Identity Check

Chapter 13

"At least you haven't cut your hair," Simon said. "I worried about that."

"What? No, I haven't cut my..." Patrick shook his head. "Shut up about my hair! What the fuck are you doing here?"

"We going to stand outside and talk about it? I've been waiting in the car for a couple of hours and I'm freezing." He glanced at the bag Patrick had dropped. "Is that a Chinese or an Indian? I could do with a bite. Cup of tea would be good too."

Patrick wondered if he actually had tripped up in the dark. Tripped up and bashed his head and this was all just a dream. Any moment now he'd wake up in a hospital with a big headache. When he didn't answer, just stared, Simon came closer to him, picked up the carrier bag and sniffed the contents.

"Chinese. Come on then, don't want it getting cold."

Well, the dream, or hallucination, or whatever it was seemed to be continuing. Trance-like, Patrick bent to pick up his house keys. Simon chuckled and came out with the predictable gag.

"While you're down there..."

Patrick straightened up fast and glared, thoughts of concussion and dreams vanishing. Did Simon think he could just walk in here and expect...

He snatched the carrier bag out of Simon's hand and opened the door. Not interested in food now, he threw the bag into the kitchen, aiming at the table, but not caring when it slid off and hit the floor. Simon started to protest, but Patrick ignored him. He marched into the living room, tossing his jacket at the coat rack on the way. Simon followed, taking off his own jacket and throwing it onto the sofa.

"Why the fuck haven't you called me?" Patrick demanded, spinning around, spitting his rage, tasting bile in his mouth. "Do you know what I've been going through? Do you fucking care?"

Simon looked surprised. "I left my phone here when I went to New York. Well, I didn't realise they worked abroad, did I?"

"They have other phones in New York!"

"But I didn't have your number because I didn't have my phone. I did try to call you at home, but turned out you were gone, and your parents wouldn't give me your mobile number. They were pretty unpleasant to me actually."

"Well, what the hell did you expect?"

Simon shrugged. "So what was I supposed to do? I didn't even know where you lived."

"You could have emailed me."

"But... if you've moved to a different house, does that still work?"

"Of course it does, you idiot!"

Simon frowned. "Well I didn't have your address thing, okay? And, well, to be honest, I don't know how that email shit works. And I didn't have my computer, so how do I send one anyway?"

"You don't need to be at your own PC for God's sake! Use a webmail service, or your ISP's on-line interface." His baffled expression almost made Patrick laugh. "You're such a fucking Luddite."

Simon didn't appear to know what that meant, just shrugged again.

"So how did you find me in the end?" Patrick asked, his voice calmer now.

"You know that old gal who works as a cleaner for your mother? After I came home, I chatted to her in the Feathers one night and she said she'd heard you were living in Newcastle, but didn't know where. So I gave her fifty quid to sneak a look in your mum's address book."

"You bribed my mother's cleaning lady?" He spent money to find Patrick? Maybe the rest of the stuff, about not having his phone, was true.

"Had to find you, didn't I?" He smiled. "I missed my muse."

God, that word. Patrick's stomach flipped at the sound of it. Perhaps Simon saw some kind of invitation in Patrick's face then, because he stepped forward and reached for him. But the move just reawakened Patrick's anger. He pushed Simon's hands away.

"You think you can just stroll back in here and grab me? It never occurred to you that you've lost those privileges?"

"C'mon, Pat, it's me," he said, looking baffled. "Don't you know what you mean to me?"

"How can I know? You left me for months! I've got other things going on in my life now."

"Other men?" Simon shrugged. "That's okay, I don't mind sharing. It's not as if I asked you to wait for me."

"But I did wait! I waited for a call, a text anything. But what could I think in the end? I could only think that you didn't want me any more."

"Of course I want you." Simon stepped forward again, but Patrick backed up a couple of steps, maintaining the distance. "I'll always want you. You're my muse."

Dammit, he was using the word because he knew the effect it had.

"How can I believe that? You left, and then my parents found out about us and I couldn't even talk to you. You deserted me!" His eyes were growing hot, almost ready to weep tears of rage and frustration. "I was alone. I was scared." His voice cracked and he didn't dare speak again. This time Simon moved faster, stepping up and taking Patrick in his arms, held him there, despite Patrick's half-hearted attempt to pull away.

