Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Do you want to drive, baby?” 

Nigel leans back against the car, one boot braced on the blistering hot gravel, the sun beating down on his shoulders. It’s so hot the air feels like it’s shimmering, waves of heat radiating off the asphalt and the metal of the car. Sweat drips down the back of his neck, pooling at the collar of his shirt, but he barely notices. 

His focus is locked on Adam, standing a few feet away, looking impossibly good in that Johnny Cash shirt that’s just a shade too bright, denim shorts that show off those legs Nigel can’t stop staring at, and a nervous smile that’s half-hidden by the way he’s biting his lip.

“What?” Adam laughs, bright and sudden, the sound bouncing off the emptiness around them. It’s the kind of laugh that’s rare and unguarded, the kind that’s always been Nigel’s favorite. “You’re teasing.” He waits, cocking his head like he’s expecting Nigel to sock him in the arm, tell him to quit dreaming and get his ass in the passenger seat.

Nigel grins. “Messing with you? Me? When have I ever—”

“All the time,” Adam interrupts, shaking his head as his laughter turns into this flustered little huff. “You’re always messing with me. Like—like that time you told me the check engine light was for decoration. Or when you made me call the pizza place and ask if they had gluten-free breadsticks when I know you’re not even gluten-free.”

Nigel snorts at that one, tilting his head like he’s thinking hard. “That wasn’t messing with you. That was giving you life experience. Builds character.”

“Character,” Adam repeats flatly, narrowing his eyes. “You’re deflecting.” 

Nigel leans back, dragging the moment out with a slow, lazy shrug. “Do I look like I’m kidding?” he asks, all nonchalance, but his eyes are warm, watching Adam like he’s already picturing him behind the wheel. “I’m feeling generous today. Thought I’d let you take the reins, gorgeous.”

Adam doesn’t respond right away. His hands are fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, twisting it in his lap. “You’re serious?” 

“Serious as a heart attack, gorgeous.” Nigel tosses the keys. Adam scrambles, fumbling once before they settle in his hands, his fingers curling tight around them like they might disappear. Nigel crosses his arms, leaning a little more into the car, watching the way Adam’s expression shifts—surprise, wonder, disbelief all dancing across his face.

And damn if that doesn’t do something to Nigel, watching Adam blink down at those keys like they’re made of solid gold. He’s standing there, legs slightly apart, one hip cocked just enough to make him look like he belongs in some kind of photo spread. That shirt clings to his chest in the most distracting way, a little damp from the heat, and Nigel’s chest aches because he’s never seen anything so beautiful, so fucking alive. 

The heat is unbearable, the kind that settles into your bones and makes you forget what cold ever felt like. Even out here, in the prairies of Alberta where Nigel figured the summers would be mild, the sun’s relentless. The sky’s a clear, blinding blue, stretched out endlessly above them, not a single cloud in sight. Grasshoppers chirp in the tall, golden grass that lines the edges of the gravel road, their constant hum blending with the distant lowing of cows. The smell of dry earth and sun-baked fields mixes with the faint tang of sweat. It’s heady and overwhelming, but Nigel wouldn’t trade it for anything. Not the heat, not the dust, not the smell of cow shit wafting in from a nearby field. 

It’s been a year since they left the States, since Darko worked his magic and got them across the border so smooth it’s like they slid on butter. A year of lying low, dodging headlines that used to scream their names, and finding solace in the anonymity of rural motels and endless highways. 

They’ve made it through the Rockies, dipped into glacier-fed lakes so cold they could barely breathe, and wandered through towns so small they’d miss them if they blinked. Nigel thinks about that dinosaur museum they stumbled across, how Adam’s eyes lit up like a kid’s on Christmas morning, wide and sparkling, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Nigel swears he’s never seen him happier. It’s moments like that he lives for, the kind that make everything else—the risks, the fear, the uncertainty—worth it.

It’s been a goddamn honeymoon, and Nigel still can’t believe it. Every day feels like a gift he’s too scared to unwrap, afraid the magic will stop. But it hasn’t. Not yet. Not even when they bicker or fight over stupid shit like who finished the last can of soda or whether they should take a left or a right at some unmarked crossroad. They always find their way back, making up with touches and kisses and whispered apologies that they’ll forget by morning. 

Their car’s still holding up, the old stickers on the dash peeling at the edges. Adam keeps picking at them when he thinks Nigel isn't’t looking, but Nigel doesn’t stop him. 

Nigel’s got a surprise for him, though. He knows Adam doesn’t like surprises much, but he’s betting this one will be worth it. Stepping closer, he plants himself in front of Adam, who’s still clutching the keys like he doesn’t know what to do with them. There’s a faint line between his brows, a crease of uncertainty that Nigel’s itching to smooth away.

Nigel clicks his tongue, reaching out to touch Adam’s nape. His skin’s sticky with sweat, warm under Nigel’s calloused fingers. 

“You should feel special, baby. I never let you drive.”

Adam’s lips twitch into a smile, soft and sweet, the kind that’s all for Nigel and nobody else. “I—Yeah. I feel…” He hesitates, glancing at the car, then back at Nigel. “You make me feel special, Nigel.”

Nigel grins, thumb brushing over the faint mark on Adam’s neck. It’s fading, but he likes knowing it’s there, a reminder of last night, of all the nights before. “That’s what I like to hear. That’s all I want for you. You know you’re special to me, yeah?”

Adam nods, eyes closing as he leans into Nigel’s hand. It’s a small movement, but it says everything Nigel needs to know.

“Sweet boy,” Nigel murmurs, his voice low and rough, filled with every ounce of love he’s got. “You’re all I’ll ever need.”

Adam hesitates only a second longer before opening the driver’s door, climbing into it. The old hinges groan like they’re waking up from a long nap, and Nigel’s quick to seal him inside, pressing the door shut with his shoulder like he’s afraid it might pop open again if he doesn’t. Then he bends to look at Adam through the open window, resting his forearm on the hot metal edge. The sun’s already warming it, making Nigel’s skin feel tight where it touches.

Adam takes a breath, and Nigel catches the way his chest rises and falls, sharp and deliberate, like he’s trying to steady himself. His eyes are wide as he plants his hands on the steering wheel, fingers spreading out across the leather that’s been worn to hell.

“Now, how’s it feel sitting in the driver’s seat? Feel like power?” Nigel asks, voice dipping into something softer, something that doesn’t push too hard. He can’t help himself, though, leaning in a little further, his shadow cutting across Adam’s lap.

Adam swallows, the motion of his throat catching Nigel’s eye, and then he smiles. God, he smiles. It’s wide and bright and maybe just a little nervous, like he’s trying not to grin too hard in case it’ll split his face open. But it’s there, and Nigel’s pretty sure he’ll be hearing about this moment forever—hell, probably replaying it himself for the rest of his life. He doesn’t mind. Not one bit.

Adam looks beautiful like this, the kind of beautiful that catches Nigel off guard even though he’s been staring at him for months now. There’s something about the way the sunlight bounces off his curls, all wild and loose like a storm cloud that got caught on the edge of a lightning strike. The way his cheeks have a little color in them, faint but enough to make Nigel want to reach out and touch, just to see if they’re as warm as they look. 

It doesn’t make Nigel uncomfortable, giving Adam control like this. It isn’t about that. It’s never been about that. This is his home as much as it is Nigel’s. This car, this whole setup. Where everything started, where so much of their story lives, pressed into the seats and the cracked vinyl dashboard.

“It feels good,” Adam finally says, his voice soft but steady. His fingers tap out a quick rhythm on the steering wheel, a little nervous energy Nigel’s seen a thousand times over. Those same fingers find the grooves in the leather where Nigel’s hands have lived for so long. Deep, permanent divots that Adam’s hands fit into like they were made for it. And maybe they were. Nigel watches those fingers slide into place, and something tightens in his chest, sharp and sweet all at once. He doesn’t care if Adam crashes the damn car, not if it means Nigel gets to keep looking at him like this.

Adam hums, low in his throat, his hands still moving over the wheel like he’s memorizing it. “The wheel is—uh, smooth here but rough at the edges. I like that. It’s interesting.” He tilts his head, squinting at the dashboard. “I’ve never sat here before. Not like this. It’s… different.” His fingers tap. “I’m thinking about all the buttons. They’re all here, and they feel like they’re looking at me. That’s distracting. But I’ll get used to it.”

“You’re already overthinking it,” Nigel says, laughing softly. “It’s just driving, baby. You’ve watched me do it a million times.”

“Yeah, but you don’t drive like a normal person. You don’t even wear your seatbelt most of the time.” Adam gives him a pointed look, his lips quirking into something wry. “That’s not a good example.”

Nigel raises his hands, feigning innocence. “Hey now, I drive just fine.”

Adam shakes his head, his curls bouncing. “You don’t. I will definitely drive better than you. Statistically, I already do, and I haven’t even started yet.”

“Oh, is that right?” Nigel grins, leaning further into the window. “Big words for someone who hasn’t even put the key in yet.”

Adam shrugs, his confidence quiet but firm. “It’s just true. You speed too much, you don’t pay attention to signs, and you always have one hand on my knee instead of the wheel. I’ll do it better. Safer.”

“You’re really coming for me, huh?” Nigel’s laughing now, full and bright, and it makes Adam smile wider, his eyes crinkling at the edges again. “Alright, Einstein. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Adam’s fingers tighten on the wheel, and he glances at the ignition. He hesitates, then glances back up at Nigel. 

He looks so fucking pretty. It’s the kind of pretty that’s got Nigel’s hands moving before he’s even aware of it. He reaches for Adam’s chin, thumb and forefinger catching the edge of his jaw, guiding him up and over into a kiss. Nigel leans in through the window, and when their mouths meet, it’s warm and sticky-sweet, tasting like the pancakes and syrup they scarfed down this morning at that diner just off the highway. God bless Canadian bacon and syrup. Nothing else in the world like it, Nigel thinks as he lets the kiss linger, lets himself savor it.

When they finally break apart, Nigel stands up straight, his knees popping like a couple of firecrackers. He rounds the front of the car, the gravel crunching loud under his boots, and pulls open the passenger door. Sliding in, he feels weirdly out of place, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself. His hands hover for a second before he sets them on his lap, fingers laced tight like he’s holding himself together. He turns to Adam, who’s still sitting there, looking straight ahead with a mix of excitement and focus that makes Nigel want to kiss him all over again.

“Where are we going?” Adam asks, his voice a little lighter now, like he’s settling into the moment. Nigel grins, all teeth, and tongues his canine for good measure.

“I’ll tell you where to go, doll. Just relax.”

