Saint Patrick ☘ (shamrocked_) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2011-04-30 12:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | saint george, saint padraig, saint patrick |
Who: Patrick, Padraig, and then George
What: Bonding, misunderstanding, and random trauma leading to healing
When: Friday, 29 April, 2011
Where: London hotel room
Warnings: Saints discussing sexuality (OMG!!!1!! /sarcasm), slight alcohol, and one projectile Holy Book.
They were calling it the wedding of the century. It was so important to the people to England, that they had declared a bank holiday so the people could line the streets and watch the cars containing the royal family and the bridal party go by. The noise was indescribable, and Patrick tried to enjoy the wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton. He really did try. He even spent a good twenty minutes with George (appropriately not the British version) pointing out ridiculous hats and laughing while secretly wishing they were his. He was fairly sure George was aware of his unspoken wish to wear ridiculous headgear anyway.
But his haberdashery-inclined jealousy wasn't enough to break him out of his gloom, which hadn't lifted since he set foot in London. He was in a different country that John, and for the past two nights he had gone to bed alone, only falling asleep when exhaustion won out. He wasn't alone by any means, being surrounded by family and friends, but Patrick couldn't help that falling asleep by himself reminded him of decades and decades spent in a drunken state as he drank away his loneliness. He had no idea how to be on his own any more.
The reception was supposed to take place in Buckingham Palace, but Patrick had had enough. Instead of moving from Westminster Abbey to the palace with the rest of them, Patrick ducked out and returned to the English George's house to change out of his ridiculous wedding clothes. While there, he grabbed his backpack with his notebooks, preparing for his night with Padraig. They had a hotel room booked, and Patrick planned to head over and get a head start on organising which notebooks had memories Padraig could fill in for him.
Clad in jeans so that no one would ever suspect he had just attended the royal wedding, Patrick slipped back out onto the street, headed towards the Underground with the intent of heading to their hotel. Once on the train, however, Patrick decided to wander around a little to clear his head. Specifically avoiding the side of town where people were crowded together by the millions, Patrick instead took the Underground to Baker Street Station and from there, he wandered towards Regents Park where he spent an hour on a bench, being eyeballed by seagulls.
It was on his way back to the hotel room that he stopped off to buy a bottle of whiskey.
When Padraig arrived at their hotel room, hours later, Patrick was sitting on his bed with his notebooks spread in front of him and the bottle in his lap. He looked up at smiled wearily at Padraig who let out a sigh of relief. "I didn't know where you had gone. I've been looking, and I called to cancel the reservation and they said we had already checked in."
Patrick frowned at Padraig and he hung his head. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't handle all the people. And I- Nevermind." Patrick missed John. And sending him hourly text messages that pretty much just read :(:(:(:( wasn't a substitute for John's arms around him, even when John replied with loving and delightfully filthy texts. Deep down, that terrified Patrick. The fact that he had so perfectly attached himself to John's side so that he questioned if he could even function without him was too much to think about. And without John to stop him, numbing those thoughts had seemed like a good idea at the time. And yet, Patrick had only taken one drink of the whiskey. "I didn't drink very much."
Padraig glanced at the nearly full bottle in Patrick's lap and he visibly relaxed. Then he took his jacket off as he said, "you worried us."
"I'm an ass," Patrick replied, throwing his hands up in the air. "And I am utterly incapable of being on my own!"
Padraig gave his American self a worried glance and, jacket-less, he stepped over to relieve Patrick of the bottle of whiskey. "Come no. You should have seen the spread at the reception, Patrick. Amazing. Have you eaten at all?" he asked, carefully putting the bottle of whiskey with his own things.
Patrick knew Padraig was hiding taking care of him behind wedding banter, but he let it go because being difficult took too much energy and he was hungry. "No. I was wandering."
"Right. Let's order you up some room service," Padraig said, handing him the menu, "and you can explain to me what's going on here."
Patrick nodded and he let Padraig order some soup and coffee for him. He stayed silent while Padraig chattered on about the reception and how he had been bored out of his mind, and how English George had cried and mumbled about how proud he was of Wills and Harry. When the food arrived, Patrick ate dutifully and when he was finished he had to admit he did feel better.
"Now," Padraig said, once Patrick had settled in on the bed after cleaning up from dinner. "Tell me what's going on."
