Archive of Our Own

Some days were harder than others. Like today, when he’d dropped a box of soaps on the floor of the Store and found he couldn’t pick them up. First, he couldn’t lift the box. Then he got dizzy trying to bend over. He’d unfortunately chosen the moment David came out of the backroom to kick the box and swear, but also to fight back tears.
‘Hey! No crying over soap!’ he exclaimed. ‘Sit.’ she commanded going over to him. He went to object, and she glared.
‘Fine.’ he muttered and watched her. ‘I should be able to…’ he gestured and trailed off.
‘No ‘should’ anything.’ he said ‘If you want to make yourself useful, you can check the figures in my project.’ he gestured at the laptop on the desk. Patrick pouted a moment. Sighed and admitted defeat. He quickly absorbed himself in that, and accepted the tea David brought him soon after with thanks. He even managed to eat the offered cookies too.
Perhaps he should have taken it as a sign that things were unravelling a bit. But mostly he just concentrated on getting from one day to the next. But with every trip to the hospital, every zap of radiation, he was worn down yes, physically exhausted yes. But something else after two long months of surgery and treatment chipping away at him.
He managed to round six of eight until everything fell spectacularly to pieces.
It had been a quiet, almost normal day, Wednesdays were generally a day he stayed home to do accounts and other admin, so an afternoon alone in the office had felt normal. And he felt good, well if not good, better than he had for a while. David was home now, he’d come in to say hello, seen he was fine and left him to it. Now Patrick was relatively caught up, this month’s accounts were ready for Mr Rose to double-check for him- just as a precaution, his sleep-deprived slightly drug-addled brain wasn’t one he was willing to risk the business on. So he clicked onto a news site for a moment. The usual Politics dominated the headlines, he clicked through a couple of stories then clicked off, scrolling down he stopped at a headline;
‘Writer Tom Larson dies at 50.’
Tom Larson. Patrick loved him, like really loved him, in the ‘keeps all his books, waits for the new ones to come out reads every interview with the man’ loved him. And he was dead? He clicked the article and his blood ran cold ‘London based writer Tom Larson died on Tuesday after a short battle with cancer. He passed peacefully at home with his family.’ Patrick’s face was wet with tears before he realised it. He read on finding out Larson had been ill for some time but chose to keep it quiet, that he’d finished his last novel with that knowledge and that set him off more.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried- really cried- over a ‘celebrity’ death. He’d been sad when Bowie died he remembered, he’d actually shed a tear over Tony Hernandez and Walter Gretzky died- David hadn’t known who they were but he hadn’t made fun of him. David had cried sweetly and softly when he read Emma Chambers from Notting Hill had passed and Patrick had found it so endearing. But he hadn’t cried so immediately and so deeply, he scrolled through Twitter, looking at the tributes already out there, and cried harder at people talking about the man’s books, how sweet he seemed, and talking about his husband and their kids. He came across the statement from Larson’s husband which said simply ‘My favourite writer and favourite human’ and he started to sob.
It was ridiculous he thought in passing, to be so sad about someone you didn’t know. But he did feel like he knew Tom Larson. He’d been reading his books for what, twenty years now? They were mostly tales of London life, with people cooler than twenty-something Patrick could have ever been. They were fun, funny and felt like stories about a bunch of friends- in fact, Larson often weaved characters from old stories into new ones so you did feel like they were old friends. And as a writer didn’t you always feel closer to them if you admired them? Being inside their heads? Patrick had realised in retrospect, Larson’s books were the first of anything he’d been really exposed to gay characters, Larson wrote them so well and without fanfare, just as people, which twenty years ago was unusual, so Patrick hadn’t realised. It was only after David, after coming out when he’d revisited them, he’d realised what a positive portrayal of gay relationships, gay men and women he’d been reading about and not realised, not realised how much a contrast to the rest of the world that was until he had cause to worry about it himself. He re-read all those books the first year he was with David- to the point David did make fun of him for having no other novels in his apartment. But for their first wedding anniversary- paper- David had bought him a signed copy of his favourite Larson book.
He scrolled through some more comments, from fans, other writers and all of them were in agreement at what a nice, good man Tom Larson had been. Patrick had always thought so from interviews, appearances he made, from his social media. Of course, you could never be sure, but he seemed such a humble, honest human, and Patrick had always warmed to him. His sweet happy looking family too- their picture-perfect British life, even David had joked about running away with him to live in an English cottage. Patrick wiped at his eyes, so silly he chastised himself, a person you never met.