Adam’s shoulders twitch, a little line of suspicion running through them, but he doesn’t argue. When it comes to going along with Nigel’s chaotic antics, Adam’s always been a little too willing. Nigel’s never been sure if it’s curiosity or trust or just plain old stubbornness that keeps Adam from asking too many questions, but whatever it is, it’s working.

Nigel reaches for the glove box, popping it open with a quick flick of his wrist. Inside, it’s a mess of receipts and crumpled fast-food napkins, and right on top, one of his wanted posters, the ink smudged from being handled too many times. He brushes it aside to grab his sunglasses, sliding them on with a little flourish before shooting Adam a grin. Then he shuts the glove box with his knee and crosses his arms, leaning back like he’s got all the time in the world.

Nigel got them here, and he figures Adam should be able to find where Nigel wants them to go pretty easily. It’s not far, just a little ways outside the town they’ve left behind. A straight fucking road, no turns, no tricks. Even so, Adam hesitates for a second before sliding the key into the ignition. He’s careful, precise, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong, but when the engine roars to life, Nigel sees the way his boy’s shoulders drop just a fraction, the tension bleeding out of him.

Nigel watches him as they start rolling down the road, the car rumbling along like it’s just as eager as they are to get moving. Adam’s posture is straight as a ruler, his hands at ten and two like he’s in a goddamn driver’s ed video. His face is all focus, brows knitted and tongue poking out between his teeth as he guides them forward. The sun pours in through the open windows, and Nigel lets his gaze wander to the way the wind catches Adam’s hair, tossing those wild curls into even more chaos. They’ve gone completely out of control, just the way Nigel likes them.

Nigel leans forward, stretching across the console to flick on the radio. He twists the knob until he lands on the 80s channel, the crackle of static giving way to the first few notes of some synth-heavy anthem. Satisfied, he sits back, letting his arm drape across the back of his seat. The rosary hanging from the rearview mirror swings in time with the car’s motion, little beads catching the sunlight like tiny stars.

Nigel lets his hand creep over the console until he can wrap his fingers around Adam’s thigh. He gives it a little squeeze, just enough to feel the softness of it under his palm. Adam’s breath hitches, the sound sharp and quick, and Nigel bites down on his cheek to keep from grinning too wide. He glances at Adam out of the corner of his eye, catching the way his boy glares at him without turning his head. God forbid Nigel distracts him from road safety, even though they’re the only damn car out here.

“You’re doing it again,” Adam says, his voice calm but with the precise sort of tone that tells Nigel he’s been caught.

“Doing what?” Nigel asks, all innocence, though the grin is threatening to break free.

“Touching me while driving,” Adam replies, glancing briefly at the hand on his thigh before looking back at the road. “It’s not... you know, it’s not exactly a safety-conscious behavior. If I need to brake suddenly, there’s a chance your hand placement could—”

“Could what?” Nigel cuts in, his grin fully unleashed now. “Throw off the delicate balance of your perfect driving technique? Cause some kind of catastrophic fucking accident?”

Adam exhales, the sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. “No, I’m serious,” he says, though his tone is lighter now. “There’s a logic to it. If I have to move my leg quickly, and your hand is there, it could delay my reaction time. Even by, like, half a second. And, statistically, in high-speed situations, that kind of delay can—”

“We’re going 40, baby,” Nigel interrupts, deadpan. He gestures vaguely at the wide, empty road ahead of them. “And there isn’t another car in sight. I think we’ll survive me giving your leg a little squeeze.”

Nigel’s tempted to push a little further, to see if he can make Adam squirm just because he can. But he reins himself in, saving it for later. They’ve got things to celebrate, after all. Nigel’s been practically vibrating with excitement all day. He doesn’t know if Adam’s noticed or not. Probably thinks Nigel’s in one of his moods, cooking up some crazy plan that’ll have them running from sirens by the end of the night. But this isn’t that. It’s a different kind of rush, one that’s been building ever since they left New York.

It’s the kind of rush Nigel feels every morning when he wakes up and hears his name fall from Adam’s lips. The sun fucking wakes up when Adam does, he thinks, and the routine begins. Nigel fights the multiple beams of sunlight that fall on Adam’s skin, and Adam kisses his bloodied knuckles. They share instant macaroni and microwaved broccoli, eat nectarines and sticky fruits. Drive, drive, drive.

Nigel’s fingers flex into the meat of Adam’s thigh as Adam drives them, and Nigel watches the prairies go by the window in flecks of gold. The landscape stretches out like a golden quilt, patched together with wheat fields and lonely barbed wire fences, the kind of vast emptiness that makes you feel small and infinite all at once. 

The trunk of the car’s filled with their stuff, little souvenirs they’ve picked up from their travels—a keychain shaped like a moose, a gas station snow globe with a tiny, glittery town inside, a handful of postcards neither of them got around to sending to Darko. Bags of clothes shoved in like afterthoughts, everything they need to live here and nowhere all at the same time.

All their love stuffed into one little car. Traveling during the winter had been a pain in the fucking ass, more rain than snow depending on where they were. Nigel thinks about the windshield wipers squealing against the glass, the tires splashing through puddles that seemed to come out of nowhere, and the bone-deep chill that even motel blankets couldn’t quite chase away. But now, with the sun beating down on the hood and a warm breeze sneaking in through the window, he’s thankful that’s all behind them. Nigel had missed the sticky heat of summer. The way it makes your skin damp and your clothes cling to you. The way it makes you feel alive, like the world’s holding its breath, waiting for something to happen. Anything’s possible in the summer, he thinks. There’s nothing like it, sweating your skin off and your face stinging 24/7. Summer’s for lovers, for the kind of love that’s all heat and light and breathless urgency.

But Nigel loves Adam all the time. In the dead of winter when the world feels cold and cruel, and now, in the airy lightness and glowing heat of the season where Nigel thrives. Where both of them do. Nigel’s grin softens as he looks at Adam, his wide-eyed cobalt blue gaze fixed on the road ahead. The sun catches on Adam’s bruised cheekbone, painting him in soft gold, and Nigel feels like he’s looking at a painting. 

Love looks pretty on him, Nigel thinks. It makes him soft and tender, proud in a way that makes Nigel’s chest ache. It makes him sit up and take notice, makes the world around him sharper, brighter. Adam’s grown so much in the past year, and not just because he finally reached the big 22. There’s a steadiness in him now, a quiet kind of strength that wasn’t there before. He’s blooming, unfolding petal by petal, and Nigel gets to watch it happen. It’s like watching the first light of dawn spill over the horizon—slow and inevitable, and so goddamn beautiful it hurts.

Everything about him has blossomed. He’s so unafraid of the world now, so confident in himself. He’s glowing brighter and brighter with every passing day, his voice louder, his presence impossible to ignore. People can’t help but admire him. He’s magnetic, the kind of person who walks into a room and makes everyone sit up and take notice without even trying. No longer is he the quiet small little thing Nigel met all those weeks ago in that diner. Nigel remembers it like it was yesterday—Adam hunched over, eyes darting around like he was afraid someone might notice him, might see too much.

Nigel remembers when he taught Adam how to shoot, the way Adam’s hands shook at first, the little determined expression on his face as he gripped the gun tight. The whoop of excitement that burst out of him when he hit a beer bottle target dead center, the way he looked at Nigel like he’d hung the fucking moon. He’s brave enough to point it at a man now, if he wanted. If Nigel told him to, he would. And Nigel knows he’d do it without hesitation, not because he’s cruel, but because he trusts Nigel that much. He doesn’t know if Adam would shoot yet, but that’s alright because if he can’t, he can just tell Nigel to shoot instead. And Nigel would. He’d do anything for Adam. 

His brave, bright boy. And Adam’s still Adam. He’s still Nigel’s. Always and forever. 

Adam hasn’t asked about going home at all. Hasn’t even mentioned it. That town is far, far behind them, where it belongs. Nigel’s chest tightens at the thought of it, the place that tried to crush Adam’s light, tried to make him small and quiet and invisible. They have the whole world at their fingertips now, and they’ve driven through two countries. They’ve seen mountains scrape the sky and rivers cut through valleys like ribbons, cities so bright they make your eyes ache and tiny towns where time seems to stand still. 

Nigel knows now he doesn’t have to tell Adam what he can be. How he can take over the fucking world and be the most powerful thing, how he can be anything and everything at all. Most of the time his sweet boy just wants a nice shower, to read his books and lie in bed. And who is Nigel to not give him what he wants?

One thing he’s realized over the past few months is they have time. So much fucking time. Time to figure out who they are, who they want to be. Adam can plan to rule the world later. For now, they can just share soft-serve ice cream cones and roll around in dingy motels with lumpy mattresses and peeling wallpaper. They can just love each other in the messy, imperfect way that feels like the only thing that’s ever made sense. And sure, sometimes Nigel thinks Adam deserves more than this—more than him. But most importantly, Adam deserves what he wants. And somehow, what Adam wants is grizzled old Nigel. He still can’t fucking wrap his head around having that boy’s love sometimes. But he does. God, he does, and it’s the best thing in the world.

Nigel knows now what it means to love. That kind of love that makes him read Adam’s books when his boy’s drooling on his chest at night, even though he doesn’t understand half of what’s written in them. That kind of love that makes him find holiness in a shared pair of socks, in the way Adam’s hand fits perfectly in his. Adam’s name is the only sound of clocks that Nigel needs. The ticking of time being set back another hour, another day, until summer will last forever again. Nigel’s heart could burst.

He creeps his hand up Adam’s thigh, his fingers trailing slow, and laughs at the hissed, “ Nigel ,” that comes from Adam. The creaking of leather on the wheel as Adam shifts under his touch, trying to keep his focus on the road. 

Nigel grins, letting his fingers spider their way just a little higher. “What?” he says, his voice dripping with fake innocence. “I’m just sitting here, minding my own business.”

Adam’s knuckles whiten on the steering wheel, the leather creaking as he adjusts his grip. “That is not sitting still,” Adam says, his voice sharp but not unkind. “You’re creeping. That’s different. Stop it.”

“Creeping? Baby, my hand’s just enjoying the view,” Nigel quips, biting his lip to keep from laughing outright. “And by the way, this view? Ten out of ten. Would recommend.”

Adam makes a noise, something between a huff and a whine, and shifts again, trying to dislodge Nigel’s hand. “You’re going to make me swerve,” he warns. “Do you know what happens when people don’t focus while driving? There’s an entire statistical analysis—”

“Here we go,” Nigel interrupts, his hand still resting stubbornly on Adam’s thigh. “Are you gonna give me the car crash stats again? Because, Adam, I’ve heard ‘em. All of them. Pretty sure I could recite them in my fucking sleep at this point.”

Adam glances at him briefly, the glare not as severe as he probably wants it to be. “Then why don’t you ever listen?”

