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A day or two ago, I was looking through my excerpt documents, looking for a scene I had cut out of the Mpreg, and I actually found a few thousand words of one of the original beginnings. It was cut because I restructured the fic itself, but the backstory remains largely accurate. Some of it may even be creatively cut back in. In the meantime, however, I thought I'd share it with you because although this is how it happened in the story and it is canon, it's unlikely to ever appear in this form.
---
Joe held his breath as he closed the hotel room door behind him, as if that would make it quieter when the latch clicked into place; the last thing he wanted was to be caught now – after four o'clock in the morning, creeping out of his bandmate's hotel room with his sneakers in his hand – while he fumbled for the entry card to his own room down the hall.
He was shaking, which made things worse, because getting into his own room seemed to take forever and when he finally got inside, he crawled onto the immaculate queen size bed and listened to his heart thumping in his chest.
Fuck.
---
Patrick was still trying to figure out why he was naked when Bob pounded on his hotel room door, ordering that he be up and ready to leave within an hour. Hanging off the side of the bed, fumbling for his glasses on the floor, and instead finding someone else's boxers in his hand, was the first clue.
He could only make out parts of the night before through the raging hangover pounding so hard on the back of his eyes that he felt like they were going to pop out. He could pick out Travie, completely wasted, and Ashlee laughing as he brought round after round of drinks to their table... some rule about not smoking inside, and hanging out with Joe out back of the afterparty venue, trying to get some air and sober up; Joe reaching out to catch him as he lost his balance, slightly, propping him against the outside of the building and teasing him for how drunk he was... He could remember joking that it was a long time since Joe had had him up against a wall and Joe getting embarrassed and starting to pull away... Patrick was pretty sure what came next was his fault, whatever it was – and he had a pretty good idea about that, even if he couldn't remember the details.
This was why he didn't drink. When he first started drinking it had suppressed his inhibitions and at the time that had been a good thing, because he was shy and self-conscious and needed the help; but it also turned his affability into amorousness and waking up after shows trying to remember who he'd tried (and failed) to seduce became humiliation he just couldn't bring himself to face on a regular or even semi-regular basis. So for years, he'd all but stopped.
And almost as soon as he'd started again, assuming that he was old enough now to handle himself, this is what happened. Shit. What the hell was he going to say to Joe?
---
Joe was hiding in his bunk on the otherwise deserted bus when Patrick appeared, peering at him self-consciously and brandishing a pair of boxers.
"Hey," he mumbled, chewing his lip. "Brought you back your Calvins."
"They're not Calvins," Joe muttered, snatching them out of his grasp and tucking them down the side of his mattress, his hopes that Patrick wouldn't even remember completely dashed.
"Yeah, but it sounded better than 'skanky boxers'," Patrick laughed nervously, "so..."
"Well... thanks."
"You're welcome. I figured it was better than letting them get sold on eBay or something."
Joe just snorted.
"So... I kind of wanted to apologise," Patrick announced, suddenly less upbeat, fingering the seam on Joe's bedding.
"Apologise?"
"For, um... for last night, y'know? I wasn't thinking straight... I was probably way out of line... and I'm really sorry."
"It takes two, dude..."
"No, I know, but... y'know."
"Yeah." Joe knew, and he was pretty sure he'd known it when they were in the taxi back to the hotel, and in the elevator back to their floor, and...
"So. Uh, are you okay, and everything?"
"Um... yeah, but I kind of remembered why I always preferred the other way..."
"Heh. Yeah... sorry. I was, um... yeah." Patrick was blushing like a schoolgirl, now, adjusting his glasses self-consciously. "It's kind of been a long time since we, um. Y'know. Since the last time."
"Well... yeah. Because we've both had girlfriends, dude. And like... we've both still got girlfriends," Joe pointed out carefully, taking a deep breath. "I hope, anyway... I'm guessing probably not, when they find out."
"Find out? Dude – we're not... You're going to tell Marie?"
"You're not going to tell Lisa?"
"Do you think I'm insane?! If I tell her what we did, she's going to tell everybody else. And I mean, y'know: everybody. As in, people who might pay for the information."
"Shit."
"Yeah. Woman scorned and all that... So, no, I'm not telling Lisa. Because, I mean... it's not like... We're not planning on doing it again, or anything, right? We were just a little drunk, and let it get out of hand, didn't we?"
