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The game after-parties are interesting affairs.
Patrice learns a little more about Brad’s roommates from watching them than he would by actually talking to them, so he does that while cradling a bowl of “bomb ass creamed spinach” as Brad called it. It is nice. He most definitely lied when he said he couldn’t cook. It’s just that he didn’t have any recipes. Patrice fixed that quickly.
Now he sits in the corner, ignored for the most part aside of Brad cuddling him briefly whenever he passes by to get another beer. He’s completely fine with this arrangement. People-watching has been his forte even when he couldn’t do anything else.
He learns that Sid, despite not knowing ASL, is significantly less awkward talking with Jamie with Tyler acting as an interpreter than he is talking with his own teammates. It’s obvious he wants to talk more, but that he doesn’t want to keep them from each other, so he leaves quickly. Other than that, he gives stiff, congratulatory pats and watches the movie on TV like it’s actually interesting. He doesn’t seem to have anyone to relate to on the team, despite talking to them probably every day and understanding hockey down to its fundamental aspects. It’s both sad and admirable.
Claude, on the other hand, looks dead on the inside and like he simply wants to watch the world burn. He has a dry sense of humor, and Patrice is skeptical of the claim that he has any sort of laugh beyond the mildly amused snort he sometimes emits. He’s nice enough to Patrice, offering him a beer when he’s hovering by the fridge looking like a startled animal. There’s still something strange about him. He’ll occasionally flash some deeper dimension in his character- playing with Harvey, furrowing his brows at any sappy commercials- but the smugness always comes back.
Then Pricey, who Patrice realizes to be the sketchy TA in Child Psychology that Jamie was talking about. He is quiet, but there’s nothing to suggest he’s done something wrong. That is, of course, untrue because according to most of his teammates, he’s responsible for ninety percent of the pranks pulled in their midst. The other ten percent are still his ideas, just executed through a gullible freshman. Aside from that, he’s reserved and diplomatic and genuinely proud of his friends’ achievements. Patrice respects that. Price is good, like first round draft pick good, and he doesn’t let it get to his head.
His other teammates aren’t any less noticeable, but Patrice doesn’t analyze them too deeply.
When everyone goes home (after kneeling in front of the hockey temple, which is a very serious ritual that requires the utmost focus) Patrice sits on the couch and puts his feet in Brad’s lap as they watch a Law and Order re-run. At some point, Brad gets up, goes to the kitchen for a snack before they go back to his room.
Claude is already there, has been for a while. He’s messing with something, maybe the blender, but Patrice hears the ruckus pause for a moment. He was going to take his hearing aids out, but now he has a feeling there’s something he won’t want to miss. “Never thought you’d bring someone home,” Claude says laughingly. It isn’t particularly mean-spirited, he seems genuinely surprised. Patrice still bristles.
“Yeah,” Brad replies, and he can practically feel the forced shrug in it. Brad walks back into the living room with pursed lips. Patrice stands to meet him.
“Come on,” he says quietly. They’re both tired, and midterms are coming up quick. At one point, Brad admitted to him that he hadn’t been sleeping well for the past few weeks, and well, Patrice sometimes has to take horse tranquilizers to get sleep, so maybe it isn’t his place to worry, but he can’t not. Walking to Brad’s room now, he thinks he has every right to be. Patrice closes the door behind them and starts fighting his jeans off. Brad looks lost. “Did that bother you?”
His head tips up. “What?”
“What Claude said.”
Brad makes this grimacing face, like he doesn’t want to blame Claude for bringing up something he doesn’t understand but that he’s also glad Patrice noticed that something was wrong. “I mean, sort of? I don’t really know how to feel about it. Like he doesn’t even get what he’s saying, right? But something is, I don’t know, fundamentally wrong in my mind.”
Patrice looks at him, brows furrowed. He always forgets after these things; Brad is just as emotional as he is. It’s not that he isn’t emotional in front of other people, but parties generally don’t give him any reason to be upset. He once offhandedly mentioned that the number of times he’s cried in front of his teammates is about on par with the number of times Sid has poured hand sanitizer over the kitchen counters. At the time, he didn’t really know what that meant, but after meeting Sid it became apparent that the number of both has to be significant. He scratches his head as he considers this. “They know, right?”
Brad gives him an incomprehensible look. “No.”
“Oh. I thought… he said it, like assuming that you didn’t date anyone at all, but that’s maybe worse,” He snorts, and a smile plays at Patrice’s lips. “Do you want to tell them?”
“Okay, like, I don’t really, just because it’s weird to talk about my sexuality for no reason, but I do, because if I wait they might be angry I didn’t tell them earlier?”
Patrice nods. “It’s whatever you want to do. I don’t know them that well, but do you think they would really get angry at you?” He says it not in disbelief, but as a genuinely curious question. Maybe they’ve said something in the past to make Brad think that.
Brad, however, shakes his head. “No, I’m just worried. It’s kind of stupid.”
Patrice walks over to him, petting his shoulder and pressing a thumb to his chin. “It isn’t stupid, you’re not-” He knows he’ll butcher the word he wants to say, so he doesn’t. “You don’t have to tell them, if you don’t feel like they should know.”
“I know,” Brad says, and follows him to bed.
-
Patrice makes hot chocolate in the morning, not bothering to make a cup for himself (he tastes it, of course, but that’s not something he can have a lot of without the help of Stevia or something equally disgusting.) He sets out four cups of it. Something flickers in the corner of his eye, and he thinks he might be getting dizzy, except-
He definitely doesn’t yelp when he sees PK standing there. He doesn’t actually know if he does or not, because he can’t hear much of anything. Seeing as PK (one of the hockey team’s less frat-type players) looks abashed, he probably didn’t know that he would startle Patrice. He says something, but Patrice taps his own ear and shakes his head to demonstrate his deafness.
