Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It’s different, this time around.

Final.

It’s the way they’re not yelling or throwing shit, for a change, but quietly agree that this—whatever the fuck they’re calling it—isn’t working, is fucking them both up more than it resembles any sort of functioning relationship. It's the fact that no one’s stormed out yet, that they’re still both sitting on Emilia’s shitty old couch, knees and shoulders touching, neither of them ready to move even though they both seem to know the end’s right fucking there.

That it’s inevitable.

It’s Emilia telling him, “I think you only love the idea of me,” and Chris whispering, voice rough and eyes wet, “Looks like it.” Emilia turns to drop her forehead against his temple, breathing an equally resigned, “Yeah,” that changes fuck all about any fucking thing against his cheek.

So, yeah.

They’re done.

Two months in, and they’ve managed to screw everything up beyond repair already.

Go figure.

At least Chris has got his own car again, because crying like a bitch in the back of an Uber is the last thing he needs or wants right now. Not that breaking down like the pussy his dad’s always accused him of being while parked in front of his ex’s apartment is much more dignified, but at least he isn’t paying actual money for a ride while having a mental breakdown, so there’s that.

He googles cheap motels and airbnbs in the area while trying to get his erratic breathing and snotty nose under control, but eventually gives up on that because fuck it, being in touch with his vulnerable side is something he’s supposed to be doing, right? He turns his car back towards suburban Evergreen, wipes a hand over his eyes, and nearly chokes on a laugh when he realizes that he’s got no fucking idea where to go.

He’s still got ownership of his dad’s house, technically, but it feels even less like a proper home after he’s gotten a glimpse of what actually living with his father and brother might have looked like. Nazi bullshit notwithstanding, obviously. His old trailer’s probably been taken over by his junkie neighbours, or demolished by the city, he hasn’t got the first clue where Economos lives if he isn’t on duty, and Ads—

Fuck, he can’t face Ads right now.

She’s always been too good for him, and her wife’s only just given her a chance to unfuck the whole situation between them, and Chris will need her to get all his shit from Emilia’s apartment eventually, so calling her up right now—yeah, even he can admit that would be a selfish as fuck, inconsiderate thing to do.

Fifteen minutes later, he’s ringing the bell at the Chase house, instead.

And trying to smother the little voice in the back of his head that’s decided to, very fucking unhelpfully, point out that he’s only ever seeking Adrian out if he needs something from him. The voice isn’t wrong—the dozen or so unanswered texts from the last couple of days are evidence enough—but Chris has resigned himself to the fact that he is a giant piece of shit lately. Doesn’t feel great, but being alone right now feels worse, so his conscience will just have to fucking deal and wait for tomorrow for him to acknowledge his shitty behavior.

At least Mrs Chase is happy to see him. Or making a pretty convincing effort at pretending, anyway. “Oh, Christopher! It’s so nice to see you, sweetheart. Come in, come in, it’s freezing outside.”

Chris does with a muttered, “Thanks, ma’am,” and follows her through to the kitchen, letting her mindless chatter wash over him. She ushers him into a seat at the table, and waves away his weak, half-hearted protests as she goes about reheating him a plate of dinner. Her roasts have always been fucking epic, so sue him. “So, is Adrian still at work?”

Mrs Chase turns away from the counter, brows drawn together. “Oh, I thought he would’ve mentioned it,” she says, her smile a little sad, a little wistful, “but he decided to move out.”

Chris stares at her. Blinks dumbly. “Uh, no. He—he didn’t say anything.”

Mrs Chase huffs, all fond. “That boy. Here, you know what,” she puts the plate away, and starts pulling tupperware containers out instead, “you bring him over some dinner as well, go and catch up, how about that? Heaven knows he’s probably eaten nothing but junk since the last time he came over.”

She packs up the food, making idle, mostly one-sided smalltalk while Chris’ head is still reeling. Writes Adrian’s new address down on a post-it for him, and shoos him back out the door with a hug after making him promise they’ll both come visit again soon.

Chris pulls out his phone as soon as he’s back in the car, scrolling through his text thread with Adrian. Guilt slams into him with enough force to actually leave him breathless for a moment. He hasn’t responded to anything in more than ten days, and even then, his last message had only been a clipped, dude thats fucking dumb, in respone to some weird, most likely fake tucan fact—quote, unquote.

He remembers reading it after Emilia had stalked out of the bar they’d been at for a change of scenery, after sitting on top of each other for days on end with nothing better to do—both of them without a job or the motivation to go looking for a new one—than drink themselves stupid had had them snap at each other a little too cruelly to be ignored anymore. Not that it had helped any, in the end.

Swallowing hard, because he’s not going to start crying again, Jesus fuck, Chris thumbs back to the last message from Adrian. Sent four days ago, which is really fucking strange, because Adrian never usually goes more than a few hours without texting him about something—not even Chris being in goddamn jail had stopped him—and radio silence for several days has absolutely never happened before.

Worry worms its way through the guilt, and settles heavy and uncomfortable on Chris’s chest.

“Shit,” he breathes out, throws the phone into the passenger seat next to the food, and starts the car.

Adrian’s chosen a nicer neighborhood than Chris would’ve expected him to be able to afford on a bus boy salary. And most of the blood money he’d been stashing away had gotten blown up when they’d closed the portal for good after escaping the Nazi dimension, not that Chris can picture him actually using any of it. He slows down and squints out the window, trying to read the numbers on the curb, and isn’t all that surprised when Adrian’s place turns out to be the last house on the street. A detached corner lot, woods at the back, full view of the rest of the neighborhood from the front yard. As private as it gets, easy to defend if necessary; exactly Adrian’s style.

Chris finds a sport to park, takes a few deep breaths that don’t actually do much to calm him down, and gets out of the car. Then has to double back like a dumbass once he remembers the food. He’s a fucking mess today. More so than usual, anyway.

There’s lights on in what Chris assumed must be the living room, shining warmly through the drawn curtains, and some of the weight eases off Chris’ chest. That’s gotta be a good sign. He has to juggle the tupperwares around to free a hand so he can knock, nearly drops the one with the gravy, and is cursing under his breath while trying to regain a good grip on it when the door opens.

His head snaps up real fucking fast, though, at the disgusted, “Ugh, no.”

