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“I am going to crash out.”
Patrick was talking to himself. Perhaps he was going crazy.
Patrick wanted to go crazy. He wanted to throw things and punch walls, to scream, cry, and yell. He paced the hotel room wildly. He wanted to go home. He hated New Orleans. He needed Kansas City; he needed wind and fountains and a fucking rack of ribs to eat his feelings.
“Fuck.” He sank into a crouch, burying his fingers into his hair. It was late—too late for him to be awake. Andy had just looked around the silent locker room and sent them back to the hotel. They’d be on the first plane back, and Patrick should be trying to sleep.
He picked up his phone. Twelve missed calls from fucking Justin. His hand clenched around it, and he daydreamed vividly of throwing it, of shattering it. He wanted to break the screen against the solid wooden end table of his hotel room.
He didn’t bother with any of that. He shut down his phone, and even though he had showered at the Superdome, he walked to the bathroom in the dark and stumbled into the shower. He stripped off on autopilot and turned the water temperature as high as he could stand.
He was losing his mind.
Patrick was crashing out. Perhaps he was going crazy.
That was the only reason why, after a too-long flight, after the longest game of his life, and after a long drive home in silence, Justin Herbert was in his house.
Patrick did what any sane man would do, arriving home and seeing their ex-boyfriend in their house after a loss in front of the entire nation with the damn president in the crowd, and threw his fucking phone at him. And his keys. And the bowl full of mail was sitting by the door. And the plastic vase next to it.
‘I should’ve put a porcelain one there,’ he thought to himself when Justin ducked, and the vase only bounced off the wall and to the ground instead of shattering. That would’ve been much more satisfying.
Where the fuck were his dogs? He had two giant pit bulls that should be protecting his house right now. Where were the big scary dogs when you needed them to maul someone? Sure, they were mostly harmless, but he was sure they’d protect him in the end.
Justin straightened up, and Patrick realized that he had just been standing there, staring at him for far too long while chucking things at him in silence. He opened his mouth. There were no words. Justin cleared his throat.
“…Patrick,” He said, voice soft and kind, and Patrick was going to kill him for daring to be that way. “…I wanted to check in on you. You didn’t answer my calls.”
Patrick stared at him, searching for words to respond. He opened his mouth once again and surprised himself by laughing, cruel and bitter.
“What the fuck do you even mean by that?” He spat out, and suddenly, he couldn’t stop, rage blinding him. Perhaps, if he wasn’t fresh off a flight that, while only being a couple of hours, had been practically silent, and there had been fucking delays because of weather, and all he had wanted was to get home and have a fucking nap, he would’ve been calmer, and nicer, and not grabbing the nearest things to throw at the man.
“Of course, I didn’t fucking answer your calls! You fucking broke up with me! We haven't spoken in fucking weeks! Because you didn’t want to fucking talk to me!”
He was saying “fuck” a lot. Maybe he needed to calm down.
“You fucking asshole!” He chucked a picture frame at Justin, who had the nerve to dodge. Unbelievable. He wanted to gouge his eyes out and ruin his perfect, pretty face.
“You broke up with me a month and a half before the Super Bowl! And you only want to talk to me after I fucking lost!?” Patrick didn’t even recognize his own voice, loud and angry as it was. He hadn’t felt this way since he was a teenager and was enraged at his parents for being the way they were.
Justin seemed startled, too, backing up and giving him space. “I know, Patrick,” He said, eyes wide. “And I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”
Patrick suddenly couldn’t even shout at him anymore. He was exhausted. He was furious, heartbroken, and tired, and to his horror, tears started welling up in his eyes.
“Get out, Justin.” He choked out, pressing the back of his hand to his eyes. “I don’t… I can’t do this today. I’m tired. Just leave,” He walked forward, Justin stepping out of his way and escaping to the rest of his house, leaving his bags dropped on the floor in favor of hiding from the world.
