Archive of Our Own

He wonders how early is too early to start drinking. With every Google alert that pings his phone, the handle of vodka on the vintage bar cart gets more and more enticing. 

At least he made it out of bed. Granted, he brought bed with him when he stumbled down the stairs after the first message slid into his DMs; when the mentions started taking over his notifications. When the sympathetically delighted texts started blowing up his phone with links to the articles (as if he hasn’t seen them all), each containing the same set of black-and-white photos he doesn’t remember taking. He knew Sebastien was doing an exhibit - he’d been invited, after all. He just didn’t know what of. 

He should have fucking known better. 

Wrapped in his Egyptian cotton sheets, he’s taken refuge on the couch, body fusing to the fabric as he practices the breathing he learned at a yoga retreat in Bali. If only he had access to the seaweed soak now. Skin stress-oily and hair an utterly lost cause, he stretches a finger out from his cocoon to see if he can reach the remote (because the only thing that could even begin to make him feel better is Mary Berry warning against a soggy bottom), but the remote is an inch too far away. And that inch might as well be the fucking Sahara at the moment. 

His phone vibrates on his chest with a text. His one accomplishment of the day was deactivating the notifications on his Twitter and Instagram accounts. He wishes that accomplishment had been making coffee, but needs must and for once in his life, he has his priorities in order. 

He glances at his sister’s name and rolls his eyes, but unlocks the screen all the same. 

[Alexis]
David, what is going on? Why are you trending on twitter?

Fuck. 

He has half a mind to ask if that’s locally or nationally, but he’d really rather not know. Because, Jesus Christ, what if it’s internationally? Then again, he does always tend to overestimate the interest people have in him. 

The phone buzzes again. 

[Alexis]
Dad’s calling a family meeting? I can’t possibly get out of Marrakech in time. 

He groans into the pillow and kicks the blanket off. If he has to listen to his sister bitch from halfway around the world while his father awkwardly tries to be helpful, he’s going to need caffeine. Lots and lots of caffeine. 

He thumbs out a text to his intern and drops the phone on the coffee table with the amount of care a person who’s already had to replace his iPhone 6 three times since it was released in September can be expected to take. 

Gallery is closed today.

The message itself seems less like a surrender and more like an act of self-preservation, but who knows how he’ll feel in an hour? His mind does so love to fuck with him. 9am: self-loathing. 10am: embarrassment, 11am: anger, 12pm: guilt. The steps tell him he’ll get to acceptance at some point, but at the moment, he’s all booked up.

He pads into the kitchen with his duvet wrapped around him like a fur on Lady Astor and begins wrestling his espresso machine into submission. His phone vibrates twice more but he ignores it in favor of ordering buttermilk pancakes and ricotta fritters from his favorite brunch spot on 18th Street. He pours some fresh-squeezed orange juice and whimpers as he catches sight of his reflection in the glass of the microwave. He’ll need to take the entire day just to ensure he’s presentable for the public by tomorrow. And he will be. He refuses to allow Sebastien Raine to occupy any more of his time than absolutely necessary. 

Caffeine acquired and juice chugged, he pads back to the couch and flops down, grabbing the remote and the phone as he goes. He cues up Netflix with one hand as he opens his messages with the other, hovering over Alexis’ name before deciding to just bite the bullet. 

He should have known that only his sister could help hurl him from ‘embarrassment’ into the ‘anger’ portion of the morning: 

[Alexis]
Oh my God, David! Ew! I TOLD you not to take cocaine with Sebastien. 

He blocks her, telling himself it will only be for the day, but then he remembers she’s in fucking Marrakech and he sets an alarm to unblock her in an hour. Just in case. 

She’s right, though. She did warn him. And whether it was spite or just plain stupidity, he didn’t listen. 

The next text is from his intern. She at least withholds any commentary. In fact, she’s kind of sweet:

[Blake]
Do you need anything? 

He eyes the vodka again. Drinking alone is terrible but drinking with his 25-year-old employee is even worse. 

So instead, he utters the meaningless words he’s been repeating to himself and to anyone who’s bothered to ask over the last few hours: 

I’m fine.

No one’s bothered to ask.

xxxxxx

Friday arrives on the nauseated wave of a Ben & Jerry’s hangover. He doesn’t regret the pints, but he does regret the tequila he knocked back afterwards. There’s no wrapping himself in his bedding today; frankly, his arms don’t have the strength, but he’s reached the time allotted for Sebastien to make him feel bad about himself, so he hauls his ass to the shower and proceeds to sit on the marble floor for a solid 30 minutes, until the idea of standing isn’t quite so insurmountable. 

He allows Blake to open the gallery without him, but he calls up the bouncer he usually uses for special events and puts him on the door. If anyone even smells like a reporter, Manuel’s been instructed to toss them unceremoniously into the street. 

He doesn’t have a publicist, but Alexis’ old one calls up and offers her services. He always did like Emma. She was British and smart, took zero bullshit, but was also caring - in her way. Like a bulletproof Mary Poppins. So David takes her on to help navigate the utter shitstorm that has become his life. 

His phone vibrates next to the sink and he swipes it open without looking at it. He’s blocked everyone but his Favorites list, which only includes his immediate family, Blake, and now Emma and Manuel. He should have known it would be from the person he least wanted to hear from:

[the woman who birthed me]
Dearest offspring, please grace us with your companionship post-haste. 

Christ. He knows it’s bad if his mother is texting. The last time she tried that, she accidentally sent Justin Trudeau Gwyneth’s article about steaming your vagina.

But he agrees, calling over to the garage where he keeps his car and letting them know he’ll be there in 30 minutes to pick it up. He’d rather beat the weekend rush for what will probably already be at least a two hour drive. Why his parents are in Southampton when they’re just going to turn around and go back to LA to host a Memorial Day party is beyond him. It makes so much more sense to host the party at the beach, but what does he know? It’s not like he’s been planning parties since he was toilet-trained or anything. 

Still. It’ll be nice to get out of the city. He can feel her concrete walls closing in on him, despite his recently cleaned floor-to-ceiling windows. 

He spends the drive listening to Daydream on repeat because obviously, and ends up pulling his Range Rover into the driveway of his parents’ beach house on Meadow Lane well before happy hour. Of the various properties they’ve owned, it’s always been one of his favorites, despite the fact that he’s against sand on principle. Nancy Meyers actually used the house for one of her movies, interiors included, so he knows at least his parents’ sometimes questionable decor meets with his own high expectations. 

He can hear his mother wailing before the car is even in ‘park.’ He’s almost tempted to text their housekeeper to ask if she can slip her a valium before he actually goes inside, but it would only be delaying the inevitable (also, it’d take ages to kick in with her built-up resistance to prescription drugs), and he’d really like to make it back to the city as soon as humanly possible. 

White sunglasses firmly in place, he opens the car door with a heavy sigh and listens to the crunch of his Rick Owens’ sneakers on the stone and shell driveway. His father is sitting on a rocking chair on the porch, but thankfully there isn’t a martini in his hand, so perhaps this isn’t as dire as his mother’s caterwauling makes it out to be. 

“How bad?” he asks as he ascends the steps. 

The family lawyer greets him at the doorway. Fuck.

“Nevermind.” 

“David,” the man greets. He’s always been kind, even when getting David out of some of his more unfortunate (and embarrassing) scrapes. And he always did get him out of them. 

“Donald.” But before he can say anything else, his mother appears over Donald’s shoulder, all but collapsing against the door jamb like Blanche fucking DuBois. 

“Darling, how could you let him take those photographs?” She somehow manages to shove five extra vowels into a three letter word. “And the lighting!”

“Shocking what inhibitions an eightball and a good fuck will lower for you,” he snaps back. Donald isn’t phased, his mother sobs against a handkerchief she conveniently pulls from the band of her Rolex, and his dad just pinches the bridge of his nose and rocks in the chair a little harder. “Is there a point to this? And if so, can it be made around a bottle of gin? I’d kill for a good G&T.” 

Donald moves aside and motions for David to go in, which he would do if his mother hadn’t slid to the hardwood floor like a Salvador Dali painting. He steps over her instead, making a beeline for the wet bar by the back deck, leaving her to be scooped up by his father - a special skill that might as well be listed on his resume by now. 

“I’ve had my office draw up a cease and desist,” Donald begins, getting right down to it, which David appreciates. “Mr. Raine’s exhibition won’t last through the weekend.” 

David snorts. “Can you scrub the internet, too?” 

Donald smiles in that serene way that always manages to send a chill down David’s spine. “We’ll do what we can.” He’s very, very good at his job. “Emma’s already been in touch.” 

And after the shit his sister has put the lawyer and publicist through, David knows his debacle is child’s play. 

He hums and takes a sip of his drink, wincing. It’s basically Hendricks with a splash of Schweppes and a wedge of lime; he’s shocked his mother hasn’t made a grab for it already.

“So what now?” he asks. “You made me drive all the way out here, on a Friday no less. Half of fucking Tribeca is already on their way.” Yes, he’s grateful to be out of the city, but he sure as hell isn’t letting his parents know that.

“We thought it might be nice to… get away,” his Dad says awkwardly and laced with innuendo, like David’s a knocked up teen from a Bronte novel about to be sent to a nunnery. 

“I have work,” he replies, and something passes across his father’s face then, something guilty and secretive and hesitant; it doesn’t exactly instill confidence. “What is that? What’s wrong with your face?” 

The caterpillars above his eyes damn near crawl to his hairline. “There’s nothing wrong with my face!” 

“David, dear, your father’s features are positively Raphaelite.” 

David marvels at his mother’s ability to recover from her swoon so quickly, but then he notices the pint glass of vodka she has in her hand. “Mkay. Donald? Lovely to see you as always.”

The lawyer nods, and David heads out onto the deck, ignoring his parents whose pleas are silenced by the heavy click of the sliding glass doors. 