PK’s mouth makes an ‘o’ as he comes to the realization. “ Sorry I scared you, ” he signs with a shy smile. “ I didn’t think anyone would be awake this early. ”
Patrice likes how his hands move. It’s clear that he knows the language well, but the words are a little slower compared to Jamie or Antoine. They’re a bit different, more expressive. It’s charming. “ It’s okay. Are you here to see them? ”
He seems to get even more sheepish, if possible, but nods. Patrice studies him, amused. The night before, he laughed louder than anyone else, comfortable in any situation thrown at him. “ Carey and I are going out for breakfast later. I annoyed him until he gave me a house key, so I can use the Xbox while waiting for him .”
Patrice smiles back at him, and he seems to relax a bit. “ Do you want chocolate? ” He gestures to the pot, with probably enough for a fifth cup. He overshot a little, but to be fair, it’s been a very long time since he’s made it. PK nods enthusiastically and thanks him when he’s handed a mug.
About an hour passes before anyone else gets up, and it’s Sid who finds them playing FIFA 17.
-
“You’ve inspired me,” Brad says while they’re eating lunch at Patrice’s dorm about a week later.
Patrice cocks his head slightly. “In general, or-?”
“To tell my roommates. I mean, none of them are straight, anyway, no matter what Claude says, so it’s less likely they’re going to do the ‘Boo hoo, why didn’t you tell us earlier?’ thing. Maybe they don’t even know what being asexual means. Maybe they’ll-”
“You know I’m not upset either way, right? It’s whatever you feel comfortable doing,” Patrice says, gently stopping the train of thought with a hand on the back of his neck like what Brad does for him sometimes.
Brad leans into the touch, and he bumps his head against Patrice’s shoulder. His expression is thoughtful. “Yeah, of course, It’s just like, what you said made me think about why I wasn’t telling them, and I realized that there wasn’t a reason. I just hadn’t thought of it before. And now I’m thinking it would do some good. Stop misunderstandings and shit.”
Patrice blinks, then smiles. “Sure. How do you want to do that?”
“I don’t know, I’ll probably wing it, not a fan of making speeches,” He shrugs. “I’m not worried about it, really.”
“You want me to be there?”
“Nah. I’ll probably get to the roomies tonight and tell the rest of the team at morning skate tomorrow. I’ll come over after to talk about it. Anyway, we have to figure out what we’re doing for the break, eh?” Patrice nods and kisses the corners of his mouth affectionately. Brad edges closer to him, and their food- as well as the conversation- is forgotten when they move to the couch.
The next day, Patrice sends him a Snap after class to say that he’s on his way to his dorm, so he knows he can come over whenever.
It’s another hour before Brad arrives, and in that time, he shakes through a difficult, but thankfully short episode. When there’s a knock at the door, he almost can’t remember who it’s supposed to be. He drags himself away from the warm bed, a hand clenched around one of Brad’s shirts, to open it anyway. Brad’s look is inscrutable. He doesn’t seem happy or angry. Patrice kisses him in greeting, and he returns it, so at least there’s that. “Comment vas-tu?”
Brad comes in and flops on the bed. “Pretty good. Like, it went well. They all understood what I was saying, and they’re chill with it. Claude is kicking his own ass and trying to leave the country, I think,” At Patrice’s worried glance, he adds, “He’s just embarrassed. The chirps about my sex life are all coming back to him, but you know, it’s not his fault, really.”
“He didn’t know,” Patrice agrees, climbs into his lap.
“Yeah. Except, well, the thing really killing him is that Sid is ace too- Sid said I could tell you that, so- and he did know about it. But before, he said the same stuff, and he was probably banging his head against a wall after Sid told them,” He nods as if to confirm. “When I left, he was all like- ‘ when will I learn?’” Brad does a pretty good imitation of a devastated Claude, with a beseeching French-Canadian accent, shaking his fists and everything for full dramatic effect.
Patrice laughs too loud at that, then winces when his ears start ringing. “History is doomed to repeat itself, eh?”
Brad grins and wraps his arms around Patrice’s waist, pulling him closer for a kiss. “I guess so.”
-
“Okay, no offense, but ASL grammar is fucked, and also why did nobody except you think to mention that the sentence structure is subject-verb-object?”
Tyler shrugs. “Grammar in general is fucked, what’s new?”
“Marchy,” PK says, long-suffering. “English is subject-verb-object too.”
Patrice eats apple slices and knits some puffed hexagons on the other side of the sofa, perfectly content to watch from afar as Tyler and PK try out teaching. They both brought textbooks from when they were learning sign, and have apparently started an intervention. Not that Brad really needs one, but everyone who knows about ASL courses is that there’s a lot that they don’t tell you. Claude, Price, and Sid are also present, curious and as attentive as they can be without understanding any of it.
“Wait, so what about Signed English?” Brad asks, and he’s honestly taking notes.
“Meh,” Tyler makes a so-so gesture. “Most people will understand it, some even use a combination of the two. It’s the same stuff, just with English grammar.”
“Oh yeah, and have fun with the sociolinguistic shitshow that is sign language dialects,” PK says cheerfully.
Brad groans, flopping back on the couch with his head in Patrice’s lap. He flutters his lashes and grins slowly. “Enjoy watching me suffer?”
“I enjoy knitting in peace,” he replies, but he sets down his needles to smooth Brad’s hair back. They both know this means a lot to him, that nobody’s done this for him in the past. “But watching you isn’t any hardship, I guess.”
“Babe.”
Tyler fakes gagging loudly.
PK and Carey share a look before he turns back to Brad. “Would you rather watch these hands or catch them?” PK threatens, and Patrice has no doubts about his sincerity.
“I’m trying to be romantic, and you barbarians are hindering my efforts.”
Claude seems unimpressed, dipping a grilled cheese triangle in tomato soup. “Do I want to make a joke about your quality of hands? Yes. Will I? No, I know better than that.”
Brad rolls back up into a sitting position to stare at him. Sid gives him the same side-eyeing glance. “Do you know better though? Do you really-”
“Children, please,” Patrice says. He’s still not used to being around more than two people, much less more than two people who speak aloud. And somebody has to be the adult here.
