Break Me Northern Ireland/Northern Ireland (2P/1P) Maybe?
Leave a “Break Me” in my ask, and I will write an angsty drabble.
-Happy and excited screeching- OwO !!!!!!!
had to think about this one but ahhh! AHHHH!!!!
sad/confused garret is my favourite garret more so when teamed up with stockholm syndrome pat uwu
It wasn’t the first time this had happened, the chill of the red heads skin making him shiver and he half wondered why he wasn’t wearing his gloves. He hardly ever took the damn things off so he doesn’t understand why this seems so much different.
He doesn’t want to give Patrick back. Patrick was his and his alone. His other half. His other self. Not Niall, not his sister. She found someone else, she didn’t need him anymore bar to achieve an empire.
Garret ignores the urge to turn and return home with the mock corpse, a nation stuck in limbo, so cut off from his own world and existence he was unble to live or die.
He could live with that though, Patrick wouldn’t die, he’d stay with him forever and nothing would change that.
It doesn’t take an idiot to know hw wasn’t welcomed here, chosing the Englishman’s home out of necessity rather than choice. Garret wanted someone to find him when he came back, if he came back. Nobody needed to wake up alone in a cold empty flat.
Nobody is upstairs, nobody is in his pets room, a strange sense of relief and disappointment in him. He had to give him back now, there was no excuse not to.
Placing him gently on the bed, he just pauses, watching as the colour slowly started seeping back into his skin and hair. It’s an odd sign of affection, a strange act on his behalf as he leans down and kisses the other gently.
"I’ll come back for you, my queen, and when I do nobody will be able to take you away from me."
He leaves then, quickly before he can come to, barely out of the door when he hears Patrick’s strangled gasp as his body kicked back to life. He could go back, he could go back and take Patrick back with him, he wouldn’t have to leave him….
"Garret?"
He freezes as he hears the question, hears the panicking in the room behind him, the crash as unused legs tried to move again and the whines of pain.
No, he had to go on, he had to continue. He ignores the screams of his name, the thuds of Patrick walking into things and falling down the stairs, the crying, the shouts of how he’d behave and be a good boy and that final scream of how he loved him out of the front door that he’d left wide open.
It’s not until he’s back home does he realise he’s crying and he doesn’t even understand why. Children and the weak cried, pets cried when you hurt them, the elderly cried when you killed their families.
He’d been comprimised. Patrick had comprimised him and made him human.
The walk to the park is in silence, bar the odd interruption where he’s told how pretty his wife is despite the frankly murderous look on the others face. He’ll be stabbed when he gets back; or rather Patrick will try and fail as always, cursing his name to hell and back and hating him more than usual. He doesn’t know how that’s strictly possible but, when his hand drops to that corseted waist, he thinks the younger male just about winds him with his elbow.
“You could at least try and smile, darling. I can’t think a better way of spending a Sunday afternoon.”
“Oh I don’t know, getting out of this infernal clothing and poisoning you seems a better way.”
“This is new, now you want to be naked before me. I like this sudden turn Patrick; we should work on this later.” There’s the flustered glare, the look promising painful things that won’t happen and Garrett knows that under those gloves his hands are white from the sheer force he’s gripping the parasol. “But first, we must feed the pigeons~”
The noise Patrick makes can only be the noise that any long suffering wife could make, sending a withering glare at Garrett and shaking his head. This was by far one of the more normal things the other did and even then it was utterly weird for who in god’s name goes out to poison pigeons?
He’d have said it was an Irish thing if it wasn’t for the fact he was Irish himself.
Garrett is practically skipping as they get to the park, spinning Patrick as they get to the place he always has his fun, leaving his unfortunate wife on a bench. Patrick finds it odd really, as Garrett starts spreading the bird feed, that he can look utterly normal and less like a deranged maniac than he does at that moment.
That is until he remembers the other is poisoning pigeons and the illusion is shattered.
He’s straightening out his skirts when Garrett starts humming Mozart, throwing the bird seed laced with cyanide and arsenic to the heavens, look of utter glee on his husbands face. With a sigh Patrick shakes his head, rubbing his temple and muttering under his breath but he remains seated. He hasn’t done anything too weird just yet.
It’s then, however, that he starts shouting “Die my pretties, die!” that Patrick gets up and twats the other behind the head with his parasol.