He only just catches a brief glimpse of the pure, unfiltered hatred on Adrian’s face before the door’s being slammed shut again. A second later, the deadbolt clicks into place. Then another one, and a third, and okay, wow, that’s fucking harsh. Not undeserved, that annoying fucking voice pipes up again, but kinda really hurtful all the same.

Then there are voices, a muffled conversation Chris can’t make out, and before Chris can scrape his dignity off the floor and hightail it the hell out of there, the deadbolts are unlocked and the door opens again, just a crack.

Adrian’s worrying the inside of his cheek this time, forehead creased into a slight frown, but it’s a vast improvement over whatever the fuck that was thirty seconds ago. “Uhm, hi, P. What’re you doing here?”

Chris opens his mouth uselessly, then closes it again. Clears his throat, and manages to hold up the food. As a peace offering, maybe, if one’s necessary? “Dinner. From your mom.” He cranes his neck, trying to peek over Adrian’s head, and when that doesn’t work, actually looks at Adrian, properly, for the first time. His eyebrows shoot all the way up his fucking forehead. “Dude, are you—are you hooking up with someone right now?”

Adrian crosses his arms over his bare chest. He laughs nervously, too loudly. “What? No!”

Funnily enough, it doesn’t sound like a lie. Chris would know, because Adrian’s a shitty fucking liar. “You’re half naked,” he points out, jerking his elbow at Adrian.

The gravy tupperware slips out of his grip, but Adrian catches it easily. “Oh, shit, is it roast day? Awesome!”

“Vig.”

“Huh?”

Chris, now able to shift the rest of the food into one arm, gestures at Adrian again. “Why are you naked?”

Adrian’s eyes dart away, somewhere over Chris’ shoulder. “I’m wearing sweats.”

“You know what I mean,” Chris barks automatically, then snaps his mouth shut, free hand clenching at his side. Quieter, he says, “It’s just. You don’t go shirtless around other people.”

“‘Cause skin to skin’s icky, yeah.”

“Yeah, so?”

“So, what?”

Chris is going to end up with a fucking aneurysm from biting back the instinct to yell. “So, who’s here? And,” he adds, when Adrian sucks in a breath, and allows himself to roll his eyes, “don’t say no one.”

Adrian sulks up at him, but he also steps back, and holds the door open in invitation. “You’re not allowed to be mad about this, though. Because it seems like something you’d get mad about, and I don’t want you to be mad.”

Well, if that isn’t ominous as fuck. “Why d’you think I’d be—oh, fuck no!”

From the other side of the living room, arms crossed in a mirror picture of Adrian a few moments ago, Adrian—another Adrian glowers at Chris. “Fuck you,” he spits, whirls around, and vanishes into the kitchen.

Chris rounds on Adrian. “You brought back Nazi Adrian?” His voice is definitely too loud, but this feels like a justifiable reason to yell, everything considered. “What the fuck, V?”

Adrians throws up his hands. “He isn’t a Nazi! I wouldn’t have brought him if he was a Nazi, what the fuck, P!”

“That’s not the fucking point, dipshit—”

“Hey, don’t call him dipshit, asshole!”

Chris turns to glare at Other Adrian, back in the kitchen doorway. “Fuck off.”

“You fuck off!”

“Well,” Adrian cuts in, hands on his hips, “what was I supposed to do, leave him there with all the Nazis?”

Yes, Chris wants to tell him, because what the fuck? Or, how the fuck, actually? Which is a good question, so he demands, “How did you even manage that without anyone noticing?”

Adrian shrugs. “Shit was blowing up everywhere, no one was paying attention.”

True enough, but still, it seems highly unlikely—

“And Adebayo helped.”

That takes most of the wind out of Chris’ sails, because fuck. He slumps against the back of the couch, and lets Adrian take the food to carry it over to the kitchen, ignoring Other Adrian’s glaring in favor of burying his face in his hands. Ads had nearly been killed. Would’ve been killed, if not for the Adrians, and it would’ve been Chris’ fault. Because he’s an idiot, a stupid, self-centred idiot riddled with so many fucking issues, his psyche probably resembles a piece of Swiss cheese at this point—

“Do you want some roast?” Adrian’s watching him, back to hugging himself, fingers drumming restlessly against his arms. He’s doing a piss poor job of offering comfort, but hey, at least he’s trying, which means he’s working on himself. That’s more than Chris can claim about himself. “Or a beer, or something?”

Deep, stuttering breath in. Let it out slowly. Chris straightens up. “Have anything stronger?”

Dinner is fucking awkward.

Other Adrian point blank refuses to talk to Chris, and doesn’t acknowledge his presence at all other than throwing him hateful looks across the table if Chris accidentally glances in his direction. The tension is so thick, Chris is honestly kind of scared he’ll choke on it. Adrian either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care, filling Chris in on Fennel Fields gossip, what projects he’s got planned for the house, his Vigilante outings, how he’s helping Ads with her security business—

“Wait,” Chris swallows a mouthful of broccoli, head tilted at Adrian, “you’re doing Vigilante shit, picking up shifts, and working with Ads?”

“Oh!” Adrian beams, and slings an arm around Other Adrian’s shoulders all casual like, which; the hell? “We’re taking turns!”

Other Adrian sneers wordlessly when Chris dares to look at him.

Chris takes a surreptitious look around to make sure there aren’t any weapons within reach. He even offers to do the dishes once they’re done and Other Adrian’s fucked off to wherever, just to have a few more minutes without someone trying to glare him to death.

Adrian misses the point. Obviously. “We have a dishwasher.”

So much for that.

Loading it doesn’t buy him much time, but thankfully it’s enough for Other Adrian to have sequestered himself away in what Adrian tells him is their workshop during the tour he gives Chris. They get some beers and settle on the couch, and Adrian switches on the TV but then immediately turns sideways to stare at Chris. “Why aren’t you with Harcourt?"

Blunt as always, Jesus.

“What,” Chris dodges the question, pushing a nail under the label on his bottle, “you’re saying you don’t want me around, now?”

He’s mostly joking, only not at all, actually.

“P, no,” Adrian sounds offended Chris even asked, which is mollifying as fuck, “I always want to spend time with you!”

“You haven’t been texting lately,” Chris points out, petulant, like the fucking hypocrite he is.