Brad frowns at him and pats his face affectionately. “ Sorry, ” he signs with his free hand.
“Wow, he’s finally gotten the point. If we could have significantly less English here, that would be great,” PK mutters as he flips the page. He seems to regret his choice of words almost immediately.
Claude is the first to take advantage, nodding and whispering like he understands well. “Pas de problem, moins Anglais, compris.”
“Ninessai,” Carey says and shakes his head, disappointed.
“First of all, someone please explain what the fuck that was. Secondly, how many languages do we collectively know? I feel like this has to be a record or something,” Tyler says, even as his teaching assistant pinches the bridge of his nose. Patrice sighs in commiseration. He feels like it’s going to be a long day.
-
Finals fly by with Brad constantly giving him pep talks and Gatorade, which is pretty new for him. In high school, Patrice suffered. In freshman year, he suffered more. This is pretty obviously shaped up to be his easiest fall semester. He’s also preferential to cold weather, and it’s been nippy for a while.
On the first day of the winter break, he leaves his last class only to walk to Brad’s house. He’s already emptied out his mini fridge back in the dorm, and he has nowhere else to be. Brad isn’t home yet. His roommates are packing, probably to go stay with family for the holidays. Patrice secretly wishes he was brave enough to go to his parents’ house, if only to see his dog again. But he’s not.
Interrupting that thought, Brad appears in the doorway, scowling from behind a huge parka and a scarf Patrice made him. He looks three times too small for his jacket, and he quickly hobbles to the couch so that Patrice can help him shed a layer. Brad grumbles about aberrations to fashion as he does so, then promptly hops into his lap, scarf still hanging off of him.
“Why do all warm jackets have to be ugly?” he laments bitterly.
Patrice shrugs and takes both of their shoes off, kisses the corners of Brad’s mouth as he pouts. His eyes go soft with that like they always do, and he lets Patrice pull a blanket over them.
“Just so you know,” Brad whispers. “I’m not that kind of girl, but the idea of blowing you appeals to me greatly.”
Patrice blinks at him stupidly. “Uh-huh.”
“Like now,” he clarifies.
“Uh-huh. Je t’aime trop , and I support you, but I want a nap,” And then he’s embarrassed because that’s probably the least romantic first ‘I love you’ ever. He wants to die. “Wait, alright, let me-” His stutter gets so much worse under stress, and he can feel a migraine coming on, so he stops to keep from embarrassing himself any further.
Brad looks mostly elated, but there’s a little concern too. His eyebrows furrow at the look on Patrice’s face. “Hey. No takesies-backsies. The prince needs his beauty sleep, I get it. You can’t be embarrassed. Chiefly because I love you too, and also because I’m the one supposed to be mortified. I’ve never offered a blowjob before- not even in high school, and that’s saying a lot. A first time for everything, yeah? Don’t be embarrassed, please?”
Patrice realizes belatedly that they’re in the living room, lying on the couch with their legs tangled, and that Sid has probably passed them twice. He also realizes where the urgency in Brad’s voice is coming from. “I’m not,” he says carefully, taking Brad’s hands from where they’re twisting anxiously in the fabric of his shirt. “I’m not embarrassed of you, I’m not taking it back. I just wanted to say it in another way. Like- what’s the English word?”
“Meaningful?” Brad replies.
“Yes. That. I love you. I’m just tired, and I said it for the first time to turn down a blowjob, and it’s just… So something only I would do, and I hate that.”
Brad is significantly less shaken by this point and massages the base of his skull to ward off any vestiges of the headache left. “If it’s something only you would do, that makes me love it more.”
And. That’s the best thing Patrice has ever heard. To think that he can do something right , to think that somebody loves who he is and not who they wish he was. He buries his face in the crook of Brad’s neck and sobs.
Harvey jumps on the other end of the couch, Brad takes the devices out of his ears, and for once in his life he feels like he knows what home is.
-
“Here it is, my master plan for this break. Step 1: Road trip to Halifax for Christmas, because like, no offense, but I’m just going to assume you don’t wanna go to your folks’ place.”
Patrice nods, because it’s true.
“Step 2: Stay there for a few days, see the sights, defile my childhood bedroom, all good things. Step 3: Come back and have the house to ourselves for like, a week. Bam. True genius. Also Christmas dinner is going to have a special star guest, or rather guests, plural. So get hyped,” He doesn’t know what Brad hopes to accomplish with this list, considering they’re already in the car. In fact, they’ve been driving for about four hours, and are already in central Quebec, almost near Patrice’s hometown.
Brad looks over at him. “Also, like, when we stop, hearing aids are optional. I just can’t sign or text while driving.”
He raises an eyebrow. “I think you just want to look cool signing in a Harvey’s.”
“I did not suffer through weeks of Tyler emasculating me so that I could be disrespected like this, thank you, I’m trying my best,” Brad says, mock-serious. He cracks up towards the end though. Patrice laughs with him. It’s easy.
The drive is comfortably silent, so he gets a bit of reading done and texts Jamie. He’s already suffering through family time, with his sister apparently showing Tyler bad pictures of him, and has no problem hiding in the bathroom while they knock on the door fruitlessly.
When they stop, Brad stays true to his promise and signs for the whole conversation, which is sort of impressive considering how much shit everyone gave him about it. He orders soup for himself and a panini for them to share. The waitress smiles like Brad’s an old friend of hers. She smiles wider when he makes ridiculous faces while demonstrating the size of the sandwich for Patrice’s benefit. He gives Brad the universal ‘shut your mouth’ sign, and he sees the waitress laugh.
He hasn’t been to a restaurant in years.
“ I think she likes you, ” Brad tells him with a sly smile. Patrice rolls his eyes. “ Maybe the soup isn’t too salty. I can share. ”
It’s pretty obvious that he isn’t a fluent signer, but Patrice doesn’t expect any more from him. They eat mostly without conversation, but occasionally Brad will say something stupid and fingerspell ‘mozzarella’ or something, and Patrice will laugh, probably too loud.