He takes a breath, the first he feels like he’s managed that day, and exhales, for once not caring what the sea salt wind is doing to his hair. He inhales the scent of the ocean and bends down to carefully unlace his Rick Owens. Placing them by the steps leading to the beach, his socks are removed next, and he pads down the wooden staircase, listening to the rustle of the dunes on either side. Given the grand nature of the houses and how spaced apart the property lines are, the nearest beachgoers are a good hundred yards away at least. He reaches the bottom and, a bit like Neil Armstrong on the moon, takes a careful step onto the sand, telling himself it’s free exfoliation and not something that might seep into his precious knits and never come out again. 

He could be calm here, if he let himself. If he ignored everything going on in his life and the terrible people that feature prominently in it. 

And they are terrible, make no mistake, but they’re honestly all he has. 

He tries not to think about that too much. 

He glares at a seagull waddling about twenty feet away or so, as if daring it to come closer. He’s still scarred by the fact that one swooped down and stole his sandwich out of his hand when he was four, and he’s never forgiven the entire species as a result. 

His phone buzzes in his pocket, and he curses because he really did think he put it on Do Not Disturb, but when he pulls it out and looks at the screen, he huffs at the sheer audacity of the name there.

“Sebastien,” he greets, low, nearly a growl if he thought his voice could get that rough. 

“David, how are you?” The smug son of a bitch.

“You’re a fucking piece of work, you know that?” He digs his toes further into the sand and practices the breathing that meditation app is constantly telling him to do.

“But not a piece as… stunning as you.” 

“We’ll be in touch,” he spits as he ends the call, not bothering to clarify that the ‘we’ in question is his lawyer. He’ll leave the surprise to Donald. He does so love that part. 

He slides the phone into his pocket and closes his eyes again, even though the fucking seagull is inching closer and closer. He did have his phone on Do Not Disturb but Sebastien’s text came through because, of course, his boyfriend would be on his list of Favorites. 

In the insanity of the last 36 hours, he forgot to take him off, even as he added people on. Because what kind of boyfriend does that to a person? 

Then again, Sebastien never actually called David his boyfriend - didn’t like labels, he said. 

David’s an idiot. 

He downs the rest of his gin and stares out at the rolling waves and a distant storm on the horizon. 

As if the attempted intervention wasn’t evidence enough, he truly gets a sense of how serious this is, of how much everyone pities him, when Alexis’ text comes through a moment later: 

[Alexis]
Do you need me to come home early?

He refuses to stay the night and instead drives back to the city listening to the entirety of Joni Mitchell’s Blue album, because no one gets the hollow ache of loneliness he feels in the depths of his soul quite like Joni.

xxxxxx

Sleep is a fickle bitch, and the next morning, he feels like he brought back half of that Southampton sand and shoved it into his eyeballs.  

He moans and groans as he does everything: crawling out of bed, flipping on his espresso machine, standing under the hot shower spray until his skin goes red. No one is around to hear him whine, but it does make him feel better. Catharsis, or whatever. 

He pulls on his comfiest black jeans and his sweater with the sharpest angles, sliding his sunglasses firmly in place. There are a couple of paparazzi across the street, and it takes every ounce of his limited willpower not to flip them off. He’s C-list at best, though, so he hopes they get a shitty price for whatever photos they snap. Thankfully, they only follow him to the end of the block before deserting him surely for a proper movie star checking out of the Greenwich Hotel.

When he gets to Broome Street, the gallery is dark and deserted, which is not surprising, considering he’s an hour early. Hell, even Blake only arrives 30 minutes ahead of schedule and never expects to see the whites of David’s bleary eyes for at least 90 minutes beyond that. 

He rolls his neck as he pulls out his keys, unlocking the door before hurrying over to the wall to disable the alarm. His father wanted him to cancel the party that night, but Donald urged him (in very quiet tones) to keep things business as usual. His mother yelled, “Don’t let the bastards grind you down!” as he was pulling out of the driveway so on this, at least, she and Donald agree. 

He wishes he had stopped at Everyman to pick up more caffeine, but the paps threw him. It’s not often they’re actually there for him. He’s usually at least third left of center in every photo that ends up on Getty. 

He drops his bag on his desk in the back and flops into the chair, leaning his head back and closing his eyes, pretending he’s back at Rockhouse in Jamaica, watching people braver than he jump off a cliff into the ocean as he sips a dark and stormy to the sounds of Bob Marley. 

He must doze, because the next thing he knows, the door is opening with its telltale squeak, and he hears the familiar tread of Blake’s espadrille wedges on the concrete floor. 

“Boss man,” she greets as she enters the office and hands over a macchiato from Everyman, bless. She doesn't comment on the fact that he’s early enough to fall asleep at his desk. 

“Minion,” he replies, but it’s fused with as much warmth as he can muster as he takes the drink. 

“I texted to ask about the coffee,” she starts, “but when I didn’t hear back, I figured it was better to be safe than sorry.” 

“Oh,” he frowns, glancing at his phone. “I forgot to take it off airplane mode. And I turned off the wi-fi.” He flips it back on and tosses it on the desk once more. “Are we set for tonight?” 

It’s a safe topic and information that he knows he actually needs. She can talk for a while, and he can muster up the energy to reply in kind where needed. 

She sits on the small sofa against the wall and drinks her iced black coffee, like the heathen she is, rattling off the menu between sips and ticking off the VIP guest list with her fingers. There’s no reason for it, he realizes. There’s no opening, no exhibit, no special occasion. It’s just a Saturday - something he started doing when his modest circle of friends stopped inviting him to events just so he could foot the bill. He could cancel it, but he hears his mother’s voice in his head: 

“Don’t let the bastards grind you down.”   

Though she tried to do it in Latin so it came out, “Illegitimi non carborundum,” with possibly a few extra syllables.

Blake is just listing the ingredients in the signature cocktail when his phone starts to vibrate across his desk. He ignores it for a second, but it keeps on going, rattling and rattling across the surface, until it reaches the edge. 

“For fuck’s sake,” he mutters, picking it up and noticing the wifi finally kicked in. Service in his office is shit but the wifi is strong, which is both a blessing and a curse. Right now, it’s turning out to be the latter. His phone is still on Do Not Disturb, save for his Favorites, and his mentions have been turned off, but that doesn’t stop his so-called friends, unfortunately also his mutuals, from sliding into his DMs:

You poor thing.

Here for you, babe. 

Dude!

Honestly, you’ve never looked better.

“At the risk of sounding impertinent - ” Blake begins, and David snorts. 

“When has that ever stopped you?” 

“Why don’t you just delete your social media?” she continues, ignoring him. 

It’s tempting and not the first time he’s had that thought this year, let alone in the last 48 hours. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs after a moment, thumb sliding over the screen. He refuses to see it as the tactical retreat it is. Self-preservation, more like. He deactivates his Twitter and his Instagram and then deletes both apps from his phone. He sends the log-ins to Emma to do with as she pleases. 

When he looks up, Blake is sipping her disgustingly bland coffee and examining her nails. “I called Great Jones,” she says casually. “Matt has an opening at 2pm.” 

He raises an eyebrow. “Calling my local spa and asking if my favorite masseuse is available is not part of your job description,” he gently admonishes if only to hide the fact that he’s ridiculously touched. As his intern, he makes her do a lot of mundane stuff, but never shit like that.

“Yeah, well, I knew you’d be fucking unbearable otherwise,” she replies with a smirk that’s not nearly as sharp as it usually is. 

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t disagree as he stands and shuffles some papers on the desk. “2pm?” He has some contracts for the upcoming exhibit to draw up and a new sale to process - 

“And you should get there at noon to take full advantage. Go home and change. I’ve got this.”  

And he knows she does. There’s actually no one else in the world he’d trust to run his gallery for him at the moment, which is terrifying because she’s twenty-fucking-five.  “Do I need to put Manuel on the door?” 

“Nah. It’s been quiet. Besides,” she starts, taking the papers from his hands and shoving him towards the exit, “I have pepper spray if things get out of hand.” 

“Atta girl.” 

She doesn’t once look at him with pity in her eyes, which is a relief. His own family can’t even manage that. He’d give her a raise if she wasn’t being paid in college credits. 

“I’ll be back for tonight,” he says, sunglasses firmly in place once more, despite the shades they have lowered in the gallery to keep the morning sun from destroying the artwork. 

The spa is going to be a nightmare on a Saturday. Everyone will be at the Water Lounge, but he’ll sit in the Chakra-Light Steam Room, let Matt beat the shit out of him, and then end in the River Rock Sauna. 

And then he’ll put on his best Dolce battle armor, walk back into his gallery, and hold his head up high because he’s David fucking Rose. 

And what the hell else is there to do?

xxxxxx

His muscles still feel like jelly when he strolls in just after 6pm, and he can’t even blame it on a dose of cyclobenzaprine. Matt is truly gifted with his hands, which is not something David ever thought he’d say after that shroom-fueled trip to Thailand. 

But his suit is pressed and his hair is coiffed and, frankly, he thinks he looks fucking impeccable, which - thank God - because he has no idea who’s showing up tonight. Beyond the VIP list, the Saturday night soirees are open to the public to drum up foot traffic and, hopefully, future business. 

Blake has changed from a sundress to an all black jumpsuit with a pair of red heels that match her lips. He appreciates her ability to look phenomenal despite dressing in a backroom office with questionable lighting. 

“Just so you’re aware,” he says, swiping a canape off a tray as he enters his office, “I plan on hiding in here until I’m fashionably late to my own party and then I’ll make my entrance.”

“Roger that, boss man,” she murmurs, frowning down at something on her phone. 

“What are you doing?” 

“Nothing,” she says, completely casually, but he knows that tone. He hates that tone. 

“Liar,” he accuses, and she sighs, pausing for a second before holding up the mobile. 

“I’m deleting shitty comments from the gallery’s instagram. That okay with you?” 

He tenses, completely undoing all of Matt’s magic. “What are they saying?” 

“Nope,” she clips, “none of your business. I don’t care whose name is above the door.” 

“There’s no name above the door,” he mutters, but she ignores him. 

“You’re going to sit here until your grand entrance. There’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge and GBBO is queued up on your laptop.” 

He nearly groans. He really should pay her more. 