Patrick sighed and he ran his fingers through his wild hair. "Padraig, how do you...how do you do it alone?" Patrick had been alone for decades and he had descended into a hermity, self-loathing drunk. Now he had his family and friends and he had John and he coped better, but it was still a struggle. Padraig was in Ireland, separated from his brothers by their respective countries, and he didn't have a John. Patrick had become an alcoholic wreck and from what he saw, Padraig didn't have any problems at all, and the only people who knew Patrick was wrong were Padraig himself and English George to whom Padraig told everything.
"I don't know if my answer will help you, Patrick," Padraig said with a sigh. "You're not concerned with me." As focused as he was on himself, Patrick missed that this was an issue for Padraig. "What do you really want to ask?" Padraig sat on the end of the bed then, while Patrick was leaned against the head of it, his knees pulled up to his chest.
"Am I only worth something because I'm with or around stronger people?" Patrick whispered. And then he went on to word vomit everything he had been worrying about for days now. "I've only been here two days and I can't cope with being away from John. I miss him. I'm lonely. I want to go home, but the thing is, he's there and he's waiting for me, and nothing's changed so I should be able to just enjoy myself but I can't. I never realised how much of what I do now is to make John happy. Even now? I didn't drink that bottle of whiskey because I promised him not to drink alone, and I didn't want to disappoint him while I was in another country. I mean, what would it say if the first thing I did when I wasn't with him was break a promise I made to him?! I want to get better so I can be there for John and I want to understand myself so I can be worthy of his love. And without him here, I'm just...me. And I don't...Padraig, I don't care about me; not in isolation. I only care that I matter to someone like John. Does that...does that make our relationship...bad?"
"No," Padraig said quickly. He crawled up to sit beside Patrick then, deciding that sitting on the edge of the mattress seemed too stuffy. He leaned in, bumping Patrick lightly with this shoulder. "Of course not. You love each other, and that's never a problem. The issue you are having is loving yourself too. Doing those things...getting better for John and your siblings, that's great. It's a starting point. Now you have to realise you deserve to be better."
"So...I'm not pathetic?"
"No, Patrick," Padraig said with a fond smile. "You still have things you need to work through, but that's not pathetic. Realising that is actually progress."
Patrick looked a little shocked, but then he realised Padraig was correct. He was learning, not failing. The realisation made him beam. "I didn't think of it like that!"
"That's alright," Padraig said quietly. That's what I'm here for. That and filling in your memories. Do you remember you visited Ireland once after you left?"
Patrick blinked in surprise. "I...did?"
"You did. In November, 1920."
To most Irish people even in 2011, this date was significant. To Patrick, he merely looked confused. "What was I doing? Did I come by boat?"
"You did. You came to oversee an operation we had planned so I could take care of something here. The very something George held me captive for, actually."
Patrick made a face at that, but he didn't dwell. "So I came over during the war?"
"You were incredibly helpful during the war. You arranged shipments of supplies and hid a few fugitives. You took President De Valera around when he visited the US, thinking he was going to meet your president. He was a foolish man, sometimes."
"We all are," Patrick said easily. The idea of helping out in a war made Patrick feel important, despite his current pacifist tendencies. He had helped liberate his people and that was pretty special. And then, because Padraig was there and warm and Patrick often resembled a puppy, he curled up against Padraig's side. Padraig, who was not really used to this much physical affection, stiffened for a moment before giving Patrick's back an awkward pat.
"Ahem, yes. A-Anyway, you came to Dublin and I left the operation in your hands. And it went as smoothly as an operation like that can possibly go. And when tragedy struck as the English retaliated, you handled it very well."
"Do I want to know what I did?"
"When you decide you to, you'll look it up," Padraig said wisely, sidestepping having to tell Patrick he helped with the murder of several British informants.
"But I helped?"
"That day, despite it's regrettable outcome, was one of the turning points for public opinion which led to the treaty, the Irish Free State and eventually the republic."
Patrick looked contemplative and then he said, "sometimes I forget I have a past. That I did things worth mentioning in books. When when I do think about that, I think of you as that person."
"We were the same person then. It's alright to be proud of the things you've done, Patrick, as long as there is a touch of humility in it."
"I just don't really know how."
"You'll figure it out," Padraig said, smiling at his American self. "After all, you have a few things figured out that I don't."
Patrick didn't think that was possible. "Like what?"