They get back in the car, and he sleeps until they’re in front of Brad’s real house. With their impeccable timing, they arrive at around 6 AM. He regrets sleeping so heavily in nicely-heated cars because he feels like he’s missed something crucial about Halifax. The house is old, and the first thing he notices is a decorative porch swing in the front. It’s painted bright white, bright enough to stand out in the dark, and covered in purple flowers.
The house itself is charming in its own run-down lakeside way, but it also reminds Patrice that he’s about to meet Brad’s parents, and he doesn’t really have the capability to come up with a speech.
Brad, when he realizes Patrice can hear him, talks a lot. He has this dazed smile on his face, illuminated only by the car stereo screen. “Dad is probably up, and he’ll start banging shit if nobody else is awake, so it’s cool. We always got up at 6. He’ll also probably try to feed you wild mushrooms disguised as something appetizing, and he’ll probably talk about how he picked them himself and shit, but it might have a toxic level of sodium, for real. Also he might ask to see your phone, he’s constantly amazed by technology, and my brother gave it to him and ended up with a thirty dollar bill for Clash of Clans. So that’s a no-no. Other than that, you have nothing to worry about.”
“You have a brother?”
Brad’s face drops for a moment as he slaps his palm to his forehead in disbelief. “Wow, shit, that might have been a good thing to mention before. Yeah, I actually have a brother and two sisters. Jeff and Melissa are here for Christmas too. Maybe Rebecca. They’ll definitely love you, for like, so many reasons. Mel, especially. She’s really into fashion, and you guys could be nerdy about it together or something. Sorry.”
Despite being caught off guard in more ways than one, Patrice doesn’t feel any worse about the visit. It actually occurs to him that Brad might be just as nervous as he is. “It’s okay,” he says, drapes his hand over Brad’s. “Let’s go inside, alright? I’ll resist the mushrooms if I can.”
He grins again and pulls his keys out. The floor creaks as they walk in. Even the inside of the house smells like sea salt.
“Dad, your favorite child is home once more,” Brad calls cheerfully. “Mom, if you’re awake, I’m sorry you have to be buzzed to stand being around me.”
“It’s Bradley!” A man in a tuque, probably Jeff, tackles him from out of nowhere, laughing when Brad just sputters and swats at him. “Jesus, kid, ever think about plucking your eyebrows? It’s like the Yukon’s taken up residence on your forehead.”
“Shut your mouth. I’ll pluck my eyebrows when you stop dressing like a suburban dad,” Brad replies, sharp but fond.
“For sure, you’re nothing new, but what about this one, eh? You’re Patrice?” He nods and sticks out a hand, but Jeff pulls him into a loose hug. “Brad can’t shut up about you, just so you know, every single time he’s called me since the summer it’s been Patrice this, Patrice that, honestly. I think one time he cried about you petting a dog.”
Patrice just smiles and hugs back a little, not sure what to say. He does snort at the last part, looking over Jeff’s shoulder to meet eyes with Brad.
“I most definitely did not do that.”
“Whatever you say, Bradley,” And then they hear, rather than see, their parents coming down creaky step by creaky step. Jeff pulls away from the embrace to greet them. “Mom, dad, this is Brad’s Quebecer boyfriend I was telling you about.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Marchand is shockingly blonde and not as affectionate as her sons. She keeps to a hand on Patrice’s shoulder when she gets close enough to touch him, and he thinks he prefers that. Despite the lack of physicality, she’s no less enthusiastic. “It’s so nice to meet you! Would you like something to drink? Coffee or tea? We’ll have breakfast soon.”
“If I could have water, thank you,” He can tell they’re all slightly startled by how quiet his voice is, but she doesn’t hesitate to oblige him. Meanwhile, Mr. Marchand makes himself known, looking ready to go run a marathon at any moment with the amount of pent up energy stored in his relatively compact frame. Patrice likes his sweater, a thick fisherman’s rib knit.
“You don’t know how glad I am you aren’t from Toronto,” he says laughingly to Patrice, nudging him a bit. Patrice laughs with him. That’s probably the last thing he expected Mr. Marchand to bring up. He knows there’s some animosity between Quebec and anglophone Canada, but given that his main preference was always signing, he never quite understood why. He’s always afraid of coming off as snobbish.
“ Dad , please,” Brad whines.
“Yeah, yeah, I have more to say than that. First though, let’s sit down,” He leads them to the charming little parlor, and Mrs. Marchand sets a glass in front of him. His nerves are settling quickly. “Jeff or Brad, I don’t care, one of you go wake your sister up; she’s not getting out of breakfast that easily,” Jeff goes, creaking back up the stairs. “What are you studying, Patrice?”
“Economics,” he replies, his voice only hitching once. Mr. Marchand nods, and Brad takes his coat to hang it up along with his own. “A bit dull, but I like numbers well enough. I’m thinking of changing my major to hospitality though.”
“I took an Economics class maybe once in college, didn’t learn a damn thing. I hope they don’t bore you to death nowadays,” he says, smiling. Patrice isn’t really bored by it; he just wishes he were doing something else. “What does a hospitality major do?”
“It’s kind of like, I don’t know the word for it, planning events and meetings. Some people work at hotels,” he offers, because hospitality even as a major is an abstract concept, and that’s the best explanation he can give. Mr. Marchand seems to accept this answer, and doesn’t ask him any other questions.
He does, however, have a question for Brad, who is helping his mother with breakfast at the counter. “Where did that sweater come from? Looks like something I would’ve worn back in the day.”
“Please, Dad, no. Don’t start with the sailor days of yore, please. Patrice knitted it for me, and he’ll never make me another sweater ever again if you yak at him about Saint Patricks Channel for the next five years,” Mrs. Marchand has the same pleading expression. It’s clear she knows whatever story they’re referring to. Very well.
