Chapter Text
And after all this time
I'm still into you
When Andy was little, he remembered visiting this old house and playing on the swing on the biggest apple tree in the garden, with his cousin. He could still picture her red braids shining in the sun and the blue overalls she used to wear, the turn ups on the ankles getting smaller and smaller as she grew out of them. The dandelion clocks catching in the air as her feet kicked through the grass.
She'd moved into the city when she returned to Oregon, after college - he couldn't remember the details of what she did, but she would probably have been working on a Monday morning. She certainly hadn't been at the house when he arrived, neither had his aunt. They were maybe thirty miles outside the city; far enough outside that he thought they would've been safe, but the house had been locked up - as though it had been left for the day - so perhaps she'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Like a lot of people.
It had been haunting, that first night. All any of them wanted to do was sleep by eight o'clock. Pete had claimed the master bedroom, and there had been a silent agreement - just looks and shrugs - before Andy let himself into the room he'd slept in as a child, one twin bed instead of the queen in Pippa's old room. He could hear the murmur of their voices for a long time before he fell asleep, his pillow damp because for the first time in weeks he had the privacy he needed. The others might be alright weeping in front of each other, but he was their level head, he didn't feel like he had that privilege. If he was struggling, the rest of them would panic.
On the way to the cottage, they'd passed through the city, stopping by at Tyler's apartment. He knew it'd be empty, but he couldn't help but hope, or risk their being there and not linking up. Joe had gone to the door with him, and for once there was no smartass quip or unnecessary movie quote, just a friendly hand rubbing at his back. He'd been grateful for it, but it didn't change the fact that his one last hope for help had been scratched out.
The house was filled with nostalgia, too. He had memories of his dad, here, whereas he hadn't in the house he grew up in, because they'd downsized when his mom was sick. There were pictures of his mom, of him and his other cousins as kids, of pets long since buried in forgotten corners of the garden… Getting to Chicago had been tough for all of them, but this was where things stuck in his chest and twisted.
The day after they'd arrived, as he was warming down from his run, in the yard, there was a honk outside. He frowned, wondering what the fuck the others were doing with the van, and made his way around to the front of the house.
Instead of Pete, an old man stood beside a well-worn vintage truck, shotgun raised and pointed at him.
"Who in the hell are you, and what do you think you're doing in Alice's house?" he demanded.
"Mr Turner?"
The man dipped his gun a little and squinted at him in the sunlight.
"Mr Turner, it's Andrew - Alice's nephew? I used to play with your grandkids, Rachie and Bobby, when we were small?"
"Andrew? Andrew!" He all but dropped his weapon and hurried over to him with his arms out. "Oh, son! Son, it's so good to see you! Did you hear from your aunt? We didn't see her since… well, since those sons of bitches showed up."
"No, I'm sorry."
"I came on out here with Maureen, the night after it happened - put the chickens back in the shed. Didn't want her to come back and find they'd all been got, you know? Been stopping by every day to check on them."
For a while, they talked. He'd aged a lot, since Andy had last seen him, back when he was in his teens, and he seemed almost oblivious to the magnitude of the impact on the world outside of the little community where he'd lived his whole life. He did have some information, though - the village back a little north, maybe seven miles - was a designated aid point and the military had shown up with sacks of rice and dried goods a week ago. Bernie had laughed and clasped his shoulder as he told him.
"Pasta! They brought pasta, son! What am I going to do with pasta? A man can't wipe his ass on that!"
It had been nice to know that Bernie and Maureen were still around. They'd been like surrogate grandparents to him when he was a child, and Bernie had brought her over to see him and fuss over them all, that same evening. There was a small network of local folk, they said, mostly their generation, who'd never moved out to the city, but some young folk, too.
"And now, you boys," she'd said, squishing Patrick's face in her hands. "You're part of the family, now."
The first few days were like camp. They had enough to get by, for now, and he wanted them to settle in and to get a sense of the place himself; he'd only ever seen it as the cool country house his cousin got to grow up in, and compared it to his life in the 'village' that was really part of a city. He'd always thought he wouldn't have gotten into any of the shit he did as a fifteen year old if he'd grown up here. But if he had, he'd never have met the idiots he was probably going to have to live out his days with, now.
Sitting in the yard as the sun went down, around the stone firepit, drinking home-brewed cider or juice from his aunt's apples, he knew he was going to have to start teaching them to cope - to share the workload and to manage without him, because as life had recently proven, you could never be sure what might happen. He'd taken Joe paintballing with the Fuck City boys, years ago, and he'd proven to be a crack shot - years of Duck Hunt, they'd joked - but the idea of letting Pete have possession of anything potentially lethal made him nervous. He was fine for now, he'd changed his coping practices, wasn't relying on medication, anymore, but if things got difficult… Or, as seemed more likely, he forgot that actions had consequences and did something while acting like an eleven year old and hurt himself or someone else… And Patrick, for all his fiery temper, would probably turn to a quivering mess at the idea of hurting a living thing, even in self-defense.
Maybe he'd start them on fishing.
Or just collecting fucking apples.