“Maybe ‘cause you’re cute when you’re mad,” Nigel says, his grin widening. “All serious and frowny.” He leans closer, dropping his voice to a mock whisper. “Am I passing, Professor?”

“No,” Adam says flatly. 

“You wound me, baby.”

Adam doesn’t respond immediately, his eyes fixed on the road, but the way his lips are pressed together tells Nigel he’s holding back a laugh. Finally, he says, “I mean it. I will pull over, and then you’ll be the one driving while I supervise.”

Nigel snorts. “I don’t need, pointing out every time I don’t use my blinker like some kind of traffic cop.”

“Using your blinker is important,” Adam says, his tone slipping into that serious, earnest cadence Nigel loves so much. “It’s basic communication. Without it, other drivers have no way of knowing what you’re doing, and that unpredictability leads to—”

“Accidents, yeah, yeah, I know,” Nigel cuts in, chuckling. “You know what’s unpredictable? You rambling about blinkers while I’m trying to make a move on you.”

Adam finally cracks a smile, small and fleeting but undeniably there. “You’re not ‘making a move,’” he says, glancing at Nigel again. “You’re being annoying.”

Nigel can’t remember the last time he wanted to die. Can’t remember the last time he thought he should be anywhere but here.

Nigel’s love-struck. Adam, his sweetheart, he’s a list of all the warmest things. Desert peach, grapefruit juice, the light on the windowsill, tall grass, loving. Summer feels like how it used to be, when Nigel was a kid—sunscreen-washed afternoons, feet dangling in the pool, blisters and melted popsicles dripping onto the road and making his fingers sticky. Those afternoons stretched out forever, golden and buzzing, the air so heavy it felt like honey. Nigel used to think he’d never get those kinds of summers back, the ones where nothing mattered but the feeling of the sun on his face and the smell of chlorine in his hair. But with Adam, everything feels like that again. Like the world has slowed down just for them.

Nigel hasn’t thought of his father in months, either. Nor Gabi. It’s like his brain is constantly orbiting around Adam now, and he’s better for it. Much, much better. Adam is a gravitational pull he doesn’t want to escape, doesn’t even try. Every thought feels like it comes back to Adam, like a record stuck on the best part of a song. It’s comforting, that kind of focus, like his mind doesn’t have to wander to the darker corners anymore. There’s no room for it—Adam takes up all the space.

“How long do I drive for, Nigel?” Adam’s voice cuts through the hum of the car, light but curious, and Nigel perks up, glancing at Adam and then the road. The question is so Adam, so typical of the way he wants to know everything, to understand the full picture before they get there.

“Just a little longer, doll,” Nigel says, the words soft but sure. He can’t help the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth, watching the way Adam’s lips press together in that curious line. It’s a look that always makes Nigel’s chest feel tight, like his heart’s too big for his ribcage. Adam shoots him a look.

“Define ‘a little longer.’ Ten minutes? Twenty? An hour?” 

Nigel leans his head back against the seat, his grin widening. “Relax, sweetheart. It’s just a straight road. You’re doing great. No maps, no stress. Just drive.”

Adam doesn’t look convinced. “But where are we going? I don’t like not knowing where I’m going, Nigel. ” 

Nigel knows Adam well enough by now to recognize the tension creeping into his voice. “I get it, doll,” he says gently, his hand sliding back to Adam’s thigh, this time to reassure instead of tease. “It’s not far. I promise. And it’s nothing bad, just something fun. You trust me, right?”

Adam hesitates, his lips pressing together again, this time in thought. “I trust you,” he says eventually, his voice quieter now. “But I’d still like to know. I don’t like surprises.”

Nigel nods, keeping his tone light but warm. “Just this once, I wanna keep it a secret. You can fucking quiz me about it all you want afterward. Deal?”

Adam doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he exhales through his nose, the sound more thoughtful than frustrated. “Okay,” he says finally, though he sounds far from satisfied. 

Nigel knows it’s eating at him, not knowing. Adam’s ever-curious mind won’t let things lie, but he’s trying, and Nigel loves him even more for it. It’s one of the things he adores most about Adam—that need to understand, to dig deeper, to never just take things at face value. There’s nothing they keep from each other now, not a single secret left between them. Adam’s lips, pink and soft and kissed like ripe berries, quirk in a way that Nigel can’t look away from. He can’t remember the last time he had a real conversation with someone that wasn’t Adam.

Someone might say their attachment to each other is unhealthy, and Nigel would kick their fucking teeth in for it. All they need is each other, and Nigel’s long past thinking that’s a bad thing. Past thinking any of this is wrong at all. He’s a true believer now, his faith in Adam and their love more unwavering than a fucking priest’s devotion. There’s no room for doubt anymore. He doesn’t let himself spiral into paranoia like he used to. He doesn’t question heaven.

They sleep under the stars most of the time, the kind of nights where the sky feels endless and close all at once. Nigel knows the constellations by heart now, because Adam tells him their names over and over. Those nights are perfect—the air warm and still, the smell of grass and earth all around them. Hot summer nights with windows open and lamps burning low, and Adam’s head resting on his shoulder. Those are the happiest moments of the day. Next to the mornings, obviously. And the afternoons. And the early evening hours. It’s all good, every second of it, so sweet it might rot their teeth.

They’ll love each other until their hearts stop, until they’re dead, Nigel knows that. He doesn’t just believe it; he feels it deep in his bones, like it’s written into his DNA. The kind of love that’s consuming, that doesn’t leave room for anything else. And he wouldn’t have it any other way.

Nigel’s breath catches as what he’s been leading Adam to comes into view.

The little white house rolls into sight beside the car, its grassy path and white picket fence glowing soft in the late afternoon light. It’s almost too perfect, like something out of a dream, and Nigel’s chest tightens with the weight of it. He glances at Adam, sees the way his eyes flick to the house, curious but quiet. Nigel keeps his mouth shut, biting back the grin threatening to break free until they’re close enough for him to say, “Turn.”

Adam’s eyes go wide, his hands flinching as he jerks the wheel to turn sharply, the tires crunching on the path. The car bumps along the narrow drive, the house getting closer with every second. Nigel watches the way Adam swallows, the way his fingers tighten on the steering wheel. When they come to a stop, Adam turns to him, his expression a mix of confusion and curiosity.

“Where are we?” 

Nigel hums before he pulls back to get out of the car. The door shuts behind him with a satisfying click, and he’s around to Adam’s side in a few quick strides, opening the door for him and offering a hand. Adam takes it, his fingers fitting perfectly between Nigel’s, and Nigel helps him out, pulling him close.

He’s wondering how Adam still hasn’t figured it out yet, but Nigel’s too fucking excited to keep it a secret any longer. The grin breaks free as he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the small brass key that’s been burning a hole there ever since he got it. Darko had scouted the place for them, found the perfect spot, and by some miracle, everything had fallen into place. Now the key is in Nigel’s hand, and he presses it into Adam’s palm with a flourish, his grin so wide it’s starting to hurt.

“Welcome home, baby,” he says, his voice thick with emotion he doesn’t even try to hide.

Adam blinks at him, the confusion deepening on his face. “Nigel?” he asks, his voice soft and hesitant. Nigel doesn’t say anything, just grabs his hand again, lacing their fingers together as he tugs him toward the house. Adam stumbles a little on the uneven steps, his eyes wide and his lips parted as he looks around them like he’s trying to make sense of it all.

“What do you mean home?” Adam asks, his voice trembling just enough that Nigel’s heart aches with it.

Nigel doesn’t answer, can’t answer, because he’s too busy grinning like a fucking idiot. He unlocks the door with a quick twist of the key, then bends down to scoop Adam up in his arms. Adam squeaks in surprise, his hands flying up to wrap around Nigel’s neck as he squirms in his grip.

“There’s no furniture yet, and it’s definitely a bit of a fixer-upper,” Nigel says as he kicks the door open with his foot. The wood groans, and the faint smell of dust and old wood greets them. 

Inside, the house is warm and hazy, sunlight slanting through the bare windows, catching on floating dust motes like glitter suspended in air. The walls are a tired beige, like old Polaroids left out in the sun too long, and there’s a faint creak in the floorboards as Nigel steps in. “But I think we can make it something special. You can show off your shelf-building skills. You keep talking about how you’d do it better than those IKEA instructions, so now’s your chance, doll.”

Adam tenses in his grip, his fingers tapping against Nigel’s shoulder in that way he does when he’s overwhelmed. Nigel glances down at him, sees the way his eyes are wide and glassy, the way his lips are slightly parted. The realization is dawning on his face, slow and beautiful.

“Who did you kill for this?” Adam asks, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Nigel barks out a laugh, holding him tighter. “All completely legal, baby.”

Adam’s eyes narrow. 

Nigel sighs. “Mostly.”

Adam swallows hard, his fingers tightening their grip on Nigel’s neck. “This is—this is ours?”

Nigel nods, his grin softening into something warmer, something more certain.

Adam’s eyes go impossibly wider. “You have a key.”

Nigel nods again, his voice low and steady. “I have a key.”

Adam squirms in Nigel’s grip until Nigel lets him down, arms loosening like he’s untying a knot that didn’t want to be undone. Adam breaks free fast, stumbling a little but steadying himself as his head snaps this way and that, taking it all in. 

His lips part in this big, surprised “O,” like a kid walking into a candy store for the first time. Except the place they’re in is about as far from sweet as you can get—a barren little farmhouse with blank, pale walls that peel at the edges, the kind of color that might’ve been cheerful fifty years ago but now just looks tired. The air’s so stale it’s begging for the stench of cigarettes, something alive and human to fill up the dead space. Maybe a couple space posters tacked up crooked, too, the kind Adam always likes. It isn’t home yet. But it will be.

Nigel whistles low, the sound sharp and cutting through the quiet like a blade, and he grins to himself. He needs to remember to send Darko one hell of a gift basket. Logistics are squared away: fake names, fake IDs, all the little details handled so the cops don’t come sniffing around, looking too hard at how Nigel’s face matches a certain wanted Romanian criminal’s mugshot. Or how Adam—his boy, his angel—might look a bit too much like a boy snatched up from a small-town. This place, this life they’re building here, it’ll be good. Nigel feels it in his gut, the way the light slants through the dusty windows, cutting wide beams through the room and making Adam look more real and more otherworldly all at once. Like something plucked straight out of a dream and dropped into reality, rough edges and all.

Adam’s head jerks around like a bird’s, sharp and quick, and his hands start flapping—a little blur of motion by his sides. Nigel chuckles, deep and low, the sound rumbling up from his chest like distant thunder. He’s walking over to him before he even thinks about it, reaching out to touch. His thumb brushes under Adam’s chin, tipping it up gently, just enough to close his gaping mouth. 

