Chapter Text
Underneath Patrick’s wedding ring, there’s a faint white line of skin that hasn’t seen the sun in five years. It’s the same colour as the tops of his thighs and the planes of his chest. When he starts to imagine it matching his forearms, he shoves the ring back into place like a kid caught peeking under a band-aid. It’s an experiment, that’s all. There’s no reason for him to be feeling so intrinsically sick.
“Patrick,” Toby says in that voice that means he’s delaying brushing his teeth.
Patrick forces a smile. “Yes,” he says as the boy meanders into his parents’ bedroom looking far too innocent.
“Why can’t we come with you?” He sits himself next to Patrick and pokes Patrick’s calves with his toes.
“I gotta work, buddy,” Patrick says, “it’s all grown-up meetings, you’d be pretty bored.”
“No I wouldn’t,” Toby insists, “I could take some toys. I’d be really quiet!”
Patrick hauls Toby into his lap and begins to tickle him. “You,” he says over the boy’s giggles, “have never been quiet in your life.”
As if to prove his point, Toby begins to shriek, his flailing limbs catching Patrick in soft and painful places. Patrick pins him down and smooths his ruffled hair.
“Your dad’s taking you to the aquarium this weekend, right?” Patrick says, “That’s way more exciting.”
“But I want you to be there,” Toby whines, wriggling himself upright and slumping against Patrick’s chest.
“It’s only two weeks,” Patrick says, trying to internalise it, “I’ll be back before you know it.”
Toby pouts. “Two weeks is so long,” he mumbles. Patrick wholly agrees.
“I know. But you can talk to me on mom’s phone if you ask her really nicely.”
“Can I call when I’m at the aquarium?”
“You’ll have to talk to your dad about that,” Patrick says, “but, either way, I want to hear all about it.”
“Okay,” Toby says, getting bored with the hug and squirming out of Patrick’s arms.
“Love you, little man,” Patrick tells him. “Now, stop stalling and clean your teeth!”
Toby scowls just like his mother does when Patrick reminds her to stop biting her nails. He wants to badly to be the man his (nearly) child thinks he is.
“Have you packed enough shorts?” Connie asks as she bustles into the bedroom with an armful of freshly ironed shirts. “You better sunbathe on my behalf.”
Patrick’s not sure anyone, on any resort, would appreciate his mismatched body lumbering around the beach, but there’ll be at least one other person who isn’t a model, right? A nasty voice in Patrick’s mind doubts it. “Yeah,” he says. “’Course.”
“You don’t seem very excited,” Connie says, the bed sagging as she sits down next to him. Patrick hasn’t been very excited at all, lately – in every sense of the word, much to Patrick’s repeated humiliation. “The boys and I will be fine.”
“I know,” Patrick says, even though he doesn’t, “it just – doesn’t feel right.”
Her hand finds its way between his shoulder blades and scratches lovingly. “It feels strange because you haven’t relaxed in, like – I mean, have you ever relaxed?”
Patrick laughs, releasing the breath he’d been holding. “I dunno, it’s just gonna be weird.”
“You’d better get your ass in the sea when the conference ends,” she warns, “I want photo proof.”
“Fine,” Patrick concedes, touching a hand to the small of her back, “I might be able to bring myself to paddle.”
“Oh, also,” Connie says, her voice dropping to a whisper. She glances at the door in search of children – there are none. “I was gonna have a word with you when you got back, but you might as well know now – I was having a look through the desktop, and I found some, uh,” she tails off, fumbling for the right word.
“Porn?” Patrick asks. It’s a common occurrence since Owen turned thirteen. “Because, I’ve found some software that –“
“No, no,” Connie says, “not quite. More like, uh, articles? About being – gay?”
The tension returns to Patrick’s shoulders. “Oh,” he says. “Well – it’s natural for him to be curious, I guess.”
“Yeah,” she nods, “but I don’t want him thinking it’s anything to be ashamed of. I might have a word with him, let him know it’s okay. You know what his dad’s like with this kind of thing. Just, you know, if he wants to talk, he can.”
“I’ll do it,” Patrick says, “when I get back. It might sound better coming from a dude.”
“Thanks, love,” she says, patting the nape of his neck. “And make it clear that whatever happens, we won’t love him any less. It’s not a big deal, y’know?”
“I know,” Patrick says.
It seems like a big deal, though, when his (almost) sons are hugging him goodbye, when his wife brings her hands to his face and kisses him softly even though her hips feel strange under his hands and their lips don’t fit quite right. It seems like a big deal when the front door slams shut and Patrick is left, totally alone, in a house that’s completely silent, in a body he barely recognises anymore.
