A/N: Oh, this will be just lovely… Ladies and gentlemen, it's THIRD SIGN TIME! YAY! I can't wait to read your reviews on this one! This is also the first chapter with some smut in, even though it's nothing too bad… Anyway, read on!

5: Anger Is The Heart Of Love

Over the next couple of days, Lawrence entire life seems to revolve around convincing Adam that he could've been dead.

Adam mostly replies to this by rolling his eyes, because he sees absolutely no point in pointing this out.

Yes, he could've been dead. That sort of was the point. He already was dead, in one way, since from what he's heard, living involves being outside your apartment, try something new every day, getting wife and kid and car and a fancy house, climbing fucking Mount Everest.

Life isn't staying in all day, watching reruns of 'America's Next Top Model,' feeling the cigarette smoke etching into your lunges.

So what was the point in dragging it out?

What was the point in taking up an apartment that all the politicians whine over the lack of when life wasn't important to him, anyway? When it was just like a birthmark or a scratch in the coffee table or something else that was annoying but still pointless enough to ignore?

Lawrence doesn't seem to agree, though. He's with Adam every second of the day, and when he's can't be, he sends twenty year-old wannabe-shrinks into his room, instead, and they sit there with their pads and their glasses and their charts and they ask Adam about his childhood.

But that doesn't bother Adam much. Those shrinks are just kids, for God's sake, he can silence them with a look, and in that way, they're almost better to be around than Lawrence.

And as long as they don't ask about the new marks on Adam's arms, the red little dots that are like freckles on his arms.

As long as they don't notice about the IV-needles that he steals from the nurses and hide under his mattress.

As long as they don't open the door to the bathroom and see him standing there, his arm bare, his skin pale, soft, vulnerable, way too fucking vulnerable to keep all of his fear, his frustration, his longing inside.

As long as they don't see him with the needle, stabbing that skin, stabbing it, punishing it, stabbing-stabbing-stabbing in almost blind fury, fury over himself for being so damn weak and over Lawrence for making him that way.

As long as they don't see him doing that, he can take anything they do to him.

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One of the days when Lawrence actually is there, he's sitting on the couch in Adam's room, filling in blank spaces in his chart out of something that almost seems like boredom, and Adam asks himself how someone can do that voluntarily. But he still has to understand why Lawrence does something, because the anxiety burns in him like a roaring glow, too, he'll explode if he doesn't get to do something soon.

Lawrence quickly solves that problem, wonderkid as he is, by the way he always solves things: He pisses Adam off.

"I don't think you get it," he says to his chart, and Adam takes his eyes off his fingers, which have been strumming rhythmlessly at the table in front of him, and looks at him.

"Get what?"

"What you were doing," Lawrence says, still without looking at Adam. "If you had, you wouldn't have done it. Because you never wanted to die."

Adam almost laughs.

"If you hadn't been here to control my every move, I would've stood up and beaten your pretty little ass up."

Lawrence smiles sleepily and stands up, closes his chart and looks at Adam again.

"Lucky me."

Pause. He opens the chart again, and Adam finds himself wondering if that fucking chart's going to be a replacement for his pen-fetish as he pushes his table aside.

"Seriously, Adam," Lawrence goes on. "I know you. And you might've been constantly angry and quippy and the only one who could compete with Diana in sulking, but you weren't suicidal."

He doesn't use the voice he usually does when he talks to Adam about what he's been doing. Instead of that soft, smooth, icky-sticky-velvety-and-pink-lace-I-feel-so-sorry-for-you-little-one-voice, it's his voice.

His polite sarcasms, his edgy concern and his only slightly begrudging Lawrence-voice.

Maybe that's what gives Adam the will to smile venomously with a fake pout as he retorts.

"Because I'm a coward?"

"No," Lawrence replies simply, without a moment's hesitation. "Because you're a hardass."