“Careful, doll,” he teases, his voice soft but carrying an edge of warmth. “You’re gonna catch flies.”

“You have a key,” Adam repeats, his voice rising, every word more breathless than the last. “This isn’t—it’s not somebody else’s house? You’re not borrowing it? It’s not pretend?”

Nigel shakes his head, the warmth in his grin softening. “No, sweetheart. It’s not pretend. This is ours. No one’s going to take it from us.”

Adam stares at him, his mouth falling open. “We won’t have to leave? Not tomorrow? Not next week? This isn’t—” His voice catches, and he swallows hard before he manages, “This isn’t temporary?”

Nigel sighs, entirely in love. “It’s forever. Forever forever. Or as long as you want.” 

Adam’s busy vibrating with excitement, like a live wire sparking against Nigel’s skin. Nigel’s never seen him like this, not exactly. Sure, he’s seen Adam happy—seen him smile, seen him laugh until his sides hurt and tears streaked his face—but this is something else. This is Adam filled up so full of something good and bright it might just spill out, burst at the seams if he doesn’t let it out.

“Come on,” Nigel says, his hand finding Adam’s and giving it a tug. 

Adam’s palm is warm, a little sweaty, but Nigel doesn’t mind. He likes the feel of it, solid and real. Adam follows, practically bouncing as Nigel leads him through the house. They pass the kitchen, and Nigel slows just a little, his eyes flicking around to take it in. Not bad. Not bad at all. Good enough for the two of them. Bigger than he expected, even. 

The countertops are scratched up, old laminate that might’ve been trendy back in the seventies, and the sink’s got a drip Nigel will have to fix sooner or later. But it’s got potential. Potential—that’s what this whole place has. Like it’s waiting for them to breathe life into it, to make it their own.

But that’s not the best part. Not even close. Nigel keeps pulling Adam along until they’re at the back door. He unlocks it, the metal turning with a satisfying click, and pushes it open. The hinges creak, protesting just a little, but Nigel barely notices. He steps out onto the deck, the old wood creaking under their weight, and he grins as he takes in the view.

And there it is: the backyard. A sprawling, endless stretch of land that’s more sky than anything else, the kind of place where you could watch your dog run away for weeks and still not see the end of it. The grass is tall, swaying in the breeze, wild and untamed. Nigel feels a twinge of something—peace, maybe, or something close to it—as Adam stops dead beside him. 

His boy’s eyes go wide, impossibly wide, and his lips part again, that same stunned “O” from before. He stares up at the sky like it’s the first time he’s really seen it, like he’s trying to memorize every inch of it, every shade of blue and white and gold.

“We can put some chairs out here,” Nigel says, his voice soft but sure. “Get you a nice telescope, doll. You can look at all the stars you want.”

Adam doesn’t say anything at first. He just rocks back and forth on his heels, like he’s trying to ground himself but can’t quite manage it. Then, all at once, he turns and crashes into Nigel’s chest, hard enough that Nigel stumbles back a step, his breath hitching in surprise. Before he can even think, Adam’s arms are around his neck, pulling him down, and his mouth is on Nigel’s cheeks, his nose, anywhere he can reach, frantic and desperate and so full of life Nigel feels like he might drown in it.

“A telescope?” Adam’s voice is high and bright, cracking on the word like it’s too big for his throat. “Like… a real one?”

Nigel grins, wrapping an arm around Adam’s slim waist to keep him steady. “A real one,” he promises. “The kind you can see Saturn’s rings with. Hell, we’ll get the biggest one they got. Name a star after you while we’re at it.”

Adam laughs, high and breathless, his whole body leaning into Nigel like he can’t contain it. “You’re joking,” he says, but his voice is hopeful. “You’re not going to actually name a star after me. That costs a lot of money.”

“Guess we’ll just have to settle for looking at them,” Nigel says, pressing his nose into Adam’s hair, inhaling the scent. “This whole sky’s already got your name all over it, anyway.”

Adam pulls back just enough to look at him, his eyes bright and a little wild. “Do you think we’ll be able to see everything from here? I bet you can see the Andromeda galaxy with a good enough telescope. Or the Horsehead Nebula.”

Nigel chuckles, brushing a stray curl out of Adam’s face. “Yeah, doll. Everything. All of it.”

Adam bounces on his toes like he might float away, his hands grabbing at Nigel’s shirt, his excitement too big for his small frame. “We can keep it here, right? The telescope? Leave it out here instead of stuffing it into the car every time we want to use it?”

Nigel shakes his head, laughing softly. “Yeah, we’ll keep it here. You won’t have to pack it up.”

“It’s amazing, Nigel,” Adam says, his voice cracking on the words like they’re too big for his throat.

“And it’s ours, doll. All ours.”

Adam pulls back just enough to kiss him, soft and sweet, his lips pliant against Nigel’s. The ring on Adam’s finger digs into Nigel’s neck as Adam clings to him, but Nigel doesn’t mind. Adam’s happiness bleeds into him like syrup and sunlight, warm and sticky and impossible to shake off. His boy’s smile stretches wide, and his limbs move restlessly, like he’s got too much energy and no place to put it. He squirms against Nigel, nuzzling into his neck, and Nigel holds him tighter, wondering how the hell he got so lucky.

He’d kill for this—has killed for it, will kill again if he has to. 

A sweet mouth and free religion. 

That’s all he needs.

“I’ll build a shelf,” Adam whispers, the words muffled against Nigel’s collarbone, his voice soft but deliberate, like he’s already piecing it together in his head.

Nigel grins, pulling back just enough to tilt Adam’s chin up and meet his gaze. “And fill it with all your books after?”

Adam nods earnestly, his eyes wide and serious. “Yeah. I’ll need a big one, though. For the ones I have now and the ones I’m going to get. I don’t have enough space for all the books I want, but here I could—” He stops, pausing like the thought is almost too big to say out loud, then continues, quieter but no less sure. “Here I could finally have enough.”

Nigel rubs a hand down Adam’s back, his voice dropping lower, softer. “Good. You’ll get every damn book you want, doll. I’ll make sure of it.”

Adam’s fingers curl into the front of Nigel’s shirt as he keeps going. “And it has to be sturdy. Not one of those cheap particle-board ones that break if you put too much on it. Real wood. Something that’ll last. I could sort them all the way I like. Fiction on one side, nonfiction on the other. Or maybe by topic. Space books would go on the top shelf, right where I can see them best.”

“You’ve got it all planned out, huh?”

Adam doesn’t hesitate, his expression unwavering. “Of course I do. It has to be right. I don’t want the books getting damaged. If I’m going to have a shelf, it’s going to be a good one.”

“Then we’ll get you a good one,” Nigel says firmly. He presses a kiss to Adam’s temple, letting his lips linger there as he adds, “You deserve a place for all of it. For everything you want.”

Adam pulls back just enough to look at Nigel, his gaze steady, clear. “I’ll take care of it. I’ll save up and buy more books. The ones I couldn’t before because we didn’t have room. I’ll find them, and we’ll build the shelf, and I’ll organize it exactly right.”

Nigel brushes a thumb over Adam’s cheek, marveling at the intensity in his voice, the certainty. “You do that. Build your shelf, fill it with every damn book you want. We’ve got all the space in the world now.”

He lifts Adam easily, carrying him back inside and setting him on one of the kitchen counters. Adam’s feet dangle, his arms still looped around Nigel’s neck, pulling him close. It’s warm in here, the kind of warm that feels like a dream you don’t want to wake up from.

Nigel hums, resting his forehead against Adam’s. He takes a moment to just look at him, to take in that wide, glowing smile. His boy looks like the rest of Nigel’s life. And he is. All the chaotic shit they’ve done, all the blood and sweat and running, it all led to this. There’s more to do, more to accomplish, more crazy shit to pull off, but they’re here now. Finally here. Where they can stay.

Nigel can tell the thought’s taking root in Adam, spreading wild and fast like ivy. No more slumming it in shitty motels, no more cramped nights sleeping in the car. They’ll stay here. They’ll fucking stay, and it’ll be amazing. It’s not terrifying. Not anymore. Because Nigel knows, deep down, this is where they’ve always been meant to be. It’s everything Nigel’s ever wanted, and everything Adam never knew he needed.

His kidnapped angel. His fallen star.

After Adam calms down a little, he and Adam go back to the car to grab all their things. The air is thick and warm, clinging to their skin like it’s trying to drag them back into the heat of the day. The car door creaks when it opens, the sound sharp and familiar, and Nigel’s hands find the straps of their bags. His fingers brush against Adam’s for just a second, before he’s hauling duffels over his shoulders like they weigh nothing. Adam struggles with a star-patterned backpack, his face scrunching up in that way that makes Nigel want to laugh and kiss him all at once. They both stumble a little as they make their way across the uneven ground, the crunch of dirt and grass filling the space between them.

The front door sticks a little when they push it open. Nigel lets Adam go in first, watching as he steps over the threshold like he’s crossing into another world. The living room—if you could call it that—is bare, just scuffed wooden floors and walls that need a fresh coat of paint. Their footsteps echo in the emptiness, every sound amplified like the house is listening. They drop their bags with a thud, the weight of the past year spilling out in black duffels. Nigel’s breath catches for a moment as he takes it all in—the mess, the quiet, the way Adam’s standing there like he belongs.

It’s quiet for a beat, just their breathing and the faint creak of the floorboards as they shift their weight. Then Adam laughs—soft, almost to himself, like he’s found the punchline to a joke only he understands. Nigel doesn’t even realize he’s smiling until his cheeks ache a little, the kind of smile that feels like it’s been carved into him. He doesn’t say anything, just watches as Adam’s eyes dart around the room, taking everything in with that wide-eyed curiosity Nigel has always loved about him.

Nigel’s gun and cigarettes find their way into the kitchen, along with their boxes of macaroni, cans of beer, and off-brand soda. He lines everything up on the counter like it’s some kind of ceremony, taking stock of what they’ve got and what they’ll need. The kitchen is small, barely enough room for the two of them, but it feels solid under his feet, the kind of space that could become something more. 

He knows he’ll have to call the fucking plumber and the electrician, and they’ll need furniture and lightbulbs and curtains—God, the list is endless. It’ll take weeks, maybe months, until this place feels like home. But he can’t bring himself to think about all that right now, not when Adam’s darting from room to room with quick steps and a smile that could light up the whole damn house better than any electrician ever could.

Nigel watches him go, his heart a little too full and his brain a little too quiet for once. Any place is a home when Adam’s standing in the middle of it. He’s always known that. He follows Adam upstairs, their feet creaking on the old wooden steps. The upstairs is small, but it feels endless with Adam in it, his energy filling every corner. 

