PART THREE
Everyone’s nursing a headache the next day, but even on Boxing Day Connor has to work so he leaves after lunch, and Patrick disappears for the rest of the day. He didn’t catch Patrick’s eye during the brief time they spent sharing the kitchen, getting coffee and headache tablets, and when Connor comes back that night, Noah overcompensates with his affection for him, feeling a weird twist of guilt. And when Connor takes him to bed and goes down on him, Noah lets him, even though he’s not feeling it, forcing an orgasm out with thoughts of eyes and mouth and skin and hands that look nothing like Connor’s, building on his guilt.
He gets out of bed later when Connor’s asleep, creeps into the darkness and chill of the living room, looks around for the blanket and can’t find it, puts on the oversized hoodie he finds instead. It’s not until he’s snugly wrapped up in it watching TV that he realises it’s Patrick’s—he can smell him, seeping into his senses and making his skin tingle.
Patrick comes in sometime later, like he always does, and there’s a curious quiet to him. Noah can’t read him, doesn’t even know how much he remembers of the night before, and when Patrick does little more than drop his keys on the counter and offer Noah a brief, vacant smile, Noah says, “Where’ve you been?”
“Spent the day with Anne.”
Noah nods, and he hopes it’s the truth. Hopes Patrick’s not been out walking the streets alone all day, avoiding him. “You have a good time?”
“It was nice, yeah,” Patrick mutters vaguely. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
He comes back with two mugs of hot tea, hands one to Noah as he sits beside him.
“Thanks,” Noah says, and this feels so surreal and normal that he can’t wrap his head around it.
Patrick nods at the telly. “Where are we tonight?”
“Edinburgh,” Noah says after taking a moment to think. He hasn’t really been paying attention to it.
“Nice up there.”
“Never been.”
“You should go,” Patrick says. “Get Connor to take you.”
He feels Patrick’s mention of Connor is deliberate, bringing the man into the room with them, a barrier. A reminder of why last night was the worst night, and not the kind of night that Noah can still remember every detail of, feel every touch.
He swallows. “Look, about what happened…”
Patrick shoots him a look that’s almost begging him to shut up. “Do you really want to talk about that?”
“I just—” says Noah, because yes, he does, he really does. “We’d had a lot to drink, things got a bit weird—”
“It’s fine,” Patrick says, his tone mildly snappish.
Noah holds his breath, stares at the side of Patrick’s face. “I’m marrying your best friend,” he says, but he’s saying it for the wrong reasons and he knows it. He’s not saying it to remind Patrick of why last night was wrong, why what he’s feeling is dangerous and massively inappropriate.
He’s saying it because he wants a reaction from Patrick, a hint as to how he’s feeling, what he’s thinking about, how he’s managing getting close and hot and thrilling with Noah one minute, discussing best man duties with Connor the next.
When Patrick looks at him now, Noah sees it—the turmoil, the guilt, but above all—smothering everything—the conflict. The anger. The I want and the can’t have . “So you keep reminding me.”
Noah looks at him, and Patrick looks back, and there’s something like sadness settling in his gut, making him smile gently without a trace of mirth.
“You know what’s funny?” he asks, his tone soft. “I met Connor the night of your leaving party. I’d only just missed you apparently.”
Patrick blinks, and his eyes lose focus for a moment as he works it out, and then something like pain flashes across his face. “So you’re saying if I’d stayed another five minutes…”
“Or I’d arrived five minutes earlier… Yeah.”
They don’t need to
Everyone’s nursing a headache the next day, but even on Boxing Day Connor has to work so he leaves after lunch, and Patrick disappears for the rest of the day. He didn’t catch Patrick’s eye during the brief time they spent sharing the kitchen, getting coffee and headache tablets, and when Connor comes back that night, Noah overcompensates with his affection for him, feeling a weird twist of guilt. And when Connor takes him to bed and goes down on him, Noah lets him, even though he’s not feeling it, forcing an orgasm out with thoughts of eyes and mouth and skin and hands that look nothing like Connor’s, building on his guilt.
He gets out of bed later when Connor’s asleep, creeps into the darkness and chill of the living room, looks around for the blanket and can’t find it, puts on the oversized hoodie he finds instead. It’s not until he’s snugly wrapped up in it watching TV that he realises it’s Patrick’s—he can smell him, seeping into his senses and making his skin tingle.
Patrick comes in sometime later, like he always does, and there’s a curious quiet to him. Noah can’t read him, doesn’t even know how much he remembers of the night before, and when Patrick does little more than drop his keys on the counter and offer Noah a brief, vacant smile, Noah says, “Where’ve you been?”
“Spent the day with Anne.”
Noah nods, and he hopes it’s the truth. Hopes Patrick’s not been out walking the streets alone all day, avoiding him. “You have a good time?”
“It was nice, yeah,” Patrick mutters vaguely. “I’ll put the kettle on.”
He comes back with two mugs of hot tea, hands one to Noah as he sits beside him.
“Thanks,” Noah says, and this feels so surreal and normal that he can’t wrap his head around it.
Patrick nods at the telly. “Where are we tonight?”
“Edinburgh,” Noah says after taking a moment to think. He hasn’t really been paying attention to it.
“Nice up there.”
“Never been.”
“You should go,” Patrick says. “Get Connor to take you.”
He feels Patrick’s mention of Connor is deliberate, bringing the man into the room with them, a barrier. A reminder of why last night was the worst night, and not the kind of night that Noah can still remember every detail of, feel every touch.
He swallows. “Look, about what happened…”
Patrick shoots him a look that’s almost begging him to shut up. “Do you really want to talk about that?”
“I just—” says Noah, because yes, he does, he really does. “We’d had a lot to drink, things got a bit weird—”
“It’s fine,” Patrick says, his tone mildly snappish.
Noah holds his breath, stares at the side of Patrick’s face. “I’m marrying your best friend,” he says, but he’s saying it for the wrong reasons and he knows it. He’s not saying it to remind Patrick of why last night was wrong, why what he’s feeling is dangerous and massively inappropriate.
He’s saying it because he wants a reaction from Patrick, a hint as to how he’s feeling, what he’s thinking about, how he’s managing getting close and hot and thrilling with Noah one minute, discussing best man duties with Connor the next.
When Patrick looks at him now, Noah sees it—the turmoil, the guilt, but above all—smothering everything—the conflict. The anger. The I want and the can’t have . “So you keep reminding me.”
Noah looks at him, and Patrick looks back, and there’s something like sadness settling in his gut, making him smile gently without a trace of mirth.
“You know what’s funny?” he asks, his tone soft. “I met Connor the night of your leaving party. I’d only just missed you apparently.”
Patrick blinks, and his eyes lose focus for a moment as he works it out, and then something like pain flashes across his face. “So you’re saying if I’d stayed another five minutes…”
“Or I’d arrived five minutes earlier… Yeah.”
They don’t need to
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