Work Text:
Adam looked at the small curved needle pinched between his thumb and forefinger, lethally sharp, glinting silver in the clinical light of the bathroom which bounced off the floor to ceiling flesh-coloured tiles. He had patched up his clothes plenty of times before, had sewn buttons back onto shirts and pants, his stitching not good exactly, but adequate enough to get the job done.
How different could it be?
Declan perched sideways on the closed toilet seat in the en suite bathroom, shirtless and resting his right forearm on the side of the sink, the other hand holding a balled up towel against his upper arm, which was turning red rapidly, his blood quickly soaking into the white terrycloth and dripping down into the basin. He was applying pressure, but it didn’t seem to be helping and he eyed Adam as he came closer.
This is more or less how Adam had found him, tucked away in the hotel room at one of his fairy markets, sitting at the end of the bed, Adam just happening upon him, curious if nothing else and seemingly following the scent of blood like a hound dog. He seemed to have a special affinity for Lynch brothers. It was a curse.
To be faced suddenly with a bleeding Declan Lynch had not been on Adam’s cards that evening, and he appraised him for several long seconds, during which Declan stiffened, his portrait painted in black and grey until Adam flicked the light on. Declan all but rolled his eyes and hissed at Adam to close the goddamn door, unfazed by his presence, and Adam observed the dark blue suit and tie, the bruising around his left eye and the way his right arm hung somewhat limply at his side, fingers curled up into his sleeve.
It was an unfamiliar and vaguely awkward situation to find himself in, and Adam had considered muttering an apology and retreating from the room to continue his exploration, but he hadn’t. Because he’d come out tonight to feel something, and because of the way Declan looked like he’d just gone a couple rounds with his brother, the only difference being that his brother most certainly wasn’t there because Adam had left him several hours ago in Henrietta, West Virginia.
He put the first aid kit that Declan had supplied down on the vanity and gently eased the towel out of Declan’s grip who resisted for a moment, then let him take it. Adam studied the vertical slice up his bicep as though he knew the first thing about injuries like this. It was about 5 inches long and split Declan’s skin apart in an altogether gruesome way that drove Adam’s stomach down into his shoes. He took a deep breath to clear his head and watched the way Declan’s pale stomach muscles quivered as though he was shivering from cold, though the small bathroom was warm and sweat was plastering the dark curls around his temples to his forehead.
“Come on,” he said impatiently, teeth jammed together.
He wouldn’t share what had happened and in return, Adam wouldn’t share where he had learned to stitch someone up, which suited him just fine.
He sat on the side of the bathtub, opening the suture kit, tearing the packaging from the curved needle and Declan swivelled to face him, laying his arm out into Adam’s waiting hand. It was clinical, each movement precise, nothing overexaggerated between either of them, but the way Declan’s eyes simmered as he did it reminded Adam that he was probably the last person on earth that he wanted help from. He was desperate, but he still had a choice.
Adam’s skin itched and his heart rate was elevated, though he remained otherwise unaffected. Declan was similarly hot to the touch, sweat gathering in the crook of his arm, skin firm and pale and not unlike his brothers.
Adam cleaned the wound a little with a flimsy antiseptic wipe that was definitely intended for scraped knees and paper cuts. Wiping away the blood was a fruitless task as the gash continued to pump crimson. It was deep and wide and Adam wondered if there was any muscle damage to Declan’s bicep underneath. He didn’t mention this, didn’t say anything then as he let Declan’s arm fall to rest against his knee while he readied the needle, certain he should have some sort of instrument to hold it with, but it seemed the kit had already been raided before. He considered that he should probably be wearing gloves but figured the quick wash with soap and water would have to do. Declan still had a choice, and he wasn’t protesting.
Adam shuffled along the bathtub lip to get closer to him, opening his legs to accommodate the toilet bowl and one of Declan’s thighs. He sat up straighter, shifting closer to Declan’s face and he glanced up to find Declan looking at him, brow furrowed with distaste.
“You won’t tell Ronan about this.”
It was a demand and Adam didn’t like it, so he wrapped his fingers around the back of Declan’s arm, high up so that he brushed against his damp armpit hair, and then, without warning, he buried the needle under his skin and Declan’s arm stiffened as he inhaled sharply.
Adam found that there was more resistance to skin than there was to polyester, this much he had expected. What he had not expected was the way the sharp intake of breath between Declan’s teeth would make him feel. He felt it deep and low in his hips and he licked his lips quickly, pleased and pushed the needle, curving it round until its sharp little head appeared again and clumsily pushed it, fingers already slick with blood, and crossed over the cut quickly and without ceremony and dug it in the other side. He did the same thing going the other way and when he pulled the thread taught, it cinched the very top of the gash back together.
Adam felt giddy with the success of it as he paused to catch his breath. He licked his lips again, staring at his handiwork as Declan muttered in an uncharacteristically Ronan sort of way, “Jesus, fuck,” not meant for Adam’s ears.