Adrians looks puzzled. “I haven’t?”

And he didn’t even notice. Hurts to get a taste of his own medicine, or however that fucking saying goes, Chris figures. “We, uh,” he says, after a minute of silence, “we actually broke up.”

He takes a sip of his beer, and starts coughing violently when it goes down the wrong way at Adrian’s genuine, “Do you want me to suck your dick to cheer you up?”

Chris’ face burns with shame. God, he really is a piece of shit friend, isn’t he, for Adrian’s answer to Chris showing up unannounced to trauma dump being an offer of sexual favors. “No,” he wheezes, and even manages a wobbly smile when Adrian reaches over to clap him on the back, “that’s—no.” Then, lamely, he tacks on, “Thanks, though.”

Adrian picks up for his own beer, wholly unconcerned. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Chris closes his eyes. “Sure,” he says weakly.

“Are you staying the night?”

That had been the plan, originally, yeah, but Chris hadn’t accounted for the murderous Adrian clone when coming up with it. “You sure that’d be okay?”

Adrian blinks at him. “Dude, of course?!”

So, his options are an empty house filled with a shitload of bad memories, or potentially getting gutted in his sleep. It isn’t a hard choice. “Yeah, all right.”

Adrian gets him a blanket and pillow for the couch while Chris washes his face and digs around under the sink for a spare toothbrush. He flops down onto it with an exhausted groan after Adrian’s shown him how to pull it out into a bed, but despite being wrung out as fuck, he’s still lying awake in the dark an hour later, restless and twitchy. With an annoyed huff, he heaves himself back up to get a glass of water, more for something to do with his trembling hands than anything else. He paces the hallway on bare, silent feet for a while, but that doesn’t do shit, either.

He stops in front of Adrian’s bedroom after a while, considering. He’s not using a friend for sex, not anymore, but maybe—friends cuddle, sometimes, don't they? And it’s not like he and Adrian have never shared a bed before, even outside of fooling around. It doesn’t have to be weird if Chris doesn’t make it weird.

“Adrian?” he whispers, and when he doesn’t get an answer, he carefully pushes open the door. Adrian’s never minded Chris joining him in bed and using him as a human body pillow—or never told you if he did, that fucking voice chimes in again—as long as Chris is wearing clothes, so maybe he can just scooch in all subtle, and—

He freezes with one foot in the room.

Because maybe he could sneak under the covers without waking Adrian up, yeah, but he’s not taking his fucking chances with Other Adrian. Who’s spooned up against Adrian’s back, curled around him almost—almost protectively, Chris thinks, watching their chests rise and fall in sync.

Their bare chests.

And the blanket is pulled up to their waists, but it looks suspiciously like shirts aren’t the only things they’ve decided to forego.

Chris backs out of the bedroom. The only bedroom in the house, fuck, he really is a grade A idiot.

Tries and fails to swallow around the burning lump in his throat.

Right.

Okay.

Fuck.

Chapter Text

Adrian—because the dude’s never been quiet a moment in his whole fucking life—accidentally wakes Chris up when he leaves at what feels like the asscrack of dawn for the opening shift at Fennel Fields. But he also promises to bring home some low-carb leftovers from the lunch buffet later, and he did let Chris borrow his couch for the night, so Chris just grunts at him, rolls over onto his side, and goes back to sleep.

It’s not like he’s got anything better to do, anyway.

He dozes for another hour or so, before his bladder starts demanding that he get up. He takes a quick shower while he’s at it, then curses himself when he remembers—barely covered in only a too small towel, and dripping all over the fucking floor—that he doesn’t actually have a spare set of clothes. Because all his shit is still at Emilia’s place. Where he abso-fucking-lutely doesn’t wanna go right now, naked or not. Because they broke up last night.

With that lovely little reminder to dampen his mood, Chris pokes his head out into the hall. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that the bedroom door’s open and the one to the workshop firmly closed, and quickly slips out of the bathroom to go rifle through Adrian’s stuff for something that’ll keep him from freezing his dick off.

He definitely doesn’t spend way too fucking long staring at the bed and the two sets of rumpled sheets.

Because that would be pathetic as hell. Which Chris is not. He’s a perfectly normal level of pathetic, given his current situation, thanks very fucking much.

After dressing in some sweats and a hoodie that just barely fit him, he drags himself to the kitchen, and perks up somewhat at the fully stocked fridge. He decides on some home fries with eggs and sausage, then goes searching for a knife and cutting board. Adrian’s splurged on one of those fancy coffee makers with the pods, so Chris indulges himself and brews a cup of the strongest one he finds.

The food’s sizzling away in a shitload of butter, and Chris has set his phone up on the counter and is humming along to Hysteria as he shuffles potatoes around the pan, bobbing his head along to the music. He reaches for his mug, then spills most of its contents over his hand, and nearly has a goddamn heart attack at the waspish, “Why the fuck are you wearing my pants?” suddenly barked at him.

“Jesus fuck, dude.” He runs his hand under the tap, glad the coffee’d only been lukewarm anymore, before turning to frown at Other Adrian. “Warn a guy.”

Other Adrian bares his teeth at him.

Chris rubs at the back of his neck. “Uhm. Sorry? Didn’t realize.” When Other Adrian doesn’t respond, he awkwardly clears his throat, then tries, “You want breakfast?”

He’s already cooking, it’s not like it would be any extra effort.

And maybe Other Adrian will turn into less of a moody bitch after he’s fed, though if last night’s anything to go by, Chris probably shouldn’t get his hopes up.

After another tense moment of silence, Other Adrian—Chris needs to come up with a better name for the asshole ASAP—gives a stiff nod, and climbs up onto one of the stools at the breakfast bar. Chris decides to take it as the olive branch it probably isn’t meant to be, and quickly turns back to the stove before Other Adrian changes his mind and stabs him or something.

Doesn’t even say shit about the eyes he can feel staring holes into his back.

Instead, he pours the eggs he’d whisked up earlier into a second pan, and takes the sausages out of the oven when his phone reminds him to. He grabs plates and a small bowl from the cupboard, cutlery from a drawer, makes sure there’s no more spongy, wet or unmixed chunks in the eggs—because he doesn’t feel like getting lectured about how gross the concept of eggs technically is yet again—and then goes about dividing everything up between the two plates, dumping ketchup all over his own portion.

