Archive of Our Own

Here is what you don't tell Lawrence: your discomfort at the prospect of being alone in the bathroom sometimes runs far deeper than that night in September.

As a kid, you'd loved bubble baths; so much, in fact, that it was often the only way you washed up. You could spend an hour in the tub or until the water went cold, whichever came first. Sometimes you would even bring comic books in there with you to read while you lounged, content to sit in the comfortable embrace of the warm water and trails left by bubbles like waves in the ocean for as long as you could.

It used to irritate your parents (the house you moved into when your mom and Rusty became serious wasn't exactly built with two adults and three preteens in mind, three bedrooms and one bathroom), especially with the amount of time you'd spend in the tub, but to you, it was a simple slice of bliss.

But then you got older.

Your body began to change.

And you can remember.

(I'm your dad, ___. It's okay if I look.

Covering your barely there chest with goosebump-prickled arms, face flushed and ears burning in a confusing mix between embarrassment and shame, eyes trained on anything other than your dad's face. I don't want you to, uttered hardly above a whisper, sitting up to lean over and hide anything below the waist. He is still staring. Dad, please stop.

You don't need to make a big deal out of it, he sighs, though it almost sounds like he means for it to be soothing. Comforting.

Downplaying.

I-I'm not, I just... don't like it. Arms still crossed over your chest. Feels weird.

He left you alone after that.

But the unease stuck with you long after the water had gone cold.)

You moved past it, though you never did take another bath at your dad's house. It felt... wrong. Dirty. As far as you know, though, that uncomfortable encounter was the only one of that nature. He never did anything to you directly.

You only had to be there every other weekend, so from then on, showers it was.

You can't be absolutely certain how old you were - between eight at the youngest and ten at the oldest - but after the house fire, your dad moved into a lady's house, a friend of a friend named Annie. She was fairly nice, if a little distant, a bit awkward when it came to interacting with you; with age, you've come to the conclusion that it mostly had to do with you not living there full-time like your dad was.

The thing is, she had a son - Levi - who was at least five years older than you.

It was fine at first. Awkwardly cordial, a classic case of an older kid having to deal with a younger kid kind of hanging onto them because there's not much else to do. He wasn't annoyed by it, but he wasn't particularly fond of you, either.

You don't know when, but something... changed.

A hand dipping too far past your shoulder, random hugs that lasted a little bit longer than they should have, a squeeze to your hip (almost enough to bruise, his touch was too rough), inviting you into his room where he'd let you sit on his bed and you'd talk or play video games but he'd keep an arm wrapped around your waist...

And then it got worse.

(Hey, ___, come here real quick.

Your body answers before your heart catches up, but the beat of it stutters unevenly the closer you get to Levi where he's sitting in the easy chair. You don't even say anything, you just go.

C'mon, he laughs softly, patting his lap like he's Santa and you're a little kid waiting to tell him what you want for Christmas. I don't bite, ___. I just wanna show you somethin' 's all.

When you sit, perched on the very edge of his knee, as far away from him as you can get without falling off, he wraps his arms around your waist and pulls you back until you're flush against his chest. Nononono.

Hands pry your thighs apart, holding them open. Your thundering heart in your mouth. ___, has anyone ever touched you here?

N-no. It isn't true, but you aren't going to tell him that. You can't be sure of what he'd do. You feel him against your thigh. Levi, I don't -

Shh, it's okay. We're friends, aren't we?

L-Lee - wandering fingers slip under your shirt. Up up up -

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Aren't we friends, ___?

Yeah.

You're still limping the next day.)

But here is what you don't tell Lawrence: you've hated showers ever since you recovered those memories.

Well, okay, maybe you don't hate them - you actually love them most of the time - but when this awful feeling strikes, you prefer to spend as little time in there as possible.

And Levi is the reason why.

(The door opening startles you, but you figure it's an accident. I'm in here, you yell over the spray of the shower, moving to grab the conditioner.

I know. Levi's voice, clear as day.