He loads his case into the car and checks the back door. He puts away the kid’s laundry and makes their beds. He puts task after task in front of leaving until there’s nothing left to do but go. As he checks their bedroom one final time, his eyes trail back to the ring on his finger. When he eases it off, he doesn’t feel any lighter. He tucks his marriage to the back of the bedside drawer and leaves before he changes his mind.
-
Patrick reacts like a rabid dog when he sees the ocean approaching – his throat tightens and his skin crawls, his fingers clenching round the wheel. It’s as if even the family in the SUV behind him knows what he’s up to, where he’s going. He swears they’re following him. It’ll be in the news tomorrow – Man Who Has It All Betrays Loving Family on a Whim – there’ll be pictures of him, graphs of his declining impulse control, self-help books that use him as a deterrent.
As the SatNav informs him he’s fifteen minutes from the gates to hell, he tries to reason with himself. This isn’t a statement, or an escape, or a betrayal, it’s – a holiday. He’s here to relax, to switch off, and if he happens to undermine the nasty things his mind has been whispering at him for the past few years, well, that’s just his good luck. He clings to this thought – he’s here to prove himself wrong.
Carmel-by-the-sea is the closest thing to quaint California has to offer – the houses are arranged in artful clusters, blending with the vegetation. Secluded was the word Patrick Googled, and he’s yet to see a single person. The tension in his chest begins to subside; this whole venture will be a whole lot easier if no-one is there to witness him fall metaphorically flat on his overwhelmingly literal ass.
The Phoenix Beach Resort is as ordinary as anybody but Patrick might expect – there’s no parade, no topless men in thigh-highs strutting to take his booking reference, just a bored-looking valet who seems mildly pissed off at Patrick’s arrival. The only thing that gives it away is the sun-bleached rainbow flag fluttering above the porch. Patrick decides not to look at it.
“Welcome to the Phoenix,” the man says as Patrick opens his door. “Can I help you with your bags?”
No man on earth could lift the weight of Patrick’s guilt, but his suitcase full of unfortunate fashion is manageable. “Uh, yeah, it’s in the trunk. Thanks.”
“If you’d like to head inside, your bags will be sent up to your room and I’ll take your car for you.”
Patrick swallows, leaving the keys in the ignition and looking up at the smiling valet. He seems normal - Patrick peers at his right ear in search of a piercing but sees nothing. Perhaps that’s not the trend anymore.
“Is everything alright, sir?”
“Oh! Yes,” Patrick says quickly, tearing his eyes from the man in the hopes of avoiding a lawsuit, “I’ll just - yes.” He gets out of the car and wipes his sweating palms on his jeans. Once the car is gone, there’s no going back. He watches it drive away with a heavy heart.
“Just this way, sir,” another, equally handsome valet says. If everyone at this resort is that good-looking, Patrick might just walk out into the sea and never return.
The lobby isn’t quite as grand as their website suggested – the ceilings are lower and the potted plants droopier, but it’s somehow airy and cosy at the same time and Patrick’s grateful for the rush of AC over his reddened face. The receptionist is a woman. Patrick’s not sure why this is reassuring, but maybe if he stares at her cleavage long enough, the security guards will make his decision for him.
“Welcome to the Phoenix,” she smiles as he approaches, “can I take your name?”
She’s got one side of her head shaved and a tattoo peeking out from her collar. Patrick wonders if she’s a lesbian. He decides to assume she isn’t for the sake of his own sanity. Perhaps they can begin a passionate affair - he tries not to think about why this seems less taboo than ogling the valet. “Patrick. Stumph,” he says.
After a few moments of silence in which Patrick starts to hope he booked this in a dream, she places a key on the desk and smiles at him. “You’re in room one-oh-five. Breakfast is served from seven ‘til eleven, and the pool closes at midnight. If you’d like access to the gym…” Patrick stops listening as two men enter the building, lounging behind him as they wait to check in. He doesn’t look long enough to see if they’re holding hands, but he can hear them talk, giggle to one another, surely about Patrick.
“...any questions, feel free to ask.”
“Thanks,” Patrick says, already hurrying towards the elevator and away from the two men.
“Mr. Stumph,” the receptionist calls, and Patrick stops in his tracks - what can she possibly want now, she already knows things his own wife doesn’t, how much further can she humiliate him in front of the sniggering pair - “you left your keycard.”