The other plate he puts down in front of Other Adrian with a grunt, goes and gets the Sriracha mayo and grated cheese from the fridge, plops the mayo down next to Other Adrian’s plate, and shakes some cheese into the bowl, setting that onto the bar as well before sitting down with his own food.

Other Adrian makes a soft, surprised noise at him.

When Chris looks over at him, fork halfway between his plate and mouth, Other Adrian’s just kinda staring down at his food. Chris lets out a sigh, mentally preparing himself for whatever the fuck he's done now. “What?”

“How—” Other Adrian starts, but quickly cuts himself off again. He clenches his jaw, hands twitching where he’s gripping the edge of the bar. He shakes his head, darts a glance up at Chris for just a second, and finally picks up his fork. He’s tense as fuck, but not pissed, Chris doesn’t think. “Nothing. Thank you.”

Chris shrugs at him, really fucking confused. “Sure.”

They don’t talk as they eat, which is about what Chris should’ve expected. It’s still weird, though. Adrian usually babbles on through every meal they have together, more often than not with his mouth full, no matter how many times Chris yells at him about it being super fucking disguting. Other Adrian’s almost unsettingly quiet, by contrast, as he cuts up a piece of sausage, squeezes some mayo onto it, and then dips it into the cheese.

At which point even Chris’ stupid fucking brain catches up.

No runny eggs, because they freak Adrian out. No condiments on the food, because they, for whatever fucking reason, need to stay cold, or Adrian will freak out. The cheese can’t melt, or—surprise—Adrian will freak out, even though he drags Chris out to get burritos all the time, and they’re full of molten fucking cheese, but it’s okay if it’s inside a burrito and Adrian can’t see it, which doesn’t make any fucking sense, but when does Adrian ever?

“We’re friends, y’know,” Chris blurts, like a dumbass. Other Adrian doesn’t look at him, but he does tilt his head, so at least he’s listening. “Adrian and me. I know some of the shit he likes. Or doesn’t like, I guess.”

Other Adrian spears a piece of egg. His eyes flicker up, over Chris’ face, then back down to his plate. He eats his forkful. “It’s tasty.”

“Yeah?” Chris can’t help but smile, just a little. Maybe it’s the relief of not feeling like he’s actively in mortal danger anymore. “That’s good.” He chews his lip for a moment, then raps a knuckle against the bar, next to Other Adrian’s hand. “Hey, you know I’m not—that I’m not him. The other guy. I’m not—”

Other Adrian picks up his food, stands, and leaves without a word.

“Well, fuck you, too,” Chris mutters under his breath, chest tight. Louder, he adds, “Great talk, dipshit!”

He finishes his own plate and cleans up.

Then spends the rest of the morning lounging around on his couch bed, wrapped up in a blanket as he shoots the hell out of some zombies, silently grateful they’re only digital. Wouldn’t be the craziest shit to happen to him in the last year, fucking Christ.

Once Adrian gets home, they eat zoodles and turkey meatballs side by side between rounds of Mario Kart. Adrian wipes his ass three straight races in a row, so Chris tries to kick him off the couch during the next one. Adrian flails, nearly spills his food all over the sheets, but manages to cling onto the armrest before he faceplants onto the floor. Chris has just enough time to shove his own bowl over onto the coffee table before Adrian tackles him; the controllers skitter away to fuck knows where, the couch creaks ominously as Chris tries to wrestle Adrian into a headlock, Adrian knees him in the crotch in what better be a fucking accident, but distracts Chris long enough for Adrian to swing a leg over him and pin him down.

He beams down at Chris, panting, glasses askew, and face bright red.

“You look so fucking dumb right now,” Chris tells him, and tugs him in by the collar of his ugly work shirt to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth before he can think too much about it.

Adrian goes deathly still above him.

Chris squeezes his eyes shut tightly, because fuck. Why the fuck did—

Adrian shifts, changes the angle of their faces, and kisses him back. Dry, close-mouthed, hesitant as fuck, but shit, it’s good. So fucking good.

Curling an arm around Adrian’s waist, Chris flips them, free hand cushioning the back of Adrian’s head as he presses him into the messy sheets. He brushes his mouth over Adrian’s again, over his cheek, lingers at his temple, and then finally musters up the courage to move back and look at him. Adrian blinks up at him, fingers drumming restlessly against Chris’ ribs.

His tongue darts out to run along his bottom lip. Testing, tasting. Chris sorta wishes it was his tongue instead.

“Are we best friends who kiss now?”

Chris snorts, and drops back down, laughing helplessly into Adrian’s shoulder.

They’ve had each other’s dicks in their mouths, and this is what’s tripping them up?

Jesus fucking Christ.

Adrian pinches his side. “What?” he whines, clearly not understanding what’s so fucking funny. “I just want to know!”

“Yeah,” Chris chuckles, nosing up Adrian’s neck just to make him twitch and shiver, “we can be friends who kiss.”

“Best friends.”

“...sure.”

By the way he gets jostled around, Chris is pretty sure Adrian just high-fived himself, the fucking dork.

But then he asks, “So, you did change your mind about me sucking your dick?” like it’s nothing, and shit, to him it might actually not be, but to Chris it feels like someone’s just poured a bucket of freezing water over his head.

He’s, like, twelve hours out of a breakup with the woman he thought might be the one for him, and that was highly delusional of him, sure, but still. The fuck’s he doing, starting something up with Adrian, one of the few people who don’t actively hate his guts right now? So much for not abusing Adrian’s mancrush, fuck, Chris just told himself he wouldn’t do this anymore, he’s trying not to be a total fucking tool all of the fucking time—

“P?” Adrian asks, probably not for the first time, his tone all puzzled and shit. Then, more unsure, quieter, “Chris?”

Chris can probably count the times Adrian’s used any variation of his first name—their brief childhood interactions notwithstanding—on one hand, so the situation’s definitely and rapidly spinning out of his control.

“‘M fine,” he croaks, wincing at the rough scrape of his voice. Totally believable, that. Shit. He swallows around the sudden lump in his throat, and tries again, “Shut up, it’s nothing.”

Well. That's hardly better, but also not any worse. Probably.

