We Are Bulletproof

Hi darling

I think we should stop seeing each other

@open

Hey I need some money. Can you spot me $100?

Damn.

Pat rubbed a hand over his sore bum as he got out of the house with his money, after having counted each bill. Because yes, he was going to make damn sure that he got what he deserved after that boring, loveless, perfunctory pumping. Well, that was escort work for you--couldn't choose the client. If they paid well enough, Pat was game. The man was nice, at least, and let him have a quick shower before he left.

He was one of those older types who already had a life carved out for himself. Pat saw pictures of a wife and a daughter inside, so he supposed that the man was merely closeted and needed an outlet. He wasn't too rough but Lord almighty, it seemed to go on forever. Mid-way, Pat had to resort to texting Elia just to make the time go faster. And after Elia sent the picture, things went a lot better for Pat. Now, with the money in hand, he was ready to head on home.

Not that he needed the money. He had a place to stay with Elia and that was honestly all he needed. Even if he didn't, he could probably crash on Danny's couch--wherever Danny was. Last Pat heard, they were in California because Coco wanted to visit Disneyland. Pat could have gone with them, but he would be the outsider in their family vacation and somehow he became entangled with a temperamental artist and... well, being with Danny without being with him was always bittersweet for Pat.

As the cab drove into sight, Pat waved a hand to flag it down. He slid gingerly into the back seat and gave the driver Elia's address, and settled back with a sigh. Pat was going to go back anyway, even without Elia's 12 frantic calls and numerous texts. Sometimes the pressure of being his muse got to be too much for him. Elia was a fanatic about his art and Pat... he didn't have the patience to sit or stand there forever. Plus, Elia never seemed to be satisfied with his pieces, even if Pat thought that they were quite good. He would shred his paintings after he finished, claiming that he had failed to capture IT.

IT.

What was IT? Pat didn't even know that he had IT. He used to joke that IT was AIDS, but Elia didn't seem to like it and only grew more and more cross, the more Pat tried to make a joke to lighten the mood. Eventually, Pat learned to just shut his feckin mouth and let the man work. It wasn't a bad trade-off, really. Elia let him stay at his home, let him sleep in his bed, let him use his card. Pat didn't, though. Elia was a lover, not a client. A line had to be drawn.

Just sometimes, he had to get away. Pat never did well with restraint--in any sense of the word. He lived freely and he hated having to answer to anybody. Being checked up on every other day was oppressive and he disliked that needy side of Elia. And while he understood that time was short, he couldn't help the way he felt, either.

A little sadly, he replied to Elia's text. The brain thing. The tumor. Sometimes Pat swore it affected Elia's mood, sending him into a frenzy unprovoked. But there was no cure for it and why should Pat, of all people, tell him how to act or live his life? Too bad, though. Too bad that they met too late. Elia would be gone soon and Pat was already ruined for love. Maybe in the next life, if they should meet again... The thought brought a little smile to Pat's lips.

Just as he turned to look outside the window, the cab gave a great lurch and Pat was thrown backward hard. He heard a deafening CRUNCH. His head snapped against the headrest and a lancing pain shot all up and down his spine. Groaning, he put out a hand to steady himself as the driver shouted profanities out the window. When the driver got out, so did Pat.

"You idiot! Why didn't you watch where you're going?!"

The driver was walking up to the front of his cab, staring at the mess of mangled metal. Pat massaged his sore neck and watched the two drivers arguing for a bit before realizing that he still needed a way to get home. He waved down a passerby. "Oi, mate. How far am I from Beck Street?"

The man pointed him off in the right direction and Pat sighed. It was pretty far away, and he wasn't in any sort of shape to do that much walking. Pat turned back to look at the cab driver, who was still arguing with the other person. This was the second accident in a week that he'd been involved in! The last one, he nearly got flattened by a bus and only just got away with his life. In fact, after that strange fortune teller--or at least somebody who worked with the fortune teller--warned him about a black fate, Pat's luck seemed to have abandoned him.