The poison disappears from Adam's lips, and his smile gets sweeter, true and genuine, and he has to chuckle just because he, in the first time he can recall, actually feel flattered.

"That's right," he says, pretending to be confident, and rakes his fingers through his hair. "And, now that we're both aware of that, you mind telling me why you can't let me out of here and let me get by on my own?"

Lawrence looks at him over the chart, all the humor is gone from his eyes, and they're just cold now, cold, icily blue, and disappointed in that way that's always been able to make Adam feel like the worst person in the world.

"Because," he says, and his voice sound like his eyes, instead of the tickling warmth of his wittiness, it's covered in a thin layer of powder snow, "I don't want you to be alone, since I know what you do when you are, and because you have the ability of tossing people out on their asses weather they like it or not, so I figured I'd hang on to you while you still barely can walk."

Adam scoffs and fidgets with the edge of his blanket. He wants it to sound indifferent, like Lawrence's words haven't affected him at all.

But that's hard to do when the guilt vibrates through him, like a shrill, sharp guitar string.

He doesn't want to care. He shouldn't care. It was Lawrence's fault that it ended, Lawrence's faultthat his pathetic life became visible to himself, never his, never his.

But he can't say any of this.

Lawrence is so believable in his role – because that's all it is, that's all – as the betrayed one that not even Adam can believe something he tells himself every day.

"Fine," he says instead, and once again, it sounds more vulnerable than he wants it to. "Maybe it was my fault. But the only effect it had on your life was that you had to find someone new to feel sorry for. And you can live with that."

Lawrence once again looks at him over the edge of his chart without stopping his pen from swirling over the frail paper. He almost looks amused.

"My dear sweet Adam," he says softly, "this idea you have of me who only stayed with you because I felt sorry for you is a total fantasy. You need to let go of that."

Adam scoffs again. And this time, it sounds just as mocking as he intended.

"Oh, so you didn't feel bad for me at all?" He says with a smirk and lets go of his blanket. "You stayed with me because you wanted to be a part of the great wisdoms I gave you?"

Lawrence chuckles and fills in something on his chart.

"No," he says.

Doesn't look up.

"You stayed with me because you felt sorry for me," Lawrence continues distantly. "I stayed with you because I loved you."

Adam should know better.

He should know better than letting a half-hearted love declaration sweep him off his feet. He should know better, since he's spent so much time trying to undo the last time that happened.

He should know better.

But he doesn't.

Because this was the third sign. This was the moment he's been dreading since he was admitted at this hospital, in the same time as he's been waiting for it with an almost childish longing.

The third and final sign that there's still something there. Something that almost feels like the love he once felt.

Beneath the lust, the angrily sparkling, the heavily burning and scorching, there's still something else.

The third sign is that that thing inside him that has only been desire, only been that hollowing thirst for Lawrence's body, his hands, his lips, his tongue in Adam's mouth, turns into something more, it grows into love, grows into the thing Adam's locked up in a little box and hid in the very deepest, truest, part of his soul, and it's not hollow, animal lust anymore.

It's real. It's full.

And it's too much for Adam to handle.

"Get over here."

Lawrence looks up. His eyebrows are raised, expression surprised.

"What?"

"Get over here."

Adam, on the other hand, looks completely… Focused. Intense. His brows are furrowed, a stiff, jerky hand beckons to Lawrence to come over.

"Why?"

"Because I want you."

Adam almost barks it out. It sounds like an order.

"Because I fucking want you, and if you don't get the hell over here soon, I'm going to have to stand up and drag you over here, and I know that you wouldn't force a poor little invalid to do that."

Lawrence gulps as his mind draws blank.

As the lust he felt for Adam, the one that actually was pretty much based on doctor-instincts, emulates with his confusion. Because Adam's face is stony in a way he's never seen it, and Lawrence knows that he actually will stand up and get him if he has to, so he steps over to his bed, even though he has no idea what he's doing, because he wants Adam, too, he wants him so badly that it hurts, he feels it like a burning longing in every cell of his body.

