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It’s Bert who first notices Patrick’s presence: he makes a ridiculous little sound in the back of his throat (the only, undignified bark his severe underbite will allow him) and squints his one, bad eye in the direction of the door. Joe, in his food induced coma, startles as if a bomb just exploded in the garden, dropping the book he has lazily abandoned on his stomach a couple of minutes ago and provoking a comic chain reaction of noisy dogs and fond laughters. He scrambles to kick the ashtray under the sofa in case Ruby decided she didn’t need to go to sleep tonight – she seems incredibly sure about the fact that going to school makes her an adult and thus in no need of sleep – and can’t help to wince when he hears it hitting the wall with a sickening crack, most likely spreading its content all over the patio for Bert to roll around in tomorrow.
“What valiant and fearless knights.” Patrick giggles and scratches Bert’s ear, making him melt from a tense stance of alarm into a puddle of drool and labored breath, “Ruby can surely sleep without concern with you two guarding the house.”
Bert doesn’t take offense at the teasing and keeps slobbering all over Joe’s sweats.
He has been personally chosen at the shelter by Ruby, who had dubbed him “beautiful old boy” and refused to look at the cute puppies who were launching themselves at the bars of their cages with little, chubby tails wagging like crazy. Joe was more than a little taken a back at the choice, but Patrick didn’t bat an eye before crouching down at Ruby’s height and asking her about names – Joe hasn’t told anybody, but that moment pushed him embarrassingly close to tears. Ruby started enthusiastically talking about Mary Poppins and kept going well after Joe signing all the papers and Bert celebrating his new family by chewing up the gearshift.
On paper Bert is some kind of pug and frenchie mix, but of all the combinations possible it seems like Mother Nature wasn’t very benevolent in assigning him one, as Sam likes to say: he’s almost completely deaf, one eyed and bow-legged, with dull black fur that’s starting to go white on his flat face, giving him the air of a grumpy old man who yells at young people to get off his lawn in his free time; his lower – remaining – teeth stick out of his mouth in a permanent scowl that could instill some kind of worry, if its owner wasn’t the size of a particularly fat loaf of bread. With the effort he puts in guard duty he must thinks he’s some kind of mastiff, with terrific fangs and powerful bites, but the sad truth is that he’s scared of his own snores and that once Joe knocked over the entire content of the dishwasher on the kitchen floor without him even waking up from his nap.
Joe absolutely adores him.
“The little monster is asleep?”
“Like the dead.”
“I swear you’re bribing her,” Joe mumbles, trying to save his favorite t-shirt from the Drooling Machine Extraordinaire; it’s already quite battered and there’s a hole on the collar that’s getting bigger every time he wash it, but he’s probably going to wear it (in the confines of his house and for his family’s eyes only, he’s too old to strut around with his belly button sticking out) until the end of his days. “She doesn’t put up half of the fight she puts up with me when you’re putting her to sleep.”
“She doesn’t put up a fight with you, babe, she simply bats her sweet eyes at you and you crumble.”
Joe exhales a dramatic sight.
“It’s not fair!” Patrick snickers and puts his hands on Joe’s opened knees; Joe automatically steadies his legs to welcome his weight and allows his boyfriend – his brain, after all they’ve been through, still cringes and swoons both at that name – to kiss his smile off his lips. “She’s too cute for her own good!”
“You’re weak to puppy eyes, Trohman.” He murmurs with a lazy grin, stepping away; Joe chases him with his lips for a moment, hands full of smelly dog, before dropping again on the wicker sofa, “Both human and canine.”
At that Bert – who definitely isn’t allowed on the design patio furniture and who definitely bough this privilege with head tilts and soft whines while Patrick, the stern parent, was away – emits a satisfied grunt, short and stubby tail wriggling against the canvas cushions.
“Yeah, I’m talking about you, buddy.” Patrick laughs and picks up Bert from Joe’s legs, before taking his spot on the sofa, head cushioned on Joe’s lap and overweight, drooling dog perched on his chest. Joe’s quick to slip a little bit on the sofa so that Patrick can lay more comfortable and nose tiredly at his belly; he has to forcibly stop himself from purring.
He and Patrick have been serious for a couple of years now and Joe can say with certainty he has finally found his place in the world beside him. Sometimes, though, he still thinks it’s impossible for one man alone to physically be so happy as he is in moments like this: simply laying with Patrick on the patio with their dog noisily snoring, the evening chill starting to dance on their flushed skin and their daughter blissfully asleep in her room fills his chest with an amount of unconditional joy he sometimes finds hard to handle.
He resurfaces from his musing with the feeling of light fingers on the inside of his biceps and Patrick’s humming a nonsensical melody under his breath. Despite Patrick’s daily whines in front of the mirror, years have treat him fairly; the fine lines his mega watt smile has carved into soft cheeks speaks of a life lived to its fullest and Joe couldn’t be more enamored of them. He’s still amazingly handsome and awkwardly pretty in his own way, all bright eyes, full lips and ginger stubbles permanently shadowing his jaw.
