- Book Title: Will & Patrick Do the Holidays
- Book Series: Wake Up Married, Episode #3
- Author: Leta Blake and Alice Griffiths
- Publisher: Leta Blake Books (November 23, 2015)
- Book Length: 111 pages
- Genre: Romantic, Comedy, Serial
- Posting Date: November 25, 2015
“Ah, the acrid smell of insulin in the morning.” Patrick’s voice is still gravelly from sleep as he turns on the shower and pulls down his black boxer-briefs revealing his tight ass.
Will looks quickly away and back to the syringe he’s filling by the bathroom sink. “I can never get the last dose to eject from the insulin pens. I always have to pull it out with a needle.”
“After living with you, I have an entire list of ways they can improve insulin pen injectors.”
“I should have my lawyer queue up an appointment for you with the pharmaceutical company.”
“You do that, puddin’-pop, and I’ll be there with a PowerPoint presentation. It’ll consist of four words over and over. ‘Do your damn job.’ If pushed, I might throw in a ‘Don’t make me do it for you’ as a closing argument.”
Will pinches a bit of fat from his abdomen and sticks himself quickly. He’s done this for years, but he never stops hating it. Especially syringes. They’re somehow worse than the insulin pens. “I’ll ask Owen to make that happen.”
Patrick snorts from behind the curtain. Will glances over and heat floods his gut as he notices the shadow outline of Patrick’s morning wood. “Oh, um, let me just—” He hustles to deal with the used needle and ends up dropping the syringe in the sink. The scent of insulin grows stronger. “Why does it smell like Band-Aids?” Will muses as he finally gets rid of the used needle and cleans up the syringe, tossing the now-empty insulin pen.
“It’s the preservative. Meta-cresol,” Patrick says. “Mmm, so clinical. So sexy.”
“And you’re so weird.”
“Nothing like the smell of a hospital to get my motor running.”
Will glances back at Patrick’s shadow behind the shower curtain. He’s still got a half chub flopping around as he washes his hair. Will clears his throat.
“Have you considered an insulin pump?” Patrick asks.
Will tries to drag his mind from Patrick’s erection. “I don’t want one.”
“I don’t like the idea of having something attached to me. All the time. Something I have to rely on to do its job.”
“You trust insulin pens have the right dosage, that the dial works, that they’re—“
“I know, Patrick. But I have the right to my own preferences when it comes to my medical treatment.”
“Fair enough. So what’s the deal with your daddy?” Patrick asks sans segue.
“What are you talking about?” Will packs up his testing kit and uses a black marker he keeps in his murse to make a dot on the back of his left hand. He can’t forget to drop by the pharmacy and pick up his replacement insulin pens.
“Papa Molinaro. What’s the deal with him and the holidays? He wasn’t around for Thanksgiving. Will he be dropping down the chimney on Christmas Eve with a bag full of presents for you and a nice hard dick for your mommy? Or what?”
Will rolls his eyes. “Thanks for that image.”
“He spends Christmas with his daughters. Or at least he used to. I don’t keep in touch with him.”
“Ah, the half siblings you’ve never met. So, no Christmas phone call from Papa?”
“No.” Will feels the familiar hot, impatient squirm of nastiness in his gut. Conversations about his father usually bring it on.
“No Christmas card stuffed with cash?”
“No card, no text, no Skype, no email.”
“He’s obsessed enough with you to have you followed by mobster spies but he can’t pick up a phone. At best, that’s inefficient.”
“At worst, Starshine, you have a deeply dysfunctional father/son relationship.”
“Wow. You really are a genius.”
Patrick barks a laugh and then begins to hum the new Madonna song he’s been singing off and on for the last two days.
“That’s still stuck in your head, huh?”
“Better than ‘We Three Kings’ mixed with ‘Scarborough Fair,’” Will mutters. Finished with his morning insulin rituals, he starts the water in the sink to begin his shaving routine. “Tony doesn’t do anything he doesn’t want to do, and being a reliable member of our family was never something he was good at.”
“When did you last see him?”
“It’s been three years. It can be ten more for all I care.” Will pumps shaving cream into his hand and smears it on his face. “He sweeps in on a whim, wreaks havoc on our lives, and sweeps out again.”
Patrick is quiet behind the curtain and Will glances over to see that he’s rinsing out his hair.
“There’s no pattern, unless you count my mom getting serious with anyone. As soon as my dad gets wind of her being happy with someone else, he has to come to town and wreck it.”
“With his dick.”