But, as he glanced over at the bookshelves where the array of well-worn books sat, he realised Tom Larson had impacted his life as much as many people he knew ‘in real life’ more so than some perhaps. All those stories in his head, the hours where he’d felt sad or alone and felt like he had friends in those pages, the lessons the stories were teaching him before he even knew he would need them. The joy, he sniffled again, in sadness that someone who brought such joy in his life had clearly gone through such suffering, and also was now no longer here to experience or appreciate the joy they brought. Patrick wiped at his eyes and hoped the man knew how loved he was by strangers, and that set him off some more. Thinking and hoping this man he never knew, understood how much people like him appreciated what he’d done.
Then he let him think of the last part, of the thing he had in common with his favourite writer without knowing, how these last few weeks even this man he never met, but who he already felt he shared so much with, was going through the same thing as him. But that for him it hadn’t worked out. Patrick rested his head in his hands and let out a tiny sob, at the unfairness, at the knowledge in a purely physical sense of what this man he felt so connected to, had gone through. And he cried. He cried so much he didn’t register David calling him at first, only looking up when he was at the door.
‘Patrick honey what happened?’ David walked into the office, the office where he’d left his husband not an hour before, quietly working through accounts, and now he was at his desk, sobbing, actually sobbing. So much so he couldn’t answer. David frowned and walked over to him, putting an arm on his neck. ‘Honey what’s wrong?’ he asked again.
Patrick sniffled but couldn’t quite get any words out, he clicked back to the news article and gestured. David frowned and looked at the screen, he read the headline and let out a soft ‘Oh.’ he tightened his grip around Patrick’s shoulders as he leaned in to read and felt Patrick’s arm come up to his waist. David read with an ache in his chest, Patrick’s favourite author- far more than that really, a man he admired in a way Patrick Brewer-Rose usually only reserved for Sportspeople. Actually, David was sure there was nobody he’d admired more, they’d talked about his love for his books, and how in retrospect they’d helped him understand his sexuality more too. David knew too, that Larson turned out to be the first gay man Patrick had looked up to, had as a role model, and that was important. He leaned down and kissed his husband’s head as he read, feeling him shake a little with sobs. But this was obviously all of that tied up with how the man had died too, just ten years older than Patrick, cancer had taken him from his family, and he could see- almost physically see- that hitting Patrick in a wave.
‘You think I’m being ridiculous.’ Patrick managed to say, calming down a bit.
David spun around to look at him placing both hands on his shoulders so Patrick had to look up at him. ‘Firstly, which one of us is most likely to be ridiculous on a given day?’ he asked with a quirk of an eyebrow ‘Secondly.’ he softened, and brought a hand up to Patrick’s cheek ‘No honey don’t. Come here.’ he jerked his head and Patrick stood up stiffly and David pulled him into a tight hug.
Patrick wrapped himself around David tightly and buried his face in his sweater, he felt arms tightly around him just as he felt tears well up again. David held on while he cried a moment then quietly unwound himself and led Patrick over to the armchair, it was just big enough to squash into without having to properly sit on David’s lap, but he pulled Patrick close into him so he was squashed along his side, while Patrick pulled himself into David’s shoulder and rested his head there, crying softly now.
‘I didn’t know him, this is silly.’ he murmured, letting his face get damp all over again, he wove an arm around David and clung to him a bit. ‘Getting so upset is silly.’ he said again, unable to stop another wave of tears.
David kissed his husband’s head. ‘He mattered to you.’ he said softly, feeling that set him off a little too, and he reached a hand up to the back of his head, gently stroking his thumb back and fore, ‘Look, sweetheart, more than that any artist we look up to, it’s because their work means something to us, it touched us, moved us.’ David thought for a moment worried his usually practical husband would laugh at the sentiment, but decided to plough on ‘I truly believe the things we love- books, films, tv whatever- it changes us and how we see the world, but not just that, the things we love? They become part of us.’ he shifted, ‘When I read his books, I could see you in them. I know that sounds ridiculous, you never met the man, he never met you, but I could see you in those books because they spoke to you and I could feel why.’ David sighed, that made no sense he was sure.
‘I felt like he knew what I needed to read even before I knew it.’ Patrick said ‘That is ridiculous.’
‘Like someone knew both what you were thinking, and what you needed to hear?’ David asked, moving his hand to Patrick’s arm.
‘Yeah.’ he said quietly, shifting his head on David’s shoulder and running his finger over the pattern on his sweater.
‘I have always thought.’ David began, shifting and pulling Patrick’s legs to hook over his- not quite in his lap but close ‘That we find the things that matter most to us, at the times we need them the most. And I know you didn’t realise quite why, when you first fell in love with his writing, what you know the importance it would have for you...but I think it became part of you, in a way any writing or art or whatever when we need it most becomes part of us...it helps us through.’ He kissed Patrick’s head ‘This man who you never met, his work is part of your life story, it’s part of who you are, and you will remember him all of your life for that, I don’t know, that feels kind of beautiful to me.’ David just about got through without breaking down, but he wiped at his eyes and sniffed slightly. He meant his words as comforting and they were, but they pushed Patrick over the edge again, he so perfectly encapsulated what he couldn’t. David’s artistic brain knew exactly how to work it out, to articulate it to Patrick. He felt David’s arms tighten around him.