But she leaves to greet the DJ before he can get even remotely sentimental, shutting the door behind her, and so he does as he’s told: pops open the bottle of Veuve, pours a glass, leans back in his chair, and hits play on baked goods and polite British competitiveness. 

Eventually, he hears the room start to fill up as the bass beat rattles the walls. He waits a half hour more, and then finally stands and swigs the rest of his flute, smoothing down the front of his suit and doing a brief meditative pep talk before opening the door and getting lost in the crowd. He catches Blake’s eye behind the bag check table at the door. Her skills are honestly wasted there, but she makes a good first impression. One far better than David ever could. 

He smiles at one of his patrons and urges her to try the crabcakes (he over ordered), before getting pulled into a conversation with a young man who runs an art blog and thinks himself far more important and influential than he has any right to. Still, he did once write that David was “dashing,” and David’s ego is fragile enough for that one word to get the kid into any party David ever decides to host for the foreseeable future. 

He’s just listening to Milo ramble on about the impact of Neo-Dada and Pop art in post-war America (mkay, he’s pretty sure the child just got out of undergrad) when something out of the ordinary catches his eye. It’s just a second - a flicker of acknowledgement - but what causes him to pause is that it’s the ordinariness that makes it out of the ordinary. 

What makes him out of the ordinary.

This person in blue jeans and a cotton-blend button down looking at David like he’s Raphael’s lost “Portrait of a Young Man.” 

Well, fuck.

Poor thing looks like a little guppy in a sea of couture sharks. An adorable guppy, but one that could get eaten with a change in the tide all the same. He has to meet him. And he has no idea why.  

“Miko, excuse me for a moment, would you?” 

“It’s Milo.” 

“Right, sorry,” he says distractedly, because a) he’s a dick and b) he wants to remind Milo that just because he recently received that BA in Art History, it does not mean he needs to regurgitate every term paper he ever plagiarized from a website that can boast a B- average at best. Possibly with a curve.

David makes his way over to the man standing at the center of the room. He seems to have zoned out for a second, eyes glassy and unfocused, paying no mind to the champagne passing by on a tray or to the art adorning the walls. 

“Can I help you?” he asks, a little warily, and the man startles, honey whiskey eyes snapping up to meet his. David nearly trips in his Balenciaga boots. 

“Um...”

David shifts his weight. “Look, if you’re a reporter - ” Shit, he really should have put Manuel on the door again. 

“No, no.” The man visibly swallows. Nervous, then. Huh. “Not - not a reporter.” 

David’s eyes float up and down his body. He doesn’t look like the usual type anyway. Not in those shoes. “Good, because you’re about three days too late for the scoop,” he says casually, trying to keep the bitterness from his tone. It’s a constant battle these days. 

“No, sorry,” the man croaks, clearing his throat and trying again. “Not here for a scoop.” The smile he tries to give David is abysmal so clearly something’s up, but then he wrestles his loud features into a placid expression, which honestly, makes him look like a very cute serial killer so David takes a step back. 

“Then what are you here for?” Serial killer or not, he’s definitely intrigued. Possibly even interested. Those denims, cheap though they may be, are doing wonders for the man’s… assets. 

“It’s a really nice space you have here,” he says with an undercurrent of what on earth are you doing talking to me? David can admit he’s flattered by it. The man shoves his hands into his pockets - an impressive feat to be sure - and David tries not to linger on the flex of his forearms. 

“Oh.” David blinks and looks around, trying to reorient himself in his own space that this unassuming man has so spectacularly occupied. “Thanks. Do you know much about art?” 

The man snorts, like something’s funny but his expression is open, almost fond, so David knows the humor is not at his expense. 

“No. Not much at all, really.” 

“Huh.” David gives him a once over, and the man downright shivers. Yep, uh huh. Yes, please. “I could… show you around?” 

“I’d like that,” he says, head snapping up and down like an overeager Pez dispenser. 

He doesn't look like he’s ever stepped foot in an art museum in his life, this stranger who wandered in off the streets of Soho in an outfit he clearly bought at the Gap. But he hangs on David’s every word, as if there’s going to be a quiz at the end of the tour. David keeps it light, nothing too intense, nothing too extreme or weird; a brief intro to modernism followed by a passionate treatise on a piece by one of his favorite artists from Brooklyn representing her neighborhood’s increasing gentrification. He doesn’t want to be too much; doesn’t want to frighten this man off, this anomaly, so unlike the vacuous and vapid people that surround him on a daily basis, but he also wants him to know what’s important to him. 

Something tells him it’s imperative that this man knows what David Rose cares about. 

He’s about to show him another installation when he hears Blake (the other exception to the rule in his life), her voice carrying from the front door. That’s not like her at all, which is why he turns toward it, eyes narrowing as he tries to see through the crowd. Because it’s not like her... 

Unless there’s an issue.

And it doesn’t take him long to find out what it is. 

“Excuse me,” he murmurs tightly, touching the man’s elbow as he passes in an effort to silently convey I was enjoying this and I’ll be right back and please don’t go anywhere. 

Blake has come around the bag check desk and is holding her ground quite effectively for someone so small. Sebastien seems to be amused by her until his gaze lands on David. And then it lights up. Even outs. Plots. 

“David,” he greets with all the joviality of a restaurateur in Little Italy, arms spread wide. 

“Get out,” he clips, not bothering with niceties, not even for appearances’ sake. 

Sebastien steps in closer, and David can smell the cologne on his neck. He always did hate it, but he somehow overrode his instincts, rewired his brain to want to lean into it, like fucking Pavlov and his dogs. He can hear murmurings behind him, can hear the click of at least one camera phone. He doesn’t want to look but like a car wreck, he can’t help it, despite the fact that he’s in the driver’s seat. 

Sebastien takes advantage of his distraction and noses at his jaw. David abruptly backs up and clenches his hands at his sides. He’s always considered himself a lover and not a fighter (and not much of either, according to some people), but for this asshole, he’d made an exception. 

“Admit it,” Sebastien breathes, “you’ve missed me.” 

“Fuck you,” he snaps. “We’re not doing this here.” He nods his head towards the office, ignoring the fact that the last time they were both in there, Sebastien was at his desk and David was on his knees, but before he can even step in that direction, he hears a crash followed by some gasps and a couple of screams, and he whirls around in time to see adorable serial killer guppy go sprawling on the floor. 

What. The. Fuck. 

He stares wide-eyed at Blake who looks equally shocked. A stillness settles over the room for all of two seconds, an eternity and nothing, before everything explodes. 

David rushes over, dropping to his knees despite the fact that this is Dolce, and gently rolls the man over, cupping his face in his hands and telling himself it’s to keep his head from lolling about and has nothing to do with how soft his skin looks. 

“He’s really pale,” Blake murmurs, hand on his chest. David tamps down on the sudden urge to get territorial. 

“I think that’s normal,” he mutters, though the man does look more ashen than he did when David first approached him. He can feel the weight of dozens of gazes on his back, and he groans, because this is honestly the last thing his reputation needs - someone being poisoned by an hors d'oeuvre order he placed. “Let’s get him to the office.” 

Blake snorts. “Heads or tails?” 

“Oh my God,” he hisses, but scoops his arms under the man’s shoulders all the same. He’s heavier than he looks, body compact and firm and warm beneath his grip. A waiter hands his tray off to Milo so he can help Blake as David’s patron signals for the DJ to keep playing. 

Bless her and the wig she wears. 

They manhandle him into the office and onto the small sofa, only knocking his head against the wall once, which frankly is a fucking achievement. David thanks the waiter and ups the tip in his head, before stepping back and trying not to hyperventilate, fanning his now shiny face and wishing this suit didn’t have velvet fucking lapels. 

“Is he dead?” Blake asks, and his hysteria ratchets up a notch. 

“How the fuck should I know?” 

Blake smirks and points at the man’s (admittedly broad) chest, which rises and falls. “He’s breathing, idiot.” 

David presses his fingers into his own sternum, wondering if this is what a heart attack feels like. “Then why did you ask? I don’t pay you for your sass!” 

“Nope, just an added perk.” 

“You’re fired.” 

“You’d implode.” 

His hands flail before smacking against his lips. "Should we call an ambulance?!" 

“Don’t call an ambulance,” the man suddenly groans, and David promptly loses five years from his life. 

“Jesus fuck!” he hisses as Blake bends over him, a teasing grin on her face. 

“You sure know how to clear a party.” 

The man shoots up to sitting at that, swaying slightly on the sofa, his face indicating genuine panic. 

“Whoa, whoa, easy,” David blurts, hands hovering, trying to find an inoffensive place to touch him. He settles for a genteel tap on the back, and David catches the eye roll Blake sends his way.  

“Here, I brought you a granola bar and a ginger ale," she says, clearly having broken into his secret stash. "Your face is still white as a sheet, and though that does seem to be your default, I’d suggest upping those blood sugar levels regardless.” 

“Thanks,” he manages, taking the caffeine and questionably organic protein bar with trembling hands. “I cleared the party?” He almost looks guilty. Almost. 

“Nearly. It’s fine,” David shrugs. “It wasn’t a very good party anyway.” It could have been. As David looks this stranger up and down, he admits it could have been… something.

“Definitely took a downturn,” Blake agrees, and he glares. 

“Fired.” 

“You wish.” She turns back to the cute stranger, gesturing to a duffle David didn’t even notice she had dropped by the door. “I brought your bag, in case there were any meds you needed to take.” 

Can you share? is what runs through David’s still keyed up brain. 

“No,” the man says, shaking his head as he pops the end of the granola bar into his mouth. “No meds.” And then he says two words that make David’s stomach drop to his well-booted heels. “Where’s Sebastien?” 

“How do you know him?” David asks slowly, twisting one of his silver rings so viciously, he can feel the burn on his skin. 

The man looks flustered, which isn’t really helping his case. “Oh, I don’t really. I mean - that's...” 

Blake sees his verbal stumbling for the cue it is and points to the room beyond where the DJ’s stopped playing. “I’m going to check and make sure no one’s making off with the extra bottles of champers.” 