"I'm sorry, baby. I didn't know. I'd have come back sooner if I'd realised you needed help."

"I don't need your help! Worked things out myself." He wouldn't admit any more fear and weakness. Simon hadn't been there to help. Too late now. "Let me go!" He shoved away, breaking free. "You're too late, Simon. You can't walk in here and think I'll just bend over for you. I've got someone else now."

Simon made a show of looking around the room, then back at Patrick. "I don't see anyone here but you and me."

"I've promised to be faithful to him."

Simon laughed at that, as if he found the idea quite absurd. "Yeah, sure."

"Shut the fuck up."

"I'll shut up if you give me something better to do with my mouth." He grinned. "Got any ideas?"

"You're not listening to me! You never did, did you?"

"Not true. I listened to you for years."

"And then you stopped listening. As soon as you started fucking me. As soon as you got what you wanted."

"You can't say it's not what you wanted too." He stepped closer again, arm's length away now. "Yeah, you were scared that first time, but you didn't need much persuasion. You wanted it. You'd wanted it for months."

It was undeniable.

"You still want me," Simon stepped closer, put a hand on Patrick's arm. "You wouldn't be this angry if you didn't. Can you tell me honestly that it's been as good with any other man as it was with me?"

He should push the arrogant bastard away, Patrick knew that. But that familiar body, that strong hand on his arm, the scent of him. God yes, the scent of him, that aftershave, mixed with traces of nicotine and turpentine... The memories were overwhelming him. His body responded to the memories despite the anger and despite everything he'd promised to David and to himself.

"You can't, can you?" He took Patrick in his arms again, meeting no resistance. "You can't say that any of them have been as good as me. We're made for each other, Pat. Nothing you can do about it. It's just fate and all that epic shit."

He leaned in and kissed Patrick. Now both the scent and the taste of him invaded Patrick's mind. He should push him away. He should say Simon was wrong, he wasn't the best. But that would be a lie.

Simon broke the kiss first and his lips worked their way around to Patrick's ear, where he whispered softly. "You know which time was the best? Wasn't even in bed. Didn't get that far. You were sat on top of me on the couch, riding me."

"Stop it. Don't."

"Still had most of our clothes on. Couldn't spare the time. Just needed to fuck. I was just looking up at you and you were so fucking beautiful I felt like I was fucking an angel. You remember it?"

Well of course he did. How could he forget? They'd had to put his shirt in the washing machine right afterwards. He'd put his jeans back on and walked around just in those, shirtless, bare-foot and loving the effect that had on Simon, who made him pose that way to draw him, then pounced and pulled the jeans off again.

"There's a couch right here," Simon whispered.

"No!" This time Patrick meant it. He shoved him away so hard that Simon staggered a couple of steps and scowled with frustration and annoyance.

"Aw, fuck it, Pat, come on! You want it. You're hard. What the hell's wrong with you?"

"I want you to leave. I'm not going to bed with you, and that's all you want from me, so you might as well go."

"Who says that's all I want? What about the project? You're still my muse."

"What's the going rate for life models?" Patrick said, folding his arms, not believing Simon's bull for a second. "Because I'll charge that, plus twenty percent."

"That's not funny."

"I wasn't making a joke. The project is over Simon. You ran out on it and on me. You don't get to come back and pick up where you left off, either with your brush or your cock."

"Okay!" Simon snapped. "Okay, you've made your point. But trust me, Patrick, you still want me. Here." He held out a small card. "That's the hotel I'm staying in till Tuesday. And you know my mobile number. Call me, or come over, when you're ready. Don't wait too long. It's a nice long weekend."

Patrick took the card, not wanting to continue the argument and delay him leaving. Simon picked up his jacket from the couch and patted one of the cushions.

"Looks nice and comfortable," he said, grinning wickedly. "Plenty of room."

Before Patrick could answer that, Simon turned away, throwing his jacket over his shoulder and strode out of the room. The front door slammed shut. Patrick leaned back against the wall, short of breath as the tension drained from him.

Simon.

Why now? Why the fuck now?