The water is so hot that you can see the steam rolling off of your skin, but your blood turns to ice in your veins. No. Nonono. Why is it him, why is it now, why is it happening again, why why why -

Why what? You didn't even realize you'd spoken out loud. You don't want to be here. You want to go home. You want your dad to catch Levi in here, to take him away from you. Your mom, you want your mom, you want your mom so, so bad -

Suddenly, he's in here with you. His hands on your hips like claws, like ripping talons, his lips scraping your neck like - like white-red-hot brushes against your skin, like scalding, like third-degree burns masquerading as clumsy kisses, playing at some twisted version of adults on TV or the videos he makes you watch sometimes -

You're so pretty, ___, teeth nipping at the corner of your jaw, the side of your throat. It's wrong. He's wrong. It's all so wrong. You can hardly breathe around the vice crushing your stuttering heart, your shuddering chest.

I-I don't want to, Lee, I just -

___, a hiss so severe it makes your stomach sink like a stone. I don't remember asking you what you want. Nails bite into the soft flesh of your side.

Please, Lee -

Shh. Shut up. You'll do what I tell you. His fingers digging into your collarbones hurts when he shoves you down by your shoulders. Get on your knees.

Is it water from the shower head or are you sobbing?

It's easier to just do as he says.

After, you curl up in your bed and cry for what feels like hours.)

You'd once taken solace in a locked bathroom door, reassured by the knowledge that if nothing else, someone would have to pick that lock to get in. Locked doors were a barrier between you and the things - the people - that could hurt you. Locked doors were safe havens, a moment of reprieve, a chance to catch your breath.

You will never forgive John Kramer for taking that protection away from you.

Now, because you'd woken up in a tub smaller than you in what felt like a potential watery grave, because that is the introduction you'd been given to the worst eight hours of your life, you can't stand even the thought of taking a bath, let alone closing the bathroom door - and you can forget about locking it. You still can't close it fully, even one year later. Lawrence can't either. In fact, the only door that the two of you feel comfortable to close and lock is the front door.

The point is that showering is your only option.

And you don't feel safe using the shield you've relied on for years.

Lately it hasn't been as hard, but tonight, you're pretty sure that if you so much as try to step foot into that room alone, you're going to have the world's ugliest nervous breakdown. As it is, you've been pacing in front of the bathroom door for the past five minutes, trying to convince yourself that the world won't end just because you need to take a fucking shower.

But all you can think of are obscenely rusty pipes and cruel hands laying claim to your body in its most vulnerable state and the bite of heavy, cool metal locked tight around your ankle and I don't know why you're crying so much, it's not that bad and you are thisclose to tearing your goddamn hair out.

"It's stupid," you mutter frustratedly to yourself, just to interrupt the suffocating quiet of the hallway. "This is so stupid. It's just a shower, the fuck's wrong with you? It's just water, Adam. Christ."

(But it's not 'just water' for you, is it?)

"Adam?"

To say that you jump is a massive understatement. It genuinely feels like your skeleton tries to shudder out of your skin, your heart leaping into your mouth as you whip your head around so fast it actually hurts. "Fuck," you blurt eloquently, a touch too thin, an octave too high. "Fuck, don't - don't f-fuckin' do that." A brief pause, shame like a heat wave rolling through you the instant you realize how that sounded. "'m sorry, Lar. I didn't - I didn't mean it. 'm just... anxious."

It's not like it's a lie. You are anxious - but now you're also thinking about the best way to break the reason you're so anxious to your boyfriend. Hey, you know how my childhood was really fucked up in pretty much every way possible? Well, have I got a trip for you!

...That makes you laugh, just a little bit. It's a reedy, humourless sound, just this side of hysterical, but you'll take it. It's better than bursting into tears.

Lawrence eyes you worriedly, those river blues glowing with a glint of sympathy, but not pity. Never pity. Thank God; you'd never survive. "...Would you like to talk about it, or would you like a distraction?" he offers eventually, brows furrowed in evident and growing concern. Your insides twist with the innate desire to smooth that heavy line out, guilt rattling around your chest, leaching into your sternum and making a home there. You hate making Lawrence worry.

Still, you fold your lip between your teeth and worry it for a moment, weighing your options. You could just say you're scared to be in the bathroom by yourself while you shower and leave it at that, or, if he has the capacity for hearing about it right now, you could tell him the other reason you don't want to be in the bathroom by yourself while you shower. He'd understand, and even if he didn't, he'd try his best to help you.

The two of you have been connected in that way since that terrible night.

Speaking of Lawrence, he's apparently stepped closer, but he still leaves a lot of room in between to maintain your personal space. Sometimes being known is a mortifying ordeal, but right now, you're grateful for it. "Adam, sweetheart, you're shaking. What's going on?"