‘And add to that.’ David continued ‘This man you admired- this man you loved because it’s perfectly possible to love someone you’ve never met in that way- this man you loved, admired, felt an affinity with, he has gone through something you’re going through.’ Patrick cried harder ‘Except for him it’s ended tragically, and honey I can’t imagine what that feels like.’ Patrick hiccuped against him, ‘This person you felt close to even though you didn’t know them, he lost his life to the same disease you have and that’s hard, ok? And we said we’d talk honestly, yeah?’ Patrick nodded through his soft cries ‘That’s got to scare you too, and upset you.’
Patrick sniffed, ‘Yeah.’ he choked out swallowing hard, fighting totally losing it at David’s beautiful sentiment. ‘Like knowing he was going through this, at the same time? But also that it ended badly.’ tears spilt over again, ‘And he was so young, and his family and it makes me think…’
He didn’t finish, he didn’t have to. ‘I know, I know honey.’ David pulled him closer, Patrick went really limp against him and let himself be held for a moment before a fresh wave of tears took over. ‘I don’t have any answers.’ David all but whispered, ‘But maybe it’s ok just to cry it out ok?’ he felt Patrick nod against him and dissolve into fresh, small hiccuping sobs. David held on, holding him steady, it had been weeks since things had spilt over like this. Really since before Thanksgiving, and while this was obviously grief for a man Patrick admired, who meant a lot, it was everything else too. When Patrick’s soft cries slowed a bit, David dipped his head and kissed his head. ‘I think too.’ he said softly, ‘When we can feel something really deeply for art, or literature or whatever, it’s the same thing as well we can feel deeply for the people who make that art. It’s catharsis through something we’re connected to but in a different way. It’s deeply personal but also removed so we can feel it…’ he squeezed Patrick ‘Or something.’
‘Like crying at a movie.’ Patrick murmured
‘Or a baseball game in your case.’ David smiled into the top of his head as he kissed it again. ‘But you know how sometimes, you cry at a sad movie, and it’s just a few tears? But another time it hits something deeper, and you just pour everything out, and it’s about the film, but not, I think it's the same with caring about people we never met. We can be sad for them, and their families, but we can also feel a much deeper connection to them, and what they meant to our lives. And that’s ok because it means we feel connected to things.’
Patrick reached for his husband’s hand, David didn’t think he was particularly eloquent but he always managed to say the right thing when it happened.
‘I think that is a beautiful sentiment.’ he said quietly, leaning his head on David’s chest, he wiped at his eyes ‘I just wish I could stop crying.’ every time he thought he was done a fresh wave came. David rubbed a hand up and down his arm and kept up a steady rhythm until Patrick did indeed stop crying, and then he sat there a while longer.
Later that night they crawled into bed, and David asked if Patrick wanted to watch a movie, so he nodded and searched for one, and turned to Patrick asking a silent question when he pulled it up on the screen. Patrick knew what he was doing and nodded. Several of Tom Larson’s films had been adapted into films, and Patrick loved them all too- and given they had a certain rom-com element to them, so did David. It seemed right to watch one tonight, but he also knew why David had picked this one. It was a story about a 30-something man starting life again in the countryside. It was hilarious at times, but also beautifully moving when he reconnects with his estranged father shortly before he dies. For obvious reasons it wasn’t one, Patrick chose to revisit often. But tonight he nodded, and let David pull him close as they watched.
David worried about suggesting it, but he hoped his instincts were right, he felt like Patrick needed a good cry- not like earlier, brought on by messy personal emotions mixed up with the outside world, but instead the kind of deep cathartic cry that something you connect to can bring. So he turned off all the lights except the one small lamp and put on the movie he knew Patrick loved deeply, but also couldn’t watch often. They’d gone to see it at the Movie Theatre, not in Elmdale because it didn’t get a huge release but three towns over in Pine Ridge, because it had been something Patrick wanted to do. Clint had died maybe two years before it came out, and David had to sit with Patrick until the cinema staff came in to start cleaning up. He’d walked them to a park and got a coffee from a little cart before Patrick managed to speak.
