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Joe passes the bong to Pete and leans back, his head dropping onto the back of the couch. He has to fight to swallow his own saliva between the dry mouth and the angle his head is at and the way he sometimes still feels cords around his throat. Naturally, he reaches for his half empty beer to wash it all away.
They're sitting in mostly silence save for the faintest whisper of music playing from the record player. Some shit Patrick put on an hour ago that lost all meaning to Joe the second he was inebriated. Even if he did care enough to pay attention to it Joe still wouldn’t be bothered by whatever song was playing. Patrick’s music taste was generally pretty good, if a little pretentious at times. Joe doesn’t really give a shit one way or another. And anyway, Joe's perfectly content just sitting here. He's comfortable. And everyone else seems to be too. Andy’s got his head on Pete's shoulder, eyes closed but awake. Pete sets the bong down and takes Andy's hand, he and Joe enjoying a quiet high. Patrick seemed to be doing pretty good too, though now as Joe lolls his head in his direction he catches the way Patrick is staring at him. Patrick's only a little high and probably a little tipsy and his eyes are half closed but he's staring at him up. So Joe stares back and Patrick’s eyes go wide at being caught but he still doesn't tear them away.
"It's rude to stare, you know," Joe mumbles, though the sound cuts through the relative silence they've been having harshly.
"Sorry," Patrick mumbles back, but still he stares. He's not looking at him though, not at his face. A little lower, actually.
Joe considers him for a moment and then lifts his head, "What's up?"
Patrick pauses, hesitates, and lands on, "Nothing."
"C'mon, Trick," Pete admonishes, "This is a safe space!" He announces too loudly before shaking with quiet laughter, jostling Andy, and earning a smack to the head for his troubles.
Joe turns back to Patrick and raises his eyebrows, "So, I ask again, what's up?"
Patrick swallows and for a second Joe gets distracted by the way his Adam's apple bobs when he does it. Finally, Patrick asks, "Does it still hurt?" Joe makes a hum of confusion and Patrick continues. Gesturing vaguely to his own neck he somewhat clarifies, "The, uh..."
Joe's hand absentmindedly reaches for the scars on his neck. He runs his fingers across the taut scar tissue left over from where the cords had been pulled so tight they dug into his skin and drew blood. He glances back at Patrick and finds it hard to believe that he's looking at the same man who did that to him. The same guy who killed him. He knows that, technically, Patrick did kill him. But he's begun convincing himself that that wasn't Patrick. That was an animal. Predator and prey. Instinct. Nature. Something like that. ‘Cause when Patrick killed him he had inhuman eyes. Instead of talking he roared and instead of walking he stalked. And looking at him now, he's the same person he's always been. He has the same eyes Joe's been staring into on stages and in vans and backstage for years. And maybe now there is still a yellow tint to Patrick's eyes. Maybe his pupils are still slightly misshapen. Maybe it’s a trick of the light or maybe it’s just in Joe’s imagination but either way Patrick’s eyes don’t quite strike the same fear into his heart as they used to. Mostly because, now, Patrick's looking at him with remorse and guilt and Joe knows that it tears him apart inside everyday. He’s witnessed it firsthand. Joe knows.
And despite all this, sometimes, Joe is still scared of him. It sounds redundant, he knows. But there’s some part of his brain that still perceives him as a threat. Some part of his brain that isn’t totally convinced that this Patrick and the Patrick that killed him and the Patrick from before can all coexist at the same time. Logically, Joe knows a lot of things. But it’s hard to think logically all the time. Sometimes Joe is just scared.
It’s hard to say what Joe’s feeling right now. Both the logical and terrified parts of his brain are muffled by weed and beer, which is how he likes it. So looking at Patrick now, in the present, and seeing the way Patrick looks back at him, really seeing him…
It’s hard to say.
He realizes he's gone too long without speaking and slowly drops his hand from his neck, "No, not anymore."
Patrick keeps staring.
"I mean," Joe continues, "Sometimes the scar tissue gets caught, you know?" And to that he gets nods of commiseration out of everyone, all of his friends sporting their own fair share of scars.
"Dude, scar tissue sucks, " Pete complains. Mumbling, he adds "Gets caught on everything." Andy makes a murmur of agreement at which Pete says, "Exactly, Hurley Burley." Like Andy said anything coherent, smooshed into Pete's side.
Joe snorts a laugh and looks back to Patrick again, "But yeah. Other than that and like.. nightmares, I guess, it really doesn't hurt anymore." He doesn’t have to explain the nightmares. It’s just another thing they all understand.
Patrick nods but it doesn't look like he believes him. So, naturally, Joe downs the rest of his beer, tilts his head back slightly and asks, "You wanna touch?"
"What?"
"You wanna touch ‘em? The scars? So you know I'm not lying."
"I don't think you're lying-"
Joe cuts him off, "-well you definitely don't believe me." Joe challenges. Patrick goes quiet again. Joe starts to scoot his way across the couch towards him, "C'mon man, it's all good. Water under the bridge." He says it because he wants it to be true, even though he isn’t entirely sure if it is yet or not.
