That coke fic got me obsessed with the idea of masochist adam accepting everything as long as it gives him nicks attention, lowkey he hit me and it felt like a kiss in a narcissistic way (bc he hit ME), truly spectacular shit
Ugh I’m right there with you. It's honestly a problem. Tbh with you this was originally an assignment that ended up becoming a gay mullenfried fic whoopsies.
Rating: M
Word Count: 3,053
The thing about being Adam Friedland is that you learn you take what you can get.
Nick doesn't look at him when he says it. He's too busy hunching over the kitchen counter in his cramped, trashed, small apartment, rolling a cigarette with that focused brutality he brings to everything - like the cigarette did something to personally fuck him over. Adam leans his shoulder heavier against the wall, feet from Nick, watching as he packs a smoke. Adam presses the side of his head against the cool, landlord-special white painted wall of Nick’s kitchen. The living room window's cracked, and it's late fall, and the cool air smells like shit, and Adam has no idea why Nick always keeps the window open, but there was no way he would question him out loud.
"You look like you barely survived the Holocaust," Nick says, not looking up as he pulls the silver lever, filling the cigarette tube. "Your cheekbones look like they're trying to fall off your face." Adam touches his own cheek automatically. Fingers trailing along the prominent bone, not even thinking twice about it. He knows exactly what Nick means. He's been starving himself again, not on purpose, just the natural byproduct of being way too anxious to eat and way too proud to admit it was becoming a problem. But Nick noticed. Nick always noticed.
"Thanks," Adam says, and he means it, even if he's trying to push the word out like it's a bad thing. He’s even blushing when he says it. He didn’t mean to lose the weight, but a shitty part of him is ecstatic that it got noticed. Nick finally looks up. His eyes are that particular shade of brown that makes Adam think of dank gas station bathroom tiles - cheap, cold, probably covered in something that would require antibiotics if you touched it with your bare skin. Nick’s grinning, that mean one, the one that doesn't really reach his eyes, but somehow it fucks with something deep in Adam’s chest. Even if Adam knows it’s a fake smile, he still accepts it because he’s looking at me.
"You're welcome, you fuckin’ freak," Nick says. Freshly rolled cigarette between his fingers as he leans back onto a counter, relaxed. Adam watches him cross one foot over the other, his beat Adidas on top of the peeling linoleum. "You want me to get you a sandwich? You look like you're about to pass out." He wants to take care of me. He wants -
"I'll get it," Adam says quickly, immediately pushing off the wall. His hands are shaking a little, he blames low blood sugar and not the way Nick is looking at him. "What do you want?" He’s too quick to ask. He’s always quick to ask. Always quick to try to please. Nick considers this - eyes squinting as he puts the cigarette in between his lips and lights it. The flick of the cheap, neon green Bic makes Adam almost jump. He watches the flame light up Nick’s own pointed features in the dim-lit kitchen, watches the way his lips wrap around the filter, the way his eyes narrow against the smoke. It's a horrible angle. Nick looks like absolute shit. Long hair greasy and unbrushed, under a deep grey Carhartt beanie, with black on top of black on top of black like he’s prepping for his own funeral. Adam knows he hasn’t been sleeping, more mean than usual, wit coming out quicker than on an average day- but for some reason Adam still would go to hell and back for him - Would still do anything for him. Would still drop anything for him.
"I want you to admit that you're only offering because you think it'll make me like you," Nick says, exhaling smoke through his nose, with a shit-eating grin. Adam feels his face get hot again and his knees get weak under him. Nick sees everything - sees the way Adam hovers too close when they're watching videos on Nick's laptop, sees the way Adam saves the particularly good bits for when Nick's listening, sees the way Adam keeps coming back to this apartment even though he has a place of his own. A place he spends too much money on, a place without roaches and without Nick leaving empty beer cans on every surface like territorial markers.
"I'm getting a turkey sandwich. Get whatever you want," Adam says. He isn’t even hungry. Hunger gone beyond needing food.
“You’re getting validation. The sandwich is just the delivery system.” That same smirk behind the smoke made Adam want to die.
"I'll get you whatever then. I don't care." Sounding irritated, but still hoping Nick will tell him what exactly he wants so he can’t get it wrong.
"You do care," Nick says back without any force. Without any emotion. "You care so much it's embarrassing." Adam goes to grab his coat. His hands twitch as he throws it on over his shoulders, trying to avoid looking at Nick as he smokes. It’s unfair how he can see Adam’s nerves from feet away, even in the dark apartment.
"I'll be back in twenty minutes. " Hand on the door handle, he was seconds away from escaping the stare.
"Adam," Nick says gently, but annoyed, like he’s easing his foot on the brakes to let a merging car in. But Adam stops immediately with his hand on the doorknob, he doesn't turn around. He knows what he'll see if he turns around - Nick still leaning against the counter, still smoking, still looking at him with that expression that's not exactly contempt and not exactly amusement and not exactly anything Adam has a name for. There’s no way he can see that right now. Not when he just calmed his nerves and unpainted the red off his cheeks.
"Yeah?"
