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“I can't believe we didn't get any dessert!” Patrick shouted, reaching down to slip his hand into Joe's as they left the restaurant.
The other man shot him a knowing glance. “You couldn't even finish your entree,” he told Patrick. “You were complaining about how full your stomach was.”
“Yes but there's always room for dessert. Especially if that dessert is vegan cheesecake.”
At this Joe simply rolled his eyes, albeit playfully. He was more than used to Patrick's dramatic nature. After all, it was one of the many things he loved about the drummer. There was a lot he loved about Patrick and that Patrick loved about him, which was why they were both perfectly content to wander downtown LA after their dinner. Living in California, it was a lot easier for the two of them to be open with their relationship, although they still received the occasional dirty look. But since that was the worst reaction they'd ever gotten, neither of them could really be fucked to care.
Speaking of dirty looks… “I swear it's like some people never saw a couple of twinks walking around LA before,” Patrick mumbled, leaning in close to whisper in Joe's ear. He smirked, using the close proximity to press a kiss to his boyfriend's cheek. Let the self-righteous assholes cast their dirty looks. Patrick was in love, and unashamedly so. He'd never given much thought to marriage or a future before Joe but now, there was no one else for him. Ever.
He'd honestly been wanting to bring it up to Joe, getting married and that kind of shit. But he was a little scared, mostly because they'd barely been “official” for a year. Was it too soon? Would it scare Joe away? Patrick didn't think he could survive losing Joe. Ever.
“What are you thinking so hard about over there?” The sound of Joe's voice snapped Patrick back to reality. It was a genuine question, still punctuated by the playful tone that seemed to permeate everything that left Joe's mouth.
“Heh, you said hard,” Patrick said with a slight giggle, tossing the other man's joke back at him which earned him an eye roll. He shrugged his shoulders. “Not really thinking about anything. Just…thinking. Mostly just you.”
“All good things, I hope.”
Patrick's face relaxed into a grin. “With the exception of a few things, yes.”
“I feel like I already know what those things are, so I'm not even gonna ask.”
“See? You know me so well.” Patrick let go of Joe's hand to slip his arm around his boyfriend's waist, leaning in to press a short kiss to his lips. “And that's why I love you.” Another kiss, this one a bit longer, desperate in the way that Patrick wanted to make sure, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Joe knew just how much he meant to him. “We should have a drink or two,” he mumbled against his partner's lips.
“You would suggest that,” Joe teased. “But since it'll end up working out in my favor later, I'm game.”
A smirk graced Patrick's lips. “I'll find us a bar.”
The Beer Keep was close enough, but he didn't want to subject his employees to watching him make out with his boyfriend all night, so he decided against going there. But with this being Los Angeles, there wasn't a shortage of bars to choose from and it was easy enough to find one within easy enough walking distance. The one Patrick chose was decently sized but a bit crowded, which wasn't surprising given that it was nearly 10pm on a Saturday night. There weren't any seats open at the bar, but Patrick was able to find the two of them a couple of seats near the wall.
“A Jack and coke for my man,” Patrick said, handing Joe the glass. “And an old-fashioned for me.” He took a seat next to Joe, bringing his glass to his lips.
“Just try not to–” Joe started, falling short as Patrick all but chugged the drink. “--finish it too fast. Patrick. ”
He brought the cup down, letting out a belch. “What?” He grinned at Joe. “I'm gonna go get another.” Patrick darted over to the bar, adding another old-fashioned to his tab and receiving his drink before heading back over to Joe and taking a seat.
“Don't drink that one so fast,” Joe chided. “I don't wanna be dragging you out of here.”
“Oh come on, I just ate!” He smacked his belly for emphasis. “Besides, you know you love it when I get tipsy.” This was punctuated by a wiggle of his eyebrows.
“Yeah, I like when you're tipsy , not when I've gotta carry you into the apartment.”
“I won't get that drunk. Promise.” Patrick punctuated this with a slow kiss. There was just something so absolutely intoxicating about kissing Joe. Even their most innocent of embraces was enough to set every cell in Patrick's body ablaze and he knew with utmost certainty that he never wanted to kiss anyone else ever again. “I love you, you know that?” Patrick said softly, pulling away from Joe only enough to speak before kissing him again. “You're–”
“Aye, ya gotta do that here?” An irate voice cut Patrick off. This time he fully pulled away from his lover, turning to glare at whoever the hell just yelled at them. It was a middle-aged man, clearly intoxicated, sitting alone at a table closer to the bar. “Some of us got…good Christian morals, we ‘ont wanna see that shit.”