David got it, they made fun of his predilection to cry at romantic movies, but he had his own collection of ‘only on a really good day’ or more likely ‘only on a really bad day’ movies. Some were predictable but with a sad personal note- One Day still sent him sobbing, because a good friend of his-one of his few good friends at the time- had died not long before he saw the film, and so he remembered her and cried his heart out every time. Stevie had been in a car crash a few years back and something had drawn him to the film a few months later and he’d gently sobbed through most of it but felt better later. An Australian film called Holding the Man that they’d thought was a cute gay romcom, had sent him sobbing into Patrick’s shirt with such force that Patrick had been genuinely worried about him, but he’d later explained- just a few months after they were married, it was in part fear, and relief fears about a life he just missed by timing, relief at that, but mixed up in it fear of ever losing his husband he’d taken so long to find. But his number one ‘sob everything out’ but also an indication things were going downhill for him was My Girl he couldn’t explain that one, though he was sure a therapist would try, maybe something in his need for friendship and love in the past...when he was really in a bad place, he went there. And he sensed tonight Patrick needed to go there.
They curled up and watched the movie, Patrick curled into him, hooking a leg over his. Unrelated to all the emotional turmoil David was pleased to see he could move around easier now, his surgery scars were almost fully healed. David pulled him closer and kissed the top of his head, still odd without the hair but he was getting used to it. He wrapped his arms around Patrick and pulled the blanket up over them and turned to the movie.
Patrick let the movie wash over him. It was a sweet slow burn of a film, and you only realized the depth of what was going on with the central character about midway through. It was actually beautifully shot and charming as well which made for relaxing viewing. It was also familiar enough by now- and because he’d read the book a few times too- to let it just absorb into him. He curled himself into David enjoying the quiet for a while. Even in the adapted version, there was a familiarity, and a connection to the way the characters spoke- particularly the central character- that he just felt an affinity with.
When his Father appeared in the middle of the film, he felt the first tears escape. Creully, the actor in question bore more than a passing resemblance to his Dad too, with his thick white curly hair, and soft voice. Particularly the voice, even in a British accent, reminded him so much of his Dad, he let a few quiet tears escape as they watched, and felt David drop a kiss onto his head. As the film built towards its climax, he felt a steady stream of tears building up, but for once he didn’t try and censor them like he did watch a film, a silly reflex, but he’d always keep in control. Tonight like earlier- more so he realised he leaned into it, he let himself feel the sadness in the story they were watching, the pain of these characters he was so familiar with, and he let himself feel their sadness until eventually it mingled with his own. At the film’s climax, he softly hiccuped out his cries, trying to keep his breathing steady, feeling David’s hand on his backtracing a steady rhythm that was soothing, but not trying to still him.
There was a speech at the end, he’d all but forgotten- maybe didn’t want to remember- where the main character talks about all the things he missed out on with his Dad- things he’d missed in life, but that he would miss going forward. From weekends as a teenager where he was too busy, through to the future both the real one and a thousand imagined ones. Everything he wouldn’t have with his Dad, and how sad, how deeply sad it made him not to have that, especially now when he needed him more than ever.
Quietly the dam broke and he was steadily sobbing, almost silently at first but he felt David sense it and curl a bit tighter around him. He didn’t try and stop him or calm him, he let him cry it out with the end of the film, letting the credits roll while hot heavy tears rolled down Patrick’s cheeks. He pulled himself closer to David and held onto him tightly for a long time, still crying. Then something else took over, and he felt everything rising up again. It wasn’t like before Thanksgiving when it took hold of him in a frightening all-consuming way, this was like a slow steady emptying out, he just felt...sad, there was no other way to put it. He was deeply, deeply sad and unhappy right now. He pulled back a bit and looked up at David, he tried to speak but nothing came out, David just nodded and wiped at his face a little bit, not that it helped, so he just put his head back down on David’s chest and cried and cried.
David held on while his husband cried, he knew he didn’t need to worry about him hurting himself, this was just a soft, seemingly endless letting out of a mess of emotions. It was painful to watch, but no danger to anyone, in fact, he knew it was doing him good, as much as he hated to see it. But the longer it went on the more it made his heartache. Eventually, Patrick stilled in his arms and moments later he felt him go heavy and limp. He’d actually cried himself to sleep. That ripped at his heart, for all the times in his life David had done that, he felt the pain as if it was his own. He spent another twenty minutes holding him, just in case it wasn’t over, in case he woke up, but he was heavily asleep, exhaustion catching up again no doubt. So he eased him down onto the pillows and covered him with a blanket. It was only 10 pm, but his sleep schedule was already all over the place, better to let him sleep while he could.
David slipped out of the bedroom and pulled out his phone, sending a text to Stevie. Fifteen minutes later she was letting herself in and sitting on the couch next to him.
‘Is this a wine or whiskey night?’ she asked, David shrugged and she put a hand on his shoulder and returned with a bottle of red wine from the kitchen and two glasses.