---
The countryside was kind of cool, in a way. Pete would have preferred to be in the city, sure, but if no one was there and there was nowhere to buy burritos anyway, why not? The stars seemed brighter, the air felt clearer and lighter in his lungs, he could hear birds of prey calling to each other across the landscape, and the water running in the river at the far end of the little plot of land. It made him feel like he was the protagonist in one of the stories he was writing for Bronx - adventures of a boy who saved the world, who people loved even when he made mistakes. A boy who realised when he'd made mistakes to begin with, because that hadn't always been his strongest skill and he wanted to show him that some people could figure it out for themselves and knew what to do about it.
There was a night, weeks after they arrived, when Joe was in the kitchen washing up plates from dinner when Pete sent Patrick out to hang out with Andy and learn how to dress a wound again, and picked up the dishtowel to help.
Joe looked at him sidelong for a second, his hair - longer, now, growing out like his beard after weeks left to their own devices - tied back off his face, his glasses smudged, and then handed him a soapy plate.
"How's it hanging?" he asked suspiciously.
Pete grinned his most disarming grin. "Good, dude. Kind of getting into this whole rural living thing."
"Uh-huh?"
"Yeah. I mean, I'm kind of getting cravings for like the shittiest, greasiest take out you ever ate, but don't tell Hurley I said that…"
Joe grinned and rinsed a bowl. "Steak."
"Donuts."
"Fucking, like - you know how you can get those like, challenge meals and stuff?"
"Yeah, yeah! There's that one all over LA that does pizza that's like, bigger than the table!"
"Oh… fuck, pizza. I miss pizza."
"Me too, dude. Maybe we can make some or something, sometime."
"Oh yeah, let me just go harvest my mozzarella tree!"
Pete laughed, watching him. He'd had his good days and his bad days, but he was coming back, that irritating kid with the goofy laugh and awkward underbite, the one he used to think would forgive him anything. "So, hey, you find a mozzarella tree and the pizza's on me, okay?"
"Sure, dude, when I find one."
"'Cause, the thing is, I wanna make it up to you, kind of?"
Joe froze with his hands in the water, his broad grin dropping slowly to a purse-lipped frown. "For what?"
"For kind of ruining your life. When we - I mean… when you were a kid. And I was an adult who ought to know better."
"Oh."
Pete waited, watching him, wanting him to say, 'It's fine, forget about it. It wasn't so bad.'
"Thanks, I guess."
"But you… I mean, you accept, right?" he asked, hopefully, feeling stress twisting its way up his guts.
"Accept, sure. But like… forgetting's still gonna be pretty hard."
"Right. Yeah. Sure, I get that."
Joe looked at him steadily for a moment. "Thank you for apologising. And for getting that I was just, like, barely dealing with being fifteen."
"I just thought you knew who you were, y'know? You were always so fucking gutsy… If I'd realised…"
"Yeah, well, can't do anything about that now, basically."
"No, but… I'm sorry, little bro. I'll take better care of you from now on."
"I'm nearly twenty-nine years old."
"You're still a kid, to me."
"You were younger than I am when you got married."
"Yeah, and look how well I handled that."
"That wasn't all you, dude, I mean, like… Leaving when the going gets tough, that's fucking spineless, insincere shit."
Pete shrugged and nodded, wanting to agree, but knowing he was just as much to blame for his marriage failing. His therapist had pretty much rammed that home a long time ago. "So, what about you?"
"Me?"
"You and Lunchbox."
"Oh." Joe's face drained a little and he turned back to scrub out a pan.
"I mean, you've been sleeping together since -"
"Sleeping. Yes. D'you wanna share with him?"
"Well, yeah, but I mean..."
"I'm married, Pete, I -"
"If this were a movie, you'd have been fucking by the time we got back to Chicago."
"This isn't a movie. I'm not a fucking trope, okay? I need more time -"
"What if this is all the time we've got?"
"Huh?"
"You don't know if those dudes are gonna come back and take everyone else that's here, or go full War of the Worlds on us. What are you actually waiting for? Is there some kind of schedule you think you gotta stick to, dude, or like…?"
"I can't just -"
"I know you know I know, and you know he would've told me."
"So, what did he tell you?"
"That he didn't know. Which, I mean - I totally called him out on being an idiot for that."
"Yeah. He was." Joe laid the pan on the drainer and picked up the other towel to dry his hands. "I'm gonna go -"
"No." Pete dropped the cloth on the counter and caught his arm. "Listen, man: you really need to figure this out."
"We will, but it isn't even -"
"But how long is enough? When does it get okay to act on something that'd make both you and him happier?"
"When I know for sure she's -"
"But what if you never know, dude? What if -"
"They're gonna declare everyone dead, aren't they?" Joe snapped, and tugged his hand free. "Just leave it alone."
Pete cringed at the sound of the bedroom door upstairs slamming. So much for making things better.
---
It seemed far too soon that the leaves on the trees began to turn golden. How could it be fall already? Patrick was just getting used to the summer heat in a house without air conditioning - sweating, mostly naked, under thin sheets with Joe sprawled beside him. On the least comfortable nights, they'd lay awake with the windows open, listening to the crickets and the owls out in the woods by the river, not even really talking. One night, when the moon was full and kept the room bright through nearly-sheer curtains, the cloudlessness of the day leaving things blissfully cool, he'd found Joe's arm wrapped across his belly, hips tucked against Patrick's, face at the back of his neck. He'd wriggled back into it, clasping Joe's hand under his own, intending to sleep, but for a few, hopeful moments he was sure the writhing at his back was more than was necessary to get comfortable.