Adrian doesn’t say anything for a long, stretching moment. Chris focuses on the fingers that are absently scratching through his hair, and does his best not to move in case that makes Adrian stop doing it. “Okay,” Adrian finally settles on, but Chris can tell he isn’t convinced. By some divine fucking miracle, though, and for the first time ever, Adrian decides to not be an absolute menace, and mercifully drops the topic. “If you say so, P.”

Chris pretends not to sniffle, even as he’s very obviously sniffling. “Yeah, I do say so.”

Another beat of silence.

“What do you wanna do instead, then?”

Chris considers that for a minute. Adrian wiggles around under him, but after the first, embarrassing jolt of fiery hot panic, Chris realizes he’s not getting up or pushing him off, only stretching to grab the blanket. Together, they somehow manage to tuck themselves in without untangling from each other, or acquiring any more genital related injuries. They end up on their sides, chest to chest, with Adrian’s chin resting on top of Chris’ head.

“This,” Chris mumbles, tightening the arm he’s got around Adrian, “we can do this.”

Adrian grins into his hair. “Snuggling sesh, all right!”

At some point, Adrian turns on some cartoons on low, and Chris doesn’t even mind the obnoxious background noise. He even finds himself smiling, hidden away where he is, at Adrian’s occasional, nerdy giggles.

It’s Other Adrian who eventually breaks the peace, because of course it is.

He’s watching them with an expression Chris has the vague, horrifying suspicion might resemble the one he’d been wearing last night, when he’d walked in on the two of them. Other Adrian’s voice is carefully neutral when he says, “One of us is supposed to meet Lee in half an hour.”

Chris grunts when Adrian sits up, then smirks lazily at Other Adrian when Adrian puts a hand back in his hair. “You can go,” Adrian says, rubbing a thumb back and forth against the skin behind Chris’ ear. “I want to finish the smoke bombs.”

“Why the fuck do you—” Chris begins, suddenly much more alert, but gets interrupted by Other Adrian’s terse, “She says to bring Peacemaker.”

Adrian shrugs. “Okay.”

Chris and Other Adrian share a moment of what could almost pass as commiseration, maybe, if Other Adrian wasn’t also scowling darkly enough to make Chris wonder if looks can kill after all.

But when he checks his phone, Ads has texted him the same thing, asking for him and John to tag along for a job, and refusing her isn’t something Chris has the strength to do, not after everything he’s put her through. He lets out a long, shuddering breath. “Fine.”

Other Adrian hisses through his teeth. “Fine. I’m driving.”

“Joke’s on you, asshole,” Chris tells him as he gets up, rolling his eyes when Other Adrian flips him off, “I’m perfectly content playing passenger princess.”

Adrian nods. “He’s good at it.”

Chris throws a wink his way. “Thanks, bro.”

“Good at being useless?” Other Adrian mutters under his breath, purposefully not loud enough for Adrian to hear as he makes his way down the hall to the workshop. “Sounds about right.”

“You’re kind of a bitch,” Chris fires back, stumbling over his feet when Other Adrian kicks at his ankle. “Cut it out, dude.”

“Cut it out, dude,” Other Adrian mocks.

Chris shoves him into the wall.

The drive to Ads’ new place is some new kind of torture. Chris isn’t normally terrible at silences, but they feel so fucking strange and wrong when it’s Adrian forcing them. Or Other Adrian. Whatever. And, actually, “Do you have a nickname or something?”

That earns him a suspicious squint. “Why?”

“I can’t keep calling you Other Adrian, that’s dumb. And incriminating.”

“You’ve been calling me Other Adrian?!” Other Adrian demands, shrill, and oh, yeah, that’s right; not out loud. Oops.

Chris tips his head against the cool window, and closes his eyes. Whatever. Other Adrian can just keep his dumb new name, it’s not like Chris gives a shit. It suits him, anyway, ‘cause he’s dumb, too. Fucking asshole.

He startles when Other Adrian actually answers. “My brother used to call me Rian when we were younger.”

“Ryan?”

“No,” Other Adrian huffs, having Chris bite back another smirk, “Rian. Like—like Ree-an. It’s the second part of my name, you fucking bimbo, it’s not that fucking difficult.”

An unexpected, genuinely amused laugh catches in Chris’ throat, at that. “Bimbo? What the fuck, man?”

“It means—”

“I know what it fucking means—” Chris starts ranting, but then he catches Other Adrian—Rian’s mouth twitch out of the corner of his eye, and reaches over to slap at his shoulder. “Oh, fuck off. Since when do you do sarcasm, huh?”

Rian quirks a brow at him. Then, like an asshole, he chucks Chris’ words from that morning right back at him. “You realize I’m not him, right?”

“Yeah,” Chris snorts, and leans back in his seat, shaking his head in amused disbelief, “no fucking shit you’re not. Hey,” he swats at Rian again, and raises his brows back at him, “you might wanna be nicer to me, or Johns’s going to figure out that something’s off real fucking fast.”

“Nah,” Rian clicks his tongue, “I’ll take my chances, thanks.”

John figures out Rian isn’t Adrian less than five minutes in, when Rian goes to get a beer from the fridge without fetching one for Chris as well, then snorts and mutters, “He’s not good for much, but he can still walk,” when John teases him about it. Chris rubs a hand over his face to hide his smug smile; he fucking loves being right.

John, because he’s John, has a semi-serious breakdown about someone from another dimension secretly hanging around theirs. Chris feels marginally bad about being glad he’s not coping, because it makes Emilia take him outside to calm him down, which is a reprieve Chris desperately needs after being surprised by his very recent ex very much out of fucking nowhere.

Ads pulls him into a hug the instant the door closes behind John and Emilia. “I’m sorry,” she says, giving him a long, comforting squeeze, before she switches tactics and boxes his ear. “It would’ve been helpful if either of you’d told me, y’know?”

Chris drops a kiss on her forehead. “Sorry.”

The rest of the job, after everyone’s gotten their shit back together, is a piece of cake. Not a perfect or pretty one, but one that’s still edible and not too dry, or something like that. All Chris has to do is look menacing, for the most part, and then pick some punk up by the scruff of the neck and toss him around a little when he gets mouthy, while Emilia and Rian get the client’s—the soon to be ex-wife, sporting a telling black eye and busted lip—belongings out of the house and Ads ushers the crying woman into the van John’s got idling at the curb.