‘I assume your husband isn’t joining?’ Stevie said mildly concerned.
‘He’s sleeping.’ David said quietly, taking the wine she offered. She nodded, seemingly satisfied it was a logical enough answer right now, and that hurt David all the more. They sat in silence for a long time sipping the wine, eventually, David spoke.
‘My husband cried himself to sleep in my arms tonight.’ he said quietly, feeling tears escaping as he said it ‘He’s ok.’ he added hurriedly ‘Just sad, just really fucking sad.’ he looked up, ‘I can do all the medical stuff, I can clean up all the bodily fluids, I can even argue him when he’s being stubborn or horrible- I’m really good at arguing with him I’ve had a decade of practice.’ he paused and looked into his wine ‘But I can’t bear seeing him this sad.’ he looked over at Stevie, wiping at his cheeks in a silent plea for help.
He was really broken tonight, she could see. After all the fight, the resilience above and beyond she’d seen in him, tonight he was quietly breaking. Stevie reached an arm around him and felt him lean in. ‘I think you’re really fucking sad too.’ she said ‘And that’s ok.’ she’d watched them both fighting on through it all in the last weeks and months, she knew they’d yelled, and broken down and everything else. But she wasn’t sure they’d just let themselves be sad about it all.
‘I shouldn't be…’ he shrugged.
‘You’re allowed to be sad.’ Stevie said ‘Even if it all ends up fine- when- it all ends up fine, this has already stolen months of your lives, it’s caused the man you love so much physical pain, it’s caused you both stress, and emotional pain. Be sad David.’ he sniffed and nodded.
‘When did you become nice?’ he asked.
‘It won’t last. I’ll be telling you not to be so whiny the minute he’s a bit better.’ David laughed. She stayed for a while longer, finishing their wine and chatting quietly. He filled her in on what had happened today, relieved when she understood.
‘David remember when I told you about watching the movie Waitress after my Dad died?’ he nodded, she’d said how her Mom had sobbed through it when it first came out because it hit so close to home, but she’d not realised until years later, and it was now Stevie’s ‘cry it all out film’ ‘Well I never told you what happened when your Dad took me on our trip to New York a few years back did I?’
‘You said the theatre smelled like pie.’ He said this was in his mind still an important detail.
‘It did.’ she said with a roll of her eyes. ‘I cried David, like really fucking cried through most of the second act, like ugly cried, your Dad thought...well I don’t know what your Dad thought, but he just let me cry and then he gave me a handkerchief- because Johnny Rose still lives in the 50s for which we’re all grateful- and put his arm around me and led me out.’
‘I didn’t know.’ David said quietly, he loved that his Dad took care of her but neither of them had told him that story.
‘Your Dad keeps my secrets, David.’ Stevie winked at him, she shuffled looking into her glass, it was no secret Johnny had become a father to both her and Patrick over the years, but that moment had been one that cemented it for her too. ‘The point is though, he just let me work through it, he was there and that was enough and that was more than….’ something caught in her voice. ‘Fuck.’ she muttered into her glass, and David wound his arms around her neck for a moment. ‘Let him be sad when he needs to.’ she shrugged, ‘Let yourself be sad.’ she leaned her head on his arm for a while, and let them both be sad for a bit.
He hugged her goodbye at the door before going to the bathroom, washing his face and trying to repair some of the damage crying had done. It felt later than it was, but the clock on the nightstand revealed it was only just twelve, still he was tired. Patrick was curled up where David had left him, looking like he’d barely moved in two hours, which was good. David slipped under the covers hoping not to disturb him, but he stirred.
‘Sorry honey.’ David whispered, ‘Go back to sleep ok.’ Patrick murmured something again and rolled half asleep towards him, so he scooted closer, looping an arm over him, facing him as he blinked awake. ‘Hey’ David smiled softly, lifting a hand to his cheek ‘You ok?’
Patrick nodded and made a bit of a face, his throat and mouth were dry and his head hurt. ‘I need some water.’ he mumbled, and pulled himself upright slowly, he was stiff and achy, like he’d been fighting something. He remembered crying, a lot, and then nothing. He took a long drink, and took the pills- regular Advil for once- David was offering.
‘Dehydration.’ David said ‘I should have made you drink earlier.’
Patrick waved a hand dismissing him and took the pills, and some more water, he rubbed his face, which was dry and sore- another case for David’s skincare routine no doubt. ‘My own fault.’ he said his voice was dry and scratchy, reminding him of the day after his surgery. David reached an arm out and rubbed it across his stomach in sympathy.
‘Tough day honey.’ he said quietly resting his hand there, Patrick brought his left hand down over David’s and ran a finger over his wedding band while he did.
‘I feel...not better but...something, like I needed today...that’s horrible a man-’ it caught in his throat, ‘A man died. I shouldn't…’
‘He gave you a way to feel what you needed.’ David shrugged. ‘Like in life.’
‘Yeah.’ he said, taking a final sip then easing himself back down. David scooted himself a bit closer and Patrick lifted an arm up for him to rest under.
Patrick kissed his hair. ‘Thank you.’ he said quietly, he pulled his husband closer as he closed his eyes.