“Thanks, Blake,” David mutters, eyes narrowing - did she just say champers? “And don’t call it ‘champers.” 

“Yeah, yeah,” she replies as she leaves, leaving them alone once more. The man looks lost in thought as he absentmindedly chews on the protein bar, and there’s something… sad about his expression. 

“Technically my intern,” David elaborates, just to make that look go away. “In grad school at Parsons. Has a mouth on her that would get her fired from any other gallery in the city.” 

“But not yours?” 

He sighs heavily, burdened with his lot in life. “Sadly, no. Here, it’s practically a requirement.” 

The man smiles at something through the open door, David turns in time to find Blake downing a glass of champagne as she instructs the caterers where to pack the leftovers, before catching David’s eye and sticking her tongue out at him. Like the heathen she is. 

“So. Sebastien,” David prompts, flipping her off surreptitiously. “Friend of yours?”

And the man says, “Absolutely not,” with such vitriol that David actually leans back. Like, more vitriol than a Real Housewife whose pool boy just left her for her ex-husband. “I mean,” the man licks his lips, “I - I know who he is. I know…” he clears his throat, “know what he did.” 

“Ah.” David presses his lips into a thin line, if only to bite back his scoff. “Yeah, there might be someone on Staten Island who hasn’t heard, but I’m sure word will get around there eventually.” Word always gets around to Staten Island. He twists one of his rings around his finger, feeling a mix of dread and resignation drop heavy and thick in his stomach. “Is that why you’re here?” he asks, hating how strained his voice sounds. The guy looked nice . He should have known better. “If you don’t like art? Want to get a look at the tabloids' latest sacrificial offering?”

“I knew who you were before,” Nice Guy assures, though that’s hardly fucking reassuring. Is he a stalker? “I used to work at a Rose Video.”

Oh that’s worse. 

David scrunches his nose, and Nice Guy laughs. 

“Store 785.” 

“It’s so sad that you know that,” he mutters. “So you don’t like art. You’re not here to gawk. Why are you here?” 

A wave of pain crashes over those all-too-open features, and the man sways where he sits. David gets a hand on his back and one on his shoulder, thoroughly ignoring how firm his muscles feel and urging the can of ginger ale to his lips. 

“Okay, none of that. I really can’t handle someone dying on work premises on top of everything else.” 

“I’m not dying,” he says around a smile that suggests an inside joke David isn’t a part of. 

“Okay, well, is there someone we can call? You probably shouldn’t be wandering the streets of New York at night like this. You’ll pass out in a gutter and hit your head and wander into my gallery again, knowing my luck.” Not that he’d mind, per se, but this isn’t 50 First Dates.

Nice Guy swallows hard. “No. No one.” 

Ah. A feeling he knows only all too well. 

Before he can offer anything else, fucking Sebastien appears in the doorway. “Look, should I keep waiting or no?” The expression on his face makes it seem like he plans on leaving either way.

“I don’t even know what you’re still doing here,” David snaps. “Don’t you have an open mouth waiting for you at home?”

Sebastien raises an eyebrow, like a challenge, and David braces himself for whatever’s about to come. 

“Thought I had one right here.” 

And despite everything he’s been through in the last two days, it still hurts. The thought that someone he cared about (for a time) saw him as nothing more than a body with a nonexistent credit limit. 

What he doesn’t expect, however, is for Nice Guy to shoot to his feet and take a step towards Sebastien like he’s Cameron Diaz coming for Julia Roberts in the bathroom of the baseball place in My Best Friend’s Wedding. Nothing will ever top the look of unadulterated fear that passes across Sebastien’s face as he stumbles back, and if David didn’t feel like his insides had just been put through an industrial juicer, he’d make out with Nice Guy right here, right now. 

“Who the fuck is this?” Sebastien asks when it becomes clear that he’s not about to be hit in the face. 

And before David can say, ‘How the fuck should I know?’ Nice Guy is answering, “A friend.” 

And okay, despite the fact that he’s known him all of thirty minutes, this stranger has treated David better than all of his acquaintances combined so he doesn't argue. Christ, he doesn’t even know his name. 

Sebastien looks like he wants to say something bitchy, but Nice Guy still looks a breath away from going all Rocky Balboa on him so he wisely keeps his mouth shut.

“Get out, Sebastien,” he says, sounding as drained as he feels. He hasn't felt this tired since he woke up from that three day bender with Natasha Lyonne in a questionable flat in Paris. 

“Whatever,” Sebastien replies. “The exhibition already sold out. That’s all I wanted anyway.” 

David doesn’t have the energy to inform him that his installation likely won’t last through the weekend if Donald has anything to say about it, but then Nice Guy takes another step forward and Sebastien sprints out the door, past Blake who gives him the finger as she downs another glass of champagne. He closes his eyes and inhales, counting to five before blowing out his breath slowly. His shoulders kick back, his walls go up, and he flicks off a piece of lint from his otherwise impeccable Dolce armor. 

“The comment was worth it just to see him run out of here like Lindsay Lohan on a hotel bill,” he murmurs indifferently, and Nice Guy spins around, looking utterly mortified. 

“I’m sorry, David - ”

But David waves his hand like he’s batting away an unpleasant odor. Like this humiliation is an everyday occurrence (which honestly isn’t that far off the mark). 

“Anyway, thanks...?” he trails off and raises his eyebrows expectantly. 

“Patrick,” the man supplies. "Brewer." 

“Patrick,” David repeats, fighting a smile. The name suits him: sturdy and compact, bracketed by confident consonants. He glances down at the duffle and frowns, pointing at the airport tag still around the handle. “Did you… just get in?” 

“Something like that,” Patrick murmurs, taking another sip of ginger ale as he throws the granola bar wrapper in the trash. “Anyway, sorry I ruined your party.” 

“You didn’t.” How could he ruin something that was one cat fight away from a trainwreck? “Where are you staying? I’ll have Blake get you a cab.” 

It’s the least David can do, since Patrick swooped in like Mr. Darcy to save his honor. Oh God, does that make him Lydia Bennet in this scenario? Ugh. He’s definitely a Lizzy.

“Oh - I… hadn’t gotten that far yet.” Patrick scratches the back of his neck, and David raises an eyebrow - not in disbelief, per se, but he’s getting there. 

“So you - landed in New York from…?” 

“Toronto,” Patrick replies. 

“Toronto,” David repeats. Of course he’s fucking Canadian. “And just… decided to come visit an art gallery.” 

“Something like that,” he says again, wry tone making something warm glow in David’s carved out chest. 

“Even though you don’t like art,” David pushes, and Patrick smiles. 

The warm glow becomes a fucking supernova. Oh. Oh no. 

“I don’t not like art. I just don’t know anything about it.” 

“Clearly,” David snaps back, but he’s smiling because he just can’t help it. Not when he’s feeling like this. He hasn’t smiled this much in days. Weeks. Hell, he’s pretty sure Obama had just been elected, for the first time, the last time his zygomaticus muscle got this kind of a workout. 

“Got any hotel recommendations?” Patrick asks, breaking him out of his semi-manic train of thought. 

“On your budget, given your sartorial choices?” he teases. “Not in this neighborhood.” 

“Oh burn, David,” is the response that he gets, and the record scratch in David’s brain is loud enough to white out the honking on the city streets. 

Um, what?  

He almost turns around to see if Alexis is somehow behind him, but he’s distracted by the word vomit tumbling out of Patrick’s mouth. 

“Um…Well, I’m sure Yelp has something. Thanks for the ginger ale.” He hastily bends down to pick up his bag and swing it over his shoulder, and David doesn’t understand the tug on his gut that physically lurches him forward, begging him not to let this man out of his sight.

“I have a spare bedroom,” he blurts before he can calculate the possibilities of this sweet-faced man being the next Ted Bundy.

“Sorry?” Patrick asks, turning slowly. Okay maybe David seems like Ted Bundy now. 

“I have a spare bedroom,” he repeats, thankfully sounding more sure of his offer than he feels. “If you need a place to crash tonight. As a business owner, it seems irresponsible to send you off into the wilds of New York City when you look like you haven’t seen a town larger than the one in Fargo.” That makes sense. Sure. Go with it. 

“You just met me,” he whispers, but there’s a current of… something there. Something strange but familiar, like a dream you think you had but you can’t remember.

“True,” David replies. “You’re not a serial killer, are you?” he asks point blank because why not? He’s seen enough true crime docs to know how this will probably end. 

But then Patrick smiles. “Only on weekdays.”

Lucky me. “Well you’ve seen what I’ve dated.” He gestures to the door Sebastien unceremoniously departed through. “A serial killer would be a step up.” He pauses and bites his lower lip as the man looks pained again. “So?” David prompts, twisting his ring around his finger once more. 

He wants this man to come home with him. Desperately. And not even for the usual reasons, though he certainly wouldn’t kick him out of bed if it came down to that. David isn’t even entirely sure of his preferences, not really, but he can guess. Patrick’s gaze has been slowly flaying David, inch by inch, for the better part of an hour, sincerity and seduction wrapped up in warm brown eyes that David just wants to fall down for. 

After the debacle that is this evening and the catastrophe that is his life, it wouldn't be the worst thing - letting this unassuming man have his way with him for the night. He’d take care of him, David can tell, a take-charge attitude gentled by soft touches and whispered promises that David would believe even if they were only meant to last until morning. 

“Okay,” Patrick finally whispers, and David doesn’t even realize how tense, how braced for disappointment he was until his shoulders come down from his ears. 

Yes, he could let this man take care of him. 

After all, he might just be the first to try.

xxxxxx

David gathers his things and secures a promise from Blake not to make off with any of the unopened bottles of champagne. After all, they can be used for the next party as long as her little gremlin hands don’t go pilfering them. He ignores the downright salacious look she throws him as he and Patrick head for the door, and just before it swings shut behind them, he swears he hears the all-too-familiar pop of a cork and a sing-songy, “Oops” from his intern. 

