The Best Man: Part Three (FINAL) by Lola Carson Page A

finish the thought. It’s agonisingly clear. In some other universe, in another life, this could have been a completely different story.
    It’s with a gut-wrenching twist of renewed guilt that Noah allows himself to admit, quietly in his own head, that he would never have even noticed Connor that night if Patrick had been there.
    The sadness Noah feels is reflected on Patrick’s face and he runs the back of his finger across the sleeve of his hoodie Noah’s wearing. “Looks good on you,” he murmurs.
    “I was cold.”
    They smile quietly to each other, a moment of pure understanding, and then they leave it, let it go. Settle back on the couch, put their feet up on the table, and watch the telly in silence.
    Connor gets up a while later, in need of the toilet and a glass of water, and when he comes back to the living room, he collapses onto the armchair and squints across at them both.
    “What are you two doing up?”
    “Couldn’t sleep,” Noah mumbles.
    “I’ve just got in,” says Patrick.
    Connor looks at the telly. “What’s this shit you’ve got on?” he asks, leaning over to snatch the remote off the arm of the sofa, switching the channel over.
    “Give us the fucking remote back,” Patrick snaps, and there’s an unwarranted anger in his tone that concerns Noah. “We were watching that.”
    Connor gives them a curious look, eyes scanning over the pair of them, brows drawn.
    Noah realises how it looks. He and Patrick are sat close together on the couch, feet up on the table beside each other and touching, each of them holding a mug of tea, and he’s wearing Patrick’s hoodie.
    They look like a couple. Cosy.
    He suddenly feels overwhelmingly uncomfortable.
    “I’m going to bed actually,” he says and he gets up and leaves them, the weight of Patrick’s heavy gaze following him.
    * * * * *
    The next week is uncomfortable. Everything’s changed. Noah’s painfully aware of this thing between them now, can’t get away from it no matter how many distractions he tries. They’ve spoken of it out loud, brought it into the glaring light of reality.
    They edge around each other as if afraid of rocking the boat. There’s an undercurrent of anger in Patrick now, an edge of tension in everything he does, everything he says. It’s like the sight of Noah infuriates him, and yet he can’t keep away. He’s snapping at him about something even as he’s gliding a hand over the small of Noah’s back to get past him. He doesn’t speak when they sit together at night watching the telly, but he sits close, and there’s always some kind of touching, and it’s like he hates every moment of it even as he pushes for more, challenges the boundaries. His eyes watch Noah wherever he moves, following him as he cooks or cleans or leaves to go to work, where he’ll then look up and find Patrick walking slowly past the shop, looking in, branding him with that heat in his eyes.
    And beneath the rush of heat thrumming in Noah’s veins all the time now, he feels so guilty, because Connor’s done so much for him and he doesn’t deserve this, having this go on under his nose. Connor’s working too much in the lead up to New Year because he’s taking the first two weeks of January off for the wedding and honeymoon, says he wants to get on top of things so he doesn’t need to worry when he takes his break. But it leaves Noah and Patrick home alone a lot of the time, the pair of them itching with this tension, the silence of the unspoken. He knows Patrick’s making the effort to be absent as much as possible, but when he’s home things are tense in the most painful, exquisite way. Noah can’t breathe with it, always on edge, always waiting for the next snap of anger from Patrick, waiting for the next deliberate, slow, lingering touch.
    Things come to a head eventually, developing into an argument in the kitchen one evening. Noah doesn’t even know what they’re bickering about, but it gets Patrick worked up enough