Will sighs. “Everything’s about sex for you, isn’t it?”
“Nope. A lot of things. But not everything.” He turns off the water and throws back the curtain. Will averts his eyes quickly, but his hands are already shaking enough that he’s not sure he should be trusted to shave himself. Patrick goes on. “But it’s all about sex between your parents. The Hurting Times churns with scintillating tales of your mom inappropriately hopping on your dad’s pole.”
“Like you know anything about ‘inappropriate’.”
Patrick laughs. “Like I know about that time they banged in the bathroom at some old lady’s funeral. The Hurting Times forum had pages dedicated to that one.”
Will’s ears grow hot.
“And, hey, for the record, even I know a funeral home toilet is a bad place for sex. Public bathrooms are tourist destinations for germs.” He shudders and slings a towel around his hips, thankfully covering his dangling dick. “It’s not sanitary.”
“You are such a jerk.”
“So you tell me.” Patrick grabs a hairbrush and runs it through his wet hair. The dark auburn looks almost brown and glistens brightly in the overhead bathroom lights. “There’s evidence of a genetic component to addiction.” Patrick’s eyes go foggy as he muses, “But is it addiction or abuse? Both probably.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You, mainly. But I’m also talking about them. If The Hurting Times gossip about the two of them is even half true, they are their own kind of addicts. Addicted to each other. Addicted to sex. Addicted to falling in
love. Especially your mother. But it’s possible your father uses the intense sexual connection between them as abuse.”
“I…” Will’s fingers clutch at the razor and he drags it against his skin carefully. “I didn’t think you believed in psychology mumbo-jumbo.”
“I don’t believe in spiritual mumbo-jumbo. And, yes, psychology is a lot of bull-honky, but as a neurologist, I can’t deny that thoughts and experiences have physical effects on brain tissue. Dubious and whoo-hoo as most psychological theories seem compared with hard science. What’s your dad’s sign?”
Patrick shrugs and sidles up next to Will at the sink, examining his own face in the mirror.
Will sighs. “Early November. So, what’s that? Scorpio?”
“Ah. And your mother’s a Scorpio too.”
“How do you know? The Hurting Times again?”
“I know because I’ve met her.”
Patrick’s arm slides against his as he reaches for the can of shaving cream. Will moves slightly to the side but Patrick just scoots closer. Will can smell soap on his skin and shampoo in his hair. He wonders what those curls would feel like slick and wet under his fingers.
Patrick rubs on shaving cream and reaches for his razor. His naked chest slides against Will’s bicep.
Will tries to concentrate on shaving, but Patrick’s reflection in the mirror is distracting. His normally pale skin is flushed from the shower and his nipples are pink and peaked. Will clears his throat and scrapes his razor over his face again.
“Addiction,” Patrick muses on. “You didn’t stumble into that on your own. You drink…and your parents screw. That’s how these genes play out. And with both of them being Scorpios…”
Patrick’s arm rubs against him, and Will clicks his tongue against his teeth. Between this touching and Patrick’s speculation about his parents’ sex life, Will can’t tell if he’s going to pop an inconvenient boner or if his balls are going to shrivel up into his body.
“Two Scorpios can burn down a barn from the heat of their mutual orgasms.”
Ball-shriveling wins out. “Okay, well, this conversation has covered everything I never wanted to think about. I’m going to be late to work.”
Patrick studies Will in the mirror.
Will wipes his face clean of cream, decides not to care that he’s got one stripe of shiny skin on an otherwise stubbly face, and, grabbing his murse, leaves the sink to Patrick.
He dresses quickly. He really is going to be late. Not that anyone at Good Works would say anything to him.
“Do you have surgery scheduled?” Will calls out as he slides his wallet into his back pocket and hitches his bag on his shoulder.
“Meet you here tonight?”
“Will there be more Capheus?”
“Yes. And more Lito.”
“It’s a TV date with the hubby, then,” Patrick says, stepping out into the room with his sharp grin in place.
“First person home calls room service,” Patrick adds. “Order stuff we both like. We can share.”
“Oh, and Will? For the record, you’d still be hot even if you wore an insulin pump.”
“Thanks. But I’ll stick with the pens.”
Walking out of the pharmacy twenty minutes later with his new insulin pens, Will wonders what kind of sex Libras and Aries are supposed to have. You already know the answer to that. Hot enough to burn down a barn.
“God, just stop.”
He rubs a hand over his hair and decides to focus on the day ahead. He’ll take it one step at a time. Just like AA has taught him.
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