And Adam reaches up his hands, still jerky, still angry, still annoyed at his own weakness, but desiring nonetheless, he grabs Lawrence's collar, pulls his face down to him.

And he kisses him.

He gives in.

Because when anger is mixed with lust, it turns into something bigger, something stronger, a red and black swirl that runs through Adam's body, from his head like a violent, rushing high, and crawls down over his chest, down to his stomach, and even further, throbs down through his hips, makes his penis hard.

Adam swallows Lawrence's gasp of surprise, swallows every trace of breath hidden under his tongue as he forces his lips apart with his own, raids Lawrence's mouth, draws blood with his teeth, the liquid metal lingers with the taste of sweet saliva, and Adam pulls Lawrence onto the bed with him.

Lawrence doesn't fight back. Mostly because he has no idea what's happening, has no idea what's given Adam the confidence to take this much control.

Maybe it's because Adam is the only one who really is angry of the two of them. And this makes Lawrence feel oddly lost.

It doesn't mean that he's going to give up the fight, though. So Lawrence tries to make his hands move, even though he can't really feel them, and brings them to the sides of Adam's face, tries to regain some power, tries to coax out that confused, scared little boy he knows is inside of Adam, somewhere, knows it's there and knows how hard it is to make Adam acknowledge it.

Adam almost smirks when he feels the hands on his face.

Right, he thinks and brings his own hands to Lawrence's lab coat, tears at the fabric, tries to get it away, tries to remove the one proof Lawrence has that he's so fucking much better than him. You think you can get control that easy, you fucking idiot? You think you can get me out of hand with your touchy-feely-crap?

Well, guess what? I've grown. I won't be swept away just by that. I've grown so damn much that I actually can make you do whatever I want. Not bad, huh?

Adam shifts. He does some weird maneuver, he's not sure howhimself, but it doesn't matter, because he's on top, he's straddling Lawrence's hips, Lawrence's hands leave his face, and Adam takes the opportunity to grab his wrists and pin them to the bedpost behind them.

And Lawrence moans. Again and again. It's almost funny, and Adam has to smirk once more at the effects he has on Lawrence.

Well, well, he thinks evilly and leaves Lawrence's lips, kisses down his jaw line, finds a tender spot on his neck and bites down. We've got a little masochist here, don't we? Seems like there's a sick side in all of us.

Doesn't it, Lawrence? Aren't you just dying to be controlled right now? Don't you just crave from the very core of your being for me to treat you like my bitch?

His nails claw at Lawrence's wrist, like they're asking for an answer, and Lawrence swallows a grunt.

"I love you," he then whimpers.

Desperately. Like a prayer.

"Shut up," Adam hisses.

And he lifts his head again, kisses Lawrence on the lips, violently, his teeth draw more blood, it's like a lid over his palate, tastes like victory.

Lawrence is his.

He's never going to hurt Adam again. He will never do that, simply because he doesn't have the power to.

He won't even have the power to dominate Adam in situations like these, because he's Adam's now, and as his property, he can do nothing but accepting Adam's kisses, not struggle against the grip on his wrists, like handcuffs of want, accept the nips on his throat, the gentle tongue that runs over his bottom lip, down over his chest.

"Adam…" Lawrence croaks out.

"Shut up," Adam bites back again, and kisses him again, as if to silent him.

And it is effective. When Adam once again fills his lips with his own, he robs him of all the words, steals his breath and his will to be in control, for the first time in his life, and Lawrence says nothing, he doesn't even try to make Adam understand how much he loves him, understand that he'll gladly waltz right back into the bathroom and saw off his other foot if it brings Adam back to him.

There's no use. He barely remembers it himself anymore.

He doesn't remember anything. Not who he is, not why he's here, he barely remembers Adam, simply because Adam's nothing more than the object of his salvation and his bliss, nothing's happened before this, this is all, everything is Adam and mouth and heat and tongue and lust and grip on his wrists and Adam's lips that are everywhere, everywhere, on his lips and his face and his neck and his chest.