He'd barely caught his lip between his teeth when there was cool air against his skin again.
He rolled over, looking at the figure hunched on the edge of the bed, half-silhouetted against the window.
"Joe?"
"Go to sleep."
He hadn't come back to bed, that night, and he'd waited until Patrick was asleep before coming to bed the next night, too. Patrick hadn't dared raise it. He'd been fine with the way things were - they were close, Joe was there every morning when he woke up, he was good with that, in his experience it was almost like being married anyway… He tried hard to tell himself he wasn't disappointed, either, but he'd always been an awful liar.
"Sooo, why did Trohman sleep on the couch two nights ago?" Pete demanded in a stage whisper, as they watched his ineffectual attempt to help Andy coax the chickens back into their coop, overnight.
"I don't know."
"You didn't have a little lovers' tiff or something?"
"Hard to have a lovers' tiff with someone you're not 'loving', right?"
"I told you: he loves you."
"I know. He told me himself in New York, Pete. Just… some things need time. I'm not exactly going anywhere. It isn't even three months, yet. Leave him be."
Pete shrugged and scuffed at the dirt with the toe of his sneaker. "I just hate seeing you unhappy."
"Then it's a good thing I'm not unhappy, isn't it?"
"Aren't you, though?"
"I'm fine. I'm appreciating the things I do have in my life, instead of trying to make something happen too soon. Please: just let us work things out ourselves, okay? It'd mean a lot to me if you could respect that."
Pete stared at him with his dejected puppy look, eyebrows twisted into an expression of wounded angst. "I totally respect you."
Patrick hmmed knowingly, and patted him on the shoulder. Best to let him believe that.
The forms for the census were circulated the last week in August. A man in a grey uniform with a clipboard and no discernible government department badges knocked on the door and explained the process to Andy as the 'householder', while Patrick watched from the arm of the easy chair.
The next morning, after Andy sat them down one by one and asked for the details he couldn't answer himself, Patrick walked into the bathroom and found a platinum ring on the window sill. He picked it up and studied it as he brushed his teeth, looking at the initials engraved inside. MWG.
"You forgot this," he said, placing it next to Joe's plate at the breakfast table and making himself some coffee from the jar of granules on the counter. "Didn't want you to lose it."
"Oh. Thanks, yeah."
He watched as Joe slid it back on to his hand and glanced over at him self-consciously. He didn't ask, but when the only ring around Joe's finger again the next morning was a pale pink tan line, he realised that maybe it hadn't been a mistake at all.
---
Kind of the worst thing about living in Andy's aunt's little cottage, was the lack of space. All his life, Joe had had his own room, his own space to retreat to - even in the apartment, where space was of a premium, he got to have a room for his things and his music and to be by himself to put his head back on straight, sometimes.
Because, the thing was, it was getting tough to be around Patrick all the time. He could feel himself weakening to it, to the feel of another warm body at night, someone he would gladly have devoted himself to as he had Marie, at the right time. But that wasn't how life had worked out and it was hard to explain to Patrick - or Pete, for that matter - that he still felt a duty to her, even if she was gone for good. The thought of their situation being reversed, and her moving on to someone else in just a few months, pinged all of his complexes. It didn't seem fair to do the same to her.
In some part of his mind, uncited and vague, was an idea he'd picked up that the grieving process took a year. He'd given himself that, on some absurd, pragmatic whim, as a line in the sand - a time when it would seem less callous to move on. When he'd have some realistic reason to accept that she was lost, like her necklace claimed by the waves in Hawaii. Eventually, it had gotten dark, and they'd had to stop sifting their hands through the sand. He'd promised to replace it, but they'd never found the right one.
The problem was, he'd loved Patrick before and he'd been falling for him again when it happened, although he hadn't been ready to admit that to himself; and he knew Patrick felt the same. It wasn't exactly a question of moving on from her, Patrick had preceded her, which made it feel even more dishonest. Like he'd waited for her back to be turned before falling directly into Patrick's arms.
And in the meantime, he was afraid - if Patrick couldn't understand, would those feelings he'd so desperately wanted to be the subject of, once, fade away, in time? Would he fuck up his chance yet again?
It was hard to lay beside him, every night, the heat radiating from Patrick's bare skin, remembering the things they'd done eleven summers ago. On the anniversary of the tour ending, he curled against him, only really seeking the comfort of another person, but Patrick had been too willing for it to be that simple. He'd burrowed himself back into Joe's arms, soft and warm and sighing quietly, and Joe's heartbeat had quickened so couldn't help but press closer, his hips rolling as he sought a way to be as intimate as possible. It was a tiny gasp that brought him to his senses and jerked him back and out of the embrace. It was too late, though. Mortified, he'd run away, spent a night berating himself for being disloyal to Marie and for leading Patrick on when he couldn't deliver.
Not long afterwards, he removed his wedding ring and zipped it into the passport pocket on his travel bag. He didn't deserve to keep wearing it.
