The admission, though it isn't new, sends a shudder through him, only tightening his grip on Peter's side. But then there are more words, forcing a chuckle from his chest. The laughter sounds loud and misplaced in Peter's dimly lit room, but the meaning is infinitely comforting, and Adam can't afford to care.

Finally, he's letting go of Peter's hand, giving stiffening muscles a chance to breath. Though it isn't long before his fingers are crawling over Peter's stomach, seeking lost heat. "You could've told me sooner," he points out, ignoring the double meaning in favor of letting his own words hang in the air.

If anything, it makes the moments that much more measurable, as if knowing he has more time than usual means he can count what he has left. The words, in fact, mean nothing, and yet it's as if Peter has said they can spend forever here the way it warms his insides.

"I hope that wasn't a conscious effort," he's adding, speaking against Peter's hair. It's only a little fishing, wondering if he can glean how much often during waking hours Peter thinks of the dream time they've spent together. Adam can only think it's considerably less than he does, but these are only more immeasurable quantities to drive himself mad with.