He mutters a curse under his breath, but his annoyance drains as he watches a smile spread across Patrick’s pale face. It suddenly seems important to keep whatever hush fell over them when they got outside. It’s a kind of quiet reverence that’s only all too hard to find in the middle of Manhattan.  

“This way,” he murmurs softly, leading them to the left out of the door. “It’s just around the corner.” Literally. They make another left from Broome onto Greene Street, and David can see his building in the distance. Luckily Patrick doesn’t seem all that eager to break the silence either, so David uses the short amount of time to study him in a way he didn’t allow himself to in the gallery, now that they’re truly alone. 

He’s shorter than David by a couple of inches but with shoulders as broad as his ass is round. His jeans may be from Gap, but he wears them well. Those shoulders, though. They look like they carry the weight of the world, and David knows there’s a story behind this last minute trip for a guy who looks like he plans his breakfasts days in advance. 

“This is me,” he says casually, putting his key in the door and watching in the reflection of the glass as Patrick gawps. 

“All of it?” he asks, strangled. 

David chuckles. “No. Just the top floor.” 

Patrick doesn’t look particularly comforted by that information. Well, at least he’s not here for the money. What a refreshing change of pace that is. 

David leads him into the foyer and uses a key fob on the security panel as Patrick inhales sharply behind him. He pauses as he calls the elevator, studying the newly formed creases on that (annoyingly) flawless skin.

“You okay?” 

“Yeah,” Patrick replies, rubbing at something over his sternum, and oh fuck, does he have a heart condition? David really can’t handle further medical emergencies tonight.

But Patrick manages a reassuring smile as the elevator arrives, and David hits the penthouse button, trying not to stare at him in the reflection of the metal doors. It’s proving… difficult. 

“Okay, so you were lying a bit when you said ‘top floor,” Patrick says as David leads them into the foyer. 

“Floors,” David amends, sounding semi-humble if only to keep that look of impressed awe on Patrick’s face just a little while longer. 

David drops his bag in its usual spot just inside the door to the apartment proper and heads toward the kitchen, using the app on his phone to turn on lights as he goes. 

“David, this is amazing,” Patrick says, impressed awe still firmly in place much to David’s delight.  

A smile tugs at the corner of his lips as he comes around the chef’s island in the kitchen. “Drink?” 

“Uh, sure.” Patrick places his own bag down next to the sofa and shoves his hands into his pockets (a feat, to be sure). 

David gestures to the bar cart. “Wine? Vodka? Gin? Whiskey? Basically, I have everything but beer, including Benzos.” He grins somewhat apologetically, having pegged Patrick as a beer drinker the second he laid eyes on him. No one with a braided belt consumes anything above 8% alcohol per volume. 

“Uh, wine is fine,” Patrick replies, blushing slightly. 

“Red? White? Rose? Sparkling?” He’ll throw questions at him all night if it gets his cheeks looking like that. 

But then Patrick does something strange - he smiles in a sad, wistful way, and once again, David feels like there’s an inside joke he’s not privy to. 

“Red, please.” 

Red is also his preference so David’s not mad, turning to the wine rack in the corner and pulling out a bottle of his favorite Amarone from Italy. 

Patrick clears his throat and leans his elbows on the countertop. “This is much better than any hotel I’d find.”

“Told you,” David says teasingly, imbuing his tone with innuendo. Even tossing a little shoulder shimmy in for good measure as he opens the wine, his grip on the bottle firm and unyielding. Patrick is wholesome in a way that David wants to destroy. Not in the way Sebastien destroyed him, though. In a way that’s safe and consensual but leaves David with no question as to what’s hiding underneath the straining buttons of that blue cotton blend.

Patrick’s eyes darken and David knows he’s got him, sinking his teeth into his lower lip as he pours healthy portions for each of them. David wants to take him apart but leave pristine edges, so there will be no question of his ability to put him back together when they’re through. It’s a courtesy he wishes he had been shown, and he’ll be damned if he doesn’t hold himself to a higher standard. Especially when someone like Patrick is staring at him like that.

David gestures to the sofa, but he honestly doubts they’ll get there. Something in Patrick’s weighted gaze makes his breath catch, and he pauses, taking a slow sip of wine and ensuring his eyes don’t stray from Patrick over the rim. God, he’s half hard just thinking about the things they could do, and he places his glass on the side table because none of those things will be enjoyable if he gets red wine on his cream couch. 

It’s scary, though. A seduction. The last time he laid himself bare physically and emotionally, his feelings were thrown back in his face and his body was put on display for the world at large to view. To mock. To judge. He tells himself he’s fine as he steps up to Patrick, looking down at him so much better than having to look up at Sebastien. 

David carefully takes the wine glass out of Patrick’s hand and places it on the table behind the sofa, leaning in and smelling his aftershave, eyes flicking up to silently ask if this is okay. 

“David,” Patrick whispers and something inside of him snaps. 

He crashes their lips together in an embrace nearly violent in its intensity, and Patrick whimpers as he grabs hold of David’s lapels and tugs him closer, hip grinding into hip. David makes a startled noise into his mouth that quickly turns into a groan as he nips at Patrick’s swollen lower lip. He tastes like red wine and a good fuck, and David is kissing along his jaw like he just can’t get enough. Like he wants to swallow him whole. He tries not to lose himself in the feel of Patrick’s hot breath against his throat, panting into his skin, and David nearly whines as he  makes his way to Patrick’s ear, tugging the lobe with his teeth. 

“You don’t have to use the spare bedroom,” he whispers, and Patrick gasps and moans, his grip on David’s hips tightening as he thrusts up against him. David cups his neck, keeping him in place so he can suck on the spot just over his pulse point, ignoring the fact that this is the most alive he’s felt in years - and that earth-tilting realization barely has time to land in his mind before Patrick is pulling back and inhaling like a drowning man breaking through the surface.

David is trembling with an embarrassing combination of nerves and want, and he’s thisclose to whining just to get Patrick’s lips within kissing distance once more. 

“Hey,” Patrick murmurs, pulling away further. “We don’t have to do this.” 

Oh no, no, no. Begging is off the table, though - he promised himself after Sebastien he wouldn’t do that anymore - so David merely cocks a coy eyebrow. “What if I want to?” 

And then Patrick fucking devastates him:

“What if I don’t?” 

David feels his mouth pop open, and he steps back as if slapped. “Oh.” Well that’s - that’s fucking typical. 

Patrick’s eyes widen in horror. “Sorry, that’s not what I - I didn’t mean that.” He crowds into David’s space and takes hold of his lapels again, closing his eyes and pressing their foreheads together. “Trust me, I want.” 

And he’s not lying. David can practically see it dripping off his words like honey. Something else is clearly happening right now, though. Something deeper and more emotional than David is equipped to handle - 

And then Patrick sighs and wraps his arms around him, pulling David into a hug and pressing his face into his shoulder. 

“Oh,” he blurts, unused to such an intimate gesture. He can’t remember the last time someone just… held him. With no expectation of anything happening in return. His arms hang limp at his sides before coming up and awkwardly patting Patrick on the back. 

“You don’t need to do this,” Patrick murmurs, and David stiffens in his embrace. 

“I know,” he says, but even he knows it sounds weak. Defensive. Petulant. 

“Don’t be a child, David.” How many times had Sebastien said that to him?

“We shouldn’t do this,” Patrick tries instead, and David sighs against his chest. “You’re in a vulnerable place and I have my own baggage, and we just met. We shouldn’t…”

“I know,” he says again, and this time, it’s resigned. He holds on a bit tighter, though. 

“Is it okay if I keep hugging you?” Patrick asks, and David swallows hard, nodding. 

Here this man is, saving him from himself. Again.

Mr. fucking Darcy.

David leans more of his weight on Patrick, which he takes as if it’s nothing. As if David is not every baked good he’s ever dared put in his mouth. 

“You deserve better, David Rose,” he murmurs, and David’s resulting gasp is loud and wet and ragged because nobody, not a single goddamn person, has ever bothered to tell him that. 

The noises he’s attempting to keep in and failing to are undignified to say the least, but Patrick just holds him tight, running his palms up and down David’s back and gently swaying with him in the middle of his overly large apartment that hasn’t felt lived in until this moment. 

Patrick’s nose is tucked up in the curve where David’s neck meets his shoulder, and he shivers as Patrick’s steady breathing warms the flushed skin there. Patrick holds him like he’s held him before, like he knows every curve of his body, and David lets himself believe in this impossibility even just for the next few minutes, if only so he can say it happened once in his lifetime. That someone held him just because they wanted to. He’s not sure how long they stay like that, listening to the occasional siren pass by outside. It’s long enough for David to go nearly boneless, safe and secure in the (very strong) arms of this stranger, but not enough for him to miss the small kiss Patrick presses to the dip in his neck. 

Oh, that’s - that’s nice. 

“Are you a therapist?” he asks as he pulls away, wiping at his leaking eyes. Under eye patches will definitely be employed. 

Patrick smiles softly, reaching up to brush away a tear that David missed with a slightly calloused thumb. “Small business owner.” And the response is so unexpected that David laughs, an embarrassing sunburst of a thing that seems to delight Patrick all the same. “No, I had a… friend who had his own Sebastien Raine, you could say,” he says, clearing his throat, but not before David catches the tremor in his voice. 

Oh. 

“Sounds like more than a friend,” he murmurs, schooling his face into something soft and understanding. Patrick bites his lips and nods, staring down at the purposefully distressed hardwood floor.  

“Yeah,” he whispers, breath hitching. “He was.” 

“Ah,” David replies. Was. Baggage, indeed. 

They stare at each for a drawn out moment that’s not the least bit uncomfortable considering how much eye contact they’re holding. David knows this is for the best, even if he would like to find out just how difficult it would be to peel those jeans off Patrick’s tree-trunk legs. It’s for the best, but it still sucks, and if the rueful expression on Patrick’s face is anything to go by, he agrees wholeheartedly. 

“How about a movie?” he suddenly suggests. “Seems like we both could use one.” 

David smiles shyly. He’s not wrong. “A movie sounds good. But only if we can order food because the crudites at the party were not nearly enough to hold me over.” He’s so hungry, he could house a porterhouse from Keens meant for three. 