The truth was, he was starting to get depressed. He'd dealt with it on and off since his teens and he knew the first creeping fingers of it at the back of his neck. He wasn't happy and he wasn't unhappy, it was distinct from that. He was confused and frustrated and still grieving, but the longer they were together, with every evening they spent playing music to each other on the acoustic guitars Patrick had insisted on bringing, sitting in the garden with his feet in Patrick's lap as the sun went down, the more he realised that this was what he wanted. It was what he'd always wanted, and he was depriving himself of the love and focus he needed, and depriving Patrick of the love that was already his.
Marie wouldn't want that. She wouldn't want him to be miserable, she wouldn't want him to miss out on a second chance with someone she knew and cared for.
He was the first of them to have a birthday, after it happened. The first to have to pretend to celebrate something that only made things feel worse. There were no presents, nowhere to really go out and celebrate. The bar in the village had closed because there was nothing to serve and all the locals could make their own moonshine, if they wanted to.
Patrick wasn't there, when he woke up. He wasn't in the room or the rest of the house. Andy was up and exercising on the lawn, and Pete was still asleep. It was a little odd, because Patrick was pretty much nocturnal when left to his own devices, and every day since they'd been there Joe had woken up first. Perplexed, he made himself some coffee and sank onto the porch swing with Louis on his lap, feeling sorry for himself. He'd sort of planned to wake up that morning and cuddle with him a little and try to talk out where they were. He couldn't fix everything or be what Patrick wanted right away, but he could promise him that he was working on it. He'd been looking forward to getting the conversation done, to letting go of things a little. Patrick probably hadn't even remembered - they all had more important things to worry about than it being the anniversary of his mom popping out a person.
"Aw, you're up... I thought maybe you'd sleep in…"
Joe looked over to the kitchen door, his heart skipping a little, excited to hear Patrick's voice although it sounded a little disappointed to see him. "It's like ten thirty…"
"Well, yeah, but… I wanted to be back before you woke up."
"Back from where?"
Patrick looked at him for a moment, the familiar, coy pinch of his bottom lip between his teeth - the expression he'd had on his face in a parking lot in Tulsa eleven years ago, as he worked the button on Joe's shorts - and shrugged. "I needed some help with something."
"Right…?"
Suddenly, Patrick’s hand was grabbing at his, tugging him out of his seat and pulling him into the kitchen.
"I know this won't be anywhere near as good as your mom's, or anything, but… we have all these apples, and I just thought, 'Maybe I can do something decent, y'know? Maybe I can make him happy for a minute'."
On the counter, sitting on a floral plate, was a large ring cake. It glistened with what looked like honey, topped with thin layers of baked apple.
"Are you kidding? Dude."
There was a lump in his throat. He tightened his fingers around Patrick's, pulling him nearer to wrap him in a tight hug, kissing him on the cheek as he did. Patrick didn't hesitate in tucking his arms around Joe's waist, tightly.
"I mean, Maureen did kind of a lot of the work - did you know they keep bees? - but I wanted you to know that even with all the stuff happening, we still knew it was your birthday and it still matters, y'know?"
"Dude, I…"
"It's not much, I know, but -"
"Yes, it is." He pulled away a little, rested his forehead on Patrick's, enjoying the soft rush of a modest laugh against his lips. "It means, like, the whole world, pretty much."
"Don't oversell it," Patrick said, but he could hear the grin in his voice, "it's just a cake, I mean…"
"It's not 'just a cake'. It's the only gift I'm gonna get, today, and it means the whole fucking world to me, right now."
The fingers at the small of his back curled into his t-shirt a little. "Yeah, well… you mean the world to me, so…"
"I know," Joe told him softly, because he did know and he was grateful, and increasingly, the feeling was mutual.
"If you're gonna birthday fuck, do it in your bedroom," Pete's voice told them as he walked in, yawning noisily.
Immediately, Patrick withdrew and nudged him away, turning to move out of reach guiltily. Joe tried to catch him, but he just flashed him a small smile and picked up the kettle.
"Happy fucking birthday to you, too, asshole," Joe muttered, flipping Pete off as he made his way over to the back door to gaze outside and see where Andy was. At the counter, Patrick was covering over the cake with the bottom half of a tin, and the moment was gone.
---
"I swear to God, Pete, if you ever do that to me again -!"
"Calm down, dude, I was just kidding…" Pete said, as if he were being dramatic, and Patrick wanted to slap him a little more.
"Well, y'know what? He's right: your jokes aren't funny."
"Well, that's pretty fucking mean…"
"So is humiliating me when I was - we were having a moment, you self-centred asshole, I can't believe you ruined it!"
"So, go feed him some cake. They say a way to a dude's heart is through his stomach, right?"
Patrick thumped him in the belly, lightly, an irritated warning shot. "You just don't get it because you've never actually loved anybody as much you as you love drama. I don't want drama! I just want for things to sort of, y'know - work out. Gently. By osmosis. I don't need your help."
"Seems to me like you do…" Pete grinned at him, the wide, stupid one that never failed to make Patrick laugh, and waggled his eyebrows.
"That's gross." There was already a happiness swelling in his chest, though. He'd been willing to wait - for years, if that's what it took - but he could feel it, the barriers slipping away, the time getting closer when they'd be ready to try.