"No - I was a little drunk, you were like, so smashed I'm surprised you could even do anything, pretty much..."
Which in fact made Joe feel worse, because that placed the responsibility even more heavily on his shoulders. Patrick was seriously inebriated, no matter how enthusiastic he had been about what they were doing; Joe, on the other hand, had been sober enough to know that they couldn't continue to make out in an alley behind a club without seriously risking getting caught, and managed to get them back to the hotel in a search for privacy. Which they had apparently found.
"Yeah – but it wasn't as though we planned it."
"Obviously."
"Right. Good. Because, I mean – don't get me wrong... from what I can remember it was worth it and everything, but it just... We should probably put it down to experience and everything and just move on."
"That's what we did five years ago," Joe noted dully.
"That was kind of different..."
"As in, neither of us was like, dating anyone, basically? Because all I can think of right now, is that I promised my girlfriend I could take her being away for half a year because I didn't need anybody else and I'm kind of supposed to be with her in like a week and I don't know how I'm going to lie to her face about this."
"Dude," Patrick sighed, rubbing Joe's shoulder sympathetically. "This was a huge mistake, okay? And believe me, I'm not proud of it either, but we can't change it, now. So we have the choice of keeping it to ourselves and only beating ourselves up about it – or we can go and tell them both and hurt them, too. And I know what I'd prefer. I know that if it was me, and it really was a mistake and wasn't going to happen again, then I'd just rather not know."
"But Anna – "
"Anna left me for that asshole," Patrick cut in sharply. "She didn't fuck up – she made a choice. And that's different. That is so different."
"Sorry, dude – I didn't mean to – "
"Forget it. It's fine." It didn't sound fine. "But you've got to understand that there is no point in hurting her over this. All you're going to do is make her spend the rest of your lives questioning you and wondering what you're doing behind her back when you're away. And believe me, I know how that feels."
Joe just sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, wishing everything would just go away.
"Joe," Patrick said, pulling one of his hands away so he would look at him. He squeezed his wrist supportively, and gazed down at him with unfaltering sincerity. "Let it go."
If only it were that easy.
---
Joe had never cheated on anyone in his life. This might, in part, have been because the first truly long-term relationship he'd ever had was with Marie – a girl he'd thought would spend the rest of his life with; but beyond that, it was also because it was just against his sensibilities. He didn't believe in betraying the people he loved – or in lying to them – but that was exactly what had happened.
And it wasn't just Marie; it was Patrick. Patrick had been wasted at that party. He couldn't hold his drink because he'd never been much of a drinker, and instead of Joe saying, "Dude, drink some water and go to bed," he'd given in. He'd kissed him back and peeled off clothes and he'd even been the one to say it was okay, they didn't need to go searching for protection. Sure, he'd had a lot to drink himself, but he'd known what he was doing.
The problem was, he hadn't wanted to say no. He hadn't wanted it to stop because even if he was happier than he'd ever been, with Marie, sometimes he couldn't help missing what she couldn't give him. And sometimes he couldn't help reminiscing about a time when going to prom with a gay friend as a show of solidarity could turn into kind-of-dating without the risk of it making the national press. Or how a summer in a van with a bunch of friends would end up with losing his virginity to the kid he'd had a crush on from the moment he'd defended Morrissey for sacking Johnny Marr, and getting his heart broken when they got back to Chicago and Patrick decided to spend the greater part of the next four years shacked up with the girl who ended up breaking his.
It wasn't even that he still felt the same, these days. He'd gotten over his crush in a matter of months and earned himself one of the best friends he'd ever had; but nostalgia was a funny thing. And that night, firmly within each other's personal space, they'd reminisced about way back when. Joe wasn't even sure how they'd ended up kissing, but they had, and it had culminated with them back at the hotel and more guilt than he knew how to handle.
It was his own fault, and he knew that. He could have stopped it, and he'd chosen not to. He had no one else to blame.
---
"Dude! How much did you drink last night?" Pete's voice cackled through the bathroom door.
Joe could only respond in the form of another noisy wretch before he curled into the space between the toilet and the luxury hotel bath, and wished imminent death upon himself.
"Joe?" Patrick's voice this time, and Joe hadn't even known he was in the room. He had been summoned by his keeper the night before and missed the post-awards party and photoshoot entirely. "Do you need me to get you anything?"