“Sure, David,” Patrick says, almost fondly. “My treat for letting me crash.” 

David watches him dig his phone out of his pocket and swipe through some things on his screen.

“Galanga Thai Cooking okay?” he asks, and David has to admit, he’s surprised. 

“The best, in fact,” he replies. “I’m just going to change, if that’s all right.” 

Patrick raises a non-existent eyebrow but doesn’t look up from his phone. “It’s your house, David. I don’t think you have to ask my permission.”  

“So I see Blake isn’t the only one with a mouth,” he snarks back, and God what David wouldn’t give to find out what Patrick could do with his. He looks up, face heating, to find Patrick smirking at him like the infuriatingly adorable man he is. “Come on, I’ll show you to your room,” he mumbles.

“You don’t have to use the spare bedroom.”

As if they both hear the echo of those words, they smile at each other softly, if a little sadly. 

It’s for the best, he tells himself. 

Patrick nods and continues tapping away on his phone as he picks up his bag. David grabs his wine glass and leads Patrick up the spiral staircase, turning a light in the library on as he gets to the landing. 

“Wow,” he hears, and he glances over his shoulder to find Patrick frozen on the top step, glancing around in wonder. 

“That’s you,” David says, gesturing to the bedroom as he continues up the spiral staircase. “Towels are in the linen closet in the bathroom which is there.” He points to a door just inside the bedroom, leaving Patrick to fend for himself. Surely, the man can handle finding a washcloth. 

David trudges up to the third floor, suddenly feeling like he’s been hit by a Formula One race car. Driven by Lewis Hamilton. In the final of the Monaco Grand Prix. He groans as he rolls out his neck and takes off his Balenciaga boots, lining them up in the closet next to the Tom Fords and hopefully remembering to polish them tomorrow. Sometimes he really does miss having household staff. Beyond the woman who comes in weekly to clean, he’s on his own. He’s contemplated investing in a chef but why do that when there are plenty of restaurants within walking distance? Less dishes. Less chance of burning his apartment down. Wins all around.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and tosses it on his bed, not even bothering to look at any messages. He knows they’re there. He strips off his suit, carefully hanging it up in the side of his closet meant for dry-cleaning. He didn’t wear it for all that long, but Sebastien touched it and that’s reason enough. He takes a healthy gulp of his wine and pulls on his black joggers followed by his DON’T t-shirt. Catching sight of himself in the full-length mirror, he wonders if Patrick will read too much into it, but it’s honestly the most comfortable. And given the evening he’s had, comfort is key. 

Draining his glass, he grabs his phone with a sigh, wincing as he unlocks the screen to find a string of messages from Emma:

[Emma]
The bad news is you’re trending on Twitter again. 
The good news is there’s nothing all that damaging.
In fact, the clip that’s making the rounds works in your favor.
You look rather badass, actually. 
Sebastien’s a bloody wanker, isn’t he.
Who’s the man who collapsed? You’ll need to make a statement. 
He is still alive, right?
Because we may need to renegotiate my fee if not. 
He’s a dish, btw.

David can’t help it, he snorts as he thumbs out a response: 

1. Thanks? Literally the first and only time I’ve been called a badass.
2. Wanker is a kind word for what Sebastien is. 
3. Yes, he’s alive. Low blood sugar. 
4. Trust me. I’m WELL aware.  

There’s another text waiting for him, this one from Donald: a photograph accompanied by a note that simply says, Just now. David downloads the photo and up pops a sign taped to a door he recognizes as the gallery where Sebastien is showing his work; his work being the rather spectacular detonation of David’s life. The paper reads:

 EXHIBITION CLOSED EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY. CONTACT YOUR POINT OF PURCHASE FOR REFUNDS. 

David exhales slowly, ignoring the way his hand shakes. Well at least there’s a modicum of justice in the world. He forwards the photo to Emma, although he’s sure there are Bible-length conversations between the two of them that he is not allowed to partake in. 

Letting out a whine he’ll never admit to making when he realizes his glass is empty, he heads back downstairs, stomach swooping when he sees the curtain to the spare bedroom is still closed. Though that could be the hunger. He paces back and forth in his Uggs, making it only two laps before the curtain is being pulled back, and Patrick is there in plaid pajamas that do his ass zero favors and a white t-shirt that does the exact opposite for his arms. 

Patrick’s eyes widen, before darting down to his t-shirt and reading the word there. Damn. David knew he should have changed. 

“Okay?” he tentatively asks, and David hums, resisting the urge to make grabby hands at his phone (and his shoulders, but he’s behaving).

“I’m just really hungry and I want to make sure you get my order right.” 

Patrick grins far too confidently as he holds out his phone for inspection. “You tell me.” 

David narrows his eyes to read the words on the screen. Seamless tells him that there’s drunken noodles with shrimp and pad see-lew with chicken in the cart, along with an order of spring rolls. Assuming the drunken noodles are for Patrick - 

“That’s…” David frowns, glancing up. “Did I tell you what I wanted?” 

Patrick shrugs as he submits the order. “Lucky guess. So, a movie?” 

David nods vigorously as he turns and leads them both down the stairs again. “As heir to Rose Video’s thriving empire, I can tell you that your options are plentiful.” 

Patrick laughs and it immediately becomes one of David’s favorite sounds. He tamps down on what a ridiculous notion that is as he grabs another bottle of wine from the rack as he passes, leading them to the couch once more. Patrick’s glass is still on the table where David placed it, and he hands it to him as he opens the new bottle, pouring them both a healthy portion. It’s strange to do this, knowing it’s leading nowhere. Nice, even. Though he supposes a movie night on a couch in pajamas could count as ‘somewhere.’ 

It’s been awhile since somebody has been in pajamas in his apartment. Usually it’s no clothes at all followed by whatever last night’s outfit was. That’s if David brings them home to begin with. Usually it’s his privilege to do the requisite walk of shame.

“How about Miss Congeniality?” Patrick asks out of the blue, and David’s jaw drops. 

“I love Sandra Bullock,” he whispers almost reverently, but there’s a knowing look in Patrick’s eye. Like this is information he knew and squirreled away for safekeeping. Did David mention it in an interview? Post about it online? Is Patrick a stalker? 

But before he can spiral, Patrick is smiling that fucking smile again; the one that looks like it belongs on a little league coach or a fifth grade math teacher. Not on someone who’s going to filet him and sell his organs on the black market.  

Deciding that if he is going to die, then what a way to go, David grabs the remote and bounces on the cushion, pulling up his Apple TV and scrolling through his extensive catalogue of Sandy films. 

Benjamin Bratt is no Keanu, but Patrick seems to like the movie well enough. David didn’t peg him as a purveyor of rom coms - he seems more the Field of Dreams/cry over a game of catch with Dad kinda guy - but David watches him mouth some of the funnier lines, which normally he’d find annoying, but Patrick’s lips are just so beautiful and, frankly, David could watch them move all night long.   

Their food arrives, and they put on Armed and Fabulous next (terrible title, decent sequel). Patrick nods off about halfway through, but David will allow it just this once because he’s had a very trying day and the film is the lesser of the two (no offense, Sandy). Had he slept through Miss Rhode Island explaining why April 25th is the perfect date because you only need a light jacket, though, David never would have forgiven him.

Patrick’s head slides down the back cushion, tilting until his temple is resting on David’s shoulder. David didn’t think they were sitting that close together, especially for two people who’ve already made out pretty hot and hard tonight, but Patrick had seemed to put the space there and David wanted to respect that. Over the course of the evening, though, they had gradually gotten closer, David blaming his own movement on access to shared spring rolls and Patrick’s on… whatever was going through that handsome head of his. That handsome head which is now using David’s shoulder as a less than comfortable pillow. 

David stares at him for a moment, looking at the flecks of ginger in his hair, visible even in the low lighting for ultimate movie watching. With his expression smoothed out in sleep, he looks much younger than David’s estimations. He’s got that baby face that he kind of wants to wreck. But in a nice way. 

Patrick mumbles something that David can’t really hear - he’s too busy being concerned about whether or not Patrick is drooling on his custom shirt. But then he mumbles again, and this time, the words are a little more coherent - 

“Picked lake house… correct choice.” 

- Even if they make absolutely zero sense. Smiling softly, David leans down and hovers just over Patrick’s head, gaze darting down to his face just to make sure he’s still out. He shouldn’t do this - it’s ridiculous and sentimental and dangerous and incorrect on so many levels - but he does it anyway, pressing his nose into Patrick’s sweet-smelling hair and inhaling deeply. He pulls away and, in a feat of tenderness he’ll deny in a minute, gently kisses the crown of Patrick’s head, pretending just for a second that this is a person who wants David Rose for more than just this night.

A gunshot goes off on the tv, thoroughly and effectively ruining the moment. Patrick startles awake, sitting up straight and glancing around blearily before rubbing his hands over his face. 

“Sorry, must have nodded off.” His rough voice sends a zing of arousal up David’s spine. 

“All good,” he replies flippantly, heart in his throat. Patrick doesn’t even seem to realize he’d been leaning on him, which is good considering it means he won’t remember David’s creeper-like shenanigans. 

The rest of the movie passes by with little incident and no more naps, and David tries to tell himself that the feeling in the pit of his gut isn’t disappointment. Patrick’s mumbled words won’t leave him alone, though, which is weird because they make no sense: 

“I picked the lake house which was the correct choice.”

No, no sense at all. 

xxxxxx

The rooftop terrace that his bedroom’s french doors open onto was definitely a selling point, but on mornings like this when he probably had a little too much wine and emotional turmoil the night before, David has decided that sunlight is a bitch. 

He groans as he rolls over and buries his face in his pillow, experiencing a blissful two seconds where he doesn’t remember anything about anything before reality comes crashing back in with all the subtlety of Miley on that wrecking ball. 

Sebastien, the photos, the party - Patrick.

He bolts upright and his vision swims (gravity is never his friend in the morning) as he tries to navigate his way out of his covers. Is he still here? Did he steal everything in the night? 