Patrick’s face heats to roughly the same temperature as the well-advertised sauna and he shuffles back towards the front desk, catching the eye of one of the men. He’s attractive, of course he is, tall and grinning and beautiful, his arm slung around the shoulders of the other man whom Patrick doesn’t dare chance a glance at for the sake of his own ruined self-esteem. He snatches the card from the desk and tries to maintain a smile. He hears the man laugh and his soul twists in on itself - if only his dick were quite as perturbed.
The elevator ride is spent praying that no-one will join him. When the doors open, he peers down the hall in case of more smarmy specimens and scurries to his room, struggling with the key card before he finally falls into privacy.
He half expects the room to be adorned with leopard print carpet and a porn star mural, but it’s lovely, a perfect ocean view stretching out in front of him and crisp white bed sheets making his eyes sting. The tall, elegant mirror in the far corner shows him exactly what he looks like - there’s a splodge of mayonnaise on his ratty blue t-shirt and his face is flushed with a mixture of heat and humiliation. Neither look good on him.
When he checks his phone, there’s a message from his wife telling him to let her know once he’s arrived safe at the non-existent sales convention. He types out a response with his lip clamped between his teeth and presses send without looking, collapsing onto the bed staring up at the blank ceiling. He’s pretty sure this was the biggest mistake of his life. A decent man would be on his way home by now.
Then again, a decent man wouldn’t have booked two weeks away to sate his curiosities. As he runs his hands across the sheets, he wonders how many men have slept here, fucked here. He doesn’t plan on adding to that statistic - he’s here simply to observe, to discover, to show himself what the consequences of all these feelings could really be and whether he’d like to face up to them. But a decent man wouldn’t have taken off his wedding ring.
After a while, he creeps out to the balcony and takes a deep breath of sea air. The beach below is beautiful, serene, the sand dotted with families, couples that make Patrick’s heart judder with confusing feelings. It can’t be right, it just can’t - children need a mother and a father. He pushes away thoughts of his own parents, firmly divorced.
By the time he’s unpacked, taken a shower, and flicked through the TV channels until he found an episode of Cheers, the sun is setting over the beach. He’s survived day one. Now all he has to do is find ways to waste the rest of the days until he can go home and call this a failure. He curls up in his towel on the bed. It’s his holiday. If he wants to spend it holed up in his room like a mole-rat, he will.
He hits a low point when he orders a bottle of wine and has to specify one glass, not two. It’s embarrassment that manoeuvres him into his pyjamas; the last thing the handsome attendant needs to see is Patrick’s sagging torso in a towel. And he is handsome, just like everyone else. Handsome and young and confident. Patrick can at least take some solace in the fact that so far, the only thing he has in common with gay men is a penis and a love of Meryl Streep. He takes a big gulp of wine and barely tastes it. If he’s going to be sad, he can at least be drunk about it.
What with kids, work and a burden of guilt that would make Atlas wince, sleep hasn’t been Patrick’s friend in the last few weeks – but tonight, alone and travel-worn, half a bottle of wine is all it takes to knock Patrick out. He sleeps with the ease of a driver alone on the highway.
He wakes to the car-wreck of sobriety and spends half an hour wondering whether the ceiling fan could support his weight. A good luck text from Connie lights up his phone. He’s become the type of man who lies to his wife. He’s a sitcom caricature, a chick-flick villain. The audience will cheer when he’s kicked out and exchanged for Jude Law.
But by the time he’s splashed some water on his face and taken some deep breaths in the bathroom mirror, he decides he’s thinking too far ahead. He hasn’t actually done anything yet. That’s the point of this, after all – to prove to himself that he doesn’t want to do anything. Or anyone. It’s not about lying to his wife; it’s about shutting up the horrible little voice in his head that calls him a fraud every time he touches her.
He feels like Attenborough in the depths of the Amazon during breakfast. They’re everywhere, all around him – gay people. With gay partners. Patrick’s never seen so many of them in one place. Not all of them are in hot pants, either. Not all of them aren’t, though. How do they get their asses to look so good? The subtle difference between Patrick and Attenborough is that Attenborough probably didn’t want to fuck any of the animals.
But fucking isn’t loving, and porn isn’t reality. This is Patrick’s theory – penises aren’t choosy and he could jerk off to a cucumber sinking into a sheet of polystyrene. The fact that he would fuck any man in this room says as little about his sexuality as his choice of fruit says about his fashion sense. He barely notices he’s dripped strawberry on his shirt.
Drowning his woes in maple syrup is just another in a long line of mistakes Patrick has made – by the time he’s crammed himself into his trunks and made for the pool, he’s begun a descent into a pit of self-hatred that can only be reached through decades of overeating and a floor-length mirror. He ends up staying in the shade with his shirt on, pretending to read a book.