Adam raised the needle and Declan nodded once, though Adam hadn’t asked for his permission and he pushed the needle into his skin, getting used to the resistance there and finding it easier this time. The muscles in Declan’s arm tensed again, the veins on the underside of his forearm standing out starkly, skin clammy. He had tucked his bottom lip into his mouth and didn’t make a noise, eyes screwed closed.
Adam criss crossed over, getting into a rhythm, his stitching uneven but effective until Declan’s hand came up to hold his wrist steady and he paused, the needle still underneath his skin.
“Give me five seconds,” he said, voice a little raspy but still in control and Adam paused momentarily, absentmindedly wiping a drop of blood making its way down Declan’s arm away with a knuckle. When he looked up at Declan’s face, he was looking back at him, something hostile in his eyes.
Adam figured he’d had his five seconds and caught the needle between his thumb and forefinger again and ripped it through his skin making Declan cry out. The sound burrowed down, fizzing under Adam’s skin, settled there, and he found himself a little breathless, elbowing Declan’s hand aside as he reached up for his wrist again to stop him.
“No,” he told him. “Don’t move, or it’s gonna hurt.”
“You’re already hurting me.”
Adam plunged the needle back into his skin, probably deeper than was necessary and Declan grunted, clearly trying to get a hold of himself after his little outburst, but then his mouth fell open and he swore, the sound kicked out of him in a single, forceful syllable.
“Fuck.”
There was something about it. Pained, yes, but not just that. There was something underneath it, something indulgent that made Adam’s guts hot.
He carried on, unable to shut out the hitch in Declan’s breath every time he pierced his skin and the slow, staccato exhales as he pulled the thread through the tender flesh. Declan was panting, his knee beginning to bounce, heel tapping the tile and his free hand fisted tightly in his lap.
“Adam,” he ground out after a few more stitches, Adam’s name in his mouth having the oddest, arousing effect on him. “Have you really done this before?”
Adam paused, running his finger up lightly over the raised thread, the wound underneath puckered and angry-looking
“We’re nearly done.”
He squeezed the underside of Declan’s arm, watching a few beads of blood roll down his arm. Below them, the tile was splattered with it, as well as Adam’s pant leg. He’d likely never get the stains out of his blue jeans, but he couldn’t bring himself to care at that moment. He looked over at Declan’s pants, similarly smeared in the dark spreading stain of blood and Adam’s eyes caught on his tented crotch. Noticing it felt like a risk, like if he said the wrong thing now, Declan would push him away and get to his feet and probably do the sensible thing which was go to a hospital.
So Adam didn’t speak, he just carried on, grateful for the way his jeans sat tight across his hips. It had been hard to concentrate before with the small sounds he was eliciting from Declan, but now it was almost impossible. He slowed down, pushing the needle into him, stretching the skin apart with his other thumb, pressing down until Declan gasped and groaned. Adam let his free hand fall to Declan’s thigh, kneading once and he knew his eyes were on him, counted three long seconds before he gave him the satisfaction of meeting his gaze.
“Just a couple more,” Adam reassured him in a whisper as Declan looked up from beneath a heavy brow, his blue eyes angry and undeniably Lynch. Adam continued, running the scenario over in his head, coming to a conclusion that was settled into the very bones of Ronan, and letting himself assume it ran in the family. He was going to take it there.
“You’ve sat so still for me.”
He didn’t dare look up at him yet, inserted the needle one last time, giving it a twist which brought Declan’s firm grip up to his wrist. It hurt, like he intended to break the bone underneath, but Adam didn’t flinch.
“I’ve done nothing for you,” Declan growled, “so don’t get this mixed up.”
Adam yanked himself free. “Then who are you bricked up for?”
“Finish the job, Parrish.” A pink flush coloured Declan’s neck, the rest of his skin still pallid, and Adam pushed the needle through his skin one last time, exhaling as he did so, pressing his leg up against Declan’s thigh and he tied the end off, leaning in to snap the thread with his teeth.
Declan breathed deeply through his open mouth, looking down at his bicep and Adam pressed his thumb hard against the stitching.
“I won’t tell Ronan about this,” he promised.
“You sadistic fuck,” Declan said, but his voice was slightly strangled
“Me?” Adam said with a laugh. “Look at yourself. You like pain, huh, Declan?” He pressed harder, digging his blunt nail directly into the cut between two stitches. Declan inhaled sharply with a hiss and tried to pull his arm away, tried to stand, but Adam was quicker, springing to his feet and pushing his knee into Declan’s crotch, pinning him in place.