***

Patrick fell asleep in the car home, once again. He lost track of the journeys short and long he’d fallen asleep on. The party had been lovely, and he wished they could have stayed longer, but staying upright lately was a challenge. They arrived home and David nudged him awake, taking his arm as he led him from the car, easing him out of his coat and towards the bedroom. He flopped down on the bed and David started undoing his tie.
‘This wasn’t the way I envisioned you taking off my tie.’ Patrick said stifling a yawn ‘Sorry I’m just…’
David kissed him, ‘Exhausted.’ he said, ‘Busy week. We can sleep in tomorrow, both of us.’
Patrick nodded and pulled at David’s skirt. ‘Hey.’ he said, ‘I love you.’
David tilted his head. ‘Get ready for bed, I’ll be back.’
Patrick was under the covers reading when David reappeared, ready for bed but also holding a small gift in silver-blue pater.
‘This was going to be for Christmas, I bought it months ago. But the last night of Hanukkah seems as good a time as any.’
Patrick smiled, David gave him a gift on the last night of Hanukkah every year, earlier when he’d lit the Menorah before they went out, Patrick figured he’d forgotten this year.
‘Thanks.’ he said, taking the gift, and unwrapping it. David put his hand on his for a second.
‘I actually got it back in March. I mean in case you think...just open it.’
Patrick frowned and did as he was told. It was a book, one of Tom Larson’s, his favourite of course, in a hardback edition that he didn’t recognise- maybe the British edition. He flipped open the cover. It was signed, not just signed, personalized, ‘To Patrick, I hear you love my books, thank you for reading I hope my stories help.’
Patrick’s eyes welled up, ‘How did you?’
‘Turns out my sister is finally dating someone useful. He used some of his publishing contacts…’ David shrugged ‘I had no idea it would…’ he looked up ‘I know it might remind you of an awful time, but also maybe that you got through that time too. That’s what books do right?’
Patrick nodded. ‘It’s perfect.’ he ran a hand over the page sadly, ‘David it’s…’ he couldn’t quite formulate the words, he wiped at his eyes,
‘I know.’ David kissed his cheek. ‘Bed?’
Patrick nodded, and David climbed in next to him. They curled up and traded sleepy kisses for a while. Knowing they were both too tired for anything more, but enjoying it, all the same, eventually, David rested his head on Patrick’s shoulder, and worked his hand under his shirt, he felt his husband kiss his head lightly before they both fell asleep. For the first time in months, things felt a little more normal.

Five Years Later

Patrick was moving books in their office, clearing out space. Partly just for something to occupy his brain, which had been running away with him all day. He’d shifted all of David’s fancy coffee-table art books to a more prominent shelf. He’d sorted a bunch of thrillers and top-10 style books they’d accumulated as vacation reads or as gifts over the years to donate. Some books had sentimental value, others he viewed as setting free in the world for someone else’s vacation read. He found himself staring at the shelf of Tom Larson books. He knew he wanted to move them and to do that he had to touch them. And doing that meant...thinking about things.

He slowly started to move them. Flicking through some of the yellowed pages as he did so. He gravitated to the first he’d bought. The one he’d read every year for so many years, through college and his 20s ‘Daisy Chains’ was the unimaginative title, and one he wasn’t even sure why 19 year old him had gravitated towards. Still the pages told that story of the well loved, well thumbed pages. The ones folded over carefully in re-reads to remind him of the paragraphs he loved- or sometimes just making a page. There was a coffee stain on it too, because he wasn’t precious about it, but also in twenty years of being read it had to have encountered a few beverages. He took that to college and back, about the only thing he still held onto from that time- people included.

The second, was the most...formative he later realised. ‘Night Music’ he read it one Christmas, just after graduation. Things hadn’t exactly been going to plan in life, and he’d escaped into Larson’s London world of people struggling like he was. One character, named Tim he realised now with a smile, had leapt off the page to him. Was it possible to have a crush on a book character he wondered now? Probably he reasoned. He certainly loved him, he’d idolised him actually. Tim the struggling musician who was making it in London with the help of a side line in being a ‘male escort’ a phrase it had taken him embarrassingly long chapters to work out the first time. But Tim was exciting, his trysts in the novel a little racy and Patrick had to laugh at himself now, for just how much he fixated on that character. But it was Tim’s big heart and willingness to leap into the unknown in the book he’d admired so much. In that post- college slump he’d found himself in, with no real dreams, and no great love. That book had been his place to dream.

His other favourite was the opposite. Called ’Pembroke Dock’ one of Larson’s later ones- Patrick counted his blessings the man was so prolific in his lifetime- this one was the tale of a man moving to the middle of nowhere, a town called Haverfordwest in a county he later learned thanks to google was actually in Wales, not England. Which also explained the array of strangely spelled placenames and slang incorporated into Larson’s book. His later knowledge of the writer gave him that he was half Welsh and he still had a slight yearning to visit the places in that book. In it, the man at the heart of it moves broken-hearted to a new place...and eventually finds the love of his life. He smiled thumbing through it… at least he proved literary related dreams you didn’t know you had sometimes came true.