The hotel is lovely – of course it is, it was probably designed by gay people. Patrick hasn’t seen much of it, but the pool at least is beautiful, elegant tables framed with exotic plants and the floor a glistening mosaic. A pathway of sand leads down to the beach, waves of heat blurring the shoreline. Its loveliness is rivalled only by its guests.
The guests are the reason that Patrick, sat in the epicentre of idyllic peace, cannot relax a single atrophied muscle in his chubby body. They must be models. Or bodybuilders. (The guys, that is. The women are lovely but so obviously not for men that Patrick feels compelled to avert his eyes.)
They make it look so easy to simply be, to kiss their boyfriends and hug their children like there’s nothing wrong. They glide in and out of the pool with shimmering skin and slicked-back hair that dries in carefree waves. Patrick wonders what it’s like not to fundamentally hate oneself.
He retreats to the bar once he begins to sweat through his shirt. It’s gone one o’clock, he’s on holiday and it’s all inclusive – he’s pretty sure he’s legally obligated to order a margarita. He dines on chips and olives whilst he reads his book.
He’s coming dangerously close to enjoying himself when the man across the bar intervenes. He’s got big teeth and big eyes and biceps that could crack Patrick’s skull. Patrick grips his book a little tighter and tries to look engrossed. The biceps prevail.
“Hey,” the man says, floating into the seat beside him. “It’s hot out there, right?”
Patrick immediately wipes imaginary sweat from his brow. He’s probably burned. The man is going to inform him that he looks like a beet and should seek medical attention. “Yeah,” Patrick says whilst trying to work out how much of his face he can hide and still appear normal.
“You been here long?” the guy asks.
“Oh – no,” Patrick says, “just grabbing some lunch.”
The guy smiles and it’s brilliant, blinding. “I meant here, like, the hotel.”
“Oh!” Patrick blusters, because of course he did, “Yes, um, this is my first full day.” And his first full conversation with a gay man. It’s not his first time wishing someone would deal him a fatal blow to the head, though. Not even first time today.
“How d’you like it?”
“It’s great,” Patrick says, “the beach is awesome.”
“Right?” the guy says with a tilt of his head. When he leans towards Patrick, Patrick feels a flash of panic – is this flirting? Is this guy flirting with him? He can barely tell with women, let alone men. All of the evidence, including the fact that Patrick is the human form of mashed potato, says no. But – the man is smiling a lot.
The strawberry daquiri the barman places in front of the man is quite possibly the gayest drink Patrick’s ever seen, and is not reassuring in the slightest. He swipes a finger through the squirty cream on top and hums as he tastes it, licking his fingers after. Maybe Patrick was wrong. Maybe life is porn.
“What’s your name,” the guy asks. Now, he’s chewing on a cherry. It’s staining his lips a rich red. Patrick swallows the sudden excess of saliva in his mouth.
“Patrick,” he says absently. It won’t matter when he’s in hell.
“Nice to meet you. I’m Phil,” says Phil. Phil needs to back off a little.
Patrick tries to put together a sentence that won’t get him a punch in the jaw. You’re coming on a little strong, Phil. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Phil. Phil, please, look upon the plethora of finely-toned asses that you could chase after; this one would like to remain un-ploughed.
“Phil, I – “
“Max, this is Patrick,” Phil says, and suddenly another equally beautiful wisp of a man is twining himself around Phil. “He’s new here. Patrick, this is my husband, Max.”
They both grin at him simultaneously. Patrick’s face now resembles the daquiri. If only he, too, had a cocktail stick jabbed in his eye. “Oh. Hi,” Patrick says, shaking Max's hand. Of course Phil wasn’t flirting with him. Why would Phil – assured, amicable Phil – be flirting with Patrick? Aging. Inept. Patrick. He stares into the dregs of his margarita and feels the sting of leftover salt on his tongue.
“How long are you staying?” Max asks. He and his husband look remarkably similar – tall, brown-haired, light-skinned. In porn, the big guy is usually the man, Patrick thinks. There is no big guy here. Who puts what in where?
“Two weeks,” Patrick says.
“Us too,” Phil replies, and they exchange a cute little smile that makes Patrick’s ribcage ache. Their hands are woven together between them. There’s not a lot of that in porn. They look at him like they’re expecting some funny quip, but all Patrick can think of is the typical escape-from-the-wife jokes and these men aren’t exactly the target audience.
“Uh, so,” Patrick tries, “Um. Which of you is like, uh…who – who wears the trousers? Or, like, the Bermudas?”