There are a couple of rooms, and Adam picks the bedroom with the big windows, his eyes lighting up like he’s found a treasure buried under the floorboards. Nigel doesn’t argue—he’d give Adam the moon if he asked for it. There’s another bathroom up here, small and cramped but functional, and another room that’s empty except for possibilities. Nigel knows this room will be Adam’s to fill with all his creativity. He’s most excited about that—seeing Adam’s things take up space, watching him make it his own. He can already picture the rocket models Adam will build, the crazy little inventions Nigel will find half-finished every time he walks in.

Nigel leans against the doorway, watching Adam run his fingers over the walls like he’s feeling for the pulse of the house. Adam’s rambling, his voice bouncing around the empty space as he talks about where they’ll put everything—what would look the nicest, what would make the most sense. 

“I think,” Adam starts, tapping the corner where the two walls meet, “I can put posters here. Not all of them, though—just the ones that fit. Like the one with the James Webb image of the Carina Nebula, because that one’s huge and it needs a lot of space. And then the Perseid meteor shower poster can go next to it, but lower, so it doesn’t overlap.”

Nigel nods, not really following but not needing to. He’s caught on Adam’s voice, the way it rises and falls with every word like he’s building something in real time. “Sounds good, doll,” he says, but Adam’s already moving on.

“And over here,” Adam continues, stepping into the next room, “this corner would be good for the rocket models. If I set them up on a shelf, I can organize them by mission. Apollo can go on the top, and the Space Shuttle models underneath, because they’re bigger, and I don’t want the shelf to break.” He pauses, then glances over his shoulder at Nigel. “Do you think we’ll need to use anchors? For the shelf? If the wall’s not strong enough, they could fall, and I don’t want anything to get damaged.”

 “We’ll use anchors if we need them,”Nigel promises. 

Adam nods, reassured, and moves to the opposite wall. “This one can be for the books,” he says. “But I’ll need two shelves, because the astronomy books are big, and I don’t want them stacked. If they’re stacked, it’s harder to see the titles, and then I forget what I have. And…” He hesitates, then looks up at Nigel with wide, serious eyes. “Is it okay if I put them in alphabetical order?.”

Nigel chuckles softly. “Doll, you can put them in whatever fucking order you want. Alphabetical, by size, by color—I don’t care as long as it makes you happy.”

Adam blinks up at him, his expression softening. “Okay,” he says, his voice quiet now but still sure. “Then I’ll do alphabetical. But I’ll keep the really special ones separate. Like the signed one from the astrophysicist I met at an observatory, and the one with the diagrams of the Hubble Space Telescope. Those can go on their own shelf, maybe above the others.”

“Sounds perfect,” Nigel says. “Anything else, doll?”

Adam’s gaze sweeps the room again, his lips pursing in thought. “I don’t know yet. I’ll have to see how it looks once everything’s here. But I think this is a good start. Oh, and… we should get curtains. Dark ones, so the light doesn’t mess up the telescope when I’m using it.”

“We’ll get curtains,” Nigel promises. “Anything you want. This place is all yours to set up how you like.”

Adam’s eyes go dreamy. “We can look at the stars every night,” he says, his voice almost reverent. “Every single night.”

Nigel doesn’t give a shit what the house looks like as long as it’s got touches of Adam everywhere, and it will. He can see it now, clear as day. Adam’s two-percent milk on the counter, bowls in the sink, cereal crumbs he’ll nag Nigel to clean up. The smell of burnt coffee and orange juice, spilled sugar and melted honey. Their forms pressed into the mattress, rumpled sheets that Adam will make every morning without fail. Their clothes mixed up in the drawers because Adam always ends up wearing Nigel’s shirts anyway.

Feet brushing under the table, sighing each other’s names against shoulders, slipping fingers under shirts just to remind himself how damn lucky he is every day. That’s what love will be. Bruises and sitting at the kitchen table drinking juice straight from the carton, buried in blankets and lazy mornings when the world feels small and quiet. Love is the way Adam’s hair smells like honeydew and lemon and that coconut shampoo he insists on using. It’s the way Adam laughs when Nigel says something stupid and the way his hands feel when they find Nigel’s in the dark.

Adam’s smile never leaves as Nigel heads back to the car one last time, grabbing their stuffed animals from the passenger seat. He places them on the windowsill in the bedroom, their mismatched little family already finding its place. Adam laughs when he sees them, the sound bubbling out of him like it can’t be contained, and Nigel’s heart clenches in that sweet, painful way it always does when Adam’s happy. 

He crosses the room in two steps and kisses him, because how could he not?

Married life has been everything Nigel never let himself hope for. He wakes up most mornings in that thin motel bed with Adam curled into his side, small and warm and perfect, and wonders how he ever lived without this. Without him. The way Adam fits against him, soft and trusting, like he belongs there—it’s enough to make Nigel’s chest ache in ways he never thought it could. 

The bite mark on his finger has healed nicely, little raised bumps in the shape of Adam’s little teeth. It’s a mark that Nigel carries with quiet pride, a secret reminder of the kind of love they share—feral and tender all at once, something that’s theirs and only theirs. He brushes his thumb over it sometimes when he’s sitting around, waiting on Adam to finish whatever it is he’s doing, and it makes him smile like an idiot every time. It’s ridiculous how much joy that little scar brings him.

And Adam hasn’t taken off that ring since he got it. It’s always there, glinting with its blue little jewel that catches the light in ways that Nigel swears can’t be natural. Like maybe it’s glowing all on its own, a tiny beacon that says he’s loved, that he’s chosen. Adam plays with it when he’s nervous, twisting it around and around his thin little finger, and Nigel loves that too. Loves the way it’s become a part of him, something so simple yet so significant. 

He’ll catch Adam fiddling with it absentmindedly sometimes, his brow furrowed in that way it does when he’s thinking too hard about something. And every time, Nigel’s heart does this stupid little flip because it’s his ring, his boy, his everything. Loves seeing that proof, right there, that Adam is his and he’s Adam’s and that’s never going to change. Not now, not ever.

And they have a new addition now. 

One Nigel made like he said he would. Copper wire twisted into shapes when he had time to do it, sitting on the edge of the bed or in the passenger seat while Adam drove. He’d worked the metal with his hands and a pair of pliers, bending and shaping it until his name was spelled out in medium-sized letters, each curve and line deliberate, careful. And then, when it was ready, he lit it with his lighter until it was glowing hot and pressed it to the skin where Adam’s ribs are, stark and sizzling and hot. He can still remember the way the wire had glowed, a molten red-orange that made his pulse race, the sharp hiss of it meeting skin, and the way Adam’s body had gone taut beneath his hands.

Adam had let him, trusted him through the pain, even though Nigel could see how much it hurt. His boy took it like he always does, brave and steady, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood but never pulling away. Nigel had held him steady, murmuring soft reassurances even as his own hands trembled. He’d made sure to let it heal after, to take care of the wound and cause him as little pain as possible. Cooled it with damp towels and put salve over it to get rid of the sting, every touch careful and reverent. He’d whispered apologies the whole time, guilt twisting in his gut even though Adam had asked for this, had begged him for it. It was the kind of love Adam wanted, the kind Nigel wanted too, raw and permanent and impossible to undo. Something that would last, something that would never fade no matter how much time passed.

Adam had looked him in the eyes with that quiet, steady determination of his and said, “I want this, Nigel. I need it.”

Nigel had stared at him for a long time after that, his jaw tight, his chest aching. “You’re fucking sure about this?” he’d asked finally, his voice rough, almost breaking. “You don’t—you don’t have to prove anything to me, Adam. You know that, yeah?”

Adam had nodded, calm but insistent, the way he always was when he’d made up his mind about something. “I know that. But it’s not about proving anything. It’s about—it’s about trust. And—and belonging.” He’d paused, chewing on his bottom lip for a moment before adding, “It’s about you, Nigel. About us.”

Nigel had swallowed hard at that, unable to find words for the way those simple sentences made his heart feel like it was going to burst. And so, he’d done it. For Adam.

And now, months later, Adam has Nigel’s name etched into his skin in raised lines. A scar that he runs his fingers over in the mirror after every shower, his eyes soft and his lips curved into the smallest of smiles. Nigel watches him sometimes, pretending not to notice, but he sees the way Adam’s fingers linger there, tracing the letters like they’re something holy. And when Nigel touches it, when his hands skim over the scar or his mouth ghosts over it in a kiss, Adam shivers. His breath catches, and his cheeks flush, and Nigel swears it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. 

It’s all beautiful, Nigel thinks. More beautiful than he’d ever imagined it would be, and he can’t believe it’s real even now. He can’t believe any of this is real, that he gets to wake up every day with Adam by his side and see that scar, that ring, that proof that he’s loved and wanted and needed. It’s everything he’s ever wanted and everything he never thought he’d have.

He can still remember the glowing ember of hot metal he had pressed to Adam’s skin right in the motel room where the people next door had no idea. The smell of it, sharp and metallic, had filled the room, mingling with the sound of Adam’s breathing, shallow and shaky but steady. The way Adam had clutched at him, fingers digging into his arms like he needed something to hold onto. The sound Adam made, half a sob and half a moan, had broken Nigel’s heart and made it whole all at once. It was a sound he’d never forget, one that echoed in his chest even now, months later. 

They’d made sweet love that night, gentle and passionate where Nigel had cried his love out into Adam’s skin and held him close, rocking him like he was something fragile that might break if he let go. He’d whispered things he couldn’t even remember now, words that didn’t matter because what mattered was the way Adam had looked at him, eyes shining with tears and love and something so raw it had made Nigel’s breath catch.

Nigel’s never been loved like this before, and it’s a fucking marvel every day, but it’s his, and he’s never letting it go.

They belong to each other the way plants belong to the earth, roots tangled up in dirt, drinking from the same water, existing as if one cannot survive without the other. 

The car sits outside like a loyal dog, waiting, its paint dulled and streaked with dust, a reminder of the miles they’ve traveled together. Inside the house, Nigel and Adam pull out the sleeping bags they bought during a frigid November night, convinced they’d need them to survive, only to find them unnecessary most of the time. The fabric smells faintly of plastic and the ghost of pine from a candle that broke in the trunk weeks ago. 

They spread them out on the floor, side by side, close enough to touch, and even though it’s too damn hot to sleep cocooned in them, they’re softer than the rough planks beneath. The bags act as a barrier, a thin layer of comfort between them and the rawness of the world they’re trying to carve out.

Maybe one day they’ll have to pack it all up and run, some nosy neighbor catching a whiff of Nigel’s particular kind of trouble, the cops figuring out his name and where he’s been. But that day isn’t today. Today, they have this—walls, a roof that mostly keeps the rain out, and each other. It feels like more than Nigel ever thought he’d have.