But then he remembers the soft way Patrick said goodnight and how kind he looked sleeping on David’s shoulder. How angry he was at Sebastien and how his face flushed gorgeously when David stuck his tongue down his throat. A good Canadian boy wouldn’t make off like a thief in the night. Then again, a good Canadian boy wouldn’t kiss like that, so David might have to adjust his preconceived notions. 

Wrapping a blanket around himself (literally, yes, but also metaphorically), David pads to the top of the spiral staircase and peers over, listening for any sound or movement. Hearing nothing, he frowns and ventures a few steps further, ducking down so the guest room will come into view that much quicker. When he gets there, though, the curtain is open and the room is dark, but he can see the empty bed beyond, made to perfection. 

Mkay. Good Canadian boys don’t just abandon their hosts and one-time makeout partners like a day player on Sex and the City. Like a corpse extra on Law and Order. Before he can work himself up into a full-on meltdown, though, he hears the front door open below and he whirls around, nearly tripping over his blanket in his effort to get to the stairs. 

“Where did you go?” he blurts, almost accusingly, just as Patrick is shutting the door. He admittedly looks very nice in his jeans and hoodie. Which is not a sentence David ever thought would cross his mind. 

“Coffee shop,” Patrick replies, raising the brown paper bag David is just noticing in his hand. In his other is a drinks tray with two beverages. “Borrowed your keys. Hope you don’t mind.”

David waits for the sound of the other shoe to drop; normally it announces its presence like an Acme anvil in those Road Runner cartoons Adelina used to let him watch, but all he hears is the whisper of Patrick’s now-socked feet sliding across the hardwood floor.

“What’s this?” he asks as Patrick hands him a paper cup from Everyman. 

“Caramel macchiato, skim milk, two sweeteners, with a dash of cocoa powder,” Patrick rattles off seemingly without thinking, and David’s brain short-circuits faster than the outlet in Alexis’ bathroom.

“How the fuck…?” He closes his eyes and shakes his head, wondering if he’s not actually still asleep. Has he been asleep since yesterday? Oh my God is this a coma? “Mkay, you knew my Thai order last night and now my not-uncomplicated coffee order this morning? It’s getting a little creepy.” Patrick opens his mouth, but David cuts him off. “If you say ‘lucky guess,’ so help me God.” 

Patrick laughs at that, but it sounds strange. It sounds strained. David is terrified that he already knows the difference. 

“Blake had it written down on a post-it in the office,” he replies. "Only yours could be so convoluted." 

Sounds fake, but - “Okay, Sherlock.” He takes the coffee and groans as the smell wafts up to his nose, and he shuffles over to the counter where Patrick has placed the brown paper bag, poking at it. Feels like muffins. Maybe a - 

“Blueberry scone,” Patrick says, finishing his thought for him. 

David groans again. “Where did you come from?” 

“I told you - ”

“Toronto, yeah yeah.” He’ll have to send Justin a gift basket. He breaks off a piece of the baked good and his eyes roll back into his head as he pops it in his mouth. “Still warm,” he says, an embarrassing mix of consonants and crumbs. But then he remembers how Patrick looked at him last night when David was stretched at the seams. How softly he said, “You deserve better, David Rose,” in a tone that left no doubt as to its sincerity.  He swallows thickly and takes another sip of coffee to dislodge a lump that has nothing to do with breakfast. “Um, you were very, uh… kind to me last night.”

Patrick opens his mouth and his expression says he’s about to refute that statement so David doesn’t give him a chance. 

“I don’t think I realized what kind of headspace Sebastien showing up put me in. You didn’t have to…” he makes a vague gesture at the area behind the couch where Patrick kept David together even as he shook apart. “I mean - I honestly wouldn’t have held it against you had you bolted first thing this morning so...”

“Well, you opened your home to a complete stranger,” Patrick says quietly. “You were very kind to me, too.” A small smile ghosts across his face then. Again, one of those secret things. “Nice, even.” 

David finally looks at him, having left the cardboard sleeve on his cup in shredded pieces. “Mkay, I can count on one finger the number of people who’ve said that. Actually, no. Claudia said I had a nice ass , so no fingers. I don’t need any fingers.”

“Shame,” is the quick reply accompanied by a sweetly naughty grin. 

“Wow.” David blurts, shaking his head. Down boy. “You know, I’m trying to behave and you’re making it very difficult.”  

“Sorry,” he says in a way that doesn’t sound like he’s sorry at all. 

David narrows his eyes, grateful for the fact that he has a blanket wrapped around him because his cock is embarrassingly less than soft. “I have to get ready to open the gallery. What are - do you have plans for today?” 

As cute as Patrick is, and as much as David doesn’t think he’s a criminal, he doesn’t exactly want to leave him alone in his very nice apartment with his very nice things. Although getting cleaned out and being forced to start over wouldn’t be the worst thing to ever happen to him. Might even be therapeutic, after the bomb Sebastien dropped on his life. 

“Um, I’ve never actually been here before, so look around, I guess?” Patrick says, scratching at the back of his neck, and David stops pawing at the bag for more baked goods.

“So let me get this straight: you flew to New York from another country - ”

“Canada doesn’t count - ”

It really doesn’t, but David ignores this. “ - didn’t bother booking a hotel, somehow ended up in Soho , wandered into a random art gallery, all on a whim? You don’t have anything planned beyond that? Do you even have a return flight?” 

Patrick winces. “No?” 

“Oh my God,” he breathes, pressing his thumbs into his eyebrows. “You don’t look like a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of girl.” 

Patrick tilts his head in confusion. “Thank you?” 

Mkay, Pretty Woman will obviously be added to the queue. 

“How do you not have a detailed itinerary?” He waves his hand up and down at Patrick’s laid back, yet still buttoned up appearance. “You’re like a walking Excel spreadsheet.” 

Patrick’s jaw drops. Oh no. “So you have heard of an Excel spreadsheet,” he says, crossing his arms seemingly in delight. 

Okay that is not what he expected to come out of his mouth. He expected maybe indignation. Perhaps disdain. Some indication that David had finally fucked this up.  

He shifts defensively; he’s not completely technically illiterate! But “Blake taught me” is what he replies with instead, snatching the second scone from the bag out of sheer annoyance at his inability to pin Patrick down. “So what are you doing here?” 

Patrick looks both terrified and flummoxed, like David just asked him for the meaning of life. 

“Finding myself,” he replies a little cautiously. “I guess.” A little sadly. 

“Deep,” David murmurs without an ounce of cynicism. He’d like to do that - find himself. 

Maybe one day.  

He wipes his hands on a paper towel and pulls his phone from his pocket, getting tangled briefly in the blanket. “You can leave your bag here so you’re not carrying it around with you. Here, give me your number. I’ll text you from mine.”

Patrick rattles it off, voice soft and layered with things David doesn’t think he’ll ever understand. He tries to tell himself that’s why his thumbs fumble as he types out a text:

Thanks for the scones. 

He watches Patrick stare at the phone for a while, for much longer than it should take to read a simple text, but David isn’t even entirely sure he’s opened it yet. His thumb is just hovering there over the screen, probably staring at a bunch of numbers. He’s clearly having a moment, which David won’t fault him for. Lord knows he’s had enough himself over the last couple of days, and so he turns and bundles the blanket around his shoulders, grabbing his coffee and ascending the stairs once more.

He drops the blanket back on his bed, glaring at the sun once again for good measure (though it’s slightly more tolerable with the macchiato), and trudges into the bathroom, the exposed steel beam in the wall that used to hold up a water tank on the roof leading the way. The bathroom also adjoins the terrace where the hot tub is, and the polished concrete of the counters nearly glows as he starts his morning routine. 

He descends just after 11:30 and stops short on the stairs at the sight of Patrick sitting at the breakfast bar, fidgeting with the phone in his hand, spinning it between dexterous fingers, and staring off into nothing. 

“Oh, hi.” 

Patrick starts and the phone clatters to the countertop. “Hi.” 

“I didn’t think you’d still be here,” he blurts and promptly winces at how that sounds. “I mean - I hope you weren’t waiting for me.” 

“No, no. I just - didn’t want to go without saying goodbye.”

David freezes, nearly missing the bottom step and stumbling into the kitchen. He’s not used to people sticking around just to say goodbye. He’s lucky if he gets a note. Then again, Patrick has been making him feel like he’s missed a step ever since he walked into his life in clearance sale jeans that shouldn’t have made his stomach swoop like that. 

He clears his throat and nods towards the window, begrudgingly admitting the sun now looks rather enticing. “I recommend the High Line. It’s a beautiful day for a walk, though it may be a nightmare on a Sunday.” 

Patrick nods and grins. “I’ll take that under advisement.” 

And David is sure he will - he can barely sit still. Patrick just looks like one of those active people that gets up early and runs a half-marathon before breakfast, like a psychopath. 

Patrick stands and shoves his phone in his pocket, fingers clasping tightly together now that they have nothing to play with. “Um, I’ll text you when I’m ready to come get my bag.” 

David nods and the pull in his gut to say “Stay” is undeniable, but the words won’t come because he already got one wonderful night. It’s greedy to hope for two. And why would Patrick even want to stay? David’s been a terrible host, crying all over him last night and then making him get his own breakfast this morning. Which he didn’t even get to eat because David consumed both scones like a ruffian, a fact that his waistline does not need and his trainer will never forgive. 

Patrick doesn’t seem like he minds, though. In fact, it seems like he kind of expected David to eat both.

He wants to say “Have fun” or “Don’t get lost” but Patrick definitely will, so all David does is lift his hand in a pathetic move that doesn’t know if it wants to be a wave or the set-up for a high-five. Patrick looks stricken for all of a second, like he’s just seen the Ghost of Christmas fucking Past, but it’s there and gone before he can be sure. 

“I’ll call you later,” Patrick murmurs. “For the bag,” he clarifies. And then that fond smile goes a little sly as he opens the door. “And if I don’t get you, I’ll just... leave a message.” 