And as the days grew shorter and Andy made them spend more time harvesting what was growing in the garden and foraging in the woods, and they went down to the Turners' place and helped them do the same, things did start to get cosier. It wasn't unusual for Patrick to spend the evenings slumped against Joe's chest on the couch, his arm wrapped across his belly. The lengthening nights gave them time to spoon together in bed, dressed in old flannel pyjama pants and fading t-shirts. Neither of them panicked, anymore, when the closeness got to them, they just ignored it or laughed about it and Patrick was just relieved to know that being close to him had any effect on Joe at all.
Sometimes, when the others weren't around - they'd all agreed to help out with a community school for the kids living nearby, but they couldn't learn history, literature, music and math all at the same time - they'd talk about how nice it would be for it to be just them. Their own space. Their own home. They hadn't even really kissed but, more than ever, Patrick was sure that things were falling into place, even if he doubted they'd ever bring themselves to leave the other two.
By the time Hallowe'en came round, they were all beginning to feel part of the little rural community. Pete was enjoying himself the most, revelling in the sense of importance - the kids were excited to know Pete Wentz from Fall Out Boy, even the ones too little to really know their music; the parents were all flattered that a celebrity would be willing to engage with the Little People like them. He felt needed and wanted, and that kept him afloat when he couldn't bring Bronx to their little harvest festival or the Hallowe'en party they set up for the kids in the old bar they'd turned into a community centre.
It was at the party, late in the evening, when the younger ones were asleep on the seats of old vinyl booths and the tweens and teens were bopping on the dance floor to Pete's spooky playlist, that Joe said he wanted a smoke and would Patrick join him outside. They sat together on the lid of a yellow grit bin in the parking lot, Joe's arm resting around Patrick's shoulders, loosely, as their breath fogged on the fall air. It had been his and Marie's second wedding anniversary, three days ago, and he'd been quiet, since. Patrick hadn't pressed him about it, he knew it was difficult for him, that he was still dealing with a lot of guilt about what happened - about what was happening, now - but he'd done his best to be there, or not be there when he needed time to himself, and Joe seemed grateful.
"Do you remember, like, way back before everything, when we played our first ever Hallowe'en show, at DePaul, while Pete was still there? We were like, first band on, so we got to spend basically the whole night hanging out?"
Patrick grinned at the memory. He'd let Pete's girlfriend at the time draw cat whiskers on his face in eyeliner. "TJ kept trying to pick up college girls and you made me dance to the Monster Mash with you."
Joe smiled and nodded, exhaling smoke - real smoke, courtesy of the community black market. "That night was the first time I really looked at this dorky kid from my band, all sweaty and gross, Sharpie Xes on your hands because you were only seventeen, and I thought, 'I really wanna make out with this weirdo.' But I was kind of lame and awkward and I didn't have big enough balls to do it. I wish I had, because then you wouldn't have thought I was just, like, doing it as a tour thing."
"Aw," Patrick cooed at him, leaning his head on Joe's shoulder and rubbing affectionately at his thigh. "I wish you had, too."
There was a long pause as they let the moment ring and Joe finished his cigarette, dropping the butt on the floor and grinding it under his toe to put it out. Finally, turning a little and speaking close to Patrick's forehead, he asked, "What about now?"
"Now?" Patrick asked, twisting to look up at him without lifting his head.
"I'd kind of like to kiss you, but after everything... I don't wanna assume…"
"Oh, you should. You should totally assume," Patrick told him, unable to suppress a grin.
For someone who'd been sleeping with his fingers tucked inside Patrick's waistband for weeks, Joe was unnecessarily hesitant and Patrick found himself straightening up to cup his cheeks and ensure that if they were doing this, they were doing it properly.
It only seemed to take a moment before Joe's confidence returned, fingers gripping a fistful of Patrick's cardigan as he leaned into him, the urgency of it squeaking in his throat, making them both smile as their lips moved.
It had been so long since they'd done this; back then, there had been no beard but Joe's lips were still as soft and it was like muscle memory took over - Joe's hands tight on his sides, Patrick half on tiptoes to press their hips together.
A childish giggle from behind them made them break apart quickly, embarrassed and straightening themselves as they tried to look like nothing was going on for the sake of the twelve year olds peering around the corner of the building, quickly ushered away with hasty apologies from one of the mothers, laughter in her voice.
"I swear to God, I thought I was about to have to knock Pete out, for a second, there," Patrick chuckled, overwhelmed with nervous energy and pulling Joe back to him tightly. He grinned so hard his face hurt as Joe enveloped him in a bear hug, both arms wrapped across his shoulders and his chin propped on Patrick's head.
"I think we should knock Pete out anyway," he said. "I'm pretty sure he was supposed to be keeping control of the younglings."
"More like they'd be looking after him…"
Joe smirked and looked down at him, the streetlights shining yellow in his eyes, his pupils wide. He leaned down a little and gently bumped their noses together. "I kind of didn't come out here to talk about Pete, by the way."
Patrick grinned back at him and pushed himself onto his toes to bring their lips together again. It was less hesitant, this time, more deliberate; deeper. More like early practise sessions in the back of the old van, more like the Joe he remembered.
They rested their foreheads together when they broke away and took a moment, each too overwhelmed to really speak, at first.
"So, um…?" Patrick tried, after a few minutes.
"Yeah," Joe nodded, eyes closed.