Padraig didn't usually talk about his own feelings, not in relation to himself. He could make passionate pleas for his people, waxing on about his love for them and his broken heart, but when it came to himself, he preferred to be a blank slate in a lot of ways. But the truth was he wasn't. Perhaps it was something the two of them shared. Maybe it was why Patrick had trouble taking care of himself. Padraig reasoned that if he expected Patrick to grow, he should try too. George was the only one who could understand Padraig's loneliness and that was because it was so much worse for him. George wasn't with Sebastian and Padraig wasn't with John. And both of them had to stand by their countries with their American selves enjoyed living with the men they loved.
"You've worked out how to be loved," Padraig explained. "I never could. I was too busy. Always too busy. I never believed that having something for myself was wrong; that's the rebel in me. But I couldn't take the time. And now...well. It's a little late now."
Patrick listened, his heart breaking for Padraig. He must have been like that one day too then. Perhaps he had his two-decade long breakdown to thank for getting him to slow down. "You could find someone now?"
"I could, but again, I'm busy," Padraig shrugged. Ireland has a new Dáil and a new Taoiseach. The work is all there is with me."
Patrick's eyes widened. "Have you ever been with anyone?!"
Padraig chuckled and he said, "do you remember our teenage years? Before Ireland?"
"A little. ...oh. Right." Patrick blushed then, and he leaned off of Padraig's shoulder, feeling slightly uncomfortable all of a sudden.
Padraig smiled a little, mysteriously. "Since then, not much. When I was alive, I...we refused to be with any of our followers, most of whom were women. That pretty much left men, though most of the people who didn't follow us were not fans of us, strangely enough. And then after out death, we carried on our work so there wasn't much time. I slept with George once, back before we became brothers-"
Patrick made a choking sound and he turned to stare at Padraig. "George!? SAINT GEORGE?!"
"Of course Saint George. Calm down, Patrick. It wasn't a big deal. We had just met each other and we were both spreading God's word. It just seemed like a nice distraction from the work."
"A nice dis-" Patrick shook his head and then he made a face. "Blehno. No. Speak no more about George."
Padraig snickered, but he nodded anyway. "Right so. Since then there hasn't been much. Too busy."
Patrick finally grabbed his notebook to write some of this down, though he left out the part about George. "We had a whole country to convert in order to bring about the end of the world, right?"
Padraig laughed. "Ah, yes. That. And when the church started to preach piety, I followed along for a while because it seemed right, but I got over that. I think when I spent quite a while in a safe house with one Anabaptist."
Patrick smiled at the mention of his boyfriend, but then he frowned, thinking of his own indiscretions before John came along. "I only got over it with John too. Before him, I-I thought I was condemning myself to Hell."
"And it was never the sex part I have had a problem with. It was connecting with someone." Since John, anyway. "I don't think sex without love is preferable, but I haven't related to someone in that way in a very long time. I'm too closed off, and occasionally, I'm an tempestuous."
"You think I'm not?" Patrick asked, amused at Padraig's word. "I ran away from the reception like a child, and didn't tell anyone where I was going. I just happened to find someone who accepts all of me."
"Like you accept all of him?" Padraig asked, looking away.
"Exactly," Patrick said, nodding before he noticed the strange expression on Padraig's face. "...what?"
"When Jean and Sebastien visited, I heard you erm... Well, word gets around. Were you with both of them?"
Patrick shifted again, the uncomfortable feeling refusing to leave his belly now. "Uhm...yep. Why?"
Padraig looked a little like he was in the middle of walking a tightrope and he had changed his mind, and there was no point in turning around to go back. So he charged ahead. "Well, if-if you and I were to...I mean, it would basically be just like...well...me. And that's- that would be nice."
The look on Patrick's face gave away his utter shock at being propositioned by his Irish self. He started at Padraig for several seconds before jumping off the bed like he had been burned. "Is this why you asked me to stay with you?" The sudden movement caused Patrick to lean dizzily against the wall.
"What?!" Padraig looked shocked by Patrick's accusation. "No! No, believe me, there was no forethought here," he admitted, looking upset he had said it at all. "Patrick, be careful- Come sit down." He reached out to Patrick, who shrunk away from him.
"Don't touch me," Patrick whispered, stepping backwards without looking where he was going and nearly tripping over his bag. In his mind, Padraig was pursuing him, not taking no for an answer, and all evidence pointing to the contrary was something he would only realise a few minutes later.
Padraig stepped forward again, his hands outstretched to help steady his American counterpart. "Patrick, really! I'm sorry. Come back to the bed."