Adam loves this, Lawrence feels that just by his kisses. And he's not surprised at all. He knows Adam, knows that his need for control is just as big as Lawrence's. It's just that Lawrence is still struggling for this, while Adam's given up. Simply because he knows he'll never get this, unless he uses the strongest tool of his disposal: His handsomeness.

And when he uses that, even Lawrence gives up.

Or, no, he doesn't give up. He's still fighting, but that's harder to do now. Even though he's so far beyond an upper hand as it's humanly possible to be right now, that's not nearly as painful as it is to have Adam on top of him, feeling the hard bulge against the lower part of his stomach, feel Adam's teeth scraping against his throat and knowing that Adam is angry, that Adam's going to punish him, that he's going to keep lingering and touching and rubbing and fucking torturing until Lawrence practically begs him for relief.

That he won't do what Lawrence want most, won't roll him over to his stomach and tear his stupid jeans down and fuck him and fuck him and god…

Lawrence almost cries out in frustration and tries to tear his hands out of Adam's grip. Because yes, he's still struggling. And when Adam realizes this, he also realizes that he's going to have to take desperate measures.

So he lifts his head, from where he's been working at Lawrence's chest, lapping over nipples and nibbling at hot, greedy skin, and brings his face up to Lawrence's level, grabs his chin and brush their noses against each other, breathing hotly into his mouth, tastes his desperation and has to smile, because by God, it feels so good to win for once.

"Tell me what you want, Larry," Adam says huskily, and looks him in the eye through half-closed lids, that comfortable grey color his gaze usually have is brilliant with desire.

Lawrence gulps, wants to kiss Adam now that he actually is within his reach, but he knows not to. And Adam knows that he does.

"You fucking know what I want," Lawrence replies sternly, surprised at his own boldness, considering that he's never felt more powerless in his life.

Adam chuckles softly, places a way too gentle kiss on his lips, as if to remind Lawrence about who does have the power he's so empty without, and then pulls away again.

"Tell me what you want, Larry."

Lawrence hates him.

Hates him right now, loves him like crazy and wants him even more.

"I want to have you."

He says it in one single breath. And he doesn't know a better way to put it.

Adam is still smiling, though faintly, like it's a last smile before he drifts into sleep, and he grips Lawrence's wrist with only one hand to move the other one down, over his body, his chest and his stomach, and stop dangerously close to the part of Lawrence that is so desperate for his attention.

"And what if I don't want to take you?" Adam murmurs, and he's so close to Lawrence's face now that he feels their foreheads grazing each other.

Lawrence doesn't even have a bad answer for this. He just gasps wordlessly, tries to control the pulsing in his crotch and press closer to Adam at the same time, and apparently, this is close enough to an answer. Adam closes his lips in a smirk, kisses Lawrence one last time. And he actually does prop his own weight up on one hand, realizes that Lawrence is helpless enough now for him to let go of his wrist and rolls him over to his stomach. Finally.

Lawrence closes his eyes when Adam tears his jeans down over his thighs. Keeps them closed when he feels Adam laying down on top of him again, keeps them closed when he feels Adam entering him, not gently like he usually did those few times when he was on top, but mercilessly, almost brutally, and he places a gentle nip on Lawrence's shoulder, and Lawrence has to put his hand in his mouth and bite it to keep from crying out, because it hurts, it hurts so damn much because he's not used to this, in the same time as the pain is the best thing he's ever felt, since it's so real, so full and rich and piercing when it blows through him as a silent storm, up from between his legs and through his entire body.

This is simply a moment of masochism.

And also the moment when Lawrence realizes what the rest of Adam's hospital staying is going to be like.

Gosh, hope I can pull this off… Well, I'll keep writing even if I can't, so what the hell. :) REVIEW!