“You're drunk as shit, alone , at a bar so spare us your ‘morals’,” Patrick shot back. Unfortunately, he was no stranger to this kind of behavior from strangers. He'd been out long enough that he'd seen and heard more than his fair share of homophobic rhetoric. But Joe was different. And while Patrick knew he couldn't shield the other man forever , that didn't mean he wasn't gonna try his damndest for as long as he could. “We're not hurting you, so fuck off.”
Another thing Patrick was particularly skilled at was reading bar patrons. It came with the territory of being a bartender. But honestly, it wouldn't have taken a rocket scientist to realize he'd just pissed this guy off. “Don't make me say it again, boy.”
Boy. Like he was a fucking child. He opened his mouth with another retort, but Joe was quicker to fire off. “You know Pat, I think maybe he's just jealous that you're gonna get some dick when we get home and he isn't.”
Now the drunkard was on his feet. “What did you just say t’me, little faggot?”
That was enough for Patrick to lose all sense of jokingness he might have possessed up until that point. He'd been called that word before, many times, and at this point he really didn't give a shit about it. But this guy was talking to Joe and he'd be damned if he let anybody talk to his boyfriend that way. Faster than he thought he could move, Patrick was on his feet and in the man's face. “Watch yer fucking mouth.” The sentence came out absolutely slathered in his Buffalo accent, a glaring sign of his anger. And honestly, he did have a lot of pent-up aggression. It's the trauma. “Don't talk about my boyfriend like that.”
“Or…what?”
“Patrick, stop, ” Joe hissed from behind him.
“Yeah, listen to your little boyfriend , ya stupid little fruit.”
There was Joe's voice in his ear again, telling him to calm down , but Patrick ignored him. “You know, usually when people are this ‘offended’ by two men kissing, it usually means they're a little gay–” This time Patrick was cut off by something more solid, namely a fist to the cheek. He stumbled back where, luckily, Joe was there to catch him before he hit the floor.
“Hey, what the fuck are you doing?” Their scuffle seemed to have attracted the attention of one of the bartenders, who stormed in their direction with fury in his eyes. He grabbed up the drunk man by the collar of his shirt. “Ronnie, how many Goddamn times do I need to kick you out of here before you get the fucking message?”
“They started it!”
“Nice try.” The bartender released his grip on the man's shirt, giving him a shove towards the door. “Get out. Now. Before I call the fucking cops.”
“But–”
“ Now. I'm not telling you twice.” There was a short stare down between the bartender and the drunk man and for a second, Patrick thought he was going to try and argue some more. Luckily, the man seemed to know when he'd been beaten and the threat of a night in jail was enough to send him packing. Once the door shut behind him, the bartender turned to Patrick and Joe. “You alright, man? Lemme get you some ice.”
Patrick waved him off. “Nah, it's fine,” he told him. “But I will take another drink.”
“Actually,” Joe interjected. “I think we'd better close our tab and leave.” Patrick considered arguing, but the look on his boyfriend's face when he looked over at him told him it was best not to.
“Yeah, go ahead and close the tab.” He fumbled in his back pocket for his wallet, taking out his debit card and passing it to the bartender.
“You gotta stop doing that shit,” Joe chided once the bartender had stepped out of earshot.
“What, was I just supposed to stand around and let that asshole talk to you like that?”
Joe sighed. “No, letting your temper get the best of you.” He reached a hand up to touch Patrick's cheek, and the drummer winced. “I can handle being called a couple of names. What I can't handle is you getting hurt. Or arrested.”
“Oh, I wouldn't have been arrested,” Patrick said, turning up his nose at the idea. He could see Joe's rebuttal forming already but luckily he was saved by the reappearance of the bartender.
“Sorry about all that,” he said, handing Patrick back his debit card. “Ronnie's a regular. Unfortunately.”
“Yeah don't worry about it, man,” Patrick said. He looked over to Joe. “You ready?”