The shithead husband’s cousin showing up throws somewhat of a wrench into everything, especially when he pulls out a gun. The shithead husband starts yelling and struggling when Chris pulls him in front of himself, but he should’ve thought about his feelings on being used as a human shield before beating on his wife, in Chris’ opinion. And it doesn’t even matter, in the end, because before the shithead husband or his cousin get the chance to do anything, there’s a sharp pain flaring up in Chris’ bicep, and the next thing he knows, the cousin staggers back with a knife stuck somewhere above his collarbone.

Rian, one arm still extended, grins and salutes at Chris, when Chris cranes his neck to look at him over his shoulder.

The shithead husband uses that moment to wrench himself away from Chris, blubbering something about some Tate guy as he runs for Rian. They both end up in the pond. Emilia saves the shithead husband’s life by pulling Rian off him before Rian can finish drowning him, more’s the pity.

They all scramble to get the hell out of Dodge at the first sight of blue lights.

The wife gets delivered to her sister’s apartment, doling out trembling hugs and heartfelt thanks, with Ads and Emilia staying behind to deal with whatever else needs to be dealt with, while John drives them back to Ads’ brand new office so they can retrieve Adrian’s car.

Chris peels Adrian’s hoodie—fuck, he really needs to get some of his own clothes—off and away from his sluggishly bleeding arm, and accepts the first aid kit John passes back to him with a muttered, “Thanks.”

The cut isn’t deep enough to need stitches, thank fuck, but, “Did you have to throw that fucking knife through me?” he complains at Rian, because seriously; dick move.

“N—no—o, it wa—was a d—de—delibera—ate cho—choice,” Rian says, but his teeth are clattering too much for it to be anything but kind of sad, honestly.

John cranks up the heat.

But by the time Chris has finished taping some gauze over his wound, Rian is shivering violently enough to rock the entire backseat, arms wrapped around himself like that’s going to do fuck all. Chris plucks at his sopping wet sweater. “Take that off.”

Rian glowers. It would probably be more threatening if he wasn’t currently pale enough to rival half the population of the Nazi dimension he comes from. “Don’t be an idiot,” Chris tells him, reaching for the hem of his sweater, and catches both his wrists in one hand when Rian pushes at him weakly. “Dude, c’mon.”

“Fu—uck,” Rian coughs, but he does let Chris peel him out of his dripping sweater and shirt, his feeble attempts at helping doing more harm than good. He looks pitiful enough that Chris can’t even find it in himself to make fun of him for it.

He does point out that, “It’s your own fault there’s blood on this, so shut the fuck up about it,” though, while he bullies him into Adrian’s hoodie.

Rian doesn’t respond, just sags and plunks his head down on Chris’ shoulder.

He does perk up some once they get home, only leaning about 25% of his weight on Chris as they stagger into the house. Adrian’s out doing Vigilante shit, according to the note Chris finds taped to the fridge when he goes to get them both some Gateroades. Rian looks more alive than dead by the time he’s chugged his and, somehow, stuffed six microwaved freezer waffles down his throat in the span of about thirty-seven seconds.

“You fucking freak,” Chris says, although it must come out as impressed as he feels about that achievement, because Rian waggles his brows at him before fucking off to go thaw out in the shower.

Chris stays awake, flopped onto the couch face-first, until he hears him shuffle into the bedroom, just to make sure. Adrian’d be upset if Rian died on Chris’ watch.

Falling asleep is easier tonight, in no small thanks to the fading adrenalin rush from earlier.

It’s Adrian who wakes him up.

Again.

He climbs in next to Chris some indiscernible amount of time later, freshly showered and smelling of the bubblegum hairwash he prefers as he shoves and tugs at Chris, until Chris is lying flat on top of him, pressing him into the cheap mattress. Chris hasn’t got the faintest fucking clue why Adrian likes being squished by a good 200 pounds of warm muscle—actually, that does sound sorta nice, now that Chris’ sleep-sluggish brain’s started thinking about it.

He fumbles along Adrian’s side until he finds Adrian’s hand, linking their fingers together. Adrian freezes, like he always used to do and sometimes still does when his skin’s touched unexpectedly, so Chris pushes his nose into his hair, kisses the shell of his ear, and murmurs, “Go the fuck to sleep, Vig.”

Adrian, after what feels like a fucking eternity, finally untenses.

He squeezes Chris’ hand.

Chris hums. Kisses his ear again. “Hmm, yeah. Good. Sleep.”

“Yeah.” A pause. “Good.”

Chapter Text

“It snowed last night!” With a tired groan, Chris turns his face into a pillow; it’s too fucking early for this level of enthusiasm over anything, nevermind fucking snow, of all things. “We should go build a fortress in the yard!”

The person under Chris’ arm shifts, propping themselves up against the back of the couch with what sounds like a jaw-cracking yawn. “Sure,” comes a soft, quiet murmur. Fingers dance over the back of Chris’ hand, then gently curl around his arm. A thumb brushes slowly back and forth over his wrist. “But after breakfast, okay?”

“Right.” Adrian hurries across the room, bare feet against the hardwood floor. The fridge opens. “Most important meal of the day, can’t skip breakfast. Do we want pancakes?”

The hand around Chris’ wrist gives a quick squeeze. “You want pancakes?”

“Mmmh,” Chris grunts, reluctantly resigning himself to the fact that he won’t be allowed to go back to sleep. Pancakes do sound good, though. Adrian makes kickass pancakes. “Yeah.”

And then he jerks, eyes flying open, and pushes himself up onto one elbow, because—

Rian’s already looking at him, that tiny, infuriating smirk that seems reserved specifically for Chris’ dumbest moments tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Morning, dipshit.”

“Uhm,” Chris says, the picture of coherence. He goes to move away, sit up as well, but Rian’s still kind of holding his other arm hostage. It’s Chris’ jerking off arm, so he sincerely hopes Rian’s not about to break it or something. Jerking off with his right hand’s fucking annoying. “Morning.”

Although, Chris remembers, now that he’s waking up properly, he didn’t even do anything that would warrant any arm breaking. It was Rian, presumably, who decided to initiate the cuddling last night, unless he and Adrian switched at some point, but cuddling doesn’t usually involve midway substitutions, as far as Chris is aware.