Joe remembers him laughing on the roof of the van, the first joint of his life held in his shaking fingers and a black beanie perched on his head; he remembers him in sharp suits and sharper eyes in a cold and empty courtroom; he remembers him borderline hyperactive and crazy on stage, in front of thousands of people; and he remembers him wide eyed and desperate in the kitchen of his old flat.
Patrick must be feeling Joe’s attempts at burning holes in his face with his stare alone, because he opens his eyes with a confused expression on his face that takes only a couple of seconds to turn into a scolding glower.
“If you’re about to apologize again after all these years, I swear I’m going to punch you in the dick.” His scowl bends for a moment under the beginning of a yawn, before returning at its full power. “But now I’m tired as hell, so I’d really appreciate if you could have your angsty meltdown tomorrow when I’m more alive and my aim is not shit.”
“Patrick-”
“Shush, you’re tired and high.” He kisses the inside of his left wrist, the base of the thumb and his palm; Joe feels a wave of blinding hot fondness crushing inside his chest. “Shut your mouth, shut your brain and go to sleep.”
“I love you.”
Patrick’s annoyance melts quickly into his sweetest smile.
“Me too, but that won’t save you from the punch in the dick if you don’t go to sleep.”
-
Joe wakes again a couple of hours later. The chilly summer night has fallen on them and his back is screaming at him despite the psysiotherapeutic pillows Patrick has filled their house with.
In his attempt of unravel himself from Patrick’s hold, he slips on the patio floor with a thud, but he doesn’t worry. Years of sharing his bed with both Patrick and Bert have thought him that not even the invasion of the Huns could rise them from their slumber: both of them are grumpy little assholes when woken up and both of their morning rages can only be placated with offering of breakfast and Ruby’s smiles.
He stumbles into the kitchen, trips into the living room in search of a blanket and only then he realizes the lights upstairs are on. He can’t help to feel the weakest tug of concern in his stomach and he quickly reaches the first floor to find Ruby’s door wide open. He finds her in the corridor, wrapped into her blanket like a wide eyed burrito and her favorite giraffe plushie held into her tiny hands. She buried herself into Joe’s hug with a soft sight, sleepy eyes and upset mouth, and Joe’s heart breaks a little in the best way when the half sobs stop as soon as she’s secured in his arms.
“Bad dream, love?”
Ruby nods, tired head perched on Joe’s shoulder and cold nose pressed against his neck.
“Where’s Bert?”
Joe giggles softly, caressing her blanket covered back with slow movements and already feeling her goes slack with tiredness. If Ruby’s the only one who can cuddle their prideful mutt in the morning, Bert with his overprotective affection and bad breath is the only one who can chase her bad dreams away. Only a couple of days ago his brother called him a “nightmare inducing goblin” and Ruby’s mouth bent in an indignant pout that has reminded Joe terribly of Patrick, before starting a scolding rant about less fortunate animals and “being beautiful inside” – Bert has thanked her defense with a half chewed tennis ball.
“Outside with papa, you want to join them?”
Ruby nods sleepily against his chin and Joe feels his chest go tight with fondness.
Patrick and Bert are exactly where he left them, sprawled across the patio sofa in various degrees of disarray and snoring bliss. Carefully not to juggle Ruby on his hip, Joe prods the both of them with a foot, but the only semi intelligible reply he gets is a utterly annoyed whine and one eye blinking confusedly at him.
“Bert, good boy, down.” Joe whispers with what he wants to believe is some kind of authority in his voice. Bert must sense that this is Very Serious Little Human Matters, because he obeys without hesitation and clumsily steps down the sofa, leaving Patrick sleeping body free to be used as a warm bed for his favorite human in the whole household. Patrick startles a little when Joe tucks Ruby and her blanket across his chest, but his eyes go liquid with affection at the sight of her and his tired lips melt into a kiss on her head. Joe takes advantage of the closeness to steal a kiss and waves away with a hand any concern about his back and Ruby’s tear stained cheeks. Patrick falls back asleep in a matter of seconds – despite the giraffe plushie pocking him on the nose - and their daughter follows him suit with soft murmurs and a sleepy smile.
Joe takes his sweet time to watch them both shift and rearrange against each other – and to fight back the heavy tears that are clouding his eyes. He sit slowly on the chair across the patio with the softest pillow they have against his lower back and Bert trips over his paws to get on his lap before his furniture privilege dies with the sunrise.
They only have a couple of hours of sleep before school and the band and the world require their whole attention; his back is going to complain all day long for this night on the sofa, there’s a meeting with Ruby’s teachers (it’ll be the first on the three on them can attend together and Joe already feels too many things at once) and Andy is finally coming back to civilization after a month long retirement into the woods with promises of actually staying in the city long enough for them to actually doing something musically.
Bert exhales a long sigh and Joe replies with a yawn and a scratch on his furry head. The picture they draw, two old souls laying on the incredibly uncomfortable patio chair in a tired but solid guard of their most precious pack mates, perfectly and simply describes the feeling of the warm knot of his intestines at the sight of Patrick and Ruby sleeping on the sofa: exhausted out of his mind and completely, irremediably and unconditionally happy.