You're a bit startled by that revelation, honestly. When you hold a hand up and spread your fingers, you can see them tremble clear as day; you don't know when that started happening, but now you can't stop, tremors stronger than the ones you'd gotten when you went into withdrawal for your antidepressants taking you by the shoulders and shaking you silly.

Taking you by the - the -

"Adam!"

Careful palms jet out to curl around your elbows to do something - hold you up, maybe - but all your body feels is hot knife hands and bad touch so you jerk away, a wounded animal type of noise rising in the back of your throat as you collide with the wall at your back, punching a startled breath from your lungs. Fuck, you can't breathe. You can't breathe.

Still, your throat seizing with the need to make yourself clear: "Don't touch me, I don't - I don't want to - don't fucking touch me -"

It's like your head is underwater. You're just skipping bunny heart and dry mouth, wishing for your mother to come rescue you, praying that this time he won't force you into his bedroom in nothing but your towel, stop, I don't want to, it hurts, Levi, please -

Movement flashes out of the corner of your eye and this time your instinct to fight takes over. A harsh shove of your palm into the plane of a warm chest, teeth bared in a mediocre parody of the animalistic ferocity you wish you possessed, and you snarl "Leave me alone! Do-don't touch me, l-leave me alone!" It lacks the bite you'd intended for it to have with its noticeable shake, but you suppose you've at least gotten your point across.

But, there: stormy blue meeting your white-ringed hazel, gleaming with a certain kind of light accompanied by an exceedingly soft voice (though not too soft to hear): "Adam. Adam, baby, it's me. It's just me, okay? You're okay. You're safe."

Are you?

Hands held up in surrender, positioned specifically to catch your line of sight.

You are.

Slowly, you begin to settle back into your skin, disoriented, confused, but mostly feeling small. Feeling scared. Your vision returns, though it still retains some of its blurriness - it dawns on you, as your still stumbling heart sinks back into its rightful place inside your chest, that you've been crying. You blink dazedly, the hand that had apparently been clawing at your own hip relaxing its white-knuckled grip (it's been a while since you used pinching as a calm-down stim) and instead reaching out in search of something. Your breath catches; realization washes over you.

"Oh, shit, Larry. F-fuck, 'm so sorry. Did I - I didn't... hurt you, did I?"

Physically, you are here in the hallway of the apartment that you share with your boyfriend, but your mind is taking a good minute to catch up. Still, you recognize Lawrence, a little pale in the face but looking relatively, if a little shakily, relieved. Your skin is still crawling. Your pulse is still thumping awkwardly. Your brain is still a bit rattled - you can't quite figure out what it is that just happened, but you do know what you want. What you need.

"Please," you murmur, lifting your arms to carefully, gently place your violently trembling hands over Lawrence's shoulders, fingers curling around his upper arms; a shiver passes through you, neck jerking for a split second. "Lawrence, please."

"What do you need, baby? How can I help?" he still does not touch you, knowing that if you want physical contact right now, then you will initiate it. He keeps his voice low, keeps it soft, but not I'm-speaking-to-a-child soft. He's not condescending. He doesn't treat you like glass. He approaches you - and whatever this was (an episode?) - with care, empathy. Trying to understand, and listening if he can't.

You don't know why you're still crying, but there's a quiver in your voice. "Please," a tremulous utterance, "I-I need -" you bite down the shame that threatens to wire your mouth shut, pushing through it. "I need you." Your head is spinning so dizzily you're amazed you haven't thrown up yet. Please, please. You sway.

Finally, strong arms wrapping around your shoulders, cautious not to touch your waist. "Okay," Lawrence whispers, one hand drifting up to cup the back of your skull, fingers gingerly working into the curls of hair there. "Okay, bug, I've got you, okay? I'm here. I promise that you're okay. I wouldn't lie to you."

He presses a kiss to your pulsing temple, and the tension woven into your strained muscles finally begins the very slow, very gradual process of dissipating. You all but slump into Lawrence's chest, forehead bumping his shoulder as your arms loop around his waist; it's like your entire body curls around his, fitting yourself into almost every inch of space you can, face pressing into the curve of his neck like you're claiming a rightful place.

