him, crooked and soft, fingers twitching under Nigel’s hand where he’s still pressing down on the wound that he can’t get himself to look at. It’s hot and wet, and somewhere underneath their hands there’s a hole in Adam’s shoulder, gaping, and deadly, and it’s from him.
“I love you,” Adam says back, and it aches because he knows he means it.
“Where’s your phone, Adam? I need- I need to call for help, okay? I need to get you help,” Nigel forces out, his words nasally and thick with tears and snot. He can’t save him, not on his own, he doesn’t know what to do, not really. He can’t even stomach the sight of Adam in pain, he can’t do this.
It’s haunting and yet not at all surprising to realize that if Adam dies, Nigel will follow. The knowledge sits heavy as lead in his stomach now, but it’s been there all along, really. From the moment he met Adam he knew he’d do anything for him, and now Adam is everything to him.
Adam makes a sound, something awful and wet in his throat, and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment before looking back up at Nigel, like he’s scared to look away from him, like Nigel isn’t the one who-
“In my pants,” Adam murmurs, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. His skin has gone impossibly paler, ashy and void of his usually flushed cheeks.
Nigel’s nodding, frantically trying to find his way into Adam’s pants pockets without jostling him too much or taking his hand off of his shoulder. There’s blood smeared across everything, across their pants and skin, and all over Adam’s sweater. Nigel’s never seen more than a paper cut’s worth of blood on Adam before, and the amount now is nauseating. Blood isn’t meant to stain people like Adam, people like Adam aren’t supposed to get fucking shot, people like Adam aren’t supposed to be with people like him.
He fumbles his way into Adam’s side pocket and almost sobs with relief when he pulls out the phone. His hand is shaking too badly to type the stupid passcode that he knows by heart into the Lock Screen and he has to try four times before he manages it.
“Nigel?” Adam says, hand moving under Nigel’s, wet and sticky with blood. His voice is small and unsure, and it’s terrifying.
Nigel’s attention snaps back down to Adam, where he’s laying gently across his lap, eyes hooded.
“Yeah, Star?”
Looking at Adam has never hurt before. Looking at Adam has always felt like breathing for the first time, like coming home after being away for too long, like peace and good things that Nigel doesn’t deserve. Looking at him now, it hurts more than it has any right to.
“You’re upset,” Adam says, but his words come out thick, like he’s been drinking. Adam never drinks, especially not to the point of intoxication, but he sounds drunk now.
Nigel squeezes the phone until he thinks it might shatter in his hand. He smiles down at Adam, fake confidence and sharp teeth. “No, no,” Nigel says, an easy lie. Anything to make this better. “I’m not upset, you’re okay.”
Adam hums.
Nigel swallows thickly, doesn’t take his eyes off of Adam even as he dials for help. The phone rings, and rings, and rings, and Nigel feels like he’s stuck in some eternal limbo, until finally the line picks up, and there’s a fucking operator on the other end, and he feels like maybe he can breathe again.
He doesn’t even remember giving them an address, much less what information about the situation he disclosed, but the next thing he knows, he’s stroking a hand through Adam’s hair, rocking them gently, the phone discarded on the floor beside them. “They’re on their way, they’re on their way, it’s alright. You hear me?”
Adam doesn’t answer.
“They’ll be here in just a minute, and- and we’ll get you all patched up, yeah?”
He wonders how bad it is, if he’ll need surgery. He got stabbed in his shoulder once and it never healed quite right. He wonders if Adam will wake up everyday with that same dull ache and stiff muscles, and if he’ll think of Nigel.
“Just hang on, okay, gorgeous?”
The silence that follows Nigel’s words is heavy and suffocating, drawn out until he feels like he might snap. Nigel can’t get himself to look, he’s always been a coward. His hand twitches over the wound, over Adam’s small, still hand underneath his. He presses down hard over the wound, but Adam doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, or cry, or curse.
There’s still tears rolling down Nigel’s face, making their way down his neck and soaking into his shirt, making the distant wall a blur. He doesn’t remember the last time he fucking cried, and now he can’t stop.
“Adam,” Nigel says, and it sounds so monotone even to his own ears, like he already knows what’s waiting for him. “Adam?”
Nigel grips Adam’s hand, squeezes his eyes shut so tight that his vision swims with little spots and streaks of white, a tiny galaxy.
“Adam?”
“I love you,” Nigel says into the quiet of the room, barely managing the ragged inhale that follows the words. “I love you so much, you know that, right?”
Nigel chokes on the sob that he can’t swallow down, on the bile in his throat and the suffocating, unyielding, raw feeling tearing its way through his chest. Their hands are stuck together with dark, coagulating blood and he holds on so tightly that it hurts and his bones creak. He rocks them, because Adam likes that, and he keeps his eyes squeezed shut and tries to focus on the tiny galaxy behind his eyelids.