Not that Rian seeking him out for cuddling is any less weird than him and Adrian having a shared cuddling schedule would be, or—actually, Chris might be in shock, because this is one stupid fucking train of thought to be having, Jesus fucking Christ.

Before he can make up his mind and figure out the course of action that’ll lead to the least amount of awkwardness, however, Rian goes and drops the next bombshell on him, casual as you please. “We used to be close. The other Peacemaker and me.” He presses his hand against Chris’, palm to palm, then slots his fingers through Chris’ with a contemplative hum. “I thought this would gross me out more, but it’s actually fine.”

Chris squints at him. Rian obviously doesn’t share his concerns about the situation being really fucking awkward. “Thanks?”

Rian snorts, and repositions himself, finally looking away from their hands and back at Chris’ face. Chris isn’t sure if eye-contact’s the right choice for whatever the fuck they’re currently doing, but it’s quickly becoming abundantly clear to him that he’s got very little say in what’s happening.

“We hooked up for the first time after Dorian’s funeral.”

Chris almost chokes on his next breath. “Jesus,” he coughs, “what the fuck? You can’t just say shit like that, dude.” Rian shrugs as Chris squirms to finally sit up as well. He still doesn’t let go of Chris’ hand, though, so Chris doesn’t let go of his, either. “I’m sorry. About your brother, I mean, that fucking sucks.”

Another shrug from Rian. Chris can’t read him like he can read Adrian, but even he can tell it’s all forced indifference. “He was a Nazi piece of shit, so.”

Chris is, unfortunately, extremely familiar with having pieces of shit Nazi family members you can’t stop caring about despite all their Nazi bullshit, all the yelling, all the hitting—well, all of that good shit. Putting that into words that’ll come out comforting is way beyond him, though, so instead, he moves his free hand to Rian’s waist, and then just sort of leaves it there.

Rian’s still just watching him silently.

“What, uh,” Chris asks, not actually sure if he wants to know, but unable not to ask, because come the fuck on, “what happened? With the other me? ‘Cause, you know, Vig—Adrian said you hated the guy.”

“What didn’t happen?” Rian sighs, long and deep. He drops his head back against the couch, exposing his neck, so Chris gets a front row seat to see the painful way he swallows before continuing with, “Fucked around on me all the fucking time, for starters. I didn’t—it wasn’t great, but it was what it was. It never meant anything, not until that fucking Flag guy—”

“Senior or Junior?” Chris blurts, and then immediately winces when Rian levels him with a stone cold glare. “Sorry.”

Rian chuckles under his breath, as if he can’t help himself, shaking his head a little. “Jesus, man. Junior. Happy?”

It’s definitely the better option of the two, but, “Not really, no.”

“Hey, you asked.” Rian’s quiet for a moment. Blinks rapidly a couple of times, eyes shining. Chris absently strokes his hand up his side, for all the good that’ll do. “Then he—I don’t know. Freaked out about all the gay shit he was getting up to, I guess, and threatened us both—me and Flag—said that he’d kill us if we ever told anyone anything. Started dating Emilia, obviously fumbled that spectacularly as well, got into pills and shit, I don’t even know what else. Turned more violent and unpredictable, beat a couple escapees from one of the camps to death, it was fucking crazy. Blue Dragon even benched him for a while. Then, when he came back, he was—different. More fucked up than ever.”

“Jesus,” Chris breathes shakily. “You ever talk again? Before, uh—”

“Before you killed him?”

Pulling punches; definitely not a talent of any Adrian out there. Chris’ first, panicked instinct is to apologize. For accidentally killing the other Chris. For—for all the messed up shit other Chris put Rian through, apparently, because fucking hell, what a screwed up asshole—

“No,” Rian cuts into Chris’ spiraling, thank fuck. “There wasn’t really anything else to be said, was there?”

“Guess not.” And because Chris has never in his miserable fucking life missed an opportunity to put his foot in his mouth, the next thing his brain manages to come up with is, “Did you love him?”

He—doesn’t know what to expect, once he actually processes what the fuck he’s just said. Maybe some broken bones after all. Totally deserved, this time. Anger would also be warranted, that’s for fucking sure, even the tears Rian hadn’t allowed himself earlier wouldn’t surprise Chris now. What does catch him off-guard, kind of a fucking lot, however, is the almost inaudible puff of a laugh just a moment before Rian’s mouth catches his.

It can’t even really be called a kiss, it’s over so fast. Just a—a fucking peck or something, there and gone again, and then Rian’s gone again, too, and—fucking smiling at Chris? And it doesn’t even look forced or fake, if anything it looks—fucking fond, for some fucking reason?

“Yeah,” Rian says, easy as that, and then, in true Rian slash Adrian fashion, he flips everything Chris hasn’t even fully understood yet on its head by raising a brow at Chris, and asking, “You realize he loves you, too, right? Your Adrian?”

The denial is instantaneous and automatic. “He doesn’t.” Chris’ heart doing fucking sommersaults in his chest is totally, 100% unrelated to this conversation. He’s probably just hungry or something. “Adrian doesn’t have feelings, not like that—ow, dude, what the shit? Don’t hit me with my own hand, what the fuck?”

Rian’s full on glowering at him, and looking more than ready to use their still joint hands to punch Chris in the neck again. At least that is something Chris is already familiar with. “Don’t be a fucking idiot, of course we do!”

Chris sets his chin. “Thought you weren’t the same person?” he challanges, but it sounds mulish and fucking stupid even to his own ears.

“We’re not,” Rian agrees. Chris gets to be smug for exactly three seconds, which isn’t a lot, but he’ll take any little victory he can get, at this point. “But, unlike some people here, I’m not a fucking idiot, and I can damn well fucking recognize repression when I see it on my own fucking face, okay?”

“Dude, Adrian’s actually pretty open about not being straight—”

“That’s not—” Rian groans in frustration, and Chris' hand finally gets dropped so Rian can rub both of his over his face instead. He mutters incomprehensibly for a while—though, somehow, Chris just knows he’s being insulted to the max—before he looks back at Chris with the absolutely bitchiest fucking expression Chris has seen on him so far. “That’s not what I’m talking about. He’s—we’re gay, that’s not news—”

It is to Chris, who’s had several three- or moresomes with Adrian and a bunch of different women. But he also values his life somewhat, and has learned his lesson about blurting out dumb shit, so he wisely keeps his mouth all the way shut about all that.