Breathing him in, feeling the sleepy, cool hint of lavender, the gentle kiss of apple cinnamon, the pleasant bite of chilly spearmint - this particular cocktail of scents blends into something you've come to simply call Lawrence, which means that it's also called home.

"Sorry," you breathe out in a sigh of a whimper, clutching at the back of Lawrence's soft and worn sweater. "'m sorry, I didn't mean... I didn't..."

"I know," he murmurs back, the pad of his thumb slipping beneath the hem of your t-shirt sleeve to rub soothing circles into your shoulder. "I know you didn't mean it. You were scared, I should have asked first. It's okay."

"Why did you...?"

"Your knees were buckling," punctuated by a kiss to the side of your head, near your ear. "I just didn't want you to fall, but I should have asked first. I'm sorry, baby."

There is no Levi here.

There is only Lawrence and his love. Your love, together.

"'s okay." Your lips brush his pulse point, burning eyes slipping shut. "Didn't mean t'push you. I just..."

"Did you have a flashback?"

Now that you think about it... yeah. Yeah, you think you did. An echo of memory, system shutdown. You just kind of fell into it. This episode didn't start as a flashback, but goddamn, did it ever end in one. All of this because you wanted to... to... what did you want?

Fuck, that's right. The shower. You wanted to take a shower.

You swallow hard. "Yeah. It... yeah."

"The bathroom?"

"Not in th'way you think." A wince. "Uh, I dunno if... I mean, it's... fuckin' - I dunno of y'wanna... hear about that right now."

(Y'know, ___, you look so cute like this.

Lee... Face turned shyly into your pillow. You want to roll over. Why do you always have to be on your back?

Why won't he leave you alone?

You were sleeping so soundly.

C'mon, you know what I'm waiting for.

You wish you didn't.)

Your shoulders thrash with an uncomfortable shudder. No. He's not here. I am safe. I am strong. Lawrence would not let anything happen to me, either. Lawrence, bless him, doesn't make any mention of it, but he does slip his hand from your shoulder to stroke between your shoulder blades. You let out a wordless murmur of appreciation, hands gentling and instead moving to lightly grip the fabric of Lawrence's sweater at his sides. You are safe. It's okay. Lawrence is okay.

Lawrence's voice rumbles in the lows of his chest after a beat, vibrating quietly against your sternum. It feels good. He's warm. "Is it... is it related to that talk we had in the bathroom, baby? When you got sick?"

Lip folded between your teeth, you just nod.

"...Okay," he hums after a moment, cheek coming to rest against the side of your head, soft. "That's okay. Would you like to talk about it? You don't have to, but if you want, I'm here to listen."

"Um..." the slope of your shoulders sags with a heavy exhale. "He... me 'nd my dad, um, when it was just me goin' to visit after the shit he said t'Specs, 'nd David refused to go, y'know - he kept sayin' he was sick, not that I blame him - we lived with this lady 'nd her - her son. She was one of dad's friend's sister."

"Mhmm." The sound is quiet, reassuring. Encouraging, letting you know he's listening.

"He was... older than me. Bigger." Your wrists tingle with the ghosts of forceful touch. He liked to hold them down. "Stronger."

"It's alright, angel. You're safe here."

"He - he used to be... good. Like, yeah, we weren't super close or anything, but I... I guess I kinda saw him as an older brother." I used to love him like one. "He was fun to hang out with, y'know, nice. To me, I mean. And then..."

(You have to be quiet if you don't wanna get in trouble.

W-why... why would we get in tr-trouble?

A grin that even you know is far more sinister than anything you've ever seen. You're crying again, but you feel completely detached from the action your body is completing. It's been happening more and more often. You can't figure out if you are thankful for it or if it scares you.

The adults won't understand, Levi coos, fingers digging into the soft curve of your rib cage. They won't get it, ___. They won't understand us, what we have.

What... what we have?

Yeah. Your guts writhe in visceral revulsion when he mouths at your jaw; you don't like it when he kisses you, or when he touches you, or when he does anything to you, really. You love me, ___, right?

He's cradling your jaw now. Do you love him?

He swipes the pad of his thumb over your cheek.

___, don't you love me?

You had, at some point.

Y-yeah, Lee. I... I love you.

You just want it to be over with.)

You swallow hard again.