Mr. Marchand opens his mouth to speak, but he’s interrupted by his third child. Melissa, a petite blonde like her mother, glares at Brad and Jeff in equal measure. She immediately goes to Brad and puts him in a headlock, muttering something about not calling. Jeff cheers her on while their parents look on in fond disappointment.
Patrice watches too, is overwhelmed by the concept of siblings at all. He’s never been close to his brother, and their calls are mostly perfunctory, to make sure he isn’t dead. He isn’t envious of their affectionate relationship so much as confused. He’s even more confused when Melissa sits next to him at the table with pancakes and ruffles his hair like he’s her-
Oh.
“Holy shit, Brad, did you score or what?” She turns to actually acknowledge Patrice. “You’re the only reason I’m down here, by the way; I had to meet you. Also, Brad, you’re most definitely wearing the sweater he made for Christmas dinner so you can tell everyone what a sappy fuck you are. Just so you know.”
Brad scowls and brings Patrice fruit when he finally comes to sit down at the table. “I’m being bullied, Mom.”
“What goes around comes around,” Mrs. Marchand replies simply with a shrug and raised eyebrows in her husband’s direction. He shrugs back, and that seems to be the end of the conversation. Brad looks frankly hurt and betrayed, but then he grins and nudges Patrice for him to start eating.
He’s never been more confused in his life.
-
Later, once formal conversations are made and Jeff goes out with his dad to chop firewood (because apparently, that’s a thing they do in Halifax,) Brad keeps his word and shows Patrice his childhood bedroom.
The first thing he notices is that it isn’t like any other kids’ bedroom he’s ever seen. There’s hockey gear, but no posters, and the bed is much too large for one person. There’s a dumbwaiter on one wall and a . It just seems- adult. The only hints that Brad was ever a child are the two beanbags in the corner, and the various trinkets filling the bookshelf. Only one shelf actually has books in it.
Brad seems to know what he’s thinking. “Yeah, this room honestly wasn’t meant to be for me. The bedframe was already in here, and you know, I wasn’t really interested in much. Most of the baby stuff got thrown away in the Great Spring Cleaning Dump of 2012. They let me trash all of it, and sometimes I wish they hadn’t,” He’s quiet for a moment, bites his lip as he looks around. Then he beams again, patting the dumbwaiter affectionately. “Isn’t this awesome though? This is where I hid all the good weed from Jeff,” At Patrice’s clearly unimpressed look, he laughs. “I’m kidding. This is actually where I sent down notes to say that I had a very important conference with whatever teammate and wouldn’t be down for dinner. Dad replaced the rope so it didn’t just rot.”
Patrice just nods.
Even though Brad didn’t sleep at all with the drive, he insists that he’s fine and powers on through the day. Luckily, they stay in, and watching hockey isn’t hard for anyone in the family. They seem to be more intent on placing bets or rooting for the underdog rather than committing to one team.
Patrice talks a little, endeavoring to practice a bit more. He can’t get rid of the stutter if he doesn’t practice. Even if it humiliates him, the Marchand family is probably the best group he could talk with- they don’t bat an eye at anything. Melissa goes to the store and asks him if salmon is good for dinner. “You know,” she explains covertly as if it’s necessary. “Because it isn’t salty.”
He makes the mistake of imagining Brad lecturing the family about his diet and almost cries.
Every single thing they say to him is more puzzling than the last. Nobody else asks if he wants captions on, nobody else even acknowledges that certain things make his life easier. He’s a bit dazed by the time he and Brad finally decide to close up shop and get some sleep. They’re staying in his old bed, of course, and while Patrice feels a bit out of place, he’s strangely charmed by the house.
“You know,” Brad whispers as they lay in the dark. He’s wringing his hands. “I don’t want you to be worried, but there’s something- it’s… It’s really stupid.”
He hums and pets Brad’s hair. “You can tell me anything.”
“Sometimes I think people only like me because I’m tricking them or something. Like that when they know what I really act like they’ll realize that I’m not who they thought they were becoming friends with,” He says it in such a rush that Patrice almost doesn’t catch some of it. “And then like, some of my friends pretend that I’m the way they want me to be.”
Patrice is silent for a moment. “Why do you think my parents don’t try to help me?” he asks, gentle. Brad looks up at him, startled, and he continues. “They don’t want to think about the fact that I need help at all. They want to act like I’m okay.”
“Yeah, I know this is like, not even close to your deal, it’s actually kind of petty, compared to-”
“That’s not what I mean. It doesn’t matter what they’re trying to change, it’s just that they’re doing it in the first place. I get it, and I never want you to feel like that,” Patrice tells him. There’s more truth to that than Brad knows. He would go to his parents’ house every Sunday if it meant that Brad didn’t have to think his friends don’t like him the way he is.
After that, it’s silent for a moment. “Yeah, okay,” Brad says, and curls up small to fit in Patrice’s arms. He doesn’t say anything else before falling asleep, and Patrice doesn’t admit that his ears are ringing.
-
Christmas Day arrives quicker than expected, with its eve barely being acknowledged in the household. He’s secretly glad for the lack of presents, mostly because he doesn’t have anything to give Brad’s family, and that’s always awkward. In the morning, Patrice spends an hour in the bathroom, biting his tongue until it bleeds to fight off the nausea. Then he eats breakfast in the parlor with everyone. He nudges Jeff and Melissa, tips his head in the direction of Brad, who’s half-asleep in his bowl of oatmeal. Jeff laughs loud enough to startle him awake.
Brad is unaware of his betrayal and kisses Patrice over the table, none the wiser. He hums, unbothered, despite barely managing to hold his spoon. “You wanna know who’s coming to dinner?” he asks, a bit more conscious. His eyes are still glazed over.
Patrice nods, smiling. He looks so young. “Qui est-ce?”
“PK and his sisters. They all sign,” Brad says, nodding to confirm.
“They’re from Toronto,” Jeff mourns.
“Shut up, you didn’t complain about the Toronto girls in that bar.”
Jeff puts a hand on his chest, offended. “That was one time.”
