Brent’s phone rings at 7 AM in the goddamn morning, and the only,
reason he answers it (after cursing up a storm and heaving a pillow at the bedside table) is because he and Duncan left the other guys (namely, Kaner) at a bar or a club or something last night (morning?) and that always worries him.
Brent flails around for his phone, squints at the flashing LED and then punches at buttons haphazardly until he manages to answer.
“It’s seven AM, so you’d better be dead or worse,” he growls. “And being in jail does not count”
“Worse!” Kane’s wailing on the other end of the line. There’s no mistaking him. “Oh God Seabs we did it and I don’t know why or what but holy shit I don’t know what to do or not or how and he’s my oh God oh fuck oh fuck ohfuckohfuck-”
“Slow the fuck down,” Brent commands. Kane shuts up. He doesn’t mess with Brent when he’s in military-order mode. Really, Brent would make a great captain, if his attention span was a little longer – Kane’s sniffling reminds him he’s been silent during this long thought tangent. “Shit, Kaner, are you crying?”
“No.” He is. And now he’s trying to hide it.
“Where are you?”
“Where’s the hallway?”
“The hotel. Uh, Canada.”
Last night starts to take a clearer shape in Brent’s head now. They didn’t leave Kane at a club; only some of the guys were there, because it’s just after Christmas.
“Okay.” Brent blows out a long breath. Kane is still hiccupping and sniffling. “It’s ok, Patty. Just explain – slowly – what’s goin’ on.” Patrick sniffles some more.
“You’ll get mad,” he says pathetically, and it’s hard not to laugh at how much like a little kid he sounds. It gets easier, once he realizes how upset Pat must be, at which point he feels more like crying himself.
“No, I won’t.”
“Better not,” it doesn’t sound much like a threat, though. “’Sides, ‘s why I called you. Cos it’s you, and also, you answer your phone more than Duncan does.”
“Would you get on with the explaining?” Brent reminds him, sitting up in bed. The movement makes his stomach turn. It’s too early for this.
“Oh…” Patrick trails off, and is silent for almost a whole minute. “Me and Jonny,” he manages.
“You and Jonny what?” he presses impatiently, but this is the wrong tone to take. Patrick starts to outright sob. “Shit, shit, shit, Patty, no, it’s okay, whatever it is, just tell me, okay? Please? It’ll be okay.” Patrick doesn’t say anything, makes little strangled noises that rip Brent’s heart out. “C’mon, Pat, it’ll be okay, just tell me what happened and we’ll fix it.” He’s full-blown terrified now, and half-formed theories crash through his mind, each scarier than the last.
“Okay,” Patrick whispers. “We… we got… we’re…” Slow breath. “Married.”
“Married,” Brent repeats, can’t really wrap his head around it. “Well… um… congrats?” Once again, he’s said the wrong thing. Patrick makes a choking sound like he’s recoiling from being punched.
“I don’t know what to do. Jonny’s still asleep, he drank a lot too much last night, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do, I mean, we just – this is so fucked up!” He sounds so frantic, there’s a hundred more things Brent wants to ask and can’t. “ Seabs,” Patrick whimpers, his panic winding down into something small and hurt.
“It’s okay,” Brent says hurriedly, “Pat, it’ll be just fine. Okay? It will be. This will all turn out just fine, like it never even happened-” for some reason, Pat gives a hoarse little sob at that, and Brent scrambles to go on, “you’ll be fine, Pat, honest. We’ll make it all better, and you’ll be just fine. Fly home in the morning, okay? I’ll come get you at the airport, and everything will work out.”
“Okay,” Patrick manages, “okay.”
He hangs up, leaving Brent in the dark with a silent phone in his hand, wondering what’s happening in that hotel room in Canada, where Jonny’s asleep, and Patrick’s alone in the hallway, eyes red from crying, everything in ruins around him.