“—and we’re so fucking bad at all the social shit, but that doesn’t mean we’re—unfeeling, or uncaring, or whatever, all right? Pretending’s usually just easier than trying to untangle the fucking mess in our brain and figuring out what it is we’re actually feeling.”

And that might actually make some sense, in some weird Adrian way, but Chris isn’t quite ready to let it go, because, “You’re not pretending.”

“Look at how we turn out if we do.” Rian cranes his neck, and Chris follows his gaze to the kitchen, where Adrian’s bouncing around to some made-up tune or something that only he can hear. As they watch, he suddenly laughs loudly at seemingly nothing, shimmies his hips, and then stuffs a handful of chocolate chips into his mouth. Rian raises both brows at Chris. “What do you think would’ve happened to me on Nazi Earth if I’d let myself just—be like that, huh?”

Great. Now Chris feels like shit. He’d really appreciate not feeling like shit again at some point in his life. “Rian—”

“He’s so fucking lucky,” Rian whispers brokenly, squeezing his eyes shut. Chris wipes the tear that escapes anyway off his cheek with trembling fingers. And he doesn’t squeak, okay, but it’s maybe something close to one that gets surprised out of him when Rian, without warning, slings a leg over both of Chris’ to straddle him, hand coming up to grab Chris’ throat just on this side of too hard. “Don’t—he’s not—keep him safe, all right? Let him—let him live the way he is. Just. Please, Chris. Don’t take this away from him.”

Chris has been half joking about Rian fantasizing about murdering him for the last two days, but now, staring at the helpless, barely and badly concealed vulnerability in his eyes, Chris has to admit it might actually happen if he isn’t really fucking careful from now on. More careful than he’s ever been with Adrian before, because it’s easy not to care if the person you’re telling yourself you don’t care about keeps telling you that they don’t have feelings, that it’s totally fine, even though you know, rationally and intellectually, that that’s a load of fucking bullshit big enough to trigger Superman’s poop fetish—

“Pancake time!”

Both Chris and Rian startle at Adrian’s voice.

Rian sniffles, rubs a hand under his nose, and tightens his hold on Chris’ throat for a clarifying second before jumping up with a scarily cheery, “Fuck yeah, pancakes!”

At least he’s quick enough about exiting the situation that he doesn’t notice how Chris’ confused but embarrassingly interested dick twitches at the rough treatment.

They eat pancakes.

They build a badass fucking snow fort.

They also get yelled at by the local HOA Karens for fucking smoking their dumbass kids during the snowball battle the dumbass kids started in the first place.

They, by some fucking miracle, get away with two identical looking Adrians running around the yard and being fucking weirdos.

Ads, being the saint that she is, brings over Chris’ shit that afternoon without having to be asked. She’s even given Eagly a ride so he’ll know where his new homebase is, although, “Prime Eagle or not, if that bird shits in my car again, I’m cooking him for Christmas. With gravy, mashed potatoes and red cabbage!”

Eagly squawks in offense before taking off into the woods.

“She’s joking,” Keeya reassures them as she climbs out of the passenger seat, brandishing a bottle of whisky, “we’re more of a green beans kind of family.”

The evening is spent drinking and cooking together—curry lamb, no birds harmed in the process—and it’s, well. Super fucking nice and chill, actually. Keeya somehow, effortlessly offsets Adrian’s chaos, both her and Ads gently directing his energy to where it’s needed without setting him off, while Chris happily chops and fetches as instructed. Everyone comes to a silent, slightly terrified agreement not to mention Rian’s knife skills.

After dinner, they have Irish hot chocolate outside in the now fairy-light illuminated fortress, because Adrian whines and Rian enables, and no one’s got to heart to tell either of them no when faced with their puppy eyes, it turns out. They bring spare blankets and pillows, Ads goes and gets the portable speaker from her car, and it’s only once Keeya insists that she’s about to lose a toe that they eventually head back inside.

“I know you probably don’t want to hear this,” Ads tells Chris, up on her tiptoes as she hugs him goodbye, “but I’m glad everything with you and Emilia turned out this way. I love you both to death, and you both deserve to be happy, but I don’t think that’s something you could’ve achieved together.”

Chris smiles into her shoulder. Sad, yeah, but not disagreeing. “Toxic masculinity, huh?”

Ads snorts out a laugh, swatting at him. “Toxic masculinity, bro.”

Rian and Adrian flop down on the couch after Ads and Keeya leave, stretching out across the pull-out, while Chris goes to grab them some more drinks and snacks. He listens with half an ear as they bicker about what to do, arguing the pros and cons of putting on Terminator II versus the awesomeness of watching She-Ra again—both solid fucking choices—and is about to pitch Top Gun, because the classics fucking rule, okay, but then gets, uh, kind of very fucking distracted when he walks back into the living room with a sixpack under one and a bag of chips under the other arm, and catches Adrian and Rian in the middle of a heavy as all hell makeout session.

Thank you, superhero reflexes, because otherwise, a lot of beer would’ve gotten wasted ruining Adrian’s floor right about now.

Chris doesn’t think he makes any sort of noise, feels too fucking stunned to even speak, but some kind of sound must make it past his suddenly numb lips, because Rian graciously decides to detach his mouth from Adrian’s to glance up at Chris.

And then he—he fucking winks at Chris, and possesses the audacity to dive back in for seconds, the fucking piece of absolute fucking shit.

Unhurried, almost lazy, indulgent, lips moving against lips, a string of spit connecting their mouths once Rian finds it in himself to pull back, chest heaving and cheeks flushed. “Whatever you want,” he tells—no, fucking promises Adrian, with another flicker of his eyes up at Chris, “we’ll give it to you, babe.”

Babe.

Babe?!

“I told you, I want She-Ra, because she—”

Suicide is socially acceptable nowadays, right? In Switzerland? Catholicism notwithstanding?

Christ might’ve to move, because killing himself is he only escape from getting fucking killed by whatever the fuck Rian’s doing to his brain—nevermind his stupid fucking heart—that Chris can think of.

Dramatic?

Fuck. Yes.

Necessary?

No, but—but still better than acknowledging.

…maybe.