“Sure,” Brad turns to Patrice and searches for a reaction. “Is that okay?”
Patrice opens his mouth a few times and nothing comes out. “Yeah, definitely,” And he kisses Brad on the cheek.
Brad doesn’t look convinced, but they eat breakfast in relative silence until he announces that he’s going to go get dressed. Patrice finishes soon after and follows him up to the room. Once they’re upstairs, Brad turns around to face him in the hallway and lowers his voice. “Is it really okay? I know I should have asked, but-”
“It’s more than okay, you’re fine,” Patrice pulls him in for a real kiss, wrapping his arms around Brad’s waist. “I love you so much,” It floors him sometimes, and this is one of those times. He was only quiet at the table because he didn’t know what he could say that wouldn’t scar the rest of the family.
“That’s gross,” Brad whines and pushes against Patrice’s chest in a token struggle. It’s a futile effort, with their difference in size, so Brad quickly settles back in his arms. “I have to get dressed. We’re going to the lake.”
-
“We’re going to the lake,” Brad says again, once they’re back downstairs.
“In this economy?” Jeff demands. Patrice has learned quite quickly that Jeff is basically a more dramatic version of Brad, and a less dramatic version of his father. “Not so much the economy, but really, it’s actually negative eight degrees outside, so I’m not sure what you’re going to accomplish.”
“ Dad, ” Brad says, exasperated, swinging around to face Mr. Marchand (or Kevin, as he asked to be called, but that doesn’t work too well for Patrice.) He leans in to stage whisper in Patrice’s ear. “We have to explain this to him every year.”
“Ice fishing, Jeff, you aren’t formally invited, but if you want to come, I can’t stop you,” Mr. Marchand tells his son. Jeff shakes his head, scandalized, but doesn’t seem too upset.
“Okay, that’s fair. I’ll come for Patrice’s sake. He needs someone who isn’t fun-sized to demonstrate walking on ice at our stature.”
And okay, Brad, Melissa, and their father are all fairly petite now that he’s looking at them together. The siblings fume silently at this indignity, but now Patrice is feeling a bit bold. “How did you get to be the one tall sibling anyway?”
Jeff wraps an arm around his shoulder, warm and genuine. “Well, Mom sometimes says that my real father is Keanu Reeves.”
Brad squawks at this. Mr. Marchand smiles and shakes his head. “Mom, no!” Patrice can’t help snickering.
She pokes her head out of the kitchen, looking unamused. “I didn’t know ice fishing involved so much yammering. The drills and poles are by the door. Don’t get a cold, and don’t try reenacting Titanic like last year,” She tucks her husband’s scarf into his jacket and kisses them all on the cheek, including Patrice. “Messy children,” Mrs. Marchand scolds, but she pats him on the head before disappearing again.
After she leaves, Brad shyly tucks Patrice’s scarf in for him too, and shoves some hand-warmers into his pocket. He continues fussing over Patrice until his father hands him folding chairs to carry. The walk to the lake isn’t even a few minutes.
“So the water here is brackish, and a lot of the fish are too weird to eat, but they’re at least fun to look at. I mean, dude, you ever heard of an Atlantic sea raven? That’s what I thought. My dad knows like, every fish to ever exist, and we could probably play Jeopardy with the amount of freaky shit we find. A new one comes up every year, and whoever finds it is crowned monarch of the Nova Scotian fish cult. Also, winter flounder are mad salty, but PK wants, like, eighty of them, so if something looks like a flounder, you should totally give it to me. Oh my god, wait, do you know how to fish? It’s not an issue, but I just… Sorry.”
Patrice is listening, he is, but he’s also dumbstruck by how beautiful Brad looks, staring over the frozen lake with seabreeze biting his cheeks pink. “I don’t really, but I think I’ll get the hang of it,” he assures once he’s recovered from the sap-induced dizzy spell. He kisses the apple of Brad’s cheek, where he’s the most rosy. “You don’t have to apologize. I… I like hearing you talk about things that make you happy,” Patrice says it only loud enough for Brad to hear it, then returns to his normal, albeit subdued tone. “What does a winter flounder look like?”
It breaks his heart a little to see the clear relief on Brad’s face. “Um, well, it’s kind of flat and cute, and it has speckles on it. That makes me sound like an evil tyrant for eating them, but I swear, I’ve done nothing wrong,” He laughs nervously, and Patrice kisses him again. “Do you want to walk on the ice? I think we’re getting left behind.”
“So much for helping out your fellow tall man,” Patrice scoffs at Jeff’s expense, watching as he struggles with a chair in the distance. Brad giggles, and they step onto the ice with certainty.
-
Later, Patrice is indeed initiated into the fish cult, though by dishonorable means. He kind of screams and fucks up his own hearing aids when the fish he pulls out of the water is about twice the size he thought it was originally.
Jeff stares at him, amused, the whole freezing walk home. As it turns out, cradling a wet fish like a baby in the middle of winter isn’t great for keeping warm. He takes a hot shower as soon as they get back to wash away the salt water (and also to wash away the fish’s weird stupid face from his mind) and Brad comes up to meet him while he’s still in a towel. He puts his (now dry and luckily undamaged) hearing aids back in to listen.
“Dad said it’s a chain pickerel and that he hasn’t seen one in a while, Melissa too, so I think that’s pretty good,” He shrugs, trying not to bounce on his heels.
“I hope I never see one again,” Patrice grumbles, but he can’t be bitter when Brad is so excited. He sighs and waves his hand for Brad to cuddle with him.
He’s gratified instantly. “Tomorrow we should go to my friend Ben’s place; it’s this diner, and I’ve always wanted to make out with someone at the bar. Alex from the Yukon probably still hangs out there, I’d love to see the look on her face, holy shit. True comedy there.”
“What’s with ‘from the Yukon’?” Patrice turns to nuzzle into the crook of his neck.