The other man nodded and they both rose to their feet, heading towards the door. They both seemed to realize at the same time that they'd walked the several blocks to the bar from where they'd parked the car, but honestly, it seemed like neither one of them minded the walk. “You know,” Joe started, clearing his throat. “As much as I hate it when you get into fights like that, it is pretty fucking hot watching you be all protective and shit.”
Patrick smirked. “Maybe you'll remind me when we get home?”
“I think I can make that happen,” Joe replied. He leaned over to peck Patrick on the cheek and just like that, the drummer was giddy with love all over again. All thoughts of their accoster in the bar were long gone as Joe turned his head and caught Patrick by the lips, drawing him in instantly. God, he couldn't wait to get him home and–
“I oughta kick your little ass for that.” A gratingly familiar voice cut through the calm and Patrick let out a loud sigh.
“Don't you have a gutter to keep warm or something?” Patrick asked, turning around. “Leave us the hell alone.”
“It's not enough that you…got me kicked outta the bar but then you gotta go and do this shit for every…everybody and their mother to see?”
Patrick scoffed, feeling the anger creep up his neck like a rash. “I think Joe was right, you're just jealous I'm gonna get dick when I get home and you're not. Go run down any of these alleys, I bet you'll find a homeless guy to blow you for five bucks.” Was it a bit harsh? Maybe. But any degree of caring had long left him. “Seriously, fuck off.”
“I'm gonna fucking kill you,” Ronnie growled, lunging at Patrick. The drummer was more than ready for the second confrontation, looking forward to beating the shit out of this drunk asshole. But as Patrick steadied himself for the assault, he found himself being shoved to the concrete and he was forced to watch in what felt like slow-motion horror as Ronnie plunged the blade of a knife into Joe's stomach.
The noise that left his mouth as he scrambled to his feet was certainly not human. He shoved Ronnie, hard enough to send him sprawling back onto the pavement. The knife clattered as it landed several feet away and as people from inside the bar began to flood out to see the cause of the commotion, Patrick knelt by Joe and pulled his lover into his lap.
“Joe. Joe, baby, look at me.” He brushed the hair from Joe's forehead, the only thing he could think of doing at that moment. His eyes traveled down Joe's abdomen, taking in the blood that now covered his shirt. The wound was on the left side of his abdomen and Patrick racked his brain to think of what organs might lie underneath. “Why did you push me?!”
“Because I saw him…pull the knife out of his pocket,”Joe answered. He coughed softly and a bit of blood ran down his cheek from the corner of his mouth. “Listen, don't look at me like that. I'm gonna be fine. Tis but a scratch.”
A weak laugh left Patrick. Leave it to Joe to try and lighten the situation after being stabbed in the stomach. “You'd better be,” he said softly. “I can't live without you.” I can't.
Please don't make me live without you.
In the distance, Patrick could hear sirens approaching. Somebody must've called 9-1-1. “The ambulance is almost here, okay, baby?” His hand was shaking now but he tried his best to hide it as he brushed his thumb over Joe's cheek. “Just stay with me a little longer. Please.”
You can't die because of me. This is all my fault. This is all my fault.
When the ambulance finally arrived, Patrick did his best to tell the paramedics what happened, his recollection of things already hazy, coming in spurts. The yelling, the shoving, the knife, the blood. Joe. Joe. Joe. Joe. The female paramedic told him he could ride in the front of the ambulance to the hospital, for which he was grateful. Even if he hadn't been drinking, Patrick didn't think he would've been able to get it together enough to drive.
At the hospital, Patrick was led to a small, empty waiting room and it was here that he finally broke down, the emotions escaping him like a bursting dam. This was all his fault. All your fault. All your fault. If Joe dies, it's because of you. All because he couldn't keep his mouth shut, because he couldn't keep his temper under control. If something happened to Joe, Patrick would never forgive himself.
With shaking bands, Patrick pulled out his phone. Both of his hands were covered in Joe's blood, as were his own clothes, but he couldn't find it in himself to care. He clicked the icon for his contacts and scrolled just a little until the name Alison Occhiuti appeared. He had no idea what time it was on the east coast; probably late. He'd probably be waking Alison up, but he didn't care.
“Unh…hello? ” Alison's voice was heavy with sleep. “Patrick? Did you mean to call? It's like…past two in the morning.”