"No! Leave me alone!" Patrick yelled, and he grabbed the Bible he had earlier set on one of the tables and he hurled it at Padraig as a distraction as he ran for the door.
The Bible caught Padraig painfully in the leg and he hissed several swear words in Irish, which Patrick heard as he fled the room and made a break for the fire escape. Once safely closed into the concrete stairway, Patrick burst into tears and he pulled out his cell phone, quickly dialling his brother George. "Pick up, Georgie, pick up," Patrick whispered.
George ducked outside, into the small garden at the side of the Limey's house. He still felt wired from the reception, the buzz of dancing and being happy running contentedly through his veins. Answered his cell phone with a happy, "Yeah?"
Patrick sniffed and he wiped at his eyes as he tried to form words. "George," he sniffled. "You have to come get me. Please?"
George's whole body instantly stiffened at the sounds of Patrick in distress. "Of course, Patty. Where are you, what happened?"
"I'm at the hotel," Patrick said with a wail. He repeated the address, though he had already given George the address before. "I'm hiding in the third floor fire escape."
"All right, I'll be there right away, okay?" George said. "Just stay right where you are and I'll be there."
He hung up the phone and ducked inside, grabbing the English version of himself and pulling him into the hallway.
"Something's wrong at Patrick's hotel," George said. "I need you to give me the quickest directions there."
"Patrick's hotel?" the Limey asked, eyes widening. "Padraig is with him. I'm going with you, come on."
They made their excuses to the other people in the house, not sure precisely what was going on, and headed out into the London streets. There was still an atmosphere of revelry, with people wearing giant hats and waving the Union Jack flag everywhere. Normally, George would have been excited to see a flag bearing his cross on literally every street corner (and he had been, throughout the day), but right now, all he could think of was his brother.
When they arrived at the hotel, both Georges looked up at it.
"All right, I'll go up and get him," George said after a moment. "Limey, you stay down here and figure out where Padraig is."
"I'll thank you not to give me orders, especially obvious ones," the Limey said, already dialing Padraig's number. "Now go get your brother."
George rolled his eyes and headed up the fire escape, calling out "Patrick?" when he was near.
Patrick, who was sitting on the concrete stairs on the third floor, stood when he heard George coming for him. He reached out and hugged George tightly, crying into his brother's shoulder.
"I'm sorry for making you come get me," Patrick whispered, feeling horrible. "I just needed you. Padraig is still in the room. He-" Patrick shook his head and he hid in George's shoulder. "He wouldn't leave me alone."
Padraig, meanwhile, had answered the phone and told the Limey he was in his hotel room and that there had been a misunderstanding between himself and Patrick.
George pulled Patrick into the hug, kissing the top of his brother's head quickly and holding him tight.
"What do you mean?" he asked worriedly. "Did you two have a fight?"
In the hotel room, a slightly more reserved but equally worried George knocked frantically on the door of Patrick's room. When Padraig answered, he asked, "What happened? Is everything all right? The Yankee said Patrick was upset."
Patrick clung to his brother, trying to find the words to describe what had happened. In his muddled head, it still felt like Padraig had come onto him and then tried to get him to come back to bed after he had jumped off of it. "No, he- He wanted- George, he wanted me to sleep with him and I don't want to, and he wouldn't let me go!"
Padraig held up a hand and he let out a heavy sigh. "I am fairly sure Patrick believes I just tried to assault him, though I absolutely did nothing of the sort." Padraig didn't explain why Patrick might have assumed that, however.
"Wait, what?!" George asked, holding onto Patrick a little tighter, like being hugged would ward off any bad memories. "He tried to what?"
It was a shame that he was going to have to beat the shit out of another version of Patrick, but some things couldn't be helped.
Inside the hotel room, the English George just raised an eyebrow.
"And why exactly would he believe that? Unless you made some cultural faux pas that means 'I want to sleep with you right now' in America?"
Patrick started to shake slightly as memories of past dalliances came back to him and turned his stomach. "I didn't want to sleep with him. He wouldn't let me go so I threw the Bible at him and ran," Patrick whispered.
Padraig groaned and he sat down on the bed. "George, do you really want me to explain that, or will you just accept 'there was no cultural faux pas' as an explanation? The only misunderstanding was...after he refused, I think he thought I didn't want him to leave. I just didn't want him to hurt himself because he looked incredibly distressed."