“There were like, five Alex-es at my high school, and the only way to know which one we were talking about, we had to find a way to separate them, so- what are you doing?” He stops to look over at where Patrice has molded himself to his side. “Don’t you dare stick your cold hands on me,” Brad warns, and he wiggles incessantly and hisses when Patrice tries to manhandle him into a better position (which basically means having him as a makeshift blanket.) “Put on some pants, you heathen.”
“If you don’t make me put on pants, I’ll make out with you at the bar tomorrow.”
Brad lifts himself up on his elbows and rolls off the bed. “Nice try, but there’s a distinct difference between defiling my childhood bed and traumatizing it. I’m getting your sweatpants,” And he throws them, along with a pair of boxers, to Patrice from the duffle bag Brad took for their clothes.
Patrice obliges him, albeit bitterly. He puts minimal effort into putting the pants on, leaving them slung low on his hips. When he turns around, Brad is on the bed, sitting back on his heels with wide eyes, irises tawny in the light from the window. He’s a bit more comfortable now, having taken off most of his own clothing. He’s gorgeous.
Patrice thinks of Brad waiting at the house for him like this and has to immediately lie down. A light hand comes down on his stomach when he does. He looks up at Brad, who looks sort of shell-shocked, thinking he must have the same expression.
His lip quirks up when the muscles under Brad’s hand tense and his reaction is to gasp softly.
“Shit,” he mutters under his breath. Patrice bites down on a smile. “You’re like, jacked.”
“You’ve seen me shirtless before,” Patrice replies, amused.
“Yeah, but not stretching out in my bed on Christmas with dope ass lighting. Also sweatpants somehow really do it for me,” Brad says, going to straddle him again. He brings up a hand to stroke Patrice’s jaw. “What can I say, your shirtlessness makes me sentimental.”
He kisses Brad’s fingertips in lieu of a response.
-
They basically spend the rest of the day either napping or making out, and by around 5 PM, Patrice has a satisfying ache in his lower back from where Brad’s heels dug in. He might actually have bruises. That thought makes him happier than it should.
It’s only when they hear the door creak open that there’s a pause.
“Are you two even in here? I hear breathing,” PK says, and they scramble off the bed. Right. It’s 5 PM; that means the sun has been going down for a while. “How long have you been sleeping?”
At this point, they hadn’t been sleeping for a while. He doesn’t need to know that. Brad winces at the light filtering in through the open door. “I don’t know,” Patrice says, and he shovels through the duffle bag to find a sweater. “A few hours?”
He can feel Brad’s smug look and throws a pair of jeans in his general direction.
“Okay, well, you haven’t missed much. I have video of your siblings roasting each other, but other than that, just a bunch of trashy Christmas specials. Come down soon though, I want you to meet my sisters before Jeff tries to make a move on one of them. Through texting,” PK tells them, with the optimism of a dying man, before closing the door again and leaving them in the dark.
Brad snorts as he leaves and tugs his jeans up with some struggle. Patrice pulls him in by the belt loops for a kiss- buttons them for him. Brad smiles, coy. “You heard him,” he says as Patrice starts to pull on his own real pants.
“Ouais, okay,” When he’s done getting dressed, he takes Brad by the hand and drags him out of his room. He’s taken aback by the sheer amount of noise coming from downstairs.
“Wait, wait a second,” Brad stops him with a sheepish look. “I might have skipped over one piece of information.”
Patrice rolls his eyes. “What?”
“There might be an additional thirty family members down there,” he says, smiling apologetically. “But you don’t have to, like, talk to them or anything.”
“Okay,” Patrice says, and he can tell Brad is surprised that he’s not angry. “Let’s go down, yeah? I’ll have to take these out during dinner,” He is a little annoyed to think that he won’t hear all the conversations being had unless they involve him, but it’s really not that important. His hearing aids don’t quite work when people talk over each other, and Patrice assumes that’ll be the case if Brad’s family is anything like him.
As they descend, Patrice realizes that thirty isn’t much of an exaggeration.
Most of it sounds like a murmur to him. Jeff and Melissa are talking with a few of the younger relatives in the parlor, and Mrs. Marchand has a group in the kitchen helping her with dinner. Mr. Marchand is nowhere to be found. PK and his sisters are watching TV with the old folks, who are apparently captivated by whatever he’s saying to them. The fireplace blazes.
“Bradley, get your ass in here, Patrice too,” Jeff calls, and the murmur pauses.
An older man, probably Brad’s grandfather, laughs heartily as he looks at them. “And here I was thinking Patrice was a feminine name.”
Brad makes a face, and the whole room erupts in laughter. “You should know better than that by now, pops.”
The man nods in agreement and waves them off to continue watching whatever is on the muted TV. Brad drags him into the parlor with the rest of the younger ones. On the way there, Patrice is patted on the cheek by Aunt Mary and tackled by Brad’s little nephew (actually his first cousin, once removed) Lucas. He makes a note to take a Valium before dinner. The whole thing makes him a bit dizzy.
“So this is the Quebecer!” A girl laughs once they’re with people their age. She has dark hair, but aside from that, looks a lot like Melissa. “Can’t believe my brother scored,” Brad mentioned another sister, but he has to sift for the name.
“It’s Rebecca, right?” Patrice smiles, shakes her hand. He can absolutely be sociable and friendly.
“Holy shit,” another girl says before he can do anything else. “Brad, how long have you been dating? Why wasn’t I informed?”
Brad puts a hand on his hip and sighs, exasperated. “Like five months. And you weren’t informed because I didn’t know everyone cared this much about my personal life, Cam.”
After that, it’s pretty much a blur. They ask the same questions Brad’s parents did, and he answers, stuttering a little, while being introduced to them all. Brad goes slowly with the names and anything about his relatives, knowing that Patrice isn’t the best at taking in information.
Camille, or Cam as she’s called, is Brad’s cousin, a political science student in Ottawa. She just broke up with her girlfriend, and on a possibly related note, pulls out a bottle of rye halfway through the conversation. Rebecca works with her sister in the fashion industry. She thinks the sweaters Patrice makes are adorable. Andrew is another, more quiet cousin. Kayla is his equally quiet American wife. They aren’t too connected with the rest of the family, but they seem nice enough.