"You die on the way to the deli, I'm not coming to your funeral," Nick says, making Adam scoff and roll his eyes. "I'm serious. I'll send Stav. I'll send him with a recording of me laughing." He would too. This was the same guy who replaced his friend with a bot. The same guy who talked to himself for 20 minutes and kept it in the pod.
"Okay," Adam says, forcing the bitterness and resentment.
"Okay," Nick repeats, mockingly, and there's something in his voice that makes Adam finally turn around. Maybe he just wants to see Nick making fun of him. Maybe he just wants to see Nick blow smoke up to the ceiling, where the smoke detector used to be before it got ripped out. Nick's still grinning, but it's different now. Softer, maybe. Or harder. Adam can never tell the difference with him. Doesn’t want to. He just loves it when Nick looks at him.
"Twenty minutes," Adam says again, and leaves before Nick can say anything else that will make him want to stay
The thing about being Nick Mullen is that you learn to recognize the sound of someone loving you before they say it.
It's in the way Adam laughs too hard at jokes that aren't funny. He can say the most idiotic thing, and Adam’s breathy laugh will trail behind it obediently like a dog on a tight, short leash. It’s in the way he takes every hit - every “bug,” every “gay Jew,” every “you look like a lesbian who shops at Meowdows Lane” - and Adam will just laugh and say “thank you” like Nick’s doing him a fucking favor by speaking to him. Nick is doing him a favor - Nick’s doing him the favor of noticing him at all.
After sandwiches, that Adam spent way too much money on, way too much time thinking too hard on, they go to a bar in the East Village. Some place with exposed brick, metal stools, and beer that costs fourteen dollars. It’s pretentious - just the way Adam likes. With hair wild and eyes glazed over in affection - Adam tells a story about his therapist that isn’t going anywhere. Nick stopped listening four minutes ago, but he’s still watching Adam’s hands move. The way he keeps touching his own curls when he gets nervous, the way his eyes keep flicking to Nick’s face to check if he’s still paying attention. Every so often, Nick would watch the way his mouth moves, so that he could hear the stutter Adam does when he catches on.
“And so I tell her - I said, “That’s not really what I meant by -”
“Adam,” Nick interrupts, annoyed, not wanting to pretend he gives a shit anymore. Adam stops mid-sentence, mid-word. His mouth slightly open, looking like a fish that got yanked out of the water, waiting to be either thrown back home or gutted.
“Yeah?” Nick bites back a shit smile, loving the way Adam submits to being cut off and trampled over.
“What are you doing with your hair?” Nick says with no heat. “You keep touching it. It doesn’t make you look interesting if that’s what you’re going for. You’re making it look worse.” Adam's hands drop under the table, where he clasps them together, holding himself together. He doesn’t look offended - he looks fucking grateful that Nick noticed him playing with his hair. Nick can see it, the way Adam’s shoulders relax, the way his eyes get that soft, stupid look Nick’s learned to recognize as devotion. It was disgusting. It was addicting. Nick’s starting to become obsessed with the idea of being obsessed over.
“Sorry,” Adam says, eyes watching Nick’s throat as he polishes off his beer. Adam’s beer still sitting half finished on the table, probably waiting for Nick to take it like an offering.
“Don’t apologize,” Nick says. “I like you delusional. It’s your best feature.”
“Is that a compliment?” Adam asks, stupid and hopeful in a way that makes Nick’s teeth hurt with how hard he presses them together.
“It’s a setup,” Nick says, taking Adam’s beer. Some shitty IPA he got specifically for Nick. “I’m waiting to see how long you’ll keep fishing for something I don’t have.”
“Thanks,” Adam says anyway. Nick doesn’t say you’re welcome - doesn’t have to, Adam already knows. He just watches Adam tuck away the backhanded compliment like a gift, like evidence, like proof of something that’s never going to happen.
The thing about being in love with Nick Mullen is that you start to confuse cruelty with intimacy.
They’re back at Nick’s apartment. It’s three in the morning, and they are both hammered sitting on the narrow fire escape, a couple stories up, because the heat inside is broken and Nick doesn’t care enough to call someone about it. Nick is smoking again because he's always smoking, like he's trying to burn something out of himself, or maybe he just wanted to take a couple years off himself, or maybe he was just trying to make himself less palatable, less touchable, less wantable. It isn't working. Adam loved it when he smoked. Loved going home smelling like cigarettes because it was from him. In some way it felt like Nick was breathing on him, and Adam was obsessed with it.
"Your nose is running," Nick says, not looking at him. Taking a long drag before blowing the smoke out. The orange street lights and the cold make the cloud look ridiculous. Adam wipes his nose with his sweatshirt sleeve.
"It's cold."
"It's disgusting," Nick corrects. "You're disgusting. If I believed in God, I'd pray for you to die quickly." He probably means it, even if he says it with a small smile, but Adam laughs anyway. He can’t help it. Nick’s voice sounds different when he’s drunk - low, rumbly - and it goes straight to Adam’s chest and just fucking sits there.
"You wouldn't pray for me even if you did believe in God," Adam says. Watching Nick chief down his smoke. Transfixed by the city glow on Nick’s angular nose, on his eyelashes, on his mole on his cheek, right below his left eye.
