The Best Man: Part Three (FINAL)

The Best Man: Part Three

First Digital Edition

©Copyright Lola Carson 2014

THE BEST MAN

PART THREE

Everyone’s nursing a headache the next day, but even on Boxing Day Connor has to work so he leaves after lunch, and Patrick disappears for the rest of the day. He didn’t catch Patrick’s eye during the brief time they spent sharing the kitchen, getting coffee and headache tablets, and when Connor comes back that night, Noah overcompensates with his affection for him, feeling a weird twist of guilt. And when Connor takes him to bed and goes down on him, Noah lets him, even though he’s not feeling it, forcing an orgasm out with thoughts of eyes and mouth and skin and hands that look nothing like Connor’s, building on his guilt.

He gets out of bed later when Connor’s asleep, creeps into the darkness and chill of the living room, looks around for the blanket and can’t find it, puts on the oversized hoodie he finds instead. It’s not until he’s snugly wrapped up in it watching TV that he realises it’s Patrick’s—he can smell him, seeping into his senses and making his skin tingle.

Patrick comes in sometime later, like he always does, and there’s a curious quiet to him. Noah can’t read him, doesn’t even know how much he remembers of the night before, and when Patrick does little more than drop his keys on the counter and offer Noah a brief, vacant smile, Noah says, “Where’ve you been?”

“Spent the day with Anne.”

Noah nods, and he hopes it’s the truth. Hopes Patrick’s not been out walking the streets alone all day, avoiding him. “You have a good time?”

“It was nice, yeah,” Patrick mutters vaguely. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

He comes back with two mugs of hot tea, hands one to Noah as he sits beside him.

“Thanks,” Noah says, and this feels so surreal and normal that he can’t wrap his head around it.

Patrick nods at the telly. “Where are we tonight?”

“Edinburgh,” Noah says after taking a moment to think. He hasn’t really been paying attention to it.

“Nice up there.”

“Never been.”

“You should go,” Patrick says. “Get Connor to take you.”

He feels Patrick’s mention of Connor is deliberate, bringing the man into the room with them, a barrier. A reminder of why last night was the worst night, and not the kind of night that Noah can still remember every detail of, feel every touch.

He swallows. “Look, about what happened…”

Patrick shoots him a look that’s almost begging him to shut up. “Do you really want to talk about that?”

“I just—” says Noah, because yes, he does, he really does. “We’d had a lot to drink, things got a bit weird—”

“It’s fine,” Patrick says, his tone mildly snappish.

Noah holds his breath, stares at the side of Patrick’s face. “I’m marrying your best friend,” he says, but he’s saying it for the wrong reasons and he knows it. He’s not saying it to remind Patrick of why last night was wrong, why what he’s feeling is dangerous and massively inappropriate.

He’s saying it because he wants a reaction from Patrick, a hint as to how he’s feeling, what he’s thinking about, how he’s managing getting close and hot and thrilling with Noah one minute, discussing best man duties with Connor the next.

When Patrick looks at him now, Noah sees it—the turmoil, the guilt, but above all—smothering everything—the conflict. The anger. The
I want
and the
can’t have
. “So you keep reminding me.”

Noah looks at him, and Patrick looks back, and there’s something like sadness settling in his gut, making him smile gently without a trace of mirth.

“You know what’s funny?” he asks, his tone soft. “I met Connor the night of your leaving party. I’d only just missed you apparently.”

Patrick blinks, and his eyes lose focus for a moment as he works it out, and then something like pain flashes across his face. “So you’re saying if I’d stayed another five minutes…”

“Or I’d arrived five minutes earlier… Yeah.”

They don’t need to finish the thought. It’s agonisingly clear. In some other universe, in another life, this could have been a completely different story.

It’s with a gut-wrenching twist of renewed guilt that Noah allows himself to admit, quietly in his own head, that he would never have even noticed Connor that night if Patrick had been there.