He’s got this rare, precious thing now—a good feeling. It’s clean and untainted by the sting of dread he’s carried around like a bad habit his entire life. It’s not perfect, not shiny and new, but it’s real, and Nigel clings to it like it might slip through his fingers if he blinks too hard. 

Adam’s soft, sweet, and wonderful in ways that don’t even seem real sometimes. Nigel’s tasted his heart—knows the flavor of it better than his own—and it’s cigarette smoke and blue raspberry, his favorite. Sweetness wrapped up in the now, unspoiled by the past or the future. Nigel thinks that might be the most precious thing of all.

They end up sprawled out on the floor, Adam stretched across him in nothing but his boxers, his skin warm and alive against Nigel’s own. The sleeping bags are forgotten beneath them, bunched and rumpled, while their few possessions are scattered around—bags of cash from Darko, a couple of half-empty water bottles. It’s not much, but it feels like everything. Nigel’s hand finds Adam’s hair, threading through the soft, mussed curls, and he lets himself drift. He doesn’t sleep—not really—but he dreams, in that half-lucid way where reality bends and twists. He dreams of what it’ll be like to stay put for once, to build something solid and safe.

“This already feels like home,” Adam says softly, his voice muffled against Nigel’s skin. He turns his head, just enough so his words are clear, and Nigel feels the weight of them settle over him. “I didn’t think I’d ever have that. Not really. I thought…” He trails off, his fingers curling against Nigel’s chest hair. “I thought it’d just be the road. Driving with you. Always moving. And I was okay with that, you know? I love it.”

Nigel’s hand pauses for just a second in Adam’s hair before he cups the back of his head, pulling him in closer. “Anywhere’s a home with you, doll. Doesn’t matter where. The car, some beat-up motel, the back of a fucking Denny’s—it’s all the same to me if you’re there.”

Adam lifts his head, squinting at Nigel like he’s trying to decide if he’s serious or not. “I wouldn’t live in a Denny’s,” he says, his face softening. “It smells like old coffee and grease, and the chairs are sticky.”

Nigel huffs a laugh, his thumb brushing over Adam’s cheek. “Yeah, well, lucky for us, we don’t have to,” he says, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “We’ve got this now. A real place. Walls, a roof, a floor that doesn’t reek of syrup. This is ours.”

Adam’s gaze lingers on him, his eyes big and wide and impossibly blue in the dim light. “A real home,” he whispers, almost like he’s testing the words, rolling them around in his mouth. “I never thought we could have this. I didn’t think it’d feel like this.”

“It’s yours, Adam,” Nigel says, his voice soft but certain, his fingers still running through Adam’s hair. “This place, this life—it’s all yours now. And mine, I guess, if you’ll have me.” He smirks a little at that, but there’s something raw and honest beneath it.

Adam smiles, small and sweet, and he leans down to press a quick kiss to Nigel’s lips before settling back against his chest. “It already feels like you’ve always been part of it,” he says, his voice a little shy but sure. “Like this place was waiting for us.”

Nigel tightens his arms around him, his chest aching with a tenderness he can’t quite put into words. “Yeah, doll,” he murmurs. “Maybe it was.”

Nigel tilts his head back against the floorboards, looking up at the cracked ceiling. His fingers trail lazily through Adam’s hair, like he’s trying to commit the feeling to memory. The quiet settles over them like a blanket, but it’s the good kind—soft, easy, full of all the things they don’t have to say out loud.

“You think we’ll be good at it?” Nigel asks after a while, his voice low, like he’s not sure if he wants to break the moment or not. “Playing normal for a bit?”

Adam doesn’t respond right away. His cheek presses to Nigel’s chest again, and his fingers start idly tracing over the lines of Nigel’s collarbone, up and down, like he’s working out an answer.

“Maybe,” Adam says finally, his voice soft and thoughtful. He lifts his head just enough to meet Nigel’s eyes. “I mean, it’s not like we have to be perfect at it. We just… try. We figure it out.”

“You make it sound so simple.”

Adam shrugs a little, his lips quirking up in a faint smile. “Isn’t it? Like, we already do the hard stuff. We keep each other safe. We… we’re good at being together, even when everything else is falling apart. I think we could be good at this too. At staying still for a while.”

Nigel’s chest tightens at that, a mixture of pride and affection. He tilts Adam’s chin up gently, his thumb brushing over the soft curve of Adam’s jaw. “You make me wanna try,” he says, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Adam leans into him, his weight warm and solid, and he lets out a soft, contented sigh. “It’s kinda scary, isn’t it?” he murmurs. 

Nigel’s arms tighten around him, his voice low and steady as he says, “Not when you’ve got something to hold onto.”

Adam doesn’t respond right away, but Nigel can feel the way his body relaxes against him, the way his breathing evens out. And when Adam finally speaks again, his voice is barely a whisper. 

“You’re the best thing I’ve ever had, Nigel.”

Nigel presses a kiss to Adam’s temple, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulls back just enough to look into his eyes. “You’re everything, doll. Always have been.”

Maybe he’ll miss the road—the endless stretch of asphalt, the way the miles slip by under his wheels, the freedom of it. But no one says they can’t take a trip now and then. They could go anywhere. The whole damn world’s open to them. But for now, Nigel’s thinking it’ll be good to rest. To breathe. To live like normal people for a while. His fucking back could use the break—too many hours slouched behind a wheel—and so could Adam. The kid’s been running just as hard as Nigel has, maybe harder in his own quiet way.

When they wake, the sun’s already high, streaking golden light through the cracked blinds, cutting through the dust motes in the air like shards of glass. Nigel watches as Adam sits cross-legged on the floor, bare skin glowing in the morning light, his hair a mess of soft curls that fall into his eyes. He’s eating cereal straight from the box, his movements slow and unhurried. Nigel feels a pang in his chest, sharp and sweet, watching him. 

This is how he likes Adam: comfortable, unguarded, the edges of him loose and unpolished. 

It’ll be good for Adam, staying here a while. Nigel can already see it: the way a steady place will let him bloom, how he’ll thrive with routines and quiet nights, a shower every day, and a bed that smells like them. It’ll take some getting used to, sure, but Nigel’s convinced it’s what they need. Change, after all, is what brought them here in the first place, and change can be good. Nigel tells himself that over and over, like a mantra. Change is good. Change is necessary. Change is what keeps them alive.

Nigel paces while he fiddles with the phone Nigel got Adam months ago, one of those things they only use in emergencies or to check in with Darko. Today’s one of those days—just a quick call to let Darko know Nigel’s still alive and kicking. After that, he makes a few more calls, gets some guys over to turn on the electricity and water. They take their payment in cash, no questions asked, and when they leave, the house feels a little more alive.

Nigel doesn’t even have time to light up before Adam’s in his arms, grinning like the devil himself, dragging them into the shower. The water’s warm, the pressure decent enough, and they use the soap Nigel had stuffed in his bag—sick of motel soap that left his skin itching, Adam’s too. Nigel’s hands move over Adam’s smooth, pale skin, the scars he knows like his own, their bodies slipping against each other in the spray. Bubbles slide down Adam’s back, his arms clinging tight around Nigel. 

Afterwards, Nigel lights a cigarette, the smell of smoke curling through the space, making it theirs. Adam leans against the wall, damp and glowing, and tells him they should start with paint. Nigel agrees, but only on one condition: one of the rooms has to be Carolina blue.

After breakfast—if you can call a cigarette and dry cereal a meal—he’s hauling Adam into the car.

Adam’s sitting in the passenger seat, his knee bouncing like he’s got a motor in his leg. The movement is constant, jittery, like he’s got too much energy and nowhere to put it. Nigel’s half-listening to him talk about God knows what. Something about paint finishes or thread counts or whatever. The words flow out of Adam like a river that doesn’t stop for bends or rocks. 

Nigel’s not catching most of it, but he doesn’t need to. What matters is the way Adam’s face lights up when Nigel tells him, “Go wild.”

The store is a maze of tight aisles and garish overhead lights. Nigel feels like a walking wallet, his hands shoved deep into his pockets while Adam darts ahead, weaving through displays with the cart like he’s training for a marathon. Nigel doesn’t give two shits about what they’re buying as long as it’s what Adam wants. The list is long: a bed, a fridge, a fucking couch, some tables, kitchen shit, a TV. They’re ticking things off faster than Nigel expected, Adam’s enthusiasm shaving time off decisions Nigel figured would take hours.

Adam’s got this way of talking, like he’s not really talking to Nigel but just letting the words spill out into the space between them. It’s comforting, familiar. Nigel thinks it’s one of those things he’d miss if it ever stopped. Not that it will. Not if he has anything to do with it.

“This one,” Adam says, stopping in front of a couch that’s a muted gray. He pokes the cushion a few times, then sits, his knees bouncing slightly as he tests the give. “It’s not too soft, but it’s not hard either. It’ll work.”

Nigel arches a brow. “Just like that? No debate? No pros-and-cons list?”

Adam looks up at him, blinking. “Why would there be a debate? I sat on it. It’s fine. Unless you have something against gray.”

“I don’t,” Nigel says, fighting a smirk. “I just thought you’d be, I don’t know... pickier?”

“I’m not picky,” Adam says firmly, but then he pauses, frowning a little. “Well, I guess I’m picky about some things. Like food. And smells. And sounds sometimes. And you. But not couches.”

Nigel laughs, leaning against the armrest Adam’s perched on. “Good to know you’ve got priorities, baby.”

Adam hums, running his hand over the fabric again, like he’s making absolutely sure it doesn’t betray him by suddenly feeling wrong. “It’s important to have priorities. Couches are neutral territory. They’re just for sitting. Or laying down. Or...” He trails off, his cheeks coloring slightly as he looks up at Nigel.

Nigel grins, catching the edge of Adam’s embarrassment. “Or what, gorgeous?” he teases, leaning down a little closer. “What were you gonna say?”

“Nothing,” Adam mutters, avoiding his eyes. “Just sitting and laying. That’s all.”

“Sure,” Nigel says, drawing the word out, enjoying the way Adam’s cheeks go even redder. 

Adam sighs, standing abruptly and brushing past him to the cart. “What about the bed?” he asks, changing the subject with all the grace of a wrecking ball. “We still need to look at beds.”

Nigel chuckles, following him. “You’re the one with all the opinions, baby. I’m just here to nod and swipe the card.”

“That’s not true,” Adam says, glancing back at him. “You have opinions. You just don’t say them out loud unless I ask.”

“That’s ‘cause your opinions are better,” Nigel replies smoothly.

Adam stops short, turning to look at him with a puzzled expression. “Why would you think that? That doesn’t make sense. You can have good opinions too. Just because mine are logical doesn’t mean yours aren’t... valid.”