"He didn't even drink that much," Andy's voice added, sounding incredulous. "I walked him back up here – he was fine when I left him."
"Didn't he have the shellfish, at dinner?" Joe might have guessed that Elisa would be there. "Maybe he has food poisoning. I swear my chicken was under cooked – I told you we should have gone to that other restaurant."
"It's not food poisoning," Andy informed her dismissively.
"Not unless he changed faith, kind of... Hey – Joe, man, we're heading out – are you going to be okay?"
"Did you want me to stay with you?" Patrick asked, and Joe just kind of wondered if he was trying to get himself dumped.
"No. No – go, dude. Just everyone go and fucking leave me alone!"
"Well, there's no need to be pissy," Andy retorted. "C'mon – let's just go find something to eat before the sound of his hurling ruins my appetite."
There was a general murmuring of assent, punctuated by a painfully bright, "Feel better, hon!" in Ash's little girl chirp and then the door of his suite slamming. And finally, blissfully, nothing but silence. He didn't leave the bathroom until they made the trip to the airport and caught planes home. There was something about this which didn't feel right; which didn't feel like food poisoning, and didn't feel like a hangover, and wasn't like his usual digestive issues, because it hadn't come right after eating. He didn't know what was wrong, but he really, really wanted it to stop.
---
"Are you sure you're not dying or something?"
"Sam, it's gastric flu. That's what the doctor said. The guy knows like, a little more than you, okay? You're not getting my house."
"You suck."
"You suck."
"Oh, thanks. I was gonna offer to drive on down there and bring you groceries, but fuck that, bro. Do it yourself."
"I can't even look at food right now, pretty much..."
"Well, then I guess you don't need my help."
"Not unless you want to catch chronic puking and blow chunks all day, every day until you're like, back in college, basically..."
"Yeah... on second thoughts, you're on your own."
"Good. Get lost."
"I'm telling mom that you were mean to me."
"Dude, you can tell her what you like, you still don't get my house."
---
Some days were worse than others. By the time they flew to Japan for their tour of the Far East and Down Under, Joe was starting to get used to the constant nausea and intermittent vomiting. He ate little else than plain rice most of the time, definitely nothing heavy or spicy, and as much bottled water and fruit juice as he could stand.
He hid in his hotel room most nights, sometimes with Patrick or one of the crew, if they weren't feeling like spending a night out exploring the city's nightclubs, just watching badly-dubbed satellite channels or trying to make sense of the insanity of Japanese TV. Australian TV wasn't too bad; at least he had some idea what they were talking about.
It was one of those nights, channel hopping as he lay on his hotel bed, rubbing his churning stomach, that he flicked onto a documentary. He stopped abruptly, listening to the woman on screen.
"...the nausea lasted for literally the first three months. There was vomiting, really extreme exhaustion, occasionally dizzy spells... Some days it was so severe that I couldn't get out of bed – others it was almost normal, and I could function like your average human being. My sister, on the other hand, barely had any problems at all."
Joe's ears pricked up. This sounded familiar. Maybe he didn't have gastric flu. Maybe he had this, and he could go home and tell his family doctor and they could give him the right medicine and he could stop throwing up. He scrambled for the remote and turned up the volume, listening intently for more information.
"As Angela's pregnancy progressed into her second trimester, she found that the nausea and dizzy spells began to wane – "
Disappointed, Joe exhaled miserably and sank back into his pillows, contemplating sleep; he left the TV on, but switched off the light, and half drowsed as he listened to the women's voices. Somehow, he couldn't turn it off. He had his eyes closed, and his face buried in the pillow, but part of him was still paying attention.
Maybe it was because he'd seen the way Marie watched the women pushing their beautiful Italian babies in their buggies, and known that she was considering her future and pragmatically reminding herself that there was no rush and no need to waste her qualifications. She'd always look up at him and smile when he caught her, lacing their fingers happily and changing the subject; trying to distract them both.
But deep down, Joe knew that Marie had nothing to do with this. He wasn't even listening to the women's voices, anymore, he was listening to the rushing of blood in his ears and alarm bells ringing in his head. It was stupid. It was stupid and it was irrational and he would wake up in the morning and laugh at himself; and never, ever, ever speak of this to anyone.