It becomes quickly clear that this was not the right thing to say. The couple react like he’s shone a light in their eyes; the look they exchange harbours a whole conversation that Patrick is firmly not a part of. “Uh,” Max says at last, “that’s sort of a misconception…”
Hell would be nice. Patrick would happily sit on a red-hot poker if it meant dropping out of existence and away from the wincing faces of Mr. and Mr. Adonis. “I’m sorry,” he blurts, “I didn’t mean to offend you, I just wondered –“
“Buddy, if you’re not gay, maybe don’t come to a gay hotel,” Phil laughs. “Like – it’s not a zoo.”
Patrick’s mouth flaps. “I’m sorry – I didn’t – I’m sorry. I’m gonna, uh – I need to – I’m sorry,” he babbles, gesturing towards the lobby and scrambling off the stool. He leaves his wallet on the bar and has to turn back for it; then, he trips over the hem where the carpet meets the tiles. By the time he stuffs himself into the elevator, he’s flustered and shaky. He doesn’t belong here. He doesn’t belong here. He presses his palms into his eye-sockets and hopes the elevator cord snaps.
When he arrives at his room, disappointingly alive, the first thing he reaches for is his phone. He’s got to get out of here. He wants his wife, wants her arms around him and her soft laugh in his ear. She always knows what to say, how to make him feel loved. If he leaves now, he’ll barely have been here twenty-four hours. If he leaves now, he might be able to live with himself.
But once he searches his pockets, his bedside cabinets, his bed and pages of his book, it dawns on him that in yet another twist of the rainbow-coloured knife, he’s left his phone at the bar. He sits on the edge of the bed for a few moments, breathing deeply in an effort to calm himself down – all he needs to do is walk back to the bar and collect it. If he bites his lip hard enough, he may not notice the rotten tomatoes the entire gay community will pelt at him.
To his utter relief, the couple have gone by the time Patrick plucks up the courage to show his face again. His phone isn’t on the bar, though – maybe they took it to teach him a lesson. Instantly, he begins to worry about the cost of a new phone, the fact that he can’t text his wife, the boys, can’t access the internet, can’t play Candy Crush. He stares at the spot where he put it like he can will it back into existence, a tactic previously tested on his libido. His success rate is 0/2. He’ll have to resort to human interaction.
The man on the bar isn’t reassuring in the slightest – he is, again, lovely, his long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and tattoos covering his forearms. Patrick clears his throat and the man looks up from the glass he’s cleaning. He snaps his fingers at Patrick.
“It’s you,” he smiles, “you left your phone, right?”
Patrick nods, his mouth already blurting an apology.
“Kept it safe for you,” the man says, reaching behind the bar and producing Patrick’s phone.
“Thanks,” Patrick says, immediately checking it for messages from his wife. There’s nothing. The news of his cultural blunder hasn't yet reached a national platform, then.
“You enjoying it here?” the guy asks.
“Yeah,” Patrick lies, “it’s beautiful.”
“Can I get you another drink?”
“Uh – well, I – uh, I – “ He can’t say yes, he’s got to drive home, he’s going to get in his car and not die in a fiery car wreck and atone for his sins by being the best husband the world has ever seen.
“You were on margarita, right?” the barman says, grabbing a glass from the shelf. “You were talking to Phil.”
“Oh, yeah, but – I shouldn’t – I’m not - I’m not very good at – uh, at –“
“Talking?” the man supplies, his face breaking into a smile. “I’m kidding. Did Phil scare you off?”
Patrick wonders if this guy knows all the gays here. Maybe he’s some sort of gay pied piper. He’s got the hair for it. “No – no, it was my fault, I’m just not – I can’t – I’m not good at – talking,” he finishes with a sigh. His whole life is an upturned bowl of spaghetti.
The guy laughs again. Patrick made him laugh. “Don’t worry about it.” He’s already started making the drink. He has the kind of voice that makes Patrick feel instantly more relaxed. It’d be rude to ask him to stop, right?
“On the rocks, right?” the guy asks. Patrick is still standing five feet away from the bar like an idiot. He casts a mournful look towards reception, then nods.
“Patrick,” he hears himself blurt. “I’m – Patrick. That’s, like, my name.”
The barman’s gaze rests briefly upon Patrick. “Hey, Patrick. I’m Pete. Nice to meet you.” Maybe it’s just the customer service smile, but he sounds like he actually means it. He has lovely warm eyes, too.
Patrick perches himself on a bar stool and tucks his phone into his pocket. Maybe he could stay just one more night.