"Oh," Patrick said, feeling slightly embarrassed. "I did that, the guy didn't do it. From what I can tell, the only thing he did was write on the walls."
"So why did you pull the bed apart?" Bruce asked.
Patrick shook his head. "I'm not really sure.” Why did he rip the covers off the bed? He hadn’t really thought about it, just felt an all-encompassing need to remove all traces of the intruder from the place where he and Simon lay together. “I could see the dents where whoever it was had been on the bed.”My Simon’s bed. My bed. Our bed.He shrugged again, knowing he’d overreacted, but it had just felt so important at the time.“I just had to get the bedclothes off as quickly as I could. I hated the thought of that… that… person touching our stuff."
“Oh, jeez.” Mike stepped forward and wrapped his arms around Patrick, pulling him into a hug.
Patrick's chest felt heavy, his throat thick, and the sobs were rising again. If it hadn't been for the solid strength of Mike's arms around him, he thought he would have fallen apart. Thank God he had friends like Mike and Bruce. AndSimon—most importantly, Simon. People he could fall back on, people who cared about what happened to him, people he could lean on and who would provide support with no judgment.
He stepped back and wiped angrily at his cheeks with the back of his hands. Even though his friends were great, he didn't want to completely fall apart in their presence. Patrick took a deep breath and gathered himself, appreciating that Bruce and Mike gave him some space and didn’t push.
Bruce finally cleared his throat. “We’d better not touch anything. I think we’d better call the cops. Come on, Patrick, let’s go downstairs and make the call. Mike can get you a cup of tea.”
Mike’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t argue.
Patrick nodded. He knew he had to call the cops, and now things had gotten so bad they’d hopefully finally be able to do something about catching whoever it was. And if they didn’t? Well, then he’d look at what he could do himself to make sure Simon and his friends were safe.
With one final look around the bedroom, he turned his back on the graffiti and started for the doorway, following Bruce into the hall. Mike’s solid presence at his elbow, guiding him, was reassuring. Yes, it was good to have friends, but they didn’t deserve all this crap going on in their own home. Because of Patrick, they had to face intruders, and the whole rigmarole of a police investigation. What if Patrick somehow brought more danger to their doorstep?
Once downstairs, the call to the cops made, Patrick sunk into the sofa. His fingers traced endless patterns over the metal links of the watch circling his wrist. He just wanted Simon to come home from work.
Simon
Simon closed thedoor with satisfaction. Home. Finally. He tossed his keys on the hall table, and shrugged out of his jacket, hanging it in the closet. The front entrance was lit by a small lamp on the table; the yellow light only illuminated the small area, leaving the rest of house in shadow. A faint noise came from upstairs, music or the sounds of a movie indicating someone was home, but the downstairs was silent.
He didn’t bother to turn on any lights, using what little light there was to navigate down the hall to the kitchen. A snack, and then he’d head up to bed. That thought put a smile on his face. After the events of the day, all he wanted to do was curl up beside Patrick’s warmth and sleep.
He was still thinking of Patrick as he stood at the doorway to the living room, juggling a bowl of cereal and a glass of juice. He used his elbow to nudge the light switch and nearly dropped everything when the light revealed Patrick sitting on the couch.
His pulse beat quickly, and he bit back the yelp of surprise.
“Patrick? What are you doing sitting in the dark?’
Patrick turned his head at Simon’s approach, his face a mask of sadness. Simon hurried across the room and placed his bowl and glass on the coffee table, dropping onto the couch and taking Patrick’s hands in his. “What happened? Are you all right?”
Patrick nodded slowly. But from the looks of him, he was anything but. Simon didn’t think he’d seen him looking so pale, and from the faint marks streaking his cheeks, he’d been crying. “I’m okay.” The words came out as a whisper.
Simon squeezed his hands. They were cold, and Patrick didn’t squeeze back. “You don’t look okay, babe. Was it a rough day at school again?”
“Upstairs.”
“Upstairs?” Simon looked to the ceiling before meeting Patrick’s gaze. “Oh shit. Another letter?”
“No. Not this time.” Patrick finally moved and turned to face Simon fully. He fiddled with the watch—my watch?—at his wrist. His voice shook as he spoke. “Someone was in your… our room. They’ve painted on the walls.”
“Painted?”Why on earth would someone paint our room?
“Not painting, exactly. Graffiti.”
Simon’s eyes widened. “Someone broke in and vandalized our bedroom?”
Patrick nodded and clutched Simon’s hands tightly. He could hardly meet Simon’s eyes. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”
“What the fuck are you sorry for?” Simon blurted out, regretting the words when Patrick flinched, but fuck, it wasn’t Patrick’s fault. He shook himself free of Patrick’s hold and stood. He needed to see for himself what Patrick was talking about.
“Where are you going?”
“To take a look, of course. Are you coming?” He didn’t wait to see if Patrick followed, just bounded up the stairs, pulse thundering at the idea someone had been in his, intheirpersonal space.