Nigel stares at him for a second, then laughs, shaking his head. “You’re something else, you know that?”

“I don’t know what you mean by that. You say it a lot, but you never explain it. What does it mean?”

“It means you’re perfect,” Nigel says, brushing past him to take the cart. “And you’re driving me crazy, but in the best way.”

Adam huffs, but he follows Nigel, his voice softer now. “I don’t think that’s a real answer. You’re just saying that because you don’t want to explain.”

Nigel looks back at him, grinning. “Maybe. Or maybe I like watching you try to figure me out.”

Adam stops walking, staring at Nigel. “I already figured you out,” he says, almost matter-of-factly. “You’re pretending to be mysterious so I’ll let you get away with being vague.”

Nigel barks out a laugh, shaking his head. “Alright, Sherlock, you got me. Now help me pick a damn bed before the store closes.”

They’re in the bedding aisle now, and Adam’s face is flushed from the sheer excitement of it all. His cheeks are pink, his hair a little mussed, and he’s debating between two shades of blue. Nigel leans against the cart, his arms folded, watching him with the kind of quiet amusement that comes easy these days. Adam’s fingers brush over the fabric, testing it like he’s trying to feel its soul. 

Nigel finally tells him, “Just get both,” and Adam turns to him with a look that’s somewhere between incredulous and delighted, like Nigel’s just offered him the moon.

Next, they’re picking up paint. White and the blue Nigel asked for. Adam’s tossing rollers and brushes and painter’s tape into the cart while Nigel pays, his wallet lighter but his chest fuller. The big stuff’s all scheduled for delivery—Nigel’s not about to strap a goddamn fridge to his car roof like some kind of lunatic. They’re not that broke, not anymore. As they walk out, Adam’s fidgeting with the receipt, folding and unfolding it . Nigel watches his hands, the quick, nervous movements, and feels a pang of something warm and heavy settle in his chest. He’s feeling real good. Real good.

But it’s not all sunshine. Nigel notices the way people look at them. He’s used to it by now, has been since the beginning. The side-eyes, the whispered comments that hang in the air like smoke. Today, though, Adam’s not hunching over or trying to blend into the background. Adam’s got his hand, their fingers laced tight like he’s daring anyone to say something, and Nigel walks tall beside him.

Adam’s talking the whole time, rambling about the paint and what they’re gonna do with the place. Nigel’s not really listening—not to the words, anyway. He’s too caught up in the sound of Adam’s voice, the way it rises and falls, the way it fills the space like music. 

Nigel thinks he’s never been more in love in his fucking life. He doesn’t know if Adam even notices the looks they’re getting, or if he just doesn’t care anymore. Either way, it’s fine by Nigel. As long as Adam stays like this—eager and excited and entirely himself.

Back home, they crack open all the windows to let the breeze roll in. The air smells like fresh grass and Nigel doesn’t want them passing out from paint fumes. That’d be a hell of a way to go. They pour the paint into trays. Nigel dips a roller into the blue, watching it ooze and coat the sponge, thick and vibrant. When he presses it to the wall, the first streak is uneven as hell, jagged and patchy, but Adam laughs, a sound so full and bright it makes Nigel’s heart stumble.

“We’ll fix it,” Adam says, his voice warm and sure, and Nigel believes him.

The color’s perfect. It’s the same blue Nigel picked out because he knew it’d look good, and it does. It looks even better next to Adam, whose eyes catch the light in a way that makes Nigel’s chest ache. They’re glittering, full of some kind of joy Nigel doesn’t think he’s ever seen anywhere else. It’s not just happiness; it’s something bigger, something brighter, like the kind of light that doesn’t fade.

They’re a mess, both of them. Paint splattered on their arms, their clothes, their faces. There’s a streak of blue on Adam’s cheek that Nigel’s tempted to wipe away, but he doesn’t. The room’s starting to look like something, and Adam’s standing there with a roller in one hand and the kind of smile that could break and mend a man in the same breath. 

They paint together, Adam careful, meticulous with every stroke, like he’s filling in the outlines of a picture only he can see, and Nigel’s there beside him, reckless and messy, painting in big, broad strokes with the roller, like he’s in some race to the finish line that only he knows about. The walls end up with a badly done first coat, uneven patches showing through like little secrets they’ve left behind, whispers of the old walls peeking through. Adam notices, of course he does, because he notices everything, and he turns to Nigel with a sharp little frown that makes Nigel want to kiss it off his face right then and there.

“It’ll never look right if you keep going like that,” Adam scolds, his voice soft but firm, the way he gets when he’s in his own head about something, like he’s lecturing himself as much as Nigel.

Nigel swears it’ll look better the second time around, says it with a grin that’s more charm than conviction, but it’s not the paint he’s thinking about, not really. It’s Adam, bent slightly forward, all curls and concentration, his pale hands stained with little streaks of blue, his lip caught between his teeth in that way that drives Nigel half-mad. His chest feels tight, heavy with something he’s not sure he’ll ever put into words, not properly. The thought flashes quick through his mind—I want to kiss him—and before it’s even finished forming, he does.

Nigel leans in, presses his lips to Adam’s, paint smudging on both their faces, flecks of it catching in Adam’s curls like they belong there, like the universe intended this moment to happen just as it is. His beautiful, blue angel. Adam’s lips are soft, a little dry from where he’s been chewing on them, and he makes this soft little sound in the back of his throat, like he’s surprised but pleased all at once, and it’s the sweetest thing Nigel’s ever heard.

Nigel’s hand comes up, warm and clumsy, also somehow fucking smeared with paint because of course it is. He slips it under Adam’s shirt without thinking, fingers brushing against bare skin that’s warm and soft and alive. His hand lands on Adam’s waist, spreads wide like he’s trying to hold onto something that might slip away if he’s not careful, and when he pulls back just enough to see Adam’s face, Adam’s frowning at him.

“Nigel,” Adam says, and Nigel just grins at him, wicked and soft all at the same time. He leans back in, nipping at Adam’s pink lips, at the delicate skin of his throat, like he’s trying to leave marks there, reminders that this happened, that they happened.

“Nigel,” Adam says again, firmer this time, his voice steady in that way that always gets Nigel to listen—eventually. He doesn’t sound annoyed, not exactly, but there’s this focus in his tone that cuts through Nigel’s haze. “We need to paint. You’re wasting time.”

“I’m not wasting time, baby. I’m multitasking. There’s a difference.”

Adam doesn’t move, doesn’t laugh, just keeps looking at him with those wide, serious eyes. “You said you wanted to finish this today. If we keep stopping, it’s not going to get done, and then we’ll have to live with one wall painted and the rest still bare, and that doesn’t make sense. It’s inefficient.”

Nigel lifts his head, a smirk pulling at his lips even as he drags his hands back up to Adam’s waist. “I can’t help it,” he says, all low and slow, like it’s some kind of confession. “You’re just too damn distracting. Look at you. You’ve got paint on your nose, for Christ’s sake. How am I supposed to focus when you’re sitting here looking like that?”

Adam blinks, reaching up to swipe at his nose, but his fingers come back smudged blue, and his brows knit together. “I told you to be careful. I don’t want to get paint on my face.”

Nigel chuckles, leaning in to kiss the corner of Adam’s mouth, ignoring the little sigh of exasperation he gets in return. “I think it looks cute. Adds character.”

Nigel’s lips move to his jaw as Adam says, “We’re going to get paint everywhere, and then we’ll have to clean it all up, and that’s just more work.”

“Then let’s make it worth the mess,” Nigel murmurs, his teeth grazing the curve of Adam’s throat, his hands gripping just tight enough to leave streaks of paint wherever they wander.

Adam huffs, and Nigel knows he’s trying to keep that serious edge, but there’s a softness in the way his hands land on Nigel’s shoulders. “Nigel, I’m serious. We said we were going to do this together, and I want it to be done right.”

Nigel laughs, pressing a kiss to Adam’s temple. “You make it impossible for me to focus, that’s why. You sit here looking like this, with your paint-covered hands and your serious little face, and all I can think about is how much I love you.”

Adam blinks, his lips parting like he’s about to say something, but Nigel doesn’t give him the chance. Instead, he pulls him close again, his hands settling on Adam’s hips, and his voice drops, softer now. 

“Just give me a minute, okay? One minute, and then we’ll finish the stupid wall. I swear.”

Adam hesitates, his gaze flickering to the half-painted wall and then back to Nigel. “You always say one minute,” he mutters, but there’s a warmth in his voice that makes Nigel grin.

“Yeah, well, you always give in,” Nigel says.

The paint is everywhere now, smearing across their skin, their clothes, the floor. Nigel’s hands wander lower, and he knows—he knows—he’s leaving handprints of paint on Adam’s ass cheeks, little blue marks that stand out against the denim of Adam’s jeans. He hopes it never washes out. Hopes there’s always a little mark of him left behind, even when Adam’s scrubbed clean. They’re in the living room, on the floor, the first coat of paint drying above them, and Nigel’s mouth is on Adam’s again, his words tumbling out between kisses like they can’t be stopped.

“Sweet fucking thing,” he murmurs, the words low and rough, like they’re coming from somewhere deep inside him, and Adam shivers beneath him, his cheeks flushed, his skin a patchwork of drying paint and fever-bright color. He’s entirely fucking gorgeous, Nigel thinks, and he can’t help himself, can’t stop his hands from pawing at Adam’s clothes, tugging them off. His fingers dip into Adam’s shorts, bypassing the neat little trunks to wrap around his cock, warm and hard and familiar.

Adam squirms beneath him, his hands coming up to grip at Nigel’s forearm, his lip caught between his teeth again as those sweet little noises spill out of him, quiet but insistent, like he can’t help it. His curls spill out on the hardwood, a wild halo around his head, and the sunlight catches on him just so, making him look like something untouchable that Nigel’s somehow been allowed to have. It’s almost too much, this feeling in his chest, this desperate, aching need to be close to Adam, to have him, to keep him forever.

Nigel presses kisses to Adam’s bare chest, to the faint flecks of paint on his waist, to every inch of skin he can reach. His lips leave blooms of color as he goes, little reminders that he was there, that he touched, that he loved. His hands slide up Adam’s sides, his thumbs brushing into the hollows of Adam’s fluttering stomach, feeling the way his breath comes quick and shallow. He slides Adam’s shorts down, pressing his mouth against the bulge in Adam’s underwear, kissing softly, reverently. Adam’s always hard for him, always attentive, always sweet.

They’re tangled up together, and Nigel’s everywhere, inside and out, until Adam gets a little wild. He crawls onto Nigel’s lap, his hands gripping at Nigel’s shoulders as he presses him back against the wet paint of the wall. Nigel can feel it sticking to his skin, cold and wet and all the things that should annoy him, but he can’t bring himself to care. Not when Adam’s there, grinding down on him like he owns him, like he’s staking his claim.