So much for the luck of the Irish, he thought dryly.

In the end, Pat decided to wait for another cab. The driver had already phoned in for a replacement and Pat gingerly lowered himself onto the curb to wait.

"Uncle Greg! It's me, Patty!"

Pat rapped on the farmhouse door with his knuckles but after hearing no response, he tried the handle. Locked. Looking around, he located the cracked flower pot underneath the window and lifted it up to find the spare key that his uncle kept. That thing hadn't changed places since Pat had been a teenager, when he first came to Dingle.

Shaking his head, he picked it up and used it to open the door. Inside, it was dark. He heard the television going and walked in to see his uncle asleep in the recliner with the football game on. Pat smiled a little wryly and switched the TV off before setting the food that he'd brought over onto the table in front of his uncle.

Poor old Uncle Greg was getting on in years. His hearing was going and he wasn't as spry as he used to be, but he insisted on living here in this old farmhouse alone. Pat offered to get him a flat in town but he wouldn't hear of it. "I've lived here me whole life, Patty," Uncle Greg would say every time Pat brought up the subject, and his eyes would get that faraway look. He'd smile, a little sadly, and put a gnarled hand on Pat's knee. "I'll not leave here for anything in the world, lad."

Stubborn old man. But Pat couldn't blame him. He'd grown up here and raised a family in this same house. And he'd seen his sons die here, too. Their graves were outside by the paddock, neat and clean, scrubbed down religiously by Uncle Greg himself every Sunday. When Pat lived with him, he helped too. He vaguely remembered his cousins. They were typical Irish lads, and they'd been taken in the hunt far too young. Younger than when Pat ran away from home, maybe sixteen or seventeen.

He remembered his mother crying when she heard the news, and he remembered coming to this very farmhouse for the funeral. A large part of the hunter community showed up; he remembered Danny and his family, and the Wilsons with their uppity son, Jem. It seemed like a lot of the younger generation had scattered, though. Jem was gone overseas with some of the boys that used to belong to his group--none of them exactly favorites of Pat's. Paddy went too, before Jem did, under his father's orders. Thankfully Danny stayed--which was why Pat stayed.

In Uncle Greg's bedroom Pat found a throw and brought it outside, draping it gently over his uncle's sleeping form. Uncle Greg snored softly and muttered something that Pat couldn't quite make out. He used to be quite a powerful man in his prime, one of the better hunters in the area, but old age had taken its toll. Now he was grizzled and white-haired and the strength in his hands had deserted him.

Pat often dropped by to check on him, maybe bring a bit of food and drink. Uncle Greg wasn't one for the drink like Pat's father, but he liked a drop now and again to chase off the chill in the evenings. He'd have Pat light the fire in the grate and they would sit and chat. Uncle Greg loved his stories--of course, Pat had to clean them up some--and Pat enjoyed the company, though he wouldn't easily admit it. In fact, not many people knew that he had an uncle; he remained tight-lipped about his family even to his friends. It wasn't that he had anything to conceal, or that he was ashamed. He just didn't think it was anyone's business.

Turning, he went into the kitchen and tidied up some. Uncle Greg had left some dishes in a pail to soak, so he scrubbed them. The farmhouse didn't have running water, which meant scrubbing them and dunking them in the pail of clean water sitting next to the soapy one. Then he had to lug the soapy pail to the back door--quietly, so as not to awaken his uncle--and toss out the dirty water. If only Uncle Greg wasn't so stubborn, he could be living the easy life. Running water, hot water and indoor plumbing were all things that Pat took for granted these days, but damn did he feel their absence every time he came out here.

He was just beginning to stoke a fire in the grate when his uncle woke up with a start and a snort, turning surprised eyes onto him. "Aye, Patty, me lad." He smiled and looked so genuinely pleased that Pat was hard-pressed not to grin back. Instead, he tipped his uncle a wink. "Hiya Uncle Greg. Had a good nap? Ye've been out like a light for so long, I thought the Lord had taken ye."