He took a break from reminiscing over the stories to actually move the books. He was lucky he reasoned, that actually his favourite author spanned so much of his own lifetime. Every few years after initially discovering him, for another decade or so there was a new book. And one more, published last year, by Larson’s family. His lost manuscript or at least much delayed one. His son had edited it together from drafts.

Patrick hadn’t read it. Because when he did it was over. Really over. There would be nothing more. As long as the spine of this one remained uncracked there was still something of him in the world.

From nowhere and everywhere he felt tears on his face. It was stupid, he knew, hanging onto it all these months. Waiting, for something that would inevitably end.

On cue his husband appeared in the office.

‘Do you just sense when I’m crying or something?’ Patrick sniffed.

David snaked his arms around him, kissing his neck. ‘It’s a gift.’ he said ‘Actually I was hungry, came to get you, heard you sniffling.’ he burrowed into Patrick’s neck. ‘Also it’s kind of a given if you’re in here sorting the books, you’re crying.’

Patrick huffed. ‘Rude.’ he retorted. Then sagged a little, they were both a little emotionally burned out lately. ‘But true.’

He spun around in David’s arms so he could embrace him properly. David kissed his head as he tightened his arms around him.

‘He won’t be any less gone if you read it, sweetheart.’

‘I know.’ Patrick murmured ‘It’s silly.’

‘I get it.’ David said ‘Holding onto a piece of him. Just in case it keeps him here...but it won’t.’

David let him go and fussed with the iPad on the desk for a moment, before even he heard the flourish of the opening bars Patrick knew what he was going to pick.
‘More Boats, more trees…’

Patrick smiled sadly, David had been playing it almost constantly for the last few weeks. He nodded at the pile of books and David eased himself off the desk and helped. Moving the other piles for him, leaving Patrick to carefully arrange his Larson collection. They worked in companionable silence for a while. Patrick held up one to David and smiled at him, running his hand over the cover. It was the edition he’d given him five years ago for Hanukkah.

It was his favourite of them all, and the one he hadn’t been able to read in five years. He wondered if he would again. ‘Song in My Mind.’ Larson’s story about fathers and sons, one that Patrick recognized a lot of himself in now he was older. He felt like he’d grown into it, and it hurt his heart to think of, but in the best way.

He flicked it open and looked at the scrawled signature in the inside page, he ran a hand over it, thinking that at some point it had been touched by someone whose mind, whose life he admired. Silly but the idea of that tiny connection felt like something. But more than that he’d treasure this book.

‘You were right.’ he said.

‘I know.’ David answered automatically, and with a smile. ‘About what though.’

Patrick gently bashed him with the book. And held it out to him. David took it and nodded, running a hand over the cover too.

‘That this book now means something else. That physical copy reminds me of...I guess the man I loved for writing it. But also the man I love for giving it to me. That physical copy is a reminder of the worst time in my life. But also that I was loved and cared for and that I got through it.’ he shrugged ‘The physical copies aren’t the reason I love them but also, that one means something else.’

David handed it back and kissed him. He leaned around him, and picked one of the others off the shelf.

‘This one.’ he said ‘I read because you talked about it so much. It’s not his best- don’t hit me with it- but it’s the one you gave me to read. So it’s you. It’s us.’

Patrick smiled. ‘Stories that are part of our story.’

‘I like that.’ David said.

‘Order, design, composition’ came through the speakers. Patrick caught the sad smile on David’s face.

‘Stories, words…’ Patrick shrugged. ‘Part of our lives.’

David was crying now too but returned to the shelf stacking. Patrick let him, quietly returning to his own. There was quiet for a long time between them, the familiar words behind them.

‘The first time I felt compelled to stand in a theatre was this show.’’ David said quietly, ‘2008, the Broadway revival. None of my friends wanted to go.’ he shuffled books around, ‘So I went alone, and it was beautiful...it was perfect. I can’t put into words why, but the reprise of Sunday...I cried, and cried and stood clapping before it finished. Nothing had ever made me feel like that before.’

Patrick glanced over, his husband’s face was damp with tears while he continued to sort the books.

‘That’s why this recording.’ Patrick said ‘Not the original, not Mr Jake Gyllenhall.’

‘He’s pretty, but he stole Taylor’s Scarf he’s dead to us.’ David scoffed. But his tears continued as ‘Sunday’ kicked in.

Patrick went to him, resting his hands on his hips. ‘Tell me.’ he said.

‘You know.’ David rolled his eyes looking up.

Patrick held firm. ‘Tell me again.’ he said, squeezing his hips. He relented knowing David needed nudging. ‘I have come to believe that when you find the right story...art...whatever...at the right time, it becomes part of you. In a way if you learn to love it that it never does.’ he paused, ‘Actually, I think these things find us when we need them.’ He wiped at his own face. ‘Tell me.’ he said quietly.