Except something wouldn't let it drop. Something just fitted – aside from the fact that he was male, aside from the fact that he had no reason whatsoever to believe that he could be, apart from the timing and the symptoms. No matter how hard he tried to forget about it – even the next day, even two days later and even after he'd arrived back in the US and settled back into his own home – he just could not shake the idea. He couldn't let it go.
---
Joe held his breath as he closed the hotel room door behind him, as if that would make it quieter when the latch clicked into place; the last thing he wanted was to be caught now – after four o'clock in the morning, creeping out of his bandmate's hotel room with his sneakers in his hand – while he fumbled for the entry card to his own room down the hall.
He was shaking, which made things worse, because getting into his own room seemed to take forever and when he finally got inside, he crawled onto the immaculate queen size bed and listened to his heart thumping in his chest.
Fuck.
---
Patrick was still trying to figure out why he was naked when Bob pounded on his hotel room door, ordering that he be up and ready to leave within an hour. Hanging off the side of the bed, fumbling for his glasses on the floor, and instead finding someone else's boxers in his hand, was the first clue.
He could only make out parts of the night before through the raging hangover pounding so hard on the back of his eyes that he felt like they were going to pop out. He could pick out Travie, completely wasted, and Ashlee laughing as he brought round after round of drinks to their table... some rule about not smoking inside, and hanging out with Joe out back of the afterparty venue, trying to get some air and sober up; Joe reaching out to catch him as he lost his balance, slightly, propping him against the outside of the building and teasing him for how drunk he was... He could remember joking that it was a long time since Joe had had him up against a wall and Joe getting embarrassed and starting to pull away... Patrick was pretty sure what came next was his fault, whatever it was – and he had a pretty good idea about that, even if he couldn't remember the details.
This was why he didn't drink. When he first started drinking it had suppressed his inhibitions and at the time that had been a good thing, because he was shy and self-conscious and needed the help; but it also turned his affability into amorousness and waking up after shows trying to remember who he'd tried (and failed) to seduce became humiliation he just couldn't bring himself to face on a regular or even semi-regular basis. So for years, he'd all but stopped.
And almost as soon as he'd started again, assuming that he was old enough now to handle himself, this is what happened. Shit. What the hell was he going to say to Joe?
---
Joe was hiding in his bunk on the otherwise deserted bus when Patrick appeared, peering at him self-consciously and brandishing a pair of boxers.
"Hey," he mumbled, chewing his lip. "Brought you back your Calvins."
"They're not Calvins," Joe muttered, snatching them out of his grasp and tucking them down the side of his mattress, his hopes that Patrick wouldn't even remember completely dashed.
"Yeah, but it sounded better than 'skanky boxers'," Patrick laughed nervously, "so..."
"Well... thanks."
"You're welcome. I figured it was better than letting them get sold on eBay or something."
Joe just snorted.
"So... I kind of wanted to apologise," Patrick announced, suddenly less upbeat, fingering the seam on Joe's bedding.
"Apologise?"
"For, um... for last night, y'know? I wasn't thinking straight... I was probably way out of line... and I'm really sorry."
"It takes two, dude..."
"No, I know, but... y'know."
"Yeah." Joe knew, and he was pretty sure he'd known it when they were in the taxi back to the hotel, and in the elevator back to their floor, and...
"So. Uh, are you okay, and everything?"
"Um... yeah, but I kind of remembered why I always preferred the other way..."
"Heh. Yeah... sorry. I was, um... yeah." Patrick was blushing like a schoolgirl, now, adjusting his glasses self-consciously. "It's kind of been a long time since we, um. Y'know. Since the last time."
"Well... yeah. Because we've both had girlfriends, dude. And like... we've both still got girlfriends," Joe pointed out carefully, taking a deep breath. "I hope, anyway... I'm guessing probably not, when they find out."
"Find out? Dude – we're not... You're going to tell Marie?"
"You're not going to tell Lisa?"
"Do you think I'm insane?! If I tell her what we did, she's going to tell everybody else. And I mean, y'know: everybody. As in, people who might pay for the information."
"Shit."
"Yeah. Woman scorned and all that... So, no, I'm not telling Lisa. Because, I mean... it's not like... We're not planning on doing it again, or anything, right? We were just a little drunk, and let it get out of hand, didn't we?"
"No - I was a little drunk, you were like, so smashed I'm surprised you could even do anything, pretty much..."