George just sighed and sat on the bed next to his brother. "You knew he is occasionally, as the American once so colorfully described him, 'jumpier than a deer on methamphetamines'. I'm assuming not much forethought went into this whole thing?"
Whatever Padraig was about to say was interrupted by the American George stomping into the room, staring at them both furiously, and then punching Padraig in the face.
The English George sprang up, equally furious now, and slugged his counterpart right in the jaw.
"OW!" the American yelped, staring at George as if he were the one who walked into the room and started hitting people. "You punched me!"
"You just punched my brother!" George hissed back.
Padraig jumped up and he held his hands up, despite his aching jaw. "Everybody stop punching everybody!" he said, his voice inviting no arguments. He reached out for the Limey, to calm the man's wrath, though if George punched the Limey back, he was going to get hit again.
Patrick, who had jumped up and chased his brother when George had stalked towards the hotel room, burst through the door to find his George holding his jaw and the other George looking quite angry. Padraig was standing between them, looking exasperated. "George, what are you doing?" Patrick whispered.
"Punching me," Padraig answered him. "Patrick, whatever you think happened in here, it's not what actually happened."
Patrick just moved to hide behind his brother, taking George's hand into his. "Are you okay, Georgie?"
"I'm fine," George said, pulling Patrick close and still glaring at Padraig. "Did you try to attack my brother?"
"Wouldn't that have been the question to ask before you started punching people?" the Limey asked angrily, moving to stand in front of Padraig to block anymore fists aimed his way.
"You punched me back!"
"Because you're acting like an arse!"
"George!" Padraig hissed at the Limey. "You're not helping! And no, I did not attack Patrick."
"Yes you did!" Patrick squeaked at Padraig from behind George, but when he thought about it now, Padraig had made no move to block him from leaving. He hadn't grabbed him. Padraig hadn't hurt him. "Or...I thought you did-"
"I was worried you would fall over and hurt yourself," Padraig explained. "I didn't know you would panic, though perhaps I should have." Padraig turned to the American and he said, "we were just talking, and I-"
"You propositioned me," Patrick interrupted, causing Padraig to clench his jaw, but he didn't deny it.
George let himself relax marginally, though he didn't let go of Patrick's hand. Padraig propositioning Patrick was a lot less beating-worthy than Padraig trying to assault Patrick.
He felt bad about punching him, now.
The English version of George found thinking, This is why you don't make eye contact with the other versions of you when you're having sex with them. And their husbands. It only leads to unpleasantness. But saying that out loud probably wouldn't help the situation.
"But can we agree that it was not an attack under any circumstances?" he said instead. "Padraig being somewhat awkward at romance is not worthy of panic."
Padraig threw a glare at his brother and then he swatted at the Limey's arm in rather girly fashion. "Brute."
Patrick looked lost for a moment and then he swallowed and nodded quickly. "I...I guess. I thought you were trying to stop me from leaving."
"Patrick, I would never do such a thing. You should know that. I'm you. Are you capable of such a thing?"
Patrick stared at his other self for a moment and then he burst into tears again and Padraig turned to the Limey and he whispered, "why don't you stop me before I do things like this?"
The American version of George immediately pulled his brother into a hug, shooting both of the UK saints a glare as if this was their plan all along. "Shh, it's okay."
The English George just shook his head and whispered back, "What am I supposed to do, send you daily messages reminding you not to frighten yourself?"
"That would be helpful, don't be so snarky," Padraig hissed back.
Patrick clung to George yet again and then he looked up at George, his eyes all puffy and red. "I'm so stupid, Georgie," he wailed. "I can even handle- Can we go for a walk? I can't stay here anymore."
"We can bring your things back to George's house," Padraig suggested helpfully. "Since I am guessing you don't want to stay here?"
"No," Patrick said firmly. "I don't want to stay here."
"Yeah, a walk will be good," George said, tugging Patrick towards the door. "We'll be back in a little while."
He kept his arm around Patrick as they made their way towards the elevators.
Back in the room, George raised an eyebrow at Padraig. "Well. That was unique."
Patrick sniffled and he wiped his eyes as he leaned against his brother. "George, I'm so sorry. I just...panicked. I thought he-" Patrick shook his head as they walked. "I feel dirty. Like...Padraig just assumed I would sleep with him because I'm so obviously morally corrupt." And then he made sure George didn't misunderstand that. "Not because of John at all, but because of what I used to do before John."
