Archive of Our Own

In retrospect, it truly only comes to light because he’s drunk. And maybe a little bit because it’s Patrick. 

But, mostly? It’s the alcohol; of that David has no doubt. 

(Even if he’s maybe only mildly tipsy, more like, but it’s more comforting, and ultimately less embarrassing, to tell himself he’s completely wasted instead. These are but some of the little lies he tells himself.) 

It’s not like his filter is all that remarkable, anyway. On the best of days, when he’s stone-cold sober with no drinks, joints or pills in sight, it’s still very much non-existent. Even worse, he’s never had a firm grasp on his self-control, for as far back as he can remember he’s always been this self-destructive mess he doesn’t even know how to start to untangle. 

No matter how hard he tries, no matter where his inhibitions lie, it’s a struggle to keep everything inside locked away.

Especially his opinions. And he has plenty of them, too many of them, about things most people don’t bother developing solid feelings about. 

Admittedly, it’s easier now. Now that he’s not surrounded by hoards upon hoards of people who enable his -- lackluster, shitty, bottom of the fucking barrel -- defense mechanisms for a chance at his money. Not to mention the fog of embarrassment that comes with the fact that he’s not sure he’s ever felt real friendship until he moved to Schitt’s Creek. 

At least he knows that doesn’t mean he’s not lucky to have found it at all. 

To put it mildly, it really sucked. Losing everything sucked, too, but as it turns out, having money is nice, very nice, but having friends is nicer . Having financial stability is a luxury he still misses sometimes, that’s true. David thinks part of him will always miss the ease of his old life, in that sense. But that doesn’t stop him from recognizing the life he’s laid the foundation for here, that he’s built it up into something priceless.

Regardless of the why or how, all bets of him keeping anything under lock and key are absolutely off when he has access to a bottle of wine, no matter how indecent. By this point, it’s something he’s accepted as fact.

Late two-thousands pop music peaked with Emotion , sandals over socks are incorrect in every last damn scenario no matter how impassioned Patrick’s efforts are to convince him otherwise, and David Rose should only be allowed around wine under duress on a case-by-case basis.

It was only a matter of time before this came around to bite him in the ass in front of Patrick. 

That it happens after they’re engaged, is nothing short of a damn miracle. 

------

After spending most of their afternoon at what David’s helpfully dubbed the Slaughterhouse Venue , and the remainder of it at a barbeque with his parents, David’s feeling quite justified in having a glass of wine. Or three. 

They finally arrive back at Patrick’s apartment a little past seven in the evening. It’s not a hard decision to immediately reach for something to ease the pounding headache that set in pretty much the moment he woke up this morning. 

After all, it’s not his fault that his fiance insists on keeping a bottle of David’s favorite in stock. 

What’s he supposed to do? Just leave it there? To rot ?

Patrick didn’t buy it as a decoration, even if it probably isn’t the smartest idea to drink it tonight. But it’s not like that’s ever stopped him before. So, here he is. Indulging. Today’s been a day , a rollercoaster of emotions, even more so than usual, from one exhausting extreme to another. David’s nerves are feeling especially frayed, his shoulders ache something awful, and his eyes burn behind his contacts from being outside all day. Not to mention he still hasn’t quite managed to get the sound of those screaming bagpipes out of his head. 

(He truly might never at this rate.) 

It might not seem like a lot, on paper, but David’s having a bad day. 

A day bad enough that if he wasn’t already currently melting back into Patrick’s couch to decompress -- and then later, his bed -- David definitely would currently be deeply considering walking into oncoming traffic. 

Okay. David’s self-aware enough to know he might just be pulling another classic David. His natural tendency towards the overdramatic and catastrophic definitely has an influence here, but he knows the lethargy bleeding into him is real. A thousand little things have grated on him all day, some of them leaving deeper grooves than the rest. 

And the thing is, David knows, he really does, that he’s a lot. 