Distantly, as he rushed up the stairs and into his room, where his dogs were waiting to greet him, he heard his front door open and close.
He needed to change his locks.
Justin was there the next day.
Patrick had slept for sixteen hours, and when he finally woke up, he nearly started swinging when he walked into his kitchen, searching for where his phone had landed, to see them on the island, right next to where Justin was sitting.
Silver and Steel, the traitors, flew at his ex-boyfriend in delight, tails wagging. He stared in betrayal.
“What the fuck.”
Justin stood up, hands up in the air defensively.
“Hey Pat, can we talk?” Justin tried. Patrick’s eyelid twitched.
“You want to talk?” He tried to sound calm and be even-toned in a way that was hard to manage. He wasn’t quite there, but hey, he hadn’t thrown anything yet. “Okay, fine.” He took a deep breath, the picture of serenity, he was sure. “What do you want to say?”
Justin sighed, reaching out with a hand before clearly thinking better of it. “You’re right. I was a complete asshole for dumping you, and I’m sorry.”
Patrick wasn’t sane enough for this conversation right now, but he was going to be an adult. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he gestured vaguely toward the living room. “Come on, you might as well sit. Let me put the dogs outside.”
As Justin walked through the archway, Patrick hurried to the back door, glaring down at the two pit bulls wiggling excitedly at his feet. “You fucking traitors,” He hissed, opening the backdoor. They were unoffended, careening outside, and Patrick watched them run, taking a long moment to fortify himself mentally.
He walked toward the living room, leaving the backdoor open. Perhaps if he started screaming, the dogs would maul Justin for him.
Justin was sitting in his usual spot, looking nervous. Patrick felt a spike of twisted joy. 'Good, he should be uncomfortable,' he thought. He’s in my fucking house.'
Patrick dropped into a chair, arms crossing over each other. They looked at each other in silence. He raised an eyebrow. He wasn’t going to speak first.
“Look, Patrick, I was wrong. I’m not asking you to forgive me now, but I fucked up,” Justin spoke rapidly, fainter than normal, but held eye contact, eyes clear and beautiful. “I love you, and I was a fool for running; I just thought-” He took a long, deep breath, leaning forward in his seat. “I got scared and stupid because I love you!” The Chargers quarterback finally blurted out.
Patrick stared. He was going to commit a murder today, it seemed.
“That came out wrong!” Jusin said even louder. “I meant that I love you, and I want to come out with you. And bring you to meet my family. And maybe meet yours, although I know they might be less cool, and go with you to functions. And I didn’t want to tell you before the Super Bowl because I didn’t want to psyche you out, and then we got into the fight, and I left like an idiot. I’m sorry, forgive me, marry me.”
Patrick stared. Justin covered his mouth with a hand. Patrick stood up, walked around the coffee table, and smacked his hand down. Justin looked at him, mouth open, and Patrick grabbed this stupid, lovely man by the shirt, pulled him to his feet, and kissed him.
He pulled away, tilting his chin up just slightly to look him in the eyes. “I still might kick your ass, just so you know,” He murmured, eyes narrowing slightly. Justin nodded dumbly.
“As I deserve.”
“Yes, you do.” Patrick yanked Justin closer, gripping him even tighter by the collar. “And if you ever do something like this again, I won’t talk my teammates down from murder.” He paused. “Taylor was going to poison you at the NFL Honors.”
Justin nodded again, eyes slightly wild.
“Anyway, kiss me and make me briefly forget why I’m so angry at you, and then we’ll call our families and plan some dinners. After our-” Patrick shoved Justin back down toward the couch. "-Families know, we can call our agents and plan a coming out, and after that, you’re going to repropose to me in, like,” He paused again, “A year or two when I’ve mostly forgotten about this and so the sports world doesn’t explode. Understand?”
Justin, once more, bobbed his head obediently, and Patrick dropped into his lap.
“Good. Get to it.” And Justin kissed him.