"You don't mean that." Patrick admonishes.
"Of course I do," Joe shrugs, speaking before he can even begin to question it. He doesn’t have the words to explain it. He isn’t sure there’s enough words in the dictionary to describe it. So instead he settles on, "You're… you." And then he bares his neck to the beast again and waits.
Patrick pauses and then, ever so slowly, takes his good hand and drags his shaking fingers gently over Joe's neck. Joe's breath hitches at the touch and it makes Patrick pause but Joe forces himself to breathe again, if only not to scare him off.
And Patrick's touch is feather light as his hand glides across Joe's scars. He never does more than that, just continues to be gentle, never uses more than the tips of his fingers. For a second, Joe closes his eyes, lost in the feeling.
The record ends, making a barely audible ticking noise every time the needle skips. Joe opens his eyes and Patrick is closer now, eyes half lidded again but focused. He's biting his bottom lip so hard it starts to bleed. Joe dislikes that, he decides. Blood reminds him too much of bad things. He wants to make the blood go away. He wants to forget the bad things.
As much as Joe would like to jump Patrick about it he knows that’s not the right tactic, not with Patrick. With Pete, maybe. Or with Andy. They could handle it, they could welcome it, and Patrick on his good days probably could too but Patrick right now is looking at him in a way that Joe can't quite clock but in a way that he understands to some capacity. In a way that means Joe needs to summon all the tactfulness in his body in order to execute his wants. But it's easy anyway.
All it really takes is for Joe to take his hand cup Patrick's cheek with it. Gentle. It's all so very gentle. Patrick startles just a little bit, only visible in his eyes. Joe lifts his head, starts to sit up. Patrick's hand falls away from his neck and to his lap, at which point Joe guides it with certainty to his own thigh, even pats it a few times for good measure.
Joe thumbs at Patrick's face for a moment, wipes away a stray tear that had begun escaping his eye, and then looks at his mouth. His lips are parted now in a sort of silent gasp and they’re slick with blood, chapped otherwise, and shaking. But they’re perfect anyway. Joe looks up again and gets the faintest of nods from Patrick that he takes as his sign and Joe makes the blood disappear.
Patrick tastes metallic at first for obvious reasons, and then he tastes like cheap beer, and it tastes like every other time Joe kissed him. Like every sloppy make out session when they were kids and every intentional (but just as sloppy) one as adults. Joe wonders absently if this is a holy thing. The body and blood, or whatever. It's evident to Joe that Patrick doesn't know what to do with his prosthetic-less hand and so Joe grabs him by the forearm and guides his arm to hook around his waist, his other hand now steadily on his hip.
Joe, for his part, trails the hand that had been cupping Patrick's face down his neck and into a firm grip on his shoulder and after a second he pushes him back to get them more properly situated and Patrick is more than welcoming when Joe straddles him against the couch.
When he finally breaks for air he puts his head in the space between Patrick's shoulder and neck and asks, "Believe me now?"
Patrick huffs a laugh and between heaving breaths gets out, "I'll fucking believe you forever about everything."
"Bullshit," Joe points out before sliding off of him and onto the couch next to him, "We both know that's a lie." And reaches for the bong on the coffee table again because he's suddenly lost all courage.
"Yeah, but.. still," Patrick insists.
After a moment Joe hands him the bong, "That good, huh?"
"Better, even."
"Ten out ten," Pete heckles from across the table, "Super hot. No notes."
Andy's head is still on Pete's shoulder but he's wide awake now. He raises a thumbs up, "Agreed. Full marks."
"We're the fucking masters of making out," Joe murmurs which makes Patrick choke on a laugh and almost drop the bong. Joe takes it from him before he can though and pounds on his back, "Apparently I'm a master of comedy too."
"I feel like that's been well established," Andy points out.
"You feed my ego, Hurley."
"What ego?" Patrick scoffs, clearing his throat, "You're as bad as me."
"Okay, first of all, ow," Joe says, shoving him a little, "second of all, that's not what you were saying literally five minutes ago."
Patrick just giggles in response.
Pete gets up from the couch without any words exchanged which makes Andy complain with a "Hey!"
"Shush! My turn to lay on someone," he mutters, shoving his way under Joe's arm and cramming himself onto the couch. Andy follows soon after, all four of them barely fitting on the smallest of the couches. Pete shoves his head into Joe's side and, half asleep, says "Seriously though, super hot. ‘m glad you guys are okay."
Joe drops his head onto Patricks shoulder, throws his feet up on the table and says, "Yeah me too." And has never felt more relieved as when Patrick leans his head against Joe's.
It's the first time the two of them have been next to each other in one of these four person cuddle piles. The first time they've been next to each other like this without an easy escape. And they're okay. It's the first of many times. It's another step towards normalcy.
And maybe next time Joe won't have to be high to makeout with the guy. And it'll be just as good.