David doesn’t know what that’s about, but the door closes behind Patrick, and for the first time since he got the place, the apartment feels too empty. Too quiet. 

He didn’t realize how much space Patrick took up without meaning to at all.  

Pulling out his phone and looking up his email with a sigh, he approves a statement that Emma mocked up regarding the incident last night. It's subtly snarky, which he appreciates. He ignores a message from his father and deletes another google alert email without opening it. No good will come from finding out what they’re saying about him on the internet. 

Caffeine. He needs more of it. 

He’s already going to be late for the gallery. He might as well swing by Everyman on his way. After all, being emotionally vulnerable in front of a relative stranger is exhausting. He fires off a text to Blake as he grabs his keys from the dish by the door. 

Do you want a coffee?

Her reply is instantaneous.

[Blake]
Are you feeling alright?

And unfair. 

Yes!

[Blake]
Okay. Do you need something?

Omg I’m literally just asking if you want a coffee. No ulterior motive. No life-threatening illness. 

Jesus Christ. The one time he tries to do something nice. 

[Blake]
Iced, black, one sweetener please. 

Like he doesn’t know. Like she doesn’t get the exact same thing every damn day. 

So do you, his brain reminds and he thoroughly ignores it as he leaves, slamming the door more forcefully than necessary. He tells himself it’s not because Sebastien could never get the order right, could never even be bothered to try, in all the time they were together. Nor is it because Patrick, enigma that he is, somehow knew the entire thing right down to the correct ratio of cocoa to foam on day two of knowing him.

He grabs the drink tray and puts some money in the tip jar, dropping his sunglasses back into place as he hip checks the door open and groans at the assault by the midday sun. When he arrives at the gallery, Blake is chatting with an older gentleman about a new McCann sculpture. He holds up the drink, and she smiles as he places it on her desk at the front. He gives a surreptitious glance around for a post-it note with his coffee order on it, but her desk is pristine. Austere, even. 

Huh.

He disappears into his office and shuts the door, leaning against it and letting his head drop back with a thunk. He’d love nothing more than to take a nap on the couch, despite the fact that he just arrived at his place of work. He’s really trying not to connect with people, but people seem to keep trying to fucking connect with him.

He wonders if the pillow on the couch still smells like Patrick. Patrick smells nice. 

A knock on the door takes at least another five years off his life (he must be up to minus twenty by now), and he spins and cracks it open to find Blake looking semi-sheepish on the other side. 

“Take a nap. There are cucumber eye patches in the fridge for when you’re conscious again.” 

He narrows his gaze at her. “Mkay, are you psychic or just that good?” 

“What do you think?” She winks. “Thanks for the coffee.” And then she saunters away, probably to make a sale, because yes, she really is that good.

He takes her advice though and removes his Rick Owens sneakers followed by his McQueen sweater, which he hangs in the custom cedar armoire in the corner before collapsing onto the sofa and burying his face in the pillow. 

Turns out it does still smell like Patrick.  

Considering his brain had been running faster than he did whenever anyone mentioned ‘commitment,’ David is shocked that sleep inevitably finds him. He wakes an indeterminate time later, drool puddling in the corner of his mouth, cuddling the pillow like it’s the last Dolce at a sample sale. 

(Or Patrick Brewer after a bout of emotional distress.)

He blinks his eyes open and blindly fumbles in the direction of the thing that woke him: his phone blaring Always Be My Baby somewhere from the vicinity of the floor. The noise he makes when he discovers a second too late that it’s just out of reach is mortifying to say the least, and he goes tumbling off the couch in an acrobatic feat that would have garnered him a negative score at the Summer Olympics if such a thing were possible. He shudders to think of the NBC commentary. 

He slaps at the screen, stomach plummeting when he sees his sister’s name scrolling across it. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“What’s wrong?” he blurts in lieu of a greeting, trying to remember where he put the go-bag and if he restocked the colored contacts. 

“Ugh, David, why do you think something’s wrong?” 

He can feel his eyebrows hit his hairline as he slumps against the sofa, adrenaline waning. “Because you’re calling. You don’t call. I’m lucky if I get a ransom note.” 

“Can’t I just see how my brother’s doing during this very trying time?”

His jaw hangs open, slack with incredulity. “No!” He shakes his head and paws at his now cold coffee, downing it in one go anyway and wincing at the bitterness. “And it’s not a trying time. I’m navigating the waters perfectly well, thank you very much.”

“Like your own little America’s Cup.” He can practically hear the nose boop in her tone.  “Yeah, I saw the TMZ article about Sebastien’s exhibit closing.” She pops her lips. “Bummer,” she says with barely repressed glee. 

His lips pull to the side because their shared disdain for that man might be the only thing that bonds them - Alexis for the fact that she was once edited out of his photo series, and David for, well, everything.

“Yeah, I’m devastated. No idea how I’ll recover,” he replies flatly, shifting back onto the sofa and leaning his head against the wall. The phone beeps again in his hand and he pulls it away with a frown to find an incoming FaceTime call from her. “Seriously?” 

“Just pick up, David,” she snaps. 

He hits Accept and it takes a moment for her image to go from grainy to beautifully and enviously sun-kissed. She’s leaning back on a white chaise lounge with reflections of both water and fire flickering over her face. 

“Where are you?” he asks, though he’d really rather not know. Wherever it is is better than his office. Fucking Williamsburg would be better. 

“The Mandarin Pool Villa, David. Obviously.” 

He rolls his eyes. Obviously.

She sips at a cocktail, the size of which he’s jealous of, but it must already be 8pm there. She looks good. Healthy. Safe. 

“Emma’s been keeping me updated,” she says, examining a perfectly painted nail just for something to do. 

He side-eyes her, difficult on a phone, but not impossible. “Um, she’s on my payroll this time, not yours.” 

“Actually I think she’s on Dad’s,” she points out, which - fair. “And don’t forget that every time you fuck up, they feel the need to run through my greatest hits, too. It’s not just your bad decisions they’re hungry for.” 

“Sebastien wasn’t my decision,” he snaps more vehemently than he means to. Perhaps dating him was, but he had no say in the clusterfuck he currently finds himself in. 

“I know that,” she says quietly. 

Silence falls, and he stews in both anger and regret. He didn’t think about it, honestly. That they’d have the Rose Family’s veritable library of juicy headlines to choose from. He really didn’t mean to drag her into this as well. 

“Are you okay?” she asks, and he starts. He thinks the last time she asked him that was right after Adelina had left. 

Frankly, he’s not sure he’s been all right since then. 

“Fine,” he replies. They both know he’s lying. 

“So. Who’s that button of a man that passed out at your party? Did he swoon? Did you catch him? Did you swoon?”

“My God,” he says, but fuck if he can’t help the smile that starts to split his face at the thought of Patrick. Of course Alexis latches onto it like Khloe to this month’s NBA VIP. 

“David!” she squeals and okay, that’s enough of that. 

But thinking of Patrick reminds him that’s it after 3pm and he hasn’t heard from him yet. Not that David was necessarily expecting him to text back, but given last night, he was kind of hoping to get something. Even a mundane update from a tourist spot that David definitely did not recommend. 

It’s probably for the best, though. Patrick seems too good for David Rose’s world. 

“When do you fly home?”

“Next Thursday. In time for a vitamin IV drip. Can’t be jet lagged for the party.” She gives a pathetic attempt at a wink. “Not that I’ve had much trouble with that.” 

It’s true, she hasn’t. Not since she started stealing their mother’s uppers. “Uh huh and what time do you land?” 

She rolls her eyes, but it’s fond. Far fonder than anything he’s seen from her in years. “I’ll email you my itinerary.” 

“I don’t think I asked for that,” he replies, but they both know it’s to cover how grateful he actually is to get it. Saves him from having it hunt it down when she inevitably gets kidnapped by pirates who look nothing like Johnny Depp. 

“Oop, time for din din,” she chirps. “See you next week! In the meantime, try not to release any more naked photos of yourself in compromising positions. I don’t need to see that on the magazine stand at the airport. Way to keep up with the yoga, b-t-dubs.” 

“Choke on a pineapple, Alexis.” 

“Aw, can’t wait to see you, too.” She disconnects the call, and he shouldn’t feel better, he shouldn’t - she’s a monster - but he does. 

He pulls up his texts and opens the thread with Patrick, a pathetic chain consisting of just one message thanking him for scones. He scrunches his nose, but his thumbs fly over the screen anyway, typing out something he wanted to offer the moment he woke up this morning; or even last night, the second he heard Patrick hadn’t booked a hotel.  

You can spend the night again. If you want.

He hits send before he has a chance to second guess himself and flops back against the cushions of the couch. A tentative knock comes a moment later, and he approximates a grunt for Blake who peeks her head in the door. 

“Hey. Mrs. Gunderson is here,” she says almost apologetically.  

“Fuck,” he mutters. Mrs. Gunderson will take up the rest of his afternoon, and she loves nothing more than to talk about what’s in the latest gossip rags. David’s sure she got an eyeful this week. 

“Want me to make up an emergency?” 

“Yes.” He sighs. “But no. I’ll be right out.” 

Blake nods without another word and shuts the door as she goes. So much for cucumber eye patches.   

He stands with a groan and stretches, checking his reflection in the circular mirror on the wall to make sure his hair is decent for public consumption before opening the door. He checks his phone once more, just in case…

To find a text already waiting from Patrick. He freezes in stupidly giddy anticipation, having completely forgotten that Do Not Disturb is still on and Patrick is not on his Favorites list, a negligence he will most certainly be rectifying. For practical purposes only. Totally.

[Patrick]
Only if you let me buy you dinner first.

David grins, something soft and fluttery banging around his ribcage, but it’s only when he’s halfway out the door that he remembers to look around - 

There's no post-it with his coffee order on it anywhere in here either. 

xxxxxx

He swears the clock is broken. 

It’s been stuck on 5:16pm for the better part of an hour, and David wants nothing more than to take the little hands and spin them around so he can get out of here that much faster. Patrick had swung by for David’s keys - literally the only highlight of his day (apart from maybe the scones). David had left them at the front with Blake when Mrