Chapter 8

_________

ADAM

ADAM THOUGHT he'd never stop crying.

He'd been at it for what felt like days—though it could have only been minutes, for all he knew—with John holding him all the while. Just about the time Adam thought he'd finally be able to stop, get composed, and catch his breath, feeling wrung utterly dry, another wave of grief and guilt would hit, and he'd start all over again.

It was like a dam had been torn down. One that had been standing for nine years, rock solid, holding back a tidal wave.

"I've never said that out loud before," Adam managed to get out between sobs.

"Said what?" John murmured.

"That it was my fault." Adam choked out another sob, looking down at the urn. He hated that this was all he had left of his dad. That he'd never again get one of the man's amazing hugs. Never hear his dad's laugh. The urn was cold and hard in his arms, but he couldn't let it go. And he didn't want to pull free of John's embrace, either. "I mean, I've always thought it. But I've never actually said it."

John was silent for a long moment before he breathed a laugh. "Damn that man," he said, sounding like he was muttering to himself.

"What?" Adam sniffed. "Who?"

John shook his head. "Beau."

Adam frowned, his confusion worming its way just enough through his grief that he managed to stop sobbing and twist around in John's arms, though of course the tears kept coming as he looked up at him. "What about Beau?"

John rolled his eyes. "I asked him why he served you this time when you never drink. He should have known better. As a da–" John broke off. "As a dom," he corrected himself before he went on, "even not yours, he should have known to tell you no , especially when you were clearly struggling." John shook his head again. "But he said something needed to come out." John paused, his voice barely a whisper when he added, "I guess he was right."

Adam sniffed and wiped his eyes, watching John stare at the floor.

"I should have seen it," John murmured, then rolled his eyes again. "I did see it. I should have said something. Or pushed you to explain. To let it all out." John sighed. "Christ. I'm so sorry, baby. This is my fault–"

"What? No!"

"It is," John insisted. "Because I should have known better. Because I know you. Even back when you were a teenager, you would bottle everything up and hold it inside until the pressure hit your breaking point, and then it would all explode in one dramatic outburst." John shook his head. "Hell, even that night you snuck into my bed…"

Adam blushed.

"How long had you been holding in that urge?"

Adam wiped his eyes again. "Months," he admitted. "Years, really."

John pulled out a handkerchief and waited while Adam blew his nose. "Can you tell me about the drinking? I've been wanting to ask, but I figured it was a sensitive topic—obviously something to do with your dad—so I didn't want to upset you. But I guess I should have."

Adam winced, trying to balance the urn against his thighs while trying to fold the handkerchief back into some semblance of tidiness, except now it was damp and wrinkled from snot and tears. He draped his arms back around the urn with a sigh, clutching the handkerchief in his fist. "D-Dad always had a glass of scotch every night. Just one. Not even to get, like, buzzed or anything, let alone drunk. He said he just liked the taste. Said it was his treat to himself after a long day of work." Adam paused, trying to remember the words Dad had used. "Something about a way to celebrate another good day, or unwind with something he enjoyed after a hard one."

One corner of John's mouth tipped up in a knowing smile as he nodded.

Adam sniffed and wiped his eyes again. "That's how you feel about wine, isn't it?"

John nodded again. "Go on."

Adam swallowed hard. "When I got home from the hospital that night–" And you were gone , Adam thought, but he didn't say it, because it had already been said enough since they'd reconnected. "I found myself staring at his easy chair. And the little table beside it, where his glass always sat. But there was no glass there. And I kept waiting. And waiting. Because he was supposed to walk in there, pour a glass, put on a record, and sit down, just like he always did. So finally I poured a glass myself and then just stared at it. Like it might…I don't know…somehow bring him back."

John gave him a little squeeze.

A few fresh tears ran down Adam's cheeks as he continued. "So I drank it myself. Just to hold on to some connection to him, I guess? Or to see if it would soothe me the way he said it did for him? I have no idea." He couldn't stop a little laugh that burst out of him. "What I do know is that I hated it. The burn was intense, and the taste was absolutely awful." Adam paused. "But then I started feeling it. I hadn't eaten a damned thing all day, so it went straight to my head." He paused again, then whispered, "And it felt good."

John slowly nodded. "It kept the emotions dammed up. Or…smothered. Less intense, at least."

"Yeah," Adam mumbled.

John was silent for a long moment before he asked, "How'd you ultimately stop?"

Adam winced. "It took a long time. I never really drank a lot . Usually, it was just the one glass every night, to keep up Dad's ritual. It kind of became an obsession after a while. Like if I went to bed and had forgotten that drink, I'd get back up to have it. I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep otherwise. But sometimes, when things got harder, I would drink more. Especially after Trevor got us fake IDs when we went on the road. And then I'd be like…"

"Like today," John finished for him.

"Yeah. But worse. The more the band walked on eggshells around me, the more I wanted to drink. It was like, the harder they tried to avoid the topic of my dad, especially around the first anniversary of his death, the more obvious it was. So I had to drink just to escape it." Adam breathed a humorless laugh. "We got kicked out of our last gig in San Francisco because I was being obnoxious, so the next day in the van, things were really tense. The band was pissed at me, and I was pissed at them. So when we got here—Paso, I mean—that was part of why I stayed. I couldn't keep going with them." Adam paused. "Once I was on my own, I slipped back into the habit of just one drink a night. But then one night, it hit me. I'd get home from work, walk in the door, and before I did anything else, I'd be heading straight for that bottle. It was like I was in a hurry to get home each night just so I could have that one drink. I realized it had become a habit. Like muscle memory. It was simply the thing I did the moment I got home, and I knew how easy it would be to let that spiral out of control." Adam shrugged weakly. "So I stopped."

John's eyebrows went up. "Just like that?"

Adam nodded. "I dumped out the rest of the bottle and never bought another one." He sniffed and shook his head. "It wasn't easy. Every damned time I went to the grocery store or passed a liquor store on my way home, it took everything I had not to buy another one. But then I met Haven at a trans therapy group, and we hit it off, and he was struggling financially, so I suggested we get a place together so he'd only have to pay half the rent. And since he didn't drink and couldn't afford it anyway, it made it easier for me to resist."

John smiled and hugged Adam to his side, giving him a squeeze. "You're such a good boy, you know that? Thinking of your friends."

Adam winced and looked down, wringing the handkerchief in his hands. "Not today. I was an ass today, wasn't I?"

John was silent, but Adam didn't need him to respond. After a long moment, John said, "I'm sure the coffee is cold by now. Why don't you take a shower while I go reheat it for you?"

Adam felt a wave of relief crash through him, almost making him dizzy. John had framed it as a question, but his tone made it sound like an order, which was exactly what Adam needed. He was too tired and worn out to even think straight, but John had taken all the choices right out of his hands, leaving him with just one thing on which to focus. Adam gave John a nod in response, then got up on shaky legs with John's help. Once he was upright, it took him several long moments to finally set down the urn and take a step back.

John went to Adam's dresser and searched the drawers, piling a t-shirt, pajama shorts, and underwear in the crook of his arm. The man even grabbed a chest binder and added it to the stack.

Adam's stomach lurched sickeningly. He hated to see John handle that particular garment. But he was also grateful. There was no way his fragile state could handle going without his chest being thoroughly strapped down.

Then again, maybe he deserved to feel that pain, too.

John nudged Adam into the bathroom and pulled the door shut between them.

Adam braced his hands on the edge of the sink, then quickly pushed away so he wouldn't catch sight of his reflection in the mirror. He was sure he looked like shit after so much crying. Keeping his gaze focused on the wall, Adam stripped out of his clothes, left them in a heap on the floor, and stepped into the shower.

As much as he wanted to stay tucked away in that small space, hidden away from the world, Adam didn't let himself linger, knowing John was waiting for him. He washed his hair, then soaped up a washcloth, going through the motions of running it all over his body. Adam winced when the cloth brushed his chest. He tried to avoid the area, but when he scrubbed around his neck and the cloth brushed him again, his stomach lurched violently, forcing Adam to his knees.

A rapid knock sounded on the door, followed by the faint squeak of it opening. " Adam? " John called.

"I'm o–" Adam tried to respond, but the words cut off as his stomach heaved again.

" Baby? " John asked, his voice closer now.

Adam saw the shower curtain twitch in his peripheral vision. "Don't!" he screamed, slamming his arms across his chest. "I'm fine–" He retched again, his stomach bringing up nothing but bile.

After a long, tense moment, he heard John ask, "Adam?"

Adam's chest heaved as he waited, but nothing more came up. He sat back on his heels, still hugging himself as he tipped his head up towards the shower spray to rinse the bile off his chin. "I'm okay," he finally managed to get out.

"You sure?" John asked.

"Yeah." Adam braced his hands against the shower wall as he carefully got to his feet. "I'll be right out."

A long, hesitant pause filled the room before John said, "Okay."

Adam waited until he heard the door shut, then quickly hung up the washcloth, rinsed himself off, and got out of the shower, drying himself as fast as he could, desperate to get back into his chest binder.

He didn't stop to take a real, full breath until he was dressed. Then he braced his hands on the sink again and let out a sigh, bearing himself up to check his reflection. Adam winced at the sight of his face, all pale and blotchy. He lowered his gaze, narrowing his eyes as he turned sideways in front of the mirror. His chest looked flat under the t-shirt, but it didn't matter. He could still feel the damned things.

Adam whirled away from the mirror and yanked open the door. He lurched to a stop, blinking dumbly at the sight of his room. The place had still been a disaster from when he'd packed his overnight bag yesterday, but now the mess was gone. Adam winced and ducked back into the bathroom, gathering up his dirty clothes and dumping them all into the hamper before wiping his palms on his shorts and heading for the kitchen.

He found John pouring a cup of coffee, then adding cream and sugar, the way Adam liked it. John handed him the cup, and Adam took a sip. He was too warm to be drinking coffee, but it felt good going down.

"After this," John said, nodding at the mug, "we'll get you some water and get you hydrated."

Adam nodded obediently. He took another sip, then was about to open his mouth to tell John that cleaning his room for him wasn't necessary, except he knew it was. John had probably needed that sense of order. Of control.

"Feeling better?" John asked.

Adam nodded again.

John studied him for a moment before he asked, "How much did you have to drink?"

Adam frowned, sipping his coffee as he thought about it. "Two glasses, I think. I'm pretty sure. Shit. You know what? It might have been three."

"And that was enough to make you sick?" John asked, then tilted his head. "Well, yeah, okay, I guess if you haven't had a drink in a while…"

Adam winced. "It wasn't that. At least, it wasn't entirely that. Shit. I broke a glass, didn't I?" he suddenly realized.

John nodded. "I texted Beau while you were in the shower. Told him I'd take care of it."

"No," Adam insisted. "I'll do it."

"Adam–"

"It's my fault," Adam choked out, feeling pinpricks all over his skin as a fresh wave of guilt and grief hit him. He paused, blinking rapidly, waiting to see if he was going to start crying again.

But apparently he was all out of tears.

For one day, anyway.

"I'll take care of it," he bit off.

John held up his hands. "Okay, baby. That's fine. It's okay." John slowly approached and put an arm around him before kissing the top of his head. He held Adam like that in silence for a moment before he murmured, "For the record, I don't think your dad would blame you for his death."

Adam shook his head and stared down at his coffee as he leaned against John's warm, strong body. "We had a big fight about it," he admitted. "I was PMSing and miserable and couldn't wait to start hormones and get top surgery, literally counting down the days until I turned eighteen so I could get started like Dad promised. And Dad's doctor kept telling him he needed to get his own surgery done sooner rather than later before his shoulder got worse, but Dad kept putting it off because it would mean being out of commission for several weeks while he healed." Adam glanced up at John. "You know Dad hated sitting still."

"Gee, I wonder where you got that from," John teased him.

Adam almost smiled at that, but it vanished in an instant. "But he also kept complaining about the pain every time he tried to reach for something or lift anything. So one day I shouted at him that he needed to stop complaining and just get the surgery already so we could get it over and done with so that I could have my turn. We had a big fight, but he ended up calling his doctor anyway to see when he could get it scheduled. He almost changed his mind again when the doctor said the next opening was the day before my birthday. But I told him I didn't care. I didn't want to wait any longer."

He barely got the last few words out before he burst into tears again.

Damn it! He'd thought for sure he was done, but no matter how hard he tried to stop, the tears kept coming.

Adam turned and set down his mug with shaky hands. Before he could even step back, John was there, wrapping his arms around him.

Except John's hand brushed his chest. Just the barest glance of his thumb as John reached across Adam's body.

And even though Adam knew it was an accident, he couldn't stop the shriek that exploded out of him.

John lurched back, holding up his hands, his eyes wide with worry. "Adam? Shit. What happened? Did I hurt you?"

Adam sank down to the floor, hugging his knees to his chest as he shook his head. "You–" he started, but it was all he could get out, so he quickly flicked a finger towards his chest before hugging himself again.

John crouched down, sighing as he ran a hand back through his hair. "Okay, that's it. We're gonna find you a surgeon–"

"No!" Adam screamed.

John flinched in surprise, then gave him a concerned frown. "But I thought you wanted–"

"Don't you see?" Adam choked out. "I can't ever have top surgery. I can't! It's bad enough I even let myself start on the hormones, but I couldn't keep living that way, and the thought of going back now…"

John's expression softened. "I know you're afraid. And, yes, there's always a risk with any surgery, but–"

"It's not that," Adam said. He sniffed and wiped his nose, then hugged himself again, shaking his head and staring at the floor.

John waited silently.

Finally, Adam took a deep, shuddering breath and said, "I don't deserve it."