David looked up again, but then nodded, closing his eyes. ‘It was ...magic. It was that perfect alchemy of feeling and thinking, it was knowing this was a masterclass and not knowing why. It was feeling that...love, frustration...inspiration. It was all of it all at once it was a place to put all my messed up thoughts and let them out. I don’t know why this one...why not divas, or turning 35 or any of the others. This was just...perfect to me.’ his tears fell again now, ‘And when Dot…’ he faltered ‘When she sings about …’

Patrick nodded, he held on with one hand and leaned to the ipad, and flicked the song over. Then he pulled his husband towards him while they listened.

“Mama is everywhere
He must have loved her so much
This is our family, this is the lot
After I go, this is all that you've got, Honey,,,”

The next line was lost in a soft hiccup from David and Patrick pulled him closer, holding tight.

“Mama said, "Honey, mustn't be blue
It's not so much do what you like
As it is that you like what you do"
Mama said, "Darling, don't make such a drama.
A little less thinking, a little more feeling"

David hiccuped- laugh- sobbed at that too. And Patrick pulled him back into a kiss.

‘She’d know.’ he managed to get out.

‘Isn’t this song about artists giving us a language to see the world?’ he asked, ‘I mean I don’t know musicals but…’

David nodded with a smile. ‘Yeah.’

‘And it’s also about legacy and family.’

‘Yeah.’

Patrick nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then I think the great man would appreciate choosing our family. Finding our place in the world.’ he paused ‘And a love for art, and the rest.’

David smiled, and buried his head in Patrick’s shoulder. It was all messy, the past with that music, the present and the feelings it threw up in him. His connection to the man who wrote it too. The gap he left in the world. The weird interconnectedness of a grief for someone he didn’t know, and the link of his words to people he’d loved. He felt himself sob again against his husband’s shoulder.

Patrick pulled back and fixed him with a ‘listen to me’ look and David did his best to comply.

‘We’re connected to them.’ he said decisively, ‘The people who make the things we love. They’re entwined in our lives, even when they have no idea. They are part of our best and our worst moments- even the really mundane ones. They are part of us.’ he took a breath ‘It’s ok to grieve for them too.’

‘Well this one has spectacular timing.’ David rolled his eyes.

‘Hey you were already a mess right?’ Patrick grinned. ‘Or maybe it’s incredible timing. I can’t think of anyone’s music more fitting can you?’

David nodded, and Patrick led him towards the chair in their office, and pulled David down into his lap. He let himself curl into his husband, letting the tears fall unchecked, giving in to the permission he’d been given to feel it.

“Stop worrying where you're going-
Move on
If you can know where you're going
You've gone
Just keep moving on.”

Patrick smoothed his husband’s hair as he cried, he didn’t try and calm him or stop him, just let him cry.

“Look at all the things you've done for me
Opened up my eyes,
Taught me how to see,
Notice every tree-
Notice every tree…”

‘She did that David. Not in any traditional sense, but Moira Rose taught me to see the world her way.’ he kissed David’s hair ‘Some might say it was her world and we just lived in it.’

David laughed, and cried some more.

‘Just keep moving on
Anything you do
Let it come from you
Then it will be new
Give us more to see…’

David leaned into his husband, crying softly for the man whose words he loved. Whose life lessons stayed with him, even when he didn’t realise it. And for the woman who was the centre of his world- of anyone’s world who encountered her.

‘You never cared what anyone thought. That upset me at the time because I wanted you to care what I thought.’

David started to laugh. He couldn't help it, this was so perfect. The long forgotten dialogue there so apt. He felt Patrick laugh under him, and then felt the hitch in his breath too which showed he was crying now too. But his husband tightened the grip on him and let them ride it out.

‘Not that I ever forgot you George, you gave me so much.’ Patrick whispered to him. David stood up again and wiped his face. Patrick was smiling at him. ‘This one is my favourite.’ he said, ‘Because things change us, the very worst things in the world can happen but we keep moving on.’ he pause ‘But also it reminds me of carrying the things we love with us- the artists that inspired us, their work with us. I know, I know it’s about making art not us looking at it but I always thought it felt like that too. The way the things we love change us, and keep us company along the way.’

David smiled. ‘I like that too. They’re always there even when we move on. Even when we lose the people who made them. Or that they remind us of.’

‘Anything you do, let it come from you….’ Patrick said quietly, pulling his husband closer.

They listened quietly, together as the last number played out.

‘On an island in the river
On an ordinary Sunday...
Sunday...
Sunday…’

Patrick let David sit a while in the quiet after, before kissing his hair.

‘C’mon, it’s our Sunday and we’ve got a lunch date to get to. Can’t keep them waiting.’

‘So many possibilities.’ David smiled in response. Patrick shook his head and kissed him again.