The sadness Noah feels is reflected on Patrick’s face and he runs the back of his finger across the sleeve of his hoodie Noah’s wearing. “Looks good on you,” he murmurs.

“I was cold.”

They smile quietly to each other, a moment of pure understanding, and then they leave it, let it go. Settle back on the couch, put their feet up on the table, and watch the telly in silence.

Connor gets up a while later, in need of the toilet and a glass of water, and when he comes back to the living room, he collapses onto the armchair and squints across at them both.

“What are you two doing up?”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Noah mumbles.

“I’ve just got in,” says Patrick.

Connor looks at the telly. “What’s this shit you’ve got on?” he asks, leaning over to snatch the remote off the arm of the sofa, switching the channel over.

“Give us the fucking remote back,” Patrick snaps, and there’s an unwarranted anger in his tone that concerns Noah. “We were watching that.”

Connor gives them a curious look, eyes scanning over the pair of them, brows drawn.

Noah realises how it looks. He and Patrick are sat close together on the couch, feet up on the table beside each other and touching, each of them holding a mug of tea, and he’s wearing Patrick’s hoodie.

They look like a couple. Cosy.

He suddenly feels overwhelmingly uncomfortable.

“I’m going to bed actually,” he says and he gets up and leaves them, the weight of Patrick’s heavy gaze following him.

* * * * *

The next week is uncomfortable. Everything’s changed. Noah’s painfully aware of this thing between them now, can’t get away from it no matter how many distractions he tries. They’ve spoken of it out loud, brought it into the glaring light of reality.

They edge around each other as if afraid of rocking the boat. There’s an undercurrent of anger in Patrick now, an edge of tension in everything he does, everything he says. It’s like the sight of Noah infuriates him, and yet he can’t keep away. He’s snapping at him about something even as he’s gliding a hand over the small of Noah’s back to get past him. He doesn’t speak when they sit together at night watching the telly, but he sits close, and there’s always some kind of touching, and it’s like he hates every moment of it even as he pushes for more, challenges the boundaries. His eyes watch Noah wherever he moves, following him as he cooks or cleans or leaves to go to work, where he’ll then look up and find Patrick walking slowly past the shop, looking in, branding him with that heat in his eyes.

And beneath the rush of heat thrumming in Noah’s veins all the time now, he feels so guilty, because Connor’s done so much for him and he doesn’t deserve this, having this go on under his nose. Connor’s working too much in the lead up to New Year because he’s taking the first two weeks of January off for the wedding and honeymoon, says he wants to get on top of things so he doesn’t need to worry when he takes his break. But it leaves Noah and Patrick home alone a lot of the time, the pair of them itching with this tension, the silence of the unspoken. He knows Patrick’s making the effort to be absent as much as possible, but when he’s home things are tense in the most painful, exquisite way. Noah can’t breathe with it, always on edge, always waiting for the next snap of anger from Patrick, waiting for the next deliberate, slow, lingering touch.

Things come to a head eventually, developing into an argument in the kitchen one evening. Noah doesn’t even know what they’re bickering about, but it gets Patrick worked up enough to take Noah by the hips suddenly and push him against the counter.

“You’ve never even asked me about him,” he hisses, and it has nothing to do with what they were arguing about, this random accusation spewing out of Patrick as if he’s been holding it in, keeping it locked in the cage of his brain.

Noah’s head’s still spinning with the abrupt change and the counter’s digging into his back, and Patrick’s eyes are a storm of unresolved desperation, and his voice barely has any sound when he says, “What?”

Patrick’s fingers tighten on his hips, and he bares his teeth for an instant. “No one knows Connor better than me, and yet you’ve never once asked me to tell you any stories.” He tilts his head to the side, dips his face lower to Noah’s. “His childhood,” he adds, voice dropping to a vicious murmur. “Growing up. What he used to do, the places he went, memories of school.” He smiles, and it looks twisted. “All the things a man in love would want to know about the person he’s marrying.”

