before the crowd of people, and Van was kind enough to deal with the pastor as Nik arranged the urn on the small table, surrounded by soft-petaled flowers with a starched runner. They weren’t very fragrant, and he assumed they were some sort of funeral flower, though he had never bothered to check. He hoped it looked pretty—his dad would have liked that.
When that was done, Nik realized he had no idea what to do with himself. Van was still nowhere, and the inside of the chapel sounded hollow and empty. He felt it, profound and heavy, and there was a brief moment he regretted shutting everyone out.
Years back, he’d fallen while trying to get through a crowd exiting a car on the subway in Manhattan. His cane had caught on a bump in the cement, and his ankle rolled. He’d managed to limp home, but when a couple of over-the-counter pills didn’t take the edge off, he eventually caved and had it looked at by the campus physician.
“I’ll give you something for pain,” the man had told him, and Nik wrinkled his nose.
“Is that necessary?”
The doctor laughed and gave him a soft pat on the shoulder. “No, but why suffer when you don’t have to?”
At the time, he’d brushed the words off, and he didn’t expect them to haunt him now, not like this. The injury was different, but the solution was the same, and he was so lost, he was having trouble remembering why he’d pushed everyone away.
With a sigh, he grabbed his cane and headed back for the lobby to check on the small tables there. They had another half hour before guests would start arriving, and they’d put a sign-in book at the front along with a collage of photographs Van picked out. Nik stopped at the table and reached for the massive frame, running his fingers along the wood. Van had asked if Nik wanted him to braille it for him, and he’d refused that night.
Now, just another regret.
“You look really young in those.” The voice behind him sent him reeling, not just because he hadn’t heard anyone come in, but because it was the one voice he’d wanted to hear this entire time.
“Adam,” he croaked.
There was hesitation from Adam, but he was close enough Nik could feel the heat coming off him from the afternoon sun. “So, Van asked me to come. I almost didn’t—I didn’t think you wanted me here. But uh…I figured I’d show up early, so if you threw me out, at least we wouldn’t have an audience.”
The trepidation and pain in his voice were almost enough to send Nik to his knees. He loved this man—he fucking loved this man—and all of this pain was his fault. “I’m sorry,” he said, his voice still ragged and broken.
Adam sighed. “Do you want me to go?”
When Nik didn’t answer, Adam let out a resigned sigh, and his shoe squeaked on the lobby tile as he turned, but Nik was fast enough this time. His fingers grazed his shirt—something starched and probably nice—and he curled his hand into the fabric and didn’t let go.
“I’m sorry,” he said again, and he hoped that Adam understood his tone, because his head was too much of a mess to create the words he really wanted to say. I love you, don’t leave me, don’t let me be alone anymore.
Adam didn’t move—for what felt like an actual forever, he stood there, totally still as Nik hung on. Then, with short steps, he detached Nik’s hold on him only to press Nik against the table and wind those small, perfect arms around Nik’s waist. Adam’s breath fanned over the side of his neck, his always-cold nose dragging across Nik’s flush-warm skin, and he sighed.
“I’m sorry,” Nik said again and wanted to laugh out of frustration that those were the only two things he could say right then.
“We can talk about it later,” Adam promised.
So, he was not forgiven. Not that he deserved it—but he wasn’t shut out, either. He didn’t know why Van had gone to Adam or what he’d said to convince him to come here, but he owed his brother the world, even if this was only a moment he got in consolation for his pain.
“Does everything on the table look right?” he asked after long, slow moments of barely rocking from side to side in Adam’s arms.
Adam let him turn to inspect it again with careful fingers, but it painted no picture. At best, it