Padraig sighed and he sat down on the bed, his hand over his sore eye. "That's putting it mildly. And to answer your previous question, no, no forethought went into that."
~American Bros~
George gave Patrick another hug, pulling him gently inside the elevator as it dinged open.
"Oh Patty," George said, still hugging his brother. "You know that's not true at all. He's you. If he thought you'd just jump into bed with him, I don't think he'd have asked about it first, you know? He'd have just made his move."
Patrick hadn't thought about it that way, and it did make a lot of sense to him. He nodded and let out a heavy sigh, leaning against George. "I guess you have a point there. I just feel like...I feel tarnished."
"You shouldn't," George said firmly. "You've made mistakes, but they're in the past. And you've owned up to them, you know? You're trying to avoid putting yourself in bad situations again. I'm proud of you."
Patrick groaned, but they were in the lobby now, so he remained silent until they walked out into the night.
"George, Padraig and I were talking about sex, and he was saying he never had much time for it. He talked so casually about it, but I just can't. I spent twenty years waking up in strangers' beds and hating myself. George-" Patrick lowered his voice to a whisper, "I never wanted to sleep with any of those people. I didn't want that. But I was so lonely and it seemed like...it seemed like that was the only way to be close to someone so I let it happen."
George stared at Patrick for a long moment, and then pulled him into a tight hug.
This was one more thing he should have protected Patrick from. George had often wished he and his brothers had come over to America together, but never more than right now.
"I love you," he murmured, not letting go of his brother.
Patrick, glad for the embrace of his brother, whispered "I love you too, Georgie." He didn't let go either, he just kept talking. "It was different with John from the beginning. He wasn't some random person in a bar and he actually seemed to care. The love came first and I...I didn't know it could be like that."
Then he leaned back and he sniffled a little, wiping his tears before he gave George a tiny smirk. Padraig told me something quite interesting..."
"It's what you deserve," George said, ruffling Patrick's hair affectionately. "I wish I could beat the hell out of anyone who ever made you feel any different."
George smiled back at Patrick. "Oh, yeah?"
"I let them make me feel that way," Patrick admitted. "I didn't think I was worth anything else. I know differently now." Patrick took a deep breath of air and he let himself believe, for once, that he did deserve the happiness John gave him. "He makes me happy and he's not here which is why I've been such a miseryguts. I promise to stop right now." Patrick smiled at George and then he added, "and Padraig told me we slept together once."
George started coughing, his breath getting caught in his throat. He stared at Patrick, baffled.
"Whaaaa?" was all he could mangage.
Patrick shrugged, suddenly not bothered by the knowledge in the wake of Padraig coming on it him. "That's what Padraig said! Back when we first met and weren't brothers yet. I am assuming you seduced me." Patrick gave George a wicked grin.
George sat down abruptly on the sidewalk, laughing and lowering his head into his hands at the same time. "Oh God. I don't...that is craziness, I don't remember that at all. Although I don't remember very much about the first time I came to England at all, so I guess that...my entire brain just stopped working, yikes."
Patrick plunked himself down beside George and he leaned against his brother with a chuckle. "Thanks for that, bro," he said, his voice dry though he didn't actually take it as an insult at all. "I am fairly sure Padraig wouldn't make it up, though I have a hard time imagining it."
George snorted and nudged Patrick with his shoulder. "Oh shut up, like your brain didn't shut down when he told you."
He rubbed his jaw, which was starting to swell from the punch the English George had aimed his way. "I'll have to ask him about that, I guess. Once, uh, I apologize for hitting him. I don't think the Limey remembers it either, since he never once mentioned it."
"Oh no, it did, but then he tried to sleep with me. That sort of took precedence. So now it's funny," Patrick said with a smile. "Are you alright there? Do you want to go back to George's so you can put ice on your jaw?"
"Yeah, probably for the best," George said, giving his jaw an experimental poke. "My fists are the size of some peoples' heads, why did no one tell me this earlier?"
Patrick chuckled and he leaned in to kiss George's head, despite the subject matter they had just been discussing. "No one probably assumed you were going to punch yourself in the face. Come on, big brother," Patrick stood and he offered George a hand up. "Thank you for coming for me."
"People should never doubt my willingness to punch things," George said, chuckling and taking Patrick's hand. "Let's head back, I'll have the Limey bring you your stuff. And no worries, Patty. You'd have done the same for me."