He’s heard all the jokes about how whoever settles down with him (jokes secondarily laced with the implication he’s lucky to find anyone at all) must have the patience of a saint. How he’d better hold them tight as he can and do everything he could, no matter the cost, to make them stay. He’s heard from more than one ex about how they just didn’t want to sleep alone so they kept him around a little longer. 

The only thing that’s kept his anxieties and doubts from completely destroying his relationship with Patrick so far is his fiance’s resolute dedication to proving David wrong at every turn. It’s hard for his insecurities to truly take hold when there’s no way to question or doubt the ferocity behind Patrick’s love. 

And yet, sometimes he catches himself wondering if there’s ever going to come a time when that’s proven true. He wonders just as much what exactly it’ll be that is the final straw that fissures open everything David holds dear. Everything he’s finally allowing himself to hold dear. 

He’s never wanted someone to stay so much. 

David always wants people to stay, but not like this . Not this all-encompassing ugliness that lives inside his chest. 

David lets out a sigh he didn’t realize he was holding onto. He’s spiraling, without even meaning to. Drinking was definitely a bad idea, but he’s in it now. 

“Wine not up to your standards tonight?” Patrick asks, as soon as the second sigh escapes. 

Despite his inner turmoil, the corners of David’s mouth instantly lift into a smile, at Patrick’s tone, at his words, at him . 

Patrick’s been in the kitchen since they arrived home fifteen minutes ago, which isn’t exactly unusual, but David’s already polished off a glass and a half of wine. Patrick hasn’t even poured himself a drink, but he can hear him opening cabinets. 

“If only I had two of them,” he says, voice wistful. Maybe that’s something he can talk Patrick into later, keeping not one, but two bottles of his wine. 

Patrick laughs, the familiar and comfortable melody of it mixing with the metallic sound of a baking pan hitting those revolting blue countertops. David swallows, ignoring the spike of anxiety that slices through him at the sound. It’s not an angry sound by any means, but it’s hard, for David not to read into how Patrick would normally be sitting next to him by now. He’d pull his feet into David’s lap, as they sip their drinks and laugh about the day’s offering of absurdities. 

“Is it really a double fister worthy day today?” teases Patrick. 

“It was surely...something,” David replies. 

Wedding planning has already started to bring out the worst in David, something he’s, unfortunately, painfully aware of. It’s barely even begun, between Cabaret , the store, and dealing with his mother’s week-long breakdown, today’s the first day they’ve even been able to dedicate time to it in earnest. 

Not that it really matters. 

He could read the exasperation in his fiance’s face and tone, could feel it in the way he (gently) guided David back into the venue so he didn’t blow up further at Alexis. Today was stressful for David, that’s true, but he knows it was stressful for Patrick, too. Dealing with David frequently leaves people feeling like that. 

Patrick isn’t going anywhere, David knows that. Well, he knows that rationally . If Patrick has made anything clear over their time together, it’s that he’s here to stay. Patrick knew what he was signing up for long before he purchased those rings, long before David ever derailed Patrick’s perfect proposal plan with his complaining. But knowing that doesn’t erase the tension that lingers in Patrick’s shoulders as he moves around the kitchen. And it certainly doesn’t stop the latent guilt and anxiety swirling around in David’s stomach. 

He was a lot today. He’s probably going to be too much through this entire process. Patrick probably knows this, but does he know ? Does he know enough to stay anyway? 

Well. 

David’s never been one to rely on rationality. 

He can’t leave this alone. 

David has -- needs -- to poke at it. 

“What are you doing?” 

He has a pretty good idea of what Patrick’s doing, but he can’t help the question. 

David takes a long pull from the bottle in his hands, and then another. His heart warms at the reminder of Patrick keeping it in his fridge, just for him, and for a moment it’s enough. Enough for him to momentarily consider giving up the ghost and not pushing , for once. He turns towards Patrick on the small -- hardly big enough for two grown men to comfortably fit on together -- couch, watching silently as Patrick gathers baking trays, measuring cups, and whatever else it is he needs for this recipe. 