"He got... too nice. Too close. 'nd he... one time when I was in th'shower, he came in, and he - he made me -"

You whimper quietly into Lawrence's neck. The memories playing seemingly endlessly behind your eyes are already so vivid - you're not sure you have the strength to translate them into words. Of course, you already know that they're real, but bringing them out in the open through the medium of speech? That makes it really real. Real in a way that you cannot extricate yourself from.

There's no way to say it nice, either. No way it won't scrape the roof of your mouth on the way out. And really, it shouldn't be something that is said nicely. Why try to talk about what happened to you in a way that's easier for others to stomach? Why try to make it sound any less horrifying than it actually was? You were a child. He was fifteen. What he did to you is honestly beyond words most times.

But you're not sure if you can take giving it a definitive description.

"Hey," Lawrence says softly, pressing another kiss to your temple as his hand slips from your hair to curl loosely around your shoulder, "you don't have to tell me. If you don't think you can talk about it, that's okay - even if it's just for tonight. But I need you to breathe, bug. You're almost hyperventilating again."

"'m what?" When you take a minute to consider what Lawrence has just said, you realize that yes, you actually are breathing pretty fast. If you weren't so panic-ridden right now, you'd be pissed off that Levi still has this much of an effect on you. Wherever he is now, you're sure he'd be delighted by this fact.

It makes you want to throw up.

"It - it wasn't the f-first time he did it," you mutter eventually, trying to get yourself to calm down before you pass out, "but it w-was the first time someone... vi-violated my privacy like that."

God, you need to go sit down. Or a cigarette. Or sleep for sixteen hours. Or grab an edible. Not necessarily in that order, but at this point, you don't even care about the damn shower anymore. You can try again tomorrow. "I-I, um, I was gonna shower tonight, but I... I guess I just..."

"You were reminded of it," Lawrence hums into your hair, and the nuzzle he gives you (because he knows it helps to be affectionate when you're struggling) reminds you so much of Duchess that you just can't help but smile - the first one you've cracked since this afternoon. Lawrence continues: "And that made it difficult for you to bring yourself to go in."

Sometimes, you genuinely wonder if he can read your mind or something.

"Yeah."

"That's alright, Adam. Okay? It happens. And... and tomorrow, if you don't want to try tonight, maybe we could try the tub instead? We can use your favourite bubble bath, too."

"We?"

Lawrence clears his throat a little bit and sighs, a sure sign that he's nervous, but you're smiling into his neck as much as you can, being as emotionally exhausted as you are. "Well, I, um, I mean... if you're not opposed to it. It's absolutely fine if you are, I just thought... you know, having some company might... help." You can tell that his cheeks are flushed and rosy with embarrassment based solely on how his voice rises an octave. He's so cute. "I just realized that I could just bring in a chair to sit in - that is, if you even want me there to begin with... um."

"I would like that," you chuckle quietly, pulling back to be able to look him in the eyes. You were right - his cheeks are dusted an admittedly pretty dusky rose, his eyes glittering with that subtle glow of please don't think I'm being weird for even suggesting that, though it softens into something a lot more like adoration.

("I can't help it," he'd mumbled shyly once you'd explained the concept of "heart eyes" to him, blushing as he averted his gaze. "It's - it's like I can't contain it sometimes, I don't know."

"Contain what? How much you loooove me?" You'd tilted your head, clasped your hands, and batted your eyelashes for the full effect, which had caused him to burst out in flustered but amused laughter. It was one of the cutest things you'd seen in your life.

"Yeah," he told you after he'd caught his breath, his smile a lot softer, more private. The one he called yours.

It was your turn for heart eyes, then.)

"You would?"

"Yeah, a bubble bath sounds nice. Um, if you really don't mind sitting with me." You pause, vaguely aware of the fact that you're blushing now. "You'd really sit in the tub with me?"

"Yes," Lawrence immediately responds, laying a kiss on your forehead. "If that's what you want. Would that help?"

"I think so." You reach up (not that you have far to go; there's not too much of a height difference between you) and press a kiss to his cheek in fond appreciation. "Tomorrow, though. I'm, um, pretty sure 'm gonna crash as soon as I sit down. 'm sleepy."

"I can tell," he laughs, not at all unkindly. "But hey, bug, are you okay? Did talking about it make you feel a little better? Anything else I can do?"

You smile.

"Just stay with me," you hum, "that's more than enough."

When Lawrence smiles back, you know you're understood.