Declan stopped moving, although he was shaking all over and he looked up at Adam, his throat moving as he swallowed hard, wetting his lips, revealing a string of thick saliva that gathered at one corner of his mouth. He looked god-awful. Pale and sickly from blood loss, greased over with a layer of shining sweat. Adam tried to recall what had drawn him to Declan previously. His dark suits and perfectly styled hair, his aloof, unaffected nature, his handsome jawline and bland, winning smile. The power underneath it all. The nice car, the girls, the money. All of it made Adam seethe. Now he looked down at him and didn’t feel angry, just hungry. He wanted more of him. All of him. But he knew he couldn’t have that. This moment was all he had, so he ground his knee downwards and Declan’s eyes fluttered closed. A momentary surrender.
“Declan,” Adam said calmly, though his insides were anything but, “look at me.”
Declan opened his eyes, they were bright with something and Adam pushed his knee into him harder and he pressed his lips together and snagged the front of Adam’s shirt in his left fist.
“Stay still, alright?” Adam said, voice low as he removed his knee and sank back down onto the side of the bath, taking Declan’s right hand and pulling him closer. He held onto the top of his arm with both hands, climbing up the edges of the stitches with his thumbs. Once he got to the top of the cut, he traced his thumbs back down again, this time digging in at intervals, every half inch or so.
“There’s no shame in liking it,” Adam murmured.
Declan didn’t say anything, his face scrunched up and pained, still drawing air sharply between his teeth. Adam ground his left thumb a little deeper, digging into him and drawing blood, letting his own heavy breaths blow across his skin, then he eased off, glancing up at him expectantly, their foreheads close together.
He could kiss him like this, if he wanted to.
He rubbed the pad of his thumb smoothly over the ridges of the stitches then, gentler and Declan’s breath came out shuddering and raw. There was something pathetic about him and Adam felt lightheaded with the feeling of reducing him to next to nothing. There was a time when Declan was everything he wanted to be and now here he was, bloody and practically whimpering in Adam’s grip.
Adam had won.
It was better than sex.
He leaned closer still and pressed their foreheads together for a few long seconds, Declan’s breath still coming shaky and uneven as he closed his eyes. Then Adam finally pulled away.
“You might want to go to the emergency room,” he said, “you look awful.”
If Declan asked for his help, if he begged him to stay and clean up and give him a ride anywhere he needed to go, he’d have said yes. If he asked him to unzip his pants, to touch him, to kiss him, he would have.
But he didn’t.
Adam got up and left the bathroom and Declan followed him after a few seconds, weighed down on his right side as though with the pain, his hand over the stitches.
“Oh,” Adam added, turning to him, “and fuck you.”
“You’re a piece of shit,” Declan spat weakly, standing there half undressed in his blood spattered slacks. He steadied himself, swapping his grip to the back of the desk chair, knuckles bleached. “My brother’s too good for you. Gansey, too. And one day they’re gonna see right through you. Like I do.”
“Yeah?” Adam said, eyebrows raised. “And what do you see?”
Declan released the chair, stepping forwards, his gait leaning precariously to the right.
“You’re a manipulative creep,” he said, “Lied and cheated your way to this city, scrubbed the trailer park off you pretty good, but you still smell like shit to me.”
If he had been standing at his full height and wasn’t leached of all colour, Adam might’ve felt threatened. If Declan could throw a punch, maybe he would have already. He swayed but stayed standing, the glow from the bedside lamps casting orange light about him.
Perhaps the wound would get infected, maybe it already had. Necrosis, sepsis, maybe he’d die.
Adam smiled, all teeth. He’d learned the expression from Ronan.
“And yet I’ve got your brother and if I wanted it, I could have you as well.”
“You couldn’t have shit,” Declan threw back. “Now get the fuck out.” He gripped the chair again, regaining his balance.
“Have a nice night, Declan,” Adam said, smug and satiated as he grabbed his jacket off the bed and pulled it on.
Delcan turned and disappeared back into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind him, then the sound of water running.
Adam wanted to drive back to Henrietta immediately, wanted to get something hot and writhing out of his system, but he had work, and Ronan was just too many hours away. He had made the drive there and back in one night his first semester at Harvard. But that was then.
He got back to his car, leaving behind the hotel room that held the weight of a crime scene and he rolled the windows down as he drove, hoping the cool night air washing over him might snap him out of it. It didn’t.
Back in his apartment, he sat alone with the memory of the hitch in Declan’s breath, the ice blue venom in his gaze, the tightness of every muscle, the awful mess of him. His eyes falling closed.
Adam came in a matter of seconds, gasping from holding his breath, his cheeks and fingers tingling from the rush of blood.
He couldn’t go back now, couldn’t undo what had already been done. He knew he wouldn’t tell Ronan. That conclusion had already been made. He knew Declan wouldn’t tell him either. It would be a secret. A delicate and sordid secret that set off a power imbalance which, as it rocked, sent Adam’s stomach into a series of crests and valleys.
So maybe he was a manipulative creep.
But it takes one to know one.