"'Yeah'-what?"
"Pretty much anything…"
He laughed and pulled his head back a little. "Cool, you're on chicken duty for me this week."
"Well, I was thinking about asking if, like, I could be your significant other, but I'm not actually so sure, now…"
Patrick's laughter petered out and he looked at him soberly, letting his grip slide loose until he could take Joe's hands. "Are you sure about this?"
"You've been mine for a really, really long time."
"But - Marie -?"
"You were mine before I even met her."
"You're still married, though, right? I mean, are you sure - ?"
"Are you trying to talk me out of it?" Joe asked, but he wasn't stupid enough to really believe that was the case, and Patrick squeezed his hands over-tight, scowling.
"No, of course not, but I just don't want you to feel like you need to do this now, if…"
"I do, Ric. I do, because the whole world got fucked up and you're the one really good, consistent thing I have in it, and I'm exhausted from feeling guilty about that. Marie's gone. She's gone, and she's been gone for nearly a quarter of the time we were even married, and I just wanna be happy, now."
Patrick sighed and nodded, jerkily, burying his face in the crook of Joe's neck. "Then yes. Yes, let's do this."
He could feel the laugh of relief through Joe's chest and echoed it as Joe sighed and said, "Neat. Now I get to have an anniversary that's actually on Hallowe'en, like I always wanted..."
---
They didn't tell the others at first, although Andy soon heard from eight year old Sam Blythe, who told him his sister had seen them 'doing sex' in the parking lot, leaving Joe to explain that they should give the kid a biology book or send her to NASA because she'd apparently invented a time machine.
In fact, it was a few weeks before they even got that far and when they did, it was nothing like the meaningful, tender night he'd pictured. Instead, it was an unplanned, muffled scramble in the bathroom after Patrick almost forgot to brush his teeth before heading to Thanksgiving dinner at the Turners' and Joe was still in there, cleaning his. They weren't as quiet as they'd thought, either. When Joe got back downstairs, pushing Patrick ahead of him, flustered and beaming, Andy was staring pointedly at the clock with his arms folded. He didn't say a word, but his face said plenty. He still sneakily gave Joe a low-five on his way out the door, though.
A few months earlier, Joe would have found it hard to find a single thing to feel thankful about, but for all the horror and devastation he'd experienced, he could look around him and count the people on the trestle tables in the lamplit barn as friends - family - now. Whether it was the comforting grandparentiness of Bernie and Maureen, or warm neighbourliness of Jon and Colleen or Rachel and Steve, and the small army of kids they had between them, or any of the other local characters who'd welcomed them into their community so readily. People who'd done little more than quirk an eyebrow when they realised he and Patrick were more than best buds, other than to push another cup of questionable beer into his hand, muttering about some cousin or other and his partner.
In his hand right now, though, was Patrick's - clutched tight under the table cloth while Pete said grace, because he did responsible shit like that now, like he'd found the character he wanted to play and had gone the full Daniel Day Lewis. Joe was happier whispering, Rubba dub dub, thanks for the grub, at Patrick to make him splutter with laughter, completely inappropriately.
He was thankful for all of it, because they'd all seen the stories on TV - what channels were still on air, now - the elderly people isolated because their caregivers were taken, the children orphaned… He was still here, and he had people he loved and a support network of found family that he never knew he'd need until they were there.
And Thanksgiving gave way to Christmas and Christmas to Valentine's Day and then Easter and before any of them were ready for it, it was Pete's birthday and a whole year had passed. He couldn't help feeling strange that day - wanting to feel sad for everything he'd lost, missing his mom and dad, and Sam; wondering what had happened to the woman he'd loved so much until she wasn't there - but mostly, he felt nervous. He kept finding his eyes casting upwards, nervously waiting for something to happen, but it hadn't. It was a peaceful, clear day and he couldn't help thinking how big and blue and beautiful the wide open sky was. It seemed infinite blue, but he knew that it wasn't and that beyond their atmosphere was endless darkness.
They still talked about their wives, sometimes, wondering how different things would be if none of this had happened - if Patrick would ever have said anything, if Joe would have faced up to his own feelings - and they told themselves they would have, even if neither of them thought it was true, because it was easier to believe that this was how things were meant to be.
But they were happy. Not just content with the best of a bad situation, truly happy. He still woke up every morning and found himself catching his breath that his teenage dream really had come full circle, like everything between falling asleep in the van on the way back through Iowa and the morning after Thanksgiving, had been a dream. It seemed absurd to both of them, now, to think that all those years had happened in between, but the tattoo on the side of his ring finger reminded him every day that there was a whole part of his life that had been there, and wasn't anymore. He still missed her, every now and then.
"I still love her, in the same way I still loved you, when I started dating her… We were together like a quarter of my life… I can't just, like, forget about that, basically. I still feel like I owe her for all the years she stuck with me when she could probably have, like, found someone easier to be around."
"I know… I mean, I married Elisa for a reason, y'know? A lot of reasons... It's just that I didn't need any reasons, with you. I just do."
When he had tougher days and Patrick didn't know what to say, he'd try to imagine her voice, remembering the things she'd tell him, the normality she'd invoke in the middle of an anxiety attack. And it helped, it did, but it was still Patrick whose arms he'd gratefully crawl into when he was tired and calm and could bear to be touched again. Nothing had ever felt as good as those moments.