Panic rises in Noah and he wants to get away, couldn’t move if paid. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Doesn’t it?” Patrick croons, eyes flashing burning fire. “You’ve wanted to know every detail of my life.”

“I was just getting to know you,” Noah says, almost pleading. “You’re Connor’s best friend.”

It makes Patrick huff a mirthless laugh.

“That’s your safety blanket. The same thing you parrot out every time things get a little dangerous.”

Noah narrows his eyes, because this feels like a personal attack now, and he’s not interested in having his motives flayed open and scrutinised. “It’s the only thing that matters,” he says firmly, puts his hands on Patrick’s chest to push. “This has to stop.”

Patrick resists Noah’s attempts to get him away, presses in closer, smothering him from thigh to chest. He drags his hands up Noah’s sides, and he rolls his hips forward, and the twisted gleam of triumph glints in his eyes.

“You’re hard,” he murmurs, dipping his face down lower, speaking almost into Noah’s mouth. “You’re hard for me.”

He’s not lying; Noah’s dick is pulsing with heavy arousal, reacting to Patrick’s proximity, the sultry growl of his voice. He’s as hard as Patrick is right now, nestled against his thigh.

“Being attracted to you doesn’t mean I should throw away my marriage,” he says on a shuddery breath, and Patrick’s eyes narrow, something about what he’s just said wiping away the heat.

“You’re right, Noah.” He pulls away suddenly, and he steps back, leaving Noah trying to catch his breath against the counter. “He’s my best friend. And right now you’re fucking him over.”

“That’s not fair,” Noah snaps, anger flooding him, refusing to carry all of this on his shoulders alone. “I’m not the only one to blame here.”

Patrick considers him. Noah can see he’s still hard. None of this is denting his reaction to Noah.

“I’m not the one marrying him.”

It all rushes out of Noah on a wave of anger and pain, the one thought he’s had that he can’t voice, the one thing he’s pretending is irrelevant, when really it’s possibly the only thing that matters.

“No, you’re never marrying anyone, remember? Because you don’t believe in love or commitment or anything that’s worth taking a gamble on you.”

Then he storms out of the kitchen, leaves Patrick alone and seething, heads out of the apartment and straight through the town and keeps walking until his head’s clear, and he can see straight, until all of this makes sense.

Only it never does, and when he makes it home again, Patrick’s gone for the night.

* * * * *

“Can’t believe we’re getting married in a week,” Connor mutters, running his fingers through Noah’s hair.

Noah’s lying on Connor’s chest in bed, eyes half shut, still mostly asleep. Connor woke up with more surprising spontaneity this morning, trying to coax Noah into a blowjob, but Noah wasn’t in the mood and he didn’t have the heart to fake it, so he declined, and they settled for a bit of a cuddle instead.

“I know,” he mumbles now through a small yawn. “It’s gone so fast.”

Connor’s silent for a while, threading his fingers through Noah’s hair, chest rising and falling rhythmically beneath Noah’s head, threatening to send him into another slumber.

“Listen, I’m sorry about all this with Patrick.”

Noah blinks his eyes open, his stomach tensing slightly. “What d’you mean?”

“Having him here the past few weeks. I know it’s been difficult to get any alone time.”

He’s had plenty of alone time, just with the wrong person.

Even if he’s starting to feel that it’s not the wrong person, just the wrong place in time. It’s a thought he has no choice but to keep to himself, bury deep in the recesses of his brain, never look at it too closely.

“It’s fine.”

“He seems to like you a lot,” Connor says. “It’s weird.”

“Is it?”

Noah holds his breath, shifts away from Connor a little so he can’t feel his heart starting to race.

“Yeah, he doesn’t really like anyone. But you… he talks about you a lot. He’s taken an interest. If I didn’t know better,” he says, amusement in his tone that makes Noah glance up at him, “I’d probably be jealous.”

The feeling swelling within Noah now is distinct and thick and cold. It feels like loss, the loss of something he never had to begin with.

“He’s a nice guy,” he forces out, settling down on Connor’s chest again. “I like him.”