“Look at you,” Nigel murmurs, his lips brushing against Adam’s jaw, his throat, sucking a little just to hear the soft, breathy sound Adam makes in response. “So fucking good for me. Sweetest thing I’ve ever touched. You feel that, baby? Feel how fucking perfect you are?” His hand slides up Adam’s back, over the damp smears of paint, pressing against his spine as he pulls him closer. “No one else gets this. No one else gets to see you like this. Just me. Always me.”

Adam’s head is thrown back, his curls wild and his skin a mess of blue and pink and beauty, and Nigel’s hands are on him, holding him, worshiping him. Adam bites at Nigel’s throat, little nips that make Nigel groan, his hands tightening on Adam’s hips. It’s too much and not enough all at once, and Nigel thinks he’ll love this boy forever.

Sluggish with love, like two flowers leaning into the same sun. He loves him now, in this moment where time doesn’t seem to exist, where the world is just the two of them and nothing else. He’ll love him in two years, loved him five months ago. In five years, two days, and six minutes, he’ll still love him. When he’s seventy fucking years old, sitting on some porch somewhere, he’ll love him, too. If he makes it that far.

It doesn’t matter, though, not really. Because they’re young now, and he loves him now, and that’s enough. Adam still wants him to love the world, still tells him that all the time, but Nigel’s love has been narrowed down to this boy, this beautiful boy who’s always in his passenger seat. His compass, his north star.

By the time Adam’s done with him, made him see stars, Nigel’s back is covered in blue paint. Adam has to scrub it off, his hands gentle but firm, rubbing until Nigel’s skin feels raw. It makes Nigel laugh, loud and open and full of joy, the kind that makes his chest ache in the best way. Adam looks at him, his wild, courageous boy, glowing like a dust mote caught in the light, all rabbit teeth and freckles.

Nigel would tell him he’d die for him, but Adam’s already told him to never think that again, to never say it out loud. Besides, Nigel thinks, there’s no reason to die at all now. Not as long as he can kiss Adam’s nose and count his breaths against his neck. Not as long as they can eat greasy food and hold hands until Sunday and do it all over again.

Nigel almost sinks to his knees when he comes back from changing into clean clothes to see Adam standing in the kitchen. The late sun pours through the window behind him, a soft golden light that makes everything look warmer, softer, like the world’s been dipped in gold. 

It’s hitting Adam just right, lighting up his hair in a way that turns the messy curls into a halo, the kind that belongs to old church paintings, all ethereal and glowing. Nigel’s breath catches in his chest, the kind of tight feeling that happens when something’s too good to be real. He’s framed there, backlit and barefoot, those hands of his moving in quick, nervous little gestures as he stirs the macaroni in the pot. Adam’s always been like that, never still, and Nigel feels like he’s standing on holy ground just watching him, wondering what kind of luck put Adam here, in this moment, with him.

It’s the only thing they’ve got to eat because the fridge won’t come for a couple of days, and they’re not exactly swimming in options. But Nigel doesn’t care. He could eat nothing but macaroni for the rest of his life if it meant scenes like this, where Adam’s here and moving and alive. His feet are bare against the linoleum, the cuffs of Nigel’s too-big shirt skimming just above his knees. It makes him look smaller, somehow, even though Nigel knows better. Adam’s not small. He’s a whole universe, a vast thing wrapped up in this lean, compact frame, and Nigel wants to melt in him. Wants to hold him and feel the weight of that universe pressing back against his chest, wants to memorize the way Adam’s shoulders move, the little flex of muscle under borrowed fabric as he stirs their noodles.

Nigel’s rooted to the spot for a moment, just staring, his heart doing that painful, lurching thing it’s been doing ever since Adam walked into his life. He can’t believe it sometimes. Can’t believe he gets to have this—finally, after everything. After nights spent staring at the ceiling, dreaming of something he was sure he’d never be allowed to hold. And now Adam’s here, and it’s not some fever dream conjured up by loneliness. It’s real. He’s real. Nigel swallows hard against the knot rising in his throat, the kind of emotion that’s too big, too sharp, like it’ll cut him open if he’s not careful. But Adam notices, of course he does. He always notices, like he’s got some built-in radar just for Nigel’s moods.

“What’s wrong?” Adam asks, turning just enough to glance back at him, his voice soft and lilting, with that plain way of speaking that Nigel’s come to adore. 

Nigel steps closer, his feet scuffing against the floor as he moves. He can’t quite meet Adam’s eyes yet, not when he’s feeling like this, all stripped bare and raw. Instead, he slips his arms around Adam’s waist, pulling him in gently until their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces. Nigel presses his face into Adam’s shoulder, his nose brushing against the collar of the shirt that smells faintly like laundry and the warmth of Adam’s skin.

“Nothing,” Nigel murmurs, the word muffled against fabric. “I love you, that’s all.”

Adam’s grin is immediate, so bright and wide that it feels like it could light up the whole room. “I love you.” 

He tilts his head, just enough to press a quick kiss to Nigel’s jaw, his lips warm and chapped in a way that feels real and right. Nigel’s heart does that thing again, the cracking-open thing, only this time it’s not painful. It’s like the last crack sealing shut, like his chest is full and whole and new. 

He leans down, moving Adam’s shirt aside, his lips brushing over the deep scar on Adam’s shoulder, the one that’s faded but still there, a reminder of how close Nigel came to losing him. He kisses it softly, like he’s trying to erase it with touch alone, and Adam hums quietly, leaning back into him as he stirs their noodles in the pot.

God must have given Nigel hands just for this—for holding Adam, for touching him like this, for feeling the warmth of him pressed so close. There’s no other explanation for it, no other reason Nigel can think of for why his hands fit so perfectly around Adam’s waist, why his fingers find the curve of Adam’s hips like they’ve always belonged there.

The house feels timeless, like it exists outside of everything else. They’ll have no clocks here except for the broken one on the wall, stuck at three-fifteen, and Nigel’s glad for it. Time doesn’t matter when he’s got this, when everything around them feels accented in gold. It’s warm, alive, and Nigel thinks back to the time he asked Adam what he thought of when he thought of the color yellow. Adam had said cabs, like a true New Yorker, and Nigel had laughed, the sound spilling out of him in a way he hadn’t expected. Yellow, to him, is sunlight and fresh begonias and honey dripping slow and sweet. Yellow is Adam, standing in a borrowed shirt with his curls askew and his cheeks flushed.

Blue, yellow, pink, purple—Adam’s everything, every color Nigel can name and a thousand more he can’t. And if light makes color, it only makes sense that Adam shines the way he does. Nigel’s angel of borrowed cigarettes and long eyelashes, the boy who makes every broken thing in Nigel’s life feel whole again. He knows he’ll never get enough of him, not in a lifetime, not ever.

They eat the macaroni straight out of the pot, leaning against the counter because there’s no table or chairs yet. It’s makeshift and messy and perfect, just like everything else about this place. The silence feels different here, softer, without the rumbling engine of the truck or the muffled noise of strangers moving around in the motel. It’s just them—their breathing, their laughter, the occasional scrape of metal on the pot, and the soft, smothered sound of lips meeting in quick kisses. Nigel presses one to Adam’s cheek, then another to the corner of his mouth, tasting the faint tang of fake cheese on his skin.

Adam shifts a little, turning his head. “Did you know,” Adam says, his voice quiet and thoughtful, “that in space, there’s no up or down? Everything just floats. It’s… it’s because there’s no gravity like we have here. I think about that sometimes. How you could just… drift. Go anywhere.”

Nigel hums, leaning his hip against the counter as he watches Adam’s face. “Sounds like something you’d love, gorgeous. Drifting around out there, no rules, no walls, just… colors and stars.”

Adam’s nudges Nigel with his elbow. “I wasn’t talking about me. I just… I think it’s nice to imagine. Floating like that. Free.”

“You’re free now, baby,” Nigel says, leaning in to press a kiss to Adam’s temple. “Free to float wherever you want. Though, selfish as it sounds, I’d kind of like it if you stayed with me.”

Adam looks up at him, his blue eyes so clear and trusting. “I’ll stay,” he says simply. “I’ll stay because I… I want to. With you. Here.” 

They stay like that for a moment, wrapped up in each other, until Adam tilts his head back to look at Nigel. His voice is soft, a little hesitant, but filled with a quiet kind of hope. “Do you remember, when we talked about this? How you said… said we’d have this kitchen, with the scratched-up table and the mismatched chairs?”

Nigel chuckles, his hand brushing over Adam’s curls. “Yeah, I remember. And the paint peeling off the walls. And those big, wide windows letting the sunlight in, making the whole place glow. We talked about how we’d leave them open in the summer, let the breeze in, even if it drove us fucking crazy with bugs.”

Adam smiles, the memory lighting up his face. “And… and the bedroom. You said it’d be messy, because you’d leave stuff on the floor, and I’d always be telling you to pick it up. But it’d have that big bed, and you’d let me take up all the blankets.”

Nigel grins, his fingers tracing patterns along Adam’s back. “I’d let you hog all the blankets, baby. I’d just pull you close and steal your warmth instead. And every morning, I’d wake up right there beside you, watching you sleep like you owned the whole damn bed.”

Adam’s smile  is soft, his breath warm against Nigel’s skin. “And now we have it. The kitchen, the light… even the way it feels like ours. It’s like we made it real.”

Nigel’s grin softens into something almost reverent, and he cups Adam’s face, his thumb tracing along his cheek. “We did make it real, baby. Every bit of it. And now I’ve got you here.”

Adam leans into his touch, his voice quiet but filled with something warm and certain. “I wouldn’t take all of it. Just enough to keep me warm.”

Nigel presses a kiss to Adam’s forehead, holding him close as the sunlight spills around them, painting their little world in gold. 

When Adam whispers, “We should go on a road trip soon,” Nigel doesn’t bother answering. He just kisses him, because there’s no need for words when the feeling’s this big, this all-encompassing. He loves him, and Adam loves him back. That’s all that matters.

Nigel’s eyes catch on the smear of cheese on Adam’s mouth, and he laughs softly, because even that feels like something beautiful. Yellow will always remind him of Adam now. His boy. Înger dulce, stea strălucitoare. Sweet angel, shining star.

Adam’s gaze drifts to the kitchen window, his eyes soft as they take in the endless grass stretching out beyond them. Nigel doesn’t look. He doesn’t need to. The view outside doesn’t matter when he’s got this—the endlessness of Adam, his purpose in this chaotic, awful world, wrapped up in one blue-eyed, beautiful frame.