Their first Christmas had been quiet. They hadn't really marked the holiday, just spent the day together, acutely aware that people weren't there to celebrate with. None of the community had,really, other than the ones with small children - it wasn't anything like Thanksgiving, people were thankful for what they had, but most seemed to have had their beliefs so shaken that they'd distanced themselves from religion. But the second Christmas was different. It hadn't mattered much to Joe, before, he'd celebrated it for Marie but more to be supportive than because he cared about the holiday; but this year it was about recovering. It was for all of them and it didn't have anything to do with God or holy babies or any of that. It was about seeing the look on Pete's face when he found the box of decorations, and how happy that had made Patrick, or how for once the frown lifted from Andy's brow because he remembered the felt gingerbread man from when he was small. They'd picked a sapling from the wood down by the river, and it didn't matter that the baubles had seen better days, or the fact a handful of the lights didn't work, they were still there, all of them, and this year things were getting better.
He knew they were better, because in the early hours of Christmas Eve he'd been snuggled in the easy chair with Patrick across his lap and Louis on Patrick's, in front of the fire, and it was all that mattered. It felt normal, now, to be living this life. With these people. With this person.
They'd already been together as friends for so long, had gotten past the awkward first stages so long ago, that there had never been any real tension. No ambiguity or uncertainty about whether this would last more than a few dates - no fear that the shine would wear off after a night on the couch eating take out, in sweats. And not just because there wasn't really such a thing as 'take out' anymore. Patrick had been there to help him deal with the emotional upheaval, and the guilt had slowly blended into the background. He still felt it - they both did - but they also knew they couldn't bring anyone back and that life could never have just stopped, frozen in time. They'd had more than a year to find their stride; they'd shared a bed and a home from the start, they washed dishes together, dealt with the chickens together, their new friends recognised them as a couple as if they always had been.
What they'd forged for themselves out of the wreckage was real and it was good for both of them and there were nights like this, when things were quiet and they were alone with Louis and the ticking of the clock in the kitchen, that it almost felt like things had turned out for the best.
In the fire light, Joe kissed Patrick’s temple softly and whispered, "I love you," into his ear. It wasn't the first time he'd told him, not by a long way, but in that moment, by the
glow of the fading fire, it felt like Christmas had finally given him something he wanted.
Smiling, still scritching between Louis's ears, Patrick looked back at him for a moment and leaned nearer to bump their noses lightly, and softly said, "I know."
Joe gaped at him. "'I know'?! How - since when are you fucking Han?"
"Since I was like four and I had to kindergarten-smooch with a Princess Leia, instead of my own real-fur Chewie."
He laughed so hard at the indignant expression on Joe's face, that Joe tickled his belly until both he and the dog rolled off the chair, and then chased him upstairs, leaving Louis to fall asleep by the grate.
By the time they heard Andy starting to stir, next door, he'd made sure Patrick had told him he loved him at least four times.
It was on one of those nights, still awake as the May sun rose, as Joe lay with his face on Patrick's naked stomach and his hands tangled in Joe's hair that Patrick said, "I've been thinking…"
"Hmm?"
"I think I'm gonna go ahead and request those forms."
Joe knew without elaboration what forms they were. The option had been open to them for nearly a year, but they hadn't been ready. It had been almost two years, now, though and they'd accepted that this was their future. Their crowded little house was home, even if Andy was spending more and more time enjoying the privacy of the apartment of the girl he'd been seeing in the next village. Privately, they still wished they had their own place, somewhere they could grow and not have to weigh up whether an 'early night' was worth Pete's innuendo by morning, but he'd be lonely if they left him and technically they were still married to other people - they still had other commitments to account for.
Neither of them felt that it was their right to declare someone else's life over, even if the government invited them to, but there were other options available to them - things that freed them to move on.
He lifted his head and looked up at him for a moment, before laying back down and nodding, the skin warm against his cheek.
Later that same day, they sat with Patrick's Macbook on his lap and pressed the button on the website to request a dissolution pack. Twice.
They carried on with their daily lives, helping teach at the little school they'd set up with the other adults, keeping their animals and tending the garden; taking care of each other and their found-family, and Louis, who was far less lazy now that he had a yard to play in and chickens to boss around.
And it was on a perfect summer day, the forms filled out and sitting in their envelopes on the mantle, that Patrick crawled over him on the grass by the river, sitting across his hips and planting a hand either side of his shoulders, and said, "When we get everything signed off…?"
Joe smiled peacefully at him and nodded, because that had been the whole point, really, that was what being free of the past meant.
Patrick had kissed him, murmuring "I love you," and lay down when he'd received Joe's reply, sprawled on top of him until the warmth of the day and the gentle breeze and burbling of the water over the rocks lulled them both to sleep in the shade.
---
He'd always remember it being a Tuesday. He wasn't sure why that was important, but it was indelibly scored into his memory.
The air was stifling and still, he was spraying Louis with the garden hose in lieu of watering the vegetable patch. Andy and Pete had gone into the village, Patrick was at the chicken coop, repairing the wiring with a pair of pliers and the little wind up radio from the kitchen. It was playing It's A Wonderful Life, and in that moment, it was.