“Joe got stabbed,” Patrick spit out. “We went out to a bar after dinner and…and some guy wouldn't leave us alone and then he got kicked out and when we left he was waiting outside and he tried to stab me but Joe pushed me down and so he got stabbed instead and–”
“Patrick, Patrick, slow down.” Alison sounded more awake now, and he could hear the panic creeping into her voice. “Joe got stabbed? Where is he?!”
“In surgery,” Patrick answered. “They…they just took him back. They haven't told me anything. And…and I didn't know what to do or…or who to call. I just…God, this is all my fault. It's all my…my fault, Alison.”
“Hey hey, it's not your fault,” Alison said. In the background, Patrick could hear the sound of movement. “I'm gonna call Andrea and then mom and dad, and we'll be there as soon as we can. In the meantime, make sure he doesn't wake up alone, okay? He's gonna be fine. He has to be.” Patrick wasn't sure if he was meant to hear that last sentence, as softly as Alison had uttered it. “I gotta go. I'll…let you when we land at LAX.”
Patrick found a strange sort of solace in knowing that Joe's parents and sisters were coming. At least then he wouldn't be alone , especially if something– No. Nothing was going to happen. Not to Joe. It couldn't. Patrick stared at the doors to the operating suite, silently begging whatever might be listening to let Joe come out alive.
I can't live without him. Please bring him back to me.
Patrick wasn't sure exactly how much time had passed when those doors finally opened. The surgeon that stepped out looked exhausted, covered in blood, but that was a good thing, right? He'd worked hard, stopped the bleeding, saved Joe. The surgeon looked up, spotting Patrick, and made his way over. “You the next of kin for Occhiuti?”
Patrick nodded rapidly. “Yeah. Yes, yes I am,” he said. “Is he okay? What–”
He stopped short when he noticed the look on the surgeon's face. No. “We did everything we could,” he explained. No, no, no. “But the knife punctured his spleen and he bled out internally. He died on the table. I'm so sorry.”
Punctured his spleen…bled out internally… he died on the table. This is all your fault.
The first emotion to strike Patrick was denial. “No, that…that's not right,” he said. Joe couldn't be dead. “He's…he's alright. He's gotta be. Please, can I see him? Where is he? I want to see him!”
“Mr. Galante.” The surgeon's voice was soft but firm. “I'm so sorry, but your husband has passed away. You can see him in a little while, once he's been cleaned up a little bit. Again, I'm so sorry. Is there anyone I can call for you?”
Your husband has passed away.
For some reason, that was the sentence that stung the most. He wanted to marry Joe, wanted to have a life and a family with him. And now you'll never get to.
No no no no no no no no. “No!” Patrick shouted. He'd started to cry now, his hands balled into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. “You're lying. You're…you're…he…I…Joe can't be dead. He can't. I need him. And…and his parents are coming. His sisters. How am I supposed to look his mother in the eye and tell her I'm the reason her son is dead?!”
I'm the reason her son is dead.
And then suddenly, it was like all the fight had left Patrick and he dropped to the floor. He was a sobbing, heaving mess, essentially deadweight as the surgeon and a newly-appeared nurse tried to hoist him to his feet and into a nearby chair. They were moving at quite an average pace but to Patrick, it felt like slow motion. This couldn't be happening, couldn't be real.
Joe can't be dead. He can't.
It should've been you. It should've been you. It should've been you. It should've been you. It should've been you!
It was nearly twenty minutes before Patrick was able to collect himself enough to have a coherent thought. At that point, he pulled out his phone once again, the weight of it heavy in his hands as he considered the gravity of the phone call he needed to make. He mashed Alison's name once again, forgetting that she and the rest of the Occhiuti family were still on a plane somewhere. Flying here to LA, where they would be greeted with the most terrible news. Still, Patrick called again and again and again until finally he'd had enough and slumped forward, bringing his head down to his hands.
A darkness caught his vision in the corner of his eye and he realized that he still had blood on his hands. Joe's blood. Blood that had pumped from his still-beating heart. Patrick wondered in a panic if maybe he could've stopped Joe's bleeding sooner than he had. Would he have lived? Was this another way Patrick had played a part in having the love of his life ripped away from him? I should've done more, I should've done better. I should've saved him.
Please take me instead. I'll gladly take his place.
Or take me, too.