What is normally a comforting background noise digs into the wounds left over from earlier. Patrick bakes for plenty of reasons, when he wants to feel more grounded, when Marcy sends him a new recipe he has to try, but then David thinks about that solid weekend Patrick baked after the surprise audit last month. They had been fine , of course, but Patrick worried. Still worries. Patrick doesn’t think David notices how often he pours over the store’s spreadsheets unnecessarily, but he does. 

“Mm, I’m baking,” Patrick says, tone soft. Not the kind of tone one would take when stress baking, which to say is a relief would be a grand understatement. 

Still, David bites his lip, forcing down the instinctive rush of anxiety that threatens to hit him like a wave. 

At first, David had found this little hobby of his fiance’s more than a little surprising. He found out a couple of weeks after the ridiculous lip-syncing performance of his that David still wakes up in cold sweats about. It’d been a rough day at the store, during one of their longer droughts in sales. Patrick had gotten clipped with him to the point of being annoyed, and David hadn’t been sure what to expect when Patrick pressed a sweet kiss to his temple and asked him to come back with him to Ray’s that night. 

(Seeing his boyfriend dance around Ray’s kitchen in an honest-to-god apron -- worn-in, obviously homemade and frayed at its very blue edges -- with enough baking equipment to challenge Martha Stewert had definitely been a shock, to say the least.) 

It had been okay then. It’ll be okay now.  

Right? 

David might be too much for most people, that’s fair-- but not Patrick.

Never Patrick. 

The more he repeats it to himself the more sure he feels. So he repeats it again, and again, and once more before convincing himself to open his mouth. 

“Well, yeah,” David starts. “I see that, honey. What are you making?” he asks, in lieu of ‘is everything okay?’ like he wants to. Needs to, almost. Talking about his feelings generally goes better when he has sufficient time to dance around the metaphorical bush. 

The tips of Patrick’s ears pinken slightly, just like they always do whenever David pulls out a pet name. “I guess you’ll have to find out,” is all Patrick says, because he thinks being coy is cute. 

(It is cute. David, however, refuses to give him the satisfaction.) 

“Hm,” he hums. David takes another sip of his wine and gets up from the couch. He typically only joins Patrick in the kitchen when he joins in on the efforts, but this, at least, he can’t shy away from. As much as he doesn’t want to have this conversation, he needs to be as close to Patrick as possible while doing so. Once he’s close enough, he sees the roasted pecans on the counter, raw ones resting in an unopened jar beside them. Maple syrup, honey, and other sickly sweet ingredients join them in a colorful spread. “I’m guessing, and I might be wrong here, that it has something to do with pecans.” 

“As always, David, your eye for detail is unmatched,” Patrick teases. It’s sweet, tender, like the first rays of sunshine that peek through Patrick’s bedroom window when he’s trying to sleep. 

It still digs into a groove David hadn’t been aware of. 

“Do I get to taste test, at least?” 

Patrick grins at him over his shoulder. “Of course.” 

“I guess I can deal with the surprise, then.” 

“Your brave sacrifice has been noted.” 

David rolls his eyes, not bothering to stifle the groan (and smile) that crops up. He is, as always, as incredulous as he is charmed by Patrick’s apparent constant need to tease him. It doesn’t completely stop the off-kilter feelings from earlier, or the doubts and feeling like he could have really messed things up for them earlier if Patrick wasn’t so… Patrick . 

Most people would have left ages ago. Fuck, most people had . 

But not Patrick. 

One would think the only good one would wake up sooner. 

(It’s selfish and shitty, but David hopes he never does. 

He’s okay with being greedy if it means getting to keep him.)

“You okay?” Patrick’s question breaks through the scattered thoughts rolling around in the chaos in David’s head, of which he’s very grateful for. What he’s not grateful for, however, is the concerned slant to Patrick’s eyebrows, eyebrows that are suddenly right in front of him and not turned towards whatever it is he’s making as they should be. This close, David can’t help but meet his fiance’s eyes.