But then the chill had run over him like ice water and he'd scooped up the dog in his arms and ran, stumbling and grazing his knee, but getting up again, not sure if he was even breathing until he couldn't hear anything but his rasping as he grabbed Patrick's shirt and dragged him under cover.
It was pointless, he realised, later, but he'd covered Patrick's mouth with his hand and curled them both into the shade, clinging tight to his arm until his fingernails left marks.
They both watched them pass over. The same enormous black ships, silent and terrifying, exactly has they had been more than two years ago.
There was horror on Patrick's face as he shook, whispering, "They're gonna take them - oh God, oh God - they're gonna take them… What do we do?"
He'd pressed his face into Patrick's hair, frozen in fear, and waited for something to happen. They both knew there was nothing they could do, now, any more than there had been the first time.
It wasn't until they heard the sound of doors slamming in the front of the house that they looked at each other, and Joe realised that his eyes had been scrunched tightly closed. He had now idea how much time had passed.
Patrick scrambled to his feet, first, Louis leaping up after him, Joe following as quickly as he could manage, cramped from being curled up on the floor for so long.
They'd launched themselves into each other's arms, Andy picking Patrick up by the waist and lifting him clear of the floor in relief.
Pete had just buried his face and both his hands in Joe's t-shirt and dragged them both to the floor, overwhelmed and cursing.
They were all there. All safe. All together, still.
None of them realised, at first, what it really meant.
There was confusion, initially. Muddled news broadcasts and blackouts. Nobody seemed to know why they were back, because surely, there was nothing left to take. The internet - the parts of it that hadn't closed down with no one to run them or create their content - seemed frozen.
There was nothing they could do but tune the little wind up radio to a station running news updates, and sit with it, beside the TV.
It was almost midnight, when the news finally broke. The president in a dark blue suit, gazing into their souls through the television screen as he told them that something remarkable had happened, but they could all see that he was afraid; stressed in a way they didn't ordinary see in him.
It quickly became clear why.
All around the world, outside every major town and city, there had been deliveries. Deliveries of people, tired and confused, but apparently unharmed. People who didn't know what had happened, people who'd need homes and resources and food, and whose property, in many cases, had already been destroyed or lost, or handed to their next of kin.
People whose whole lives had been left behind, intact, and who'd returned to find their homes scorched by electrical failures and their lives forever changed.
Joe felt Patrick's hand grow tighter and tighter around his, squeezing his heart into his mouth at the prospect of what this might mean.
It was Andy who picked up his phone first, dialling his mom's number again and again until finally there was a crackle and they all heard it - her voice on the line as she said, "Andrew? Andrew, are you there?"
He didn't reply at first. He sank his head into his hands, for the first time since everything had happened, openly sobbing in front of them. "Mom, it's me. Are you okay? Where have you been? Where did they take you? Have you seen Matt?"
There were more questions than any of them could ask and more than they'd ever have answered.
Joe looked across at Patrick. He was shaken and pale and Joe tugged his hand free to wrap an arm around him, but he got to his feet quickly, wiping sweaty palms on his thighs and leaving the room. His footsteps pounded up the stairs before the clunk of the heavy lock on the bathroom door fell into place.
It was Pete who made it to the door first, and Joe let him go, too shaken by the phone vibrating in his hand to know what to do.
---
Not everyone had made it. There were lists on websites, with names and details of those they'd found. People being processed and vetted and quarantined to make sure they weren't Replicators or carrying alien viruses; and then there was the simple fact was that it had been over two years. Things had happened in that time - natural and unnatural - people had died, babies had been born, accidents had happened. And not just back home.
Nobody could say exactly where they'd been. There were anecdotes in the news about those who were returned not realising how long they'd been gone, or that they'd been gone at all, but Pete didn't believe that. Trauma did things to people. They'd probably just blocked it out.
Joe's mom was one of the ones they didn't bring home. He'd talked to his father that first night, his little brother in the morning - they'd been in different states when it happened and they still hadn't been reunited. Pete had watched him hold Patrick's hand until both their fingers went white and they were delirious from lack of sleep.
They'd searched and searched for the names of family and friends, refreshing pages until newly processed lists were updated. Some of them were there, waiting to be released and contacted and brought home. He'd found Bronx early on - it was easier when the names were unique - and then Meagan, and then Ashlee. His parents were in Vermont, near the second home they planned to retire to.
But he could see from the look on Patrick's face as he watched over Joe's shoulder, who they'd found and who they hadn't. He caught his eye as Joe clasped his hand over his mouth and his eyelids fell, Patrick's gaze flicking from the screen to Joe's face, to Pete's. He watched it crumple momentarily, before he wrapped his arms around Joe, pressing his forehead to the back of his shoulder as he murmured something Pete couldn't hear.
They'd talked about the possibility of this - in the bathroom, after the news first broke - and he knew the anguish that was boiling inside his best friend's chest, the guilt and loss, the chronic martyr complex. And he knew Joe, too - knew that his sense of loyalty and obligation, the same things that had brought him back to Patrick when he'd been in despair, could be the very same things that took him away from Patrick, now. Because sitting on the mantle, next to a forgotten coffee cup and a photo of a little girl with red braids, were two identical envelopes that had never made it into the mail.