TAKE ME, TOO. Take me take me take me take me…
Even the voice inside his head was saturated with agony. He'd never wanted to die more that he did right now. Every single future he'd ever pictured had Joe in it and now the slate had been wiped clean. How could he possibly go on? How could he–
In his hand, Patrick's phone vibrated. Looking down, he saw Alison's name flashing across the screen. And her contact picture, it was…it was a picture of her and Joe. Starting to cry again already, Patrick brought the phone to his ear.
“Patrick, what's going on?” Alison asked. In the background he could hear movement and chattering and he realized they must still be on the plane. “We just landed and I had like twenty missed calls from you, what–”
“He didn't make it, Alison,” Patrick interrupted. “He didn't make it. He…he…the surgeon said something about his spleen and he…died on the table. He's dead, Alison, and it's all…all my fault.”
It's all your fault.
At first, Patrick heard only silence. But then, there was a heart-wrenching cry, the cry that could only come from a mother who'd just learned she'd outlived her child. “Don't…uh, we'll be there in…soon.” And then there was the click telling Patrick that Alison had ended the call and suddenly he was all alone again.
You're all alone forever .
It felt like an eternity before the door to the waiting room swung open and Joe's family poured inside, with Alison swiftly taking Patrick into a tight hug. He melted into the comforting embrace, the sobs starting again as he clutched onto the fabric of Alison's hoodie. “I'm sorry, Alison, I'm so…sorry,” he said, nearly choking on his tears. “It should've been me, I'm the one who was antagonizing the guy, I'm the one…he pushed me out of the way, Alison. It should've been me!”
I should've been the one to die.
. . .
Joe was buried in Boston, in his family plot. Next to this freshly turned earth was an empty plot, one that the Occhiutis had graciously gifted to Patrick. It was only right, Joe's grandmother had said, for the two of them to remain as close in death as they had been in life. He'd thought many times about the immense pain that would come with outliving his lover, but he'd never expected to feel it so soon.
And without Joe, Patrick felt…untethered.
I wanna go with him. Please let me go with him.
He didn't want to leave. He didn't want to go back to California, alone . Joe was here. His everything was here, buried six feet under that damp soil, and he was willing to rot away just to stay next to him. Joe doesn't like the dark , he'd told Alison. I need to stay here. Please let me stay. Don't make me leave him.
But she'd looked at him with those soft brown Occhiuti eyes, so similar to Joe's that it almost felt like a dagger to the heart, and told him to go.
Patrick hadn't been inside their apartment since the night Joe was killed. Maybe it was the time away, but he'd never really noticed just how much it smelled like Joe. And it looked like they'd only stepped out for the evening, the unfinished business telling a whispered story of tragedy. He crept through each room, surveying their belongings like they were priceless museum artifacts. And God, they might as well be. Relics of a future just forever out of reach.
Out of the corner of his eye, Patrick spotted the basket of laundry they'd started before leaving for dinner that night. The clothes were clean, dry, and folded, but somehow they'd never made it to the drawers. He supposed it was their eagerness to get out and eat. Or their eagerness for each other. And suddenly, putting away that laundry seemed like the most important thing he could do.
It was his part of the chore, after all. Joe washed the clothes and Patrick put them away. Joe hates putting away the laundry. Patrick paused. Hated. And honestly, putting away the laundry was the most normal Patrick had felt in days. If he tried hard enough, he could almost imagine that Joe was just down the hall in the kitchen.
But he's not. He's dead, buried on the other side of the country. Because of you.
No. He's in the kitchen making dinner and later we'll watch that cheesy movie he's been wanting to watch, and–
Patrick's plea of denial came to a halt as he felt his fingertips brush against something unexpected in Joe's sock drawer. It felt almost…velveteen. Certainly not Joe's choice in material for socks. Or underwear. Reaching just a bit further into one of the back corners of the drawer, Patrick hooked his fingers around this object and fished it free. It was a small, black box. Maybe cufflinks? They both had quite a few pairs and they tended to end up in the strangest places.
Just to be safe before tossing the box aside, Patrick opened it to check. Inside wasn't a pair of cufflinks, but a ring, black with a singular gold stripe down the middle. And inscribed on the inside, just barely visible without removing the ring, were the words…
Patrick Occhiuti.