"I would," Patrick nodded firmly. "Of course I would. Back we will go." Patrick gave George's hand a squeeze, content in the knowledge that his older brother loved him. He would work through everything else.
<
~English Bros~
George glanced at his brother, caught between wanting to tease him a little and wanting to comfort him.
"You wouldn't happen to have any ice in here, would you?" he asked. "Because you're set to have a very large bruise if you don't put something on it to bring down the swelling."
Padraig nodded and he went to the mini-fridge to pull out a drink can to press gingerly against his throbbing face. "I probably deserve a large bruise," Padraig said easily. "I was in the middle of texting John so he knows the situation."
George sat on the bed next to Padraig, resting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. He hoped the American John wouldn't blow this all out of proportion. "Good Lord, you do find your way into strange situations."
Padraig pulled his phone out again and he continued texting with his free hand. "I don't think that trait is unique to me, brother," Padraig said, never taking his eyes off the phone. "Though I have to admit you're right." Padraig finished off his text and he looked up at George. "Can we please act as if this never occurred?"
"Oh no, I reserve the right to tease you about it for the rest of our lives," George said, giving Padraig a pat on the back. "I'm sure he'll recover soon enough. You were always good about fending off unwanted advances."
"You're an arse," Padraig informed his brother, but he smiled while he said it. George could get away with teasing him, even if no one else could. "I suppose I was. Do you remember that woman in the tavern in Derby who wouldn't leave me alone? We were trying to find information about...what was it? Some kind of horrible thing. And she kept bringing us ale."
George chuckled. "She kept leaning over to show you her breasts, too. I thought I might have to pry her off of you at one point. I think we were looking for a basilisk? I hate those."
"Eugh," Padraig shuddered. He hated snakes, and basilisks were no exception. He was, however, very skilled at getting rid of them, being who he was. "I do remember her bending over. Goodness me. I'd rather have the basilisk."
Padraig didn't elaborate on whether or not he was being all kinds of metaphorical.
"We should make it an established historical fact that Saint Padraig is not impressed by the wiles of breasts," George said with a laugh, lying back on the bed and staring at the hotel ceiling. After a moment, he said, "They're strange. The Americans, I mean. The road not taken."
"Not when they're shoved in my face," Padraig insisted, lying back beside his brother. "And I didn't assume you meant breasts were strange. It is strange to see what they left to find. I remember making the decision to go and then cropping back up, knowing that part of me had gone and I was supposed to remain. They get to live in the same city. Must be nice."
I could have been talking about breasts, George thought, a little petulantly, but he didn't say it out loud.
"They don't know how lucky they are," George said. "Did you feel any different, once he left? I always wonder if the American took some part of me that I've never really been aware of."
"I felt trapped for a while in my own country. I was left behind to help the people who stayed instead of setting off to help the people who moved on during the first famine. Patrick went to a different life and, in my eyes, a land of promise and plenty since that is what people felt about America in Ireland at the time. And I was stuck in the middle of a famine, hungry and feeling a little abandoned. But I don't think he took any part of me that didn't remain behind."
"I felt like he ran away," George said, in reference to the American George. "He was allowed to do what I couldn't and leave behind Europe and the Empire and all the chains and cages that went with it. And he's happier because of it, and I feel jealous. Which is silly."
He sighed and turned to look at Padraig, smiling a little. "So, you think under the right circumstances you'd be as bouncy and excited as Patrick, hmm?"
"It's not silly," Padraig said, shaking his head. "I feel jealous too. I don't know if I would ever be as bouncy and excited as Patrick, but the possibility is there, even if it does frighten me. He's...unique. The kind of unique I am just fine not being, even if I am sometimes jealous of what he has."
"Perhaps if we styled your hair to be huge and tall?" George suggested, reaching out to ruffle Padraig's hair. "For what it's worth, I like you just fine this way."
"I like me just fine this way too," Padraig said with a nod. "And I like my hair not huge and tall." George turned his head to smile at his brother. "And I like you the way you are too, if we're being sentimental saps tonight."
"Well, it's the wedding of the century, and you know how sentimental weddings make me," George laughed. His phone beeped, and he reached over to check it. "Ah, I'm being tasked with fetching Patrick's things eventually. The American me is quite fond of giving orders."
"It's a good show you punched him then," Padraig said dryly. "Kidding, of course. We'll gather his things and return to your house. How are your knuckles. Do you feel like you punched a statue in the face?"