At some point, PK comes in with his sisters and introduces them. Nastassia and Natasha look put out, signing to him that there’s no reason for an introduction.
Brad waves to get their attention. “ Do you want me to get some chairs? ” he asks. Natasha nods, and she raises an eyebrow at her brother. PK just looks pleased with himself. Brad leaves and comes back after a moment, then relays the information from his mother- in both languages- that this is probably where they’ll be sitting for dinner. Patrice is glad for that, but then Brad turns to him with a look. “I know I said you don’t have to talk to the relatives,” he whispers. “But maybe since we won’t be sitting with them, you can be introduced now?”
Patrice nods. He doesn’t have a problem with that. “Yeah, of course, could you get me a Valium from upstairs while I start that? Just one,” And Brad nods, so he walks into the living room. He’s not social. He never has been. It’s just- going to see them feels natural. On the way, Mr. Marchand shows Patrice off to his friends, and all of them (an obviously hardy group) are apparently impressed by his son’s deaf boyfriend.
“He made the sweater Brad’s wearing,” he says, and they all make noises of recognition. “I bet you’d know the difference between an Aran sweater and a Guernsey.”
“Well, an Aran is like a zig-zag rib stitch, and a Guernsey is more unique, like a stockinette, but not quite,” Patrice replies, and Mr. Marchand just looks at them like he’s the one in disbelief.
By now, PK and his sisters are in the kitchen helping with food and seating. Everyone is quite charmed by them too. They know PK, but his sisters are newcomers like Patrice, and old people will get excited about basically anything. He tells this to Nastassia with an eye-roll. She laughs in the midst of the chaos.
Brad’s grandfather- Robert, maybe- apologizes for thinking he was a girl before. “It’s so nice he has a person to really talk to in you,” he says, gesturing to a picture on the wall of Brad and his teammates. Patrice almost instantly knows what he means. “I think you’ll be sticking around,” Robert squeezes his shoulder and smiles. He smiles back.
The family doesn’t seem to shy from anything. Even little Lucas whispers to him that the family almost disputed a marriage because the groom was a Flyers fan.
Brad gives him the pill with a kiss on his temple just as he’s sitting back down with food (Aunt Mary insisted that some unsalted food be set aside for him, so it’s easier to get served first.)
He caves when Mrs. Marchand asks who wants coffee and decides that one cup isn’t going to kill him. Patrice has been good. Really good. He doesn’t drink anything with caffeine at all.
Everyone else is eating already, so he follows. Cam had scoffed when he asked about saying grace, but Melissa stomped on her foot pretty obviously, and she apologized. “It’s okay,” he said. “I was just curious. I never want to say grace ever again,” And they laughed, but it wasn’t a joke.
When he starts on the tourtiere, he feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.
He pulls it out, because nobody would text him on Christmas unless it was something important.
Guillaume
Joyeux noel, frère
Patrice pauses at the message, then stands up abruptly, phone clutched tightly in his hand. Brad looks at him, but he just slips out of the parlor and to the upstairs bathroom. Nobody asks him where he’s going.
He slides down the door, and the it he feels isn’t vertigo.
His phone bings again when he realizes he’s crying.
It’s Brad this time, asking if he can come up. Patrice replies in the affirmative and scoots away from the door so he can get in. The stairs creak, and Brad opens the door just a bit. Patrice makes a noise. He comes in looking warm and sweet and troubled.
He pauses as he closes the door behind him. “This isn’t an attack,” Brad says matter-of-factly, eyebrows furrowed as he goes to sit by Patrice’s side. He casts a meaningful look at his phone on the tile. Patrice shows him the text, and his face goes slack in realization. “Do you want to be with him?”
He shakes his head. He would want to be with his family only if they were completely different people. Guillaume might be the best of them, but that isn’t saying much. It’s just that breaking his brother’s heart is the only way he can be happy himself.
He says this, mumbling in French, and Brad seems to only understand parts of it.
“I know,” he tells Patrice nonsensically. “He wants you home. But he could have tried harder to make home somewhere you want to go.”
Logically, Patrice knows there’s no excuse for his brother neglecting him. Internally, he wants to believe there’s some reason that’ll eventually come to light, that they cast him out for his benefit- instead of accepting the truth; they just didn’t know what to do with a child they considered broken. Now he’s here, and they call once every few months to see if he’s alive, and suddenly Guillaume texts him a merry Christmas. That’s the only message sent from his number.
Patrice forces himself to stop sobbing, because he kind of really wants that coffee, and stands up. Brad scrambles to stand up with him, concerned. “We can talk about this tomorrow,” Patrice says, rubbing his face and sniffling. Brad looks like he’s about to disagree, but he lets one hand move in circles on the small of Brad’s back to soothe both of them. “I know it’s a problem, I just- I want to talk about it alone with you when I’m not so… like this,” he laughs, watery. “And I want caffeine.”
Brad gives him a dorky smile in response, which is probably a good thing, and pats his face affectionately. “Okay. Whenever you want,” Patrice kisses him, soft, like it’s a thank you or a reward for being so good to him. Brad melts into it- and- he just looks so small. When he gives a quiet moan, Patrice pulls away, because they still have to go back to the dinner table. “Okay, okay, fuck. Stop it, you evil bastard. Downstairs for coffee, now. ”
Patrice laughs again.
As they move back down the staircase, it becomes apparent that they’re coming back at just the right time. “What! I’m sure I ordered a Double Double,” Jeff says from the parlor, rife with mock indignation.
“Shut up,” Mrs. Marchand replies.
Brad rolls his eyes, and Patrice can only think that his parents’ house isn’t home, and hasn’t been for a while. He sips his syrupy coffee and talks to Brad’s family, PK’s too, like they’re his own.
Later, he’ll know what to say to his brother.
Patrice
Super d'avoir de tes nouvelles. Bonne annee