"Ye cheeky lit'le bastard," Uncle Greg laughed, and his laugh was the one thing about him that hadn't changed over the years. It was still strong and still distinct and hearty and infectious. Finally, Pat laughed too and straightened up. The fire flickered happily in the grate and warmth seeped into the small living room. He went over to give his uncle a big, warm, affectionate hug and was given a couple of heavy pats on the back.

"Look what I've brought! It's all your favorites. And..." He reached into one of the bags and took out a bottle full of pale gold liquid. "Good old Irish whiskey."

Uncle Greg's eyes twinkled.

Tinkle tinkle tinkle~!

Pat glanced up at the musical bell that sounded above his head as he entered the Wooly Poodle--the only pub in Dingle (and probably Ireland) that didn't care if you were a rent boy or a millionaire, everybody got the same shite pint of brew and a wobbly stool to park their arse on. Sometimes if you were lucky, Danny would flash you a smile and maybe tip you a wink.

He slid onto a stool that protested his weight and wiggled despondently to find a comfortable position. As always, the pub was full of voices and noise and it was warm and comforting. It felt like home in a sense. There was a lot of clutter and a lot of mess, but it was clean. Everything was out of place in just the right way.

For a moment, Pat just sat and took in the sights and the sounds and the feelings that everything here evoked in him. He saw an old man with a grizzled gray beard drinking by himself in the corner, looking lost in thought. There were a couple of young lads near the center of the room having a right old row, but it seemed mostly in good fun. They were drunk off their arses, anybody could see that.

Something cold suddenly pressed against the side of his arm, through the thin shirt that he wore, and Pat turned slowly. Sometimes, if you were lucky, Danny would flash you a smile and tip you a wink. Well today was Pat's lucky day.

"Hiya Danny boy," he smiled as he accepted the pint and brought it to his lips. Ahhh... Nothing like a refreshing cold beer. "How's business?"

"Same auld, same auld, Patty." Danny's grin was infectious, but Pat already couldn't have smiled any more if he tried. He tried anyway, especially after Danny leaned over the counter to grab him in an awkwardly positioned but enthusiastic hug. He had that way about him, Danny. There probably wasn't a person in town who disliked him.

When Pat first arrived in Dingle, he had no one except his uncle Greg. Making friends was difficult for him as a nineteen year-old, fresh off an unplanned and heavily unfunded trip across Ireland. The old motherland wasn't so kind to him most days. There were nights where he thought that he wouldn't make it, that he thought he would finally meet his maker. Experiences like that tended not to make a young lad the most approachable to a gaggle of his peers.

But something about Danny thawed him out. The disarming smile, or the frank, honest blue eyes, or the unexpected gentleness. Pat also heard tell of a younger brother who ran away from home, and they bonded over that. Niall was his name. Pat recalled seeing a picture of him once, with his grin as big as Danny's, and he understood after that why Danny had named his pub after his brother.

Handsome lad. Pat might have given him a go.

Ah, well. It wasn't any big loss. Pat never doubted his own sexuality but Danny doubted his. They had a bit of a smooch behind his uncle's farmhouse once. Danny discovered that kissing men did nothing for him and Pat pretty much realized what he'd already known. The friendship only survived because afterwards, Danny laughed and it was impossible to hate Danny boy when he laughed like that and flung an arm around your shoulders and squeeeeezed.

Pat eased back and took another drink as someone else shouted an order. Danny winked at him again before going off to tend to the customer, and Pat tipped him a lazy salute. Sometimes they wouldn't talk for days and weeks on end. Danny might be out on a hunt with his overbearing father; Pat might be busy with 'clients.' Or the timing wasn't right to meet. But sometimes they might bump into each other in the street, and it was always like stepping back into a comfortable pair of shoes, or an old robe. Comfortable--their friendship was comfortable.