Its 2AM when Patrick dials you. To pick him up from a random, subterranean bar, no less. "S'still your city, right?" He'd slurred into the phone. "M'here for a—hic—challenger."

Any repressed satisfaction at the fact there isn't a goddamn Challenger in your city, instantly vanishes when you find Patrick slumped over the counter, looking hammered to death. He lights up when he sees you, grin wobbly.

"You came. Fuck. You're still so fuckin' hottt.." He tips forward so heavily that he almost topples over the stool. You're up close and personal with the glassy sheen of his eyes and the waft of his beer breath. The bitchy part of you wonders how he could even afford to get this pissed.

The bartender clears his throat. "His tab isn't.." Patrick conveniently ignores him.

Ah. So he can't afford it. That's wonderful, Patrick.

"S'their wedding anniversary." His hands twirl into the lapels of your jacket and yanks you into him, talking as if you didn't know, already. (Even if you didn't have the date seared into your brain, an achingly perfect shot of their wedding vows pops into your lockscreen from time-to-time. You could never bring yourself to delete it. It's your only remnant of Art and Tashi left.)

Besides, at least you were invited to the wedding.

Patrick makes no efforts in disguising how he's inhaling the scent of you like a starved man—as if when he closes his eyes and submerges himself in you, he'll find himself in 2007 with the world at his fingertips. Clumsily, he lifts his gaze, fingers clutching at your chin. His face leans unsteadily, lips parting— and it takes you a belated couple of seconds to realise he's leaning in for a kiss before—

He burps in your face. Gross. "Fuuuuck." He groans, head dropping like a rock onto your shoulder.