"I'd pray for your death," Nick says. "I'd get very detailed about it. I'd describe the symptoms, but I'd make it sound poetic." He flicks the ash off his cigarette and it almost looked like snow.
“That sounds nice," Adam says, and he means it. He doesn’t care what Nick is praying about, all he hears is that it’s for him. Nick finally looks at him. The streetlight makes him look older, meaner, more beautiful. Adam has never told him he's beautiful. Adam has never told him anything, not really, not the things that matter, because Nick knows. Nick has always known. And if Adam said it out loud, Nick would use it against him. Nick would sharpen it into something that could cut, and Adam wasn’t ready for that. He’d rather pretend he’s good at hiding his secrets.
"You're so fucking weird," Nick says, but his voice is softer now. Almost gentle. And Adam doesn’t know what to do with it. He’s not used to Nick being gentle.
"Thanks," Adam says under his breath. Nick reaches out, and Adam freezes. His hand’s cold from holding the cigarette, as he grips Adam’s jaw. His thumb presses into the sunken cheek beneath Adam’s eye. The same one that Nick commented on earlier, the one Adam stavered into showing. He grips hard enough to leave a mark, but not hard enough to bruise. Hard enough that Adam will be able to feel it tomorrow, when he’s alone in his own apartment.
"You know what I think about?" Nick asks as his thumb trails along his cheekbone, hard enough that the skin follows the movement. Adam hasn’t moved - hasn’t even breathed.
"What?"
"I think about how easy it would be to ruin you," Nick says, stopping his movement. His thumb sits right beside Adam’s eye. He’s afraid to blink, afraid if he does Nick will move. "You're already halfway there. You're like a house with the foundation rotted out. One good push and you'd just... fall." Even with them at eye-level, Nick is looking down at him through his nose. Adam swallows so hard his throat clicks. He can feel Nick’s pulse in his thumb with how hard he is pressing it against his face, or maybe that’s his own racing against Nick’s skin.
"Okay," Adam says because that’s all he can say, and it makes Nick smile. And it’s a real one, one that doesn't look like a joke or forced. It’s real, and it looks like a warning.
"Okay," Nick repeats, and it’s not mocking like the last time he said it. Before he pulls his hand back, Nick squeezes his face hard, harder, hard enough, making Adam’s breath catch. Nick lets go, and Adam feels the loss of it like a physical thing. He almost mourns over it. Nick stands up, flicking his cigarette off the fire escape into the street below. “I’m going to bed. Don’t follow me.”
“I wasn’t going to,” Adam lies, and he has to pretend he wasn’t just about to get up. Has to rearrange his hands in a way to show he wasn’t going to push himself up and follow him. Nick looks at him before crawling in the window, with a grin. He knows Adam’s lying. He always knows.
“Goodnight, bug,” he says before going inside. Adam stays on the fire escape until his legs and face go numb from the cold. He touches his cheek where Nick’s hand was - he can still feel the pressure, the outline of Nick’s thumb - he doesn’t know what to do with it. He thinks about what Nick said. About falling. About being ruined. He thinks - Yes. Fucking Please. He thinks - I want him to ruin me. He thinks - I’d finally have his attention.
The thing about being Nick Mullen is that you learn to want without wanting.
He lies in bed in the dark. He knows Adam is still on the fire escape. He knows Adam is touching his own face where Nick touched it, replaying the moment like it meant something, like it was a gift instead of a threat. Honestly, Nick could have kissed him - he thinks about it sometimes, in the way he thinks about jumping off bridges or putting his hand through glass. It would be easy, and it would be destructive because Adam would just let him do it. Adam would let him do just about anything, and that’s the problem. Adam would open his mouth, his ribs and his stupid, hopeful heart and let Nick climb inside and live there rent-free. Adam would fucking tell him thank you and mean it.
Nick rolls over and stares at the blank, white wall. He thinks about Adam’s face under his hand, the way he didn’t flinch, the way he gasped when Nick squeezed him - how he fucking leaned into him like an animal not knowing they were going to be euthanized. He thinks: I could destroy him. He thinks: I already am. He thinks: good.
In the morning, Adam will call and ask if they could get breakfast together. When they meet up, Nick will say something cruel, say something about how Adam doesn’t brush his hair, doesn’t wash his face, and Adam will laugh and say thank you. They will get something to eat, and Nick will let Adam buy his coffee, and Nick will pretend not to notice how Adam’s hand shakes when Nick bumps his into it. This is how it works - this is how it will always work. Nick sees everything, and takes what he wants, and gives Adam enough to keep him there, but never enough to keep him whole. It’s not love - Nick doesn’t know what love is, if he’s even capable of it. The only thing he’s good for is hitting and watching someone say thank you for the bruise. But Adam’s simple, all he needs is attention, and Nick knows how to give that. Adam - stupid, hungry Adam - takes it. Takes every hit like a fucking kiss. Takes every insult like a promise. Takes every second of cruelty and folds it into something soft and cute so he can pretend it’s love if he doesn’t look too closely at it.
Adam would call all of this love. Nick would call it an average fucking Tuesday.