Oh, how David does not deserve him. 

“Oh, um, yes. Yeah, just got lost for a second,” David replies, biting his lip. 

“David…” 

This is not how it’s supposed to go. David should have known Patrick would see through him; he’s been getting better at that lately. David’s never been so terrified, so excited to be known. 

“I’m sorry,” blurts David. His hands flail out like that’ll stop the words from hanging between them, and he’s mortified to feel the way the tips of his ears start to flush. How he’s capable of still embarrassing himself this thoroughly in front of his fiance is beyond him.

Patrick’s eyebrows furrow. “For what?”

“Um,” David starts, and oh, yes, as it so happens those are his own eyes watering. Wonderful. “I know I wasn’t -- uh, the easiest to deal with, today, back at the venue.” 

There’s a soft noise, a sound that Patrick makes whenever David is being ridiculous and he can’t help but find it endearing. David knows, if he were to raise his gaze to meet Patrick’s, that he would be smiling at him with enough fondness to singularly hold up the moon. 

He doesn’t look. 

“David, I’m sorry to break it to you, but that was hardly the most dramatic I’ve seen you.” 

“That’s -- fair ,” he bites out, because it is. Today only registered as a solid five, truthfully. Hardly anything he can’t handle normally, but on top of Alexis leaving him (again) and his mother only just coming off of her emotional bender, David’s not feeling particularly forgiving towards himself. 

“Okay,” says Patrick, and then there are hands on David’s shoulders, his fiance’s hands are warm and comforting and home against him through the expensive fabric of his sweater. David feels worse. He doesn’t know how to turn off whatever distress signal it is that Patrick seems so innately tuned into. Probably because he doesn’t want to turn it off at all. “I’m kind of getting that we should maybe talk about earlier. Would that help you? Let me help you, David.” 

David swallows. “Fine.” 

Patrick leans up to press a kiss to David’s temple. It’s a move he’s done countless times, one that never fails to make warmth pool in his toes.

“Just let me get these in the oven, okay?” 

“Alright,” David whispers. 

It’s not until he hears the fridge open and close behind him that David realizes Patrick’s picked up his bottle of wine as well. He huffs, but accepts the glass of water Patrick replaces it with a few moments later, cheeks warming on how his fiance insists on taking care of him even now. When it’s obvious David is hanging on the edge of an emotional breakdown. How , exactly, Patrick manages to do it… he knows it’s not something he’ll ever truly understand. Most people fall and fizz out over his sharp edges, even more so on all soft edges he’d never mastered weaponizing. 

Patrick only seems to hold on tighter. On both fronts.

“I was drinking that,” David protests, half-heartedly, even while his hand wraps more firmly around the glass. He takes a sip for good measure, the ice-cold helping to calm the fire climbing up his throat. 

Patrick hums. “Yep. And now you’re drinking this,” he tells him, patting David’s hand gently, fingers lingering over the ridges of his knuckles. 

So, Patrick doesn’t want to deal with intoxicated David. That’s fair. David’s not a big fan of Intoxicated David, either -- that is the David who makes most of the bad decisions Sober David has to deal with, after all is said and done -- but the quiet dismissal, however sweet, is what finally pushes the words he’s been fighting back past the barrier of his throat.

David’s hands clench at his sides and he hopes Patrick doesn’t see them.  He doesn’t like the ugliness that rises within him so easily, his panicked mind connecting invisible strings of potential conflict that don’t even exist. Despite what his therapist used to say, being self-aware of his own neuroses doesn’t make them any easier to control.

Though, one might figure that would happen when you stop going to see said therapist. 

“Are you sure you want to deal with this ,” David gestures helpfully to himself, which is still lost on Patrick who still isn’t facing him. “For the foreseeable...uh, forever?” 

That gets Patrick’s attention, his fiance turning to him once he’s slid whatever’s on the baking sheet into the oven. Patrick’s eyebrows are raised in disbelief, eyes searching David’s apartment. There’s latent hurt that lies in Patrick’s expression that is hard to miss, and just as familiar. It’s the look he gets whenever David lets his anxiety and fear rule him.  

“ What ?” 

“I know I asked you this when you proposed,” continues David, now that he’s started he can’t help but steamroll ahead. “After this week I just wouldn’t blame you if it had changed.”

Some bewilderment sneaks into Patrick’s expression, now. “Why would you think that, David?” he asks, breathless, like he sounded when David asked him the morning after their date-that-was-actually-a-date if he regretted anything. David hates that he put that tone there, hates the expression on Patrick’s face even more, but his insecurities are a ticking time bomb tonight.

He can only back them back for so long.

“Today’s the first day,” he points out, like that alone means anything, and it does, to David, but it’s clear from the unimpressed look on his face that Patrick doesn’t share that particular sentiment. 

“Yes, David. I know,” he says, a little impatiently. “I was there, if you remember. We have plans to meet with some florists next week and then we have the first round of taste testings. We’re probably going to be planning for a while.”

“I -- and that’s something you still want? Even after today?”

“I’ve never wanted to marry you more. And I’m sure I’ll want to marry you even more tomorrow, and the next day, and quite possibly every day after that,” Patrick says, in a tone that says it will absolutely be true every day after that. There’s no room for argument, but David finds himself wanting to try, anyway.

“Patrick--” 

He cuts himself off. 

Fuck. 

How, of all people, did David manage to catch and keep Patrick’s attention? His love? David’s hardly deserving of it. Arguably, definitely more deserving of it now than he would have been not even five years ago, but alas, it’s not like it’s much of a difference. Patrick likes to ask him about what would have happened had they met in a different time, and sometimes David indulges him. But most of the time, he deflects him, because he already knows. 

He’s always known. 

Regardless of his mid-range straight leg jeans that do far more for Patrick’s ass than any Target-bought jeans have any right to, of his same button-downs in different colors and adorably incorrect mountaineering boots, David knows his heart would have recognized him. No matter how crowded a room, or strong the drinks or pills, no matter any obstacle or outside circumstance, David would have been called to him like a moth to a flame.

He’s not sure how to verbalize that, though, how to say it in a way that won’t be too much but will be just enough for Patrick to understand. Acknowledging his own emotions has always been a complicated minefield he’s still not quite sure how to navigate. Despite his father’s best efforts, it’s not an area David’s ever excelled in.

“Hey,” Patrick’s soft voice breaks through the fog of his own spiraling thoughts, and when he looks up, Patrick’s slid back into view in front of him. “David. Talk to me. Please.” 

David swallows around the sudden sting of tightness in his throat -- as much from Patrick’s plea as whatever’s happening in his head. His eyes water again, but this time it’s from the relief of yet another instance of Patrick knowing exactly what he needs. 

“I’m -- I’m a lot .” 

Patrick’s hand reaches out to gently grasp at his chin, the move preventing David from looking away like he wants to (a move that Patrick no doubt saw coming and rebuffed premeditatedly). He doesn’t try to stop himself from melting into his touch; it’s Patrick. Once David chances meeting his eyes, he finds nothing but quiet concern and absolute, unconditional devotion. 

David sighs audibly, unable to suppress the shudder from the look alone. Even if he doesn’t completely understand it. 

It’s not something he can wrap his head around. The moodiest, the pushiest, most extreme parts of himself he shows Patrick, the deeper that look gets. David’s never laid himself bare like this for someone and had them stay. He’s never laid himself bare like this for anyone before, really. All the broken, disjointed, fucked parts of himself are the very same that Patrick touches reverently, touch stuttering in awe as if they were never tainted to begin with. 

David doesn’t get it. 

He can’t. 

People have left him for less; far less. It doesn’t make sense that Patrick would stay for more. 

Patrick doesn’t laugh at him, but his eyes are dancing with kindled amusement. “If you’re trying to warn me about how high maintenance you are, I’m afraid you’re a little too late on that front,” Patrick tells him, voice full of so much love David almost feels a little sick. 

“How am I never too much for you?” 

There’s silence for a few beats, and then,

“ David ,” Patrick whispers, stepping closer to lean even further into David’s space. David’s arms, which by now have developed a Pavlovian response to wrap immediately around Patrick’s neck when even slightly appropriate are already sliding home. David’s sigh is equal parts contentment and relief when Patrick’s hands settle on the tops of his hips like they always have since their second kiss. “Nothing about you, about this could ever be too much to or for me. You really think I don’t know what I’m getting into? I’d get into anything with you. Do I need to remind you exactly who your mother is?” 

David grumbles, though his lips are already twitching into a reluctant smile. “I don’t know how you could say something so beautiful and then follow it up with something so insufferable.” 

Patrick kisses the top of David’s cheekbone. 

“I love you,” he says, instead of indulging him, which frankly is probably exactly what David needs. “And I’m still going to love you no matter how many times I have to correct you on exactly whose wedding it is.” 

David makes a show of rolling his eyes. 

“Even when I micromanage every aesthetic detail of our wedding until it’s perfect?” David tests, eyes dancing with mischief. The fear is still there, of course, in a sense David’s not sure it will ever leave. But for the moment, he’s comforted and leans into the urge to push Patrick’s buttons a little bit, too. 

“Mm, definitely. Though we might have to talk if you try to touch the budget.” 

David bites his bottom lip on a smile. “Mm, yeah, there’s no chance of that happening anyway, so…” 

Patrick nods very diplomatically, which means there’s a good chance David’s going to hate whatever it is that comes tumbling out of his mouth next. 

“I do have one condition, though,” says Patrick, starting off innocuous enough. 

“Oh?” 

“Yeah, I’m usually pretty flexible, but on this? Nope. Absolute dealbreaker.” 

David’s going to regret asking. 

“Care to enlighten me on what exactly this dealbreaker is?” 

Patrick’s face gets impossibly close, eyes almost convincingly solemn. “Well, since our open mic nights are such a success, and you just love when I sing to you in public, I was thinking after our first dance I’d really love it if--” 

“You’re the worst,” David cuts in, but he means I love you , which Patrick knows, because he’s Patrick and he’s wonderful. There’s laughter against his lips when David can’t take any more of his rambling and brings their mouths together in a somewhat sloppy approximation of a kiss. It’s hardly the first time they’ve shared this today, but it feels like it’s been far longer than that. One of David’s hands slides into the soft, short hair at the back of Patrick’s head, a curl of desire warming his stomach at the groan Patrick greedily feeds him.

David’s kissed hundreds of people, easily, probably more he’s forgotten about under the haze of the drugs and alcohol he once had constant access to. They all pale in comparison to the way Patrick’s lips make him feel, and he knows he’ll never be able to kiss anyone else and feel like this . 

David pulls him closer, tilting his head for a better angle as he lets his tongue snake gently along the seam of Patrick’s lips. As predicted, he opens up immediately, hands on David’s skin flexing with the rhythm of their kiss, like Patrick still can’t believe they get as lost in each other as they do. David can’t either. While he’d known love like his parents' existed, the devotion they have to each other unmistakeable despite his mother’s dramatics, or the weight of rebuilding a new life somehow even better than the last, he’d never expected for it to be the kind of thing he was built for. 

David’s been full to the brim of love for as long as he can remember. He’s been taught, whether intentional or not, that love has no place with him for just as long. 

“I love you,” David finally says against Patrick’s lips. It is an apology, a declaration, a warm blanket of comfort all in one. 

Patrick’s face opens up in a stunning kaleidoscope of emotion but it settles on fond, and then they’re kissing again. 

They stand there, wrapped up in each other until the timer on the oven goes off. David pulls away from him with an annoyed sigh, hands smoothing out the hair it’d been ruffling only moments before. Patrick smiles at him, pressing a kiss to the corner of David’s mouth as he passes him to the kitchen once more. 

David turns towards him, sipping from the glass of water that somehow has already been set on the counter. He can’t remember Patrick taking it from him, but that isn’t really surprising. 

Now that he’s not distracted by Patrick’s...well, everything , it’s hard not to notice the delicious sweetness that lingers in the air. David’s sampled everything Patrick’s made since finding out about his hobby, and he hopes this time is no different. 

“Are you going to tell me what you made or is it still a surprise?” 

Patrick laughs. “Come over here and find out,” he says. 

David can’t ignore that challenge, now can he? He sets the glass back down on the counter, walking over to hook his chin over the swell of Patrick’s shoulder. His fiance is a firm, solid line of blistering heat so he’s really not responsible for the way he curls into it like a cat. David’s eyes widen as he takes in just what’s on the baking sheets. 

“Oh. Are these pecan tarts?” 

Patrick nods, humming when one of David’s arms snakes around his waist. “You mentioned during our skype call with my parents that you wanted to try them after hearing I made them when I was a kid, so.” 

David’s not sure he wants to identify just what kind of noise he makes. “You remembered that?” 

“I don’t think I could ever forget anything about you,” says Patrick, voice earnest but no less responsible for tearing every last piece of David apart. 

“Please stop saying stuff like that,” David says. “You know how fragile I am. I can only handle so many compliments a day.” 

“Mm, from what I remember, you love being showered in compliments, so I’m not sure I believe you there, David.” 

David groans. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?” 

Patrick turns around in his arms so they’re facing each other again, his back to the cooling tarts, which only serves to remind David that his beautiful, sweet, sappy fiance baked them just for him. With this in mind, David presses him eagerly against the counter, every inch of them enfolded together. Patrick meets him halfway, lips sliding together with the familiarity and practice that comes with kissing the same person thousands of times. 

“You don’t seem too bothered by it,” Patrick whispers, once they pull away. 

David leans in for another kiss, not willing to have their lips separated for longer than a few scant seconds. “Maybe I’m trying to distract myself from the grief of it all.” 

“Mm, is that what this is, then?” This time it’s Patrick that leans in for another kiss, which is enough to make every last dormant part of David come alive. 

“Thank you, Patrick.” 

“Anytime, David.”

Patrick’s dimples come out to play now. David thumbs over them, touch just skating the side of worshipful. Or maybe it’s full-blown worship; David’s never exactly been gifted at the art of subtlety, especially where Patrick’s concerned. Patrick turns into the touch, letting his lips whisper a kiss on the pad of David’s thumb, both of their breaths stuttering in their chests at the movement. 

Patrick’s own hand comes up to hold David’s hand in place as he drops a kiss onto each of the golden rings on his hand. 

“Sap,” David accuses, voice trembling. 

“For you?” Patrick pauses. “Always.”

 A beat of silence, then two, three, before David’s stomach decides to unhelpfully break it. 

“Is this your way of telling me you’d like to try a tart or two?” 

David’s mouth moves into another bitten back smile. “At least two.” 

“The things I do for you,” Patrick replies, utterly besotted like the lovesick fool he is. David loves him so much it’s hard to look at him for too long. David’s hands tremble when Patrick pulls away to grab a plate from the cupboard, but he doesn’t try to pull him close like he wants to. A plate slides in front of him, with four pecan tarts and an extra helping of cinnamon sprinkled on top. It’s David’s favorite to decorate desserts with. 

“One of those is for me,” Patrick informs him. 

David rolls his eyes. “Of course it is,” he says, but his hands are already separating the tarts, and the look on Patrick’s face when David hands him two instead of the one promised to him makes him feel, for a single moment, as if he’s the center of every single universe.