Which in fact made Joe feel worse, because that placed the responsibility even more heavily on his shoulders. Patrick was seriously inebriated, no matter how enthusiastic he had been about what they were doing; Joe, on the other hand, had been sober enough to know that they couldn't continue to make out in an alley behind a club without seriously risking getting caught, and managed to get them back to the hotel in a search for privacy. Which they had apparently found.
"Yeah – but it wasn't as though we planned it."
"Obviously."
"Right. Good. Because, I mean – don't get me wrong... from what I can remember it was worth it and everything, but it just... We should probably put it down to experience and everything and just move on."
"That's what we did five years ago," Joe noted dully.
"That was kind of different..."
"As in, neither of us was like, dating anyone, basically? Because all I can think of right now, is that I promised my girlfriend I could take her being away for half a year because I didn't need anybody else and I'm kind of supposed to be with her in like a week and I don't know how I'm going to lie to her face about this."
"Dude," Patrick sighed, rubbing Joe's shoulder sympathetically. "This was a huge mistake, okay? And believe me, I'm not proud of it either, but we can't change it, now. So we have the choice of keeping it to ourselves and only beating ourselves up about it – or we can go and tell them both and hurt them, too. And I know what I'd prefer. I know that if it was me, and it really was a mistake and wasn't going to happen again, then I'd just rather not know."
"But Anna – "
"Anna left me for that asshole," Patrick cut in sharply. "She didn't fuck up – she made a choice. And that's different. That is so different."
"Sorry, dude – I didn't mean to – "
"Forget it. It's fine." It didn't sound fine. "But you've got to understand that there is no point in hurting her over this. All you're going to do is make her spend the rest of your lives questioning you and wondering what you're doing behind her back when you're away. And believe me, I know how that feels."
Joe just sighed deeply and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, wishing everything would just go away.
"Joe," Patrick said, pulling one of his hands away so he would look at him. He squeezed his wrist supportively, and gazed down at him with unfaltering sincerity. "Let it go."
If only it were that easy.
---
Joe had never cheated on anyone in his life. This might, in part, have been because the first truly long-term relationship he'd ever had was with Marie – a girl he'd thought would spend the rest of his life with; but beyond that, it was also because it was just against his sensibilities. He didn't believe in betraying the people he loved – or in lying to them – but that was exactly what had happened.
And it wasn't just Marie; it was Patrick. Patrick had been wasted at that party. He couldn't hold his drink because he'd never been much of a drinker, and instead of Joe saying, "Dude, drink some water and go to bed," he'd given in. He'd kissed him back and peeled off clothes and he'd even been the one to say it was okay, they didn't need to go searching for protection. Sure, he'd had a lot to drink himself, but he'd known what he was doing.
The problem was, he hadn't wanted to say no. He hadn't wanted it to stop because even if he was happier than he'd ever been, with Marie, sometimes he couldn't help missing what she couldn't give him. And sometimes he couldn't help reminiscing about a time when going to prom with a gay friend as a show of solidarity could turn into kind-of-dating without the risk of it making the national press. Or how a summer in a van with a bunch of friends would end up with losing his virginity to the kid he'd had a crush on from the moment he'd defended Morrissey for sacking Johnny Marr, and getting his heart broken when they got back to Chicago and Patrick decided to spend the greater part of the next four years shacked up with the girl who ended up breaking his.
It wasn't even that he still felt the same, these days. He'd gotten over his crush in a matter of months and earned himself one of the best friends he'd ever had; but nostalgia was a funny thing. And that night, firmly within each other's personal space, they'd reminisced about way back when. Joe wasn't even sure how they'd ended up kissing, but they had, and it had culminated with them back at the hotel and more guilt than he knew how to handle.
It was his own fault, and he knew that. He could have stopped it, and he'd chosen not to. He had no one else to blame.
---
"Dude! How much did you drink last night?" Pete's voice cackled through the bathroom door.
Joe could only respond in the form of another noisy wretch before he curled into the space between the toilet and the luxury hotel bath, and wished imminent death upon himself.
"Joe?" Patrick's voice this time, and Joe hadn't even known he was in the room. He had been summoned by his keeper the night before and missed the post-awards party and photoshoot entirely. "Do you need me to get you anything?"
"He didn't even drink that much," Andy's voice added, sounding incredulous. "I walked him back up here – he was fine when I left him."
"Didn't he have the shellfish, at dinner?" Joe might have guessed that Elisa would be there. "Maybe he has food poisoning. I swear my chicken was under cooked – I told you we should have gone to that other restaurant."
"It's not food poisoning," Andy informed her dismissively.
"Not unless he changed faith, kind of... Hey – Joe, man, we're heading out – are you going to be okay?"
"Did you want me to stay with you?" Patrick asked, and Joe just kind of wondered if he was trying to get himself dumped.
"No. No – go, dude. Just everyone go and fucking leave me alone!"
"Well, there's no need to be pissy," Andy retorted. "C'mon – let's just go find something to eat before the sound of his hurling ruins my appetite."
There was a general murmuring of assent, punctuated by a painfully bright, "Feel better, hon!" in Ash's little girl chirp and then the door of his suite slamming. And finally, blissfully, nothing but silence. He didn't leave the bathroom until they made the trip to the airport and caught planes home. There was something about this which didn't feel right; which didn't feel like food poisoning, and didn't feel like a hangover, and wasn't like his usual digestive issues, because it hadn't come right after eating. He didn't know what was wrong, but he really, really wanted it to stop.
---
"Are you sure you're not dying or something?"
"Sam, it's gastric flu. That's what the doctor said. The guy knows like, a little more than you, okay? You're not getting my house."
"You suck."
"You suck."
"Oh, thanks. I was gonna offer to drive on down there and bring you groceries, but fuck that, bro. Do it yourself."
"I can't even look at food right now, pretty much..."
"Well, then I guess you don't need my help."
"Not unless you want to catch chronic puking and blow chunks all day, every day until you're like, back in college, basically..."
"Yeah... on second thoughts, you're on your own."
"Good. Get lost."
"I'm telling mom that you were mean to me."
"Dude, you can tell her what you like, you still don't get my house."
---
Some days were worse than others. By the time they flew to Japan for their tour of the Far East and Down Under, Joe was starting to get used to the constant nausea and intermittent vomiting. He ate little else than plain rice most of the time, definitely nothing heavy or spicy, and as much bottled water and fruit juice as he could stand.
He hid in his hotel room most nights, sometimes with Patrick or one of the crew, if they weren't feeling like spending a night out exploring the city's nightclubs, just watching badly-dubbed satellite channels or trying to make sense of the insanity of Japanese TV. Australian TV wasn't too bad; at least he had some idea what they were talking about.
It was one of those nights, channel hopping as he lay on his hotel bed, rubbing his churning stomach, that he flicked onto a documentary. He stopped abruptly, listening to the woman on screen.
"...the nausea lasted for literally the first three months. There was vomiting, really extreme exhaustion, occasionally dizzy spells... Some days it was so severe that I couldn't get out of bed – others it was almost normal, and I could function like your average human being. My sister, on the other hand, barely had any problems at all."
Joe's ears pricked up. This sounded familiar. Maybe he didn't have gastric flu. Maybe he had this, and he could go home and tell his family doctor and they could give him the right medicine and he could stop throwing up. He scrambled for the remote and turned up the volume, listening intently for more information.
"As Angela's pregnancy progressed into her second trimester, she found that the nausea and dizzy spells began to wane – "
Disappointed, Joe exhaled miserably and sank back into his pillows, contemplating sleep; he left the TV on, but switched off the light, and half drowsed as he listened to the women's voices. Somehow, he couldn't turn it off. He had his eyes closed, and his face buried in the pillow, but part of him was still paying attention.
Maybe it was because he'd seen the way Marie watched the women pushing their beautiful Italian babies in their buggies, and known that she was considering her future and pragmatically reminding herself that there was no rush and no need to waste her qualifications. She'd always look up at him and smile when he caught her, lacing their fingers happily and changing the subject; trying to distract them both.
But deep down, Joe knew that Marie had nothing to do with this. He wasn't even listening to the women's voices, anymore, he was listening to the rushing of blood in his ears and alarm bells ringing in his head. It was stupid. It was stupid and it was irrational and he would wake up in the morning and laugh at himself; and never, ever, ever speak of this to anyone.
Except something wouldn't let it drop. Something just fitted – aside from the fact that he was male, aside from the fact that he had no reason whatsoever to believe that he could be, apart from the timing and the symptoms. No matter how hard he tried to forget about it – even the next day, even two days later and even after he'd arrived back in the US and settled back into his own home – he just could not shake the idea. He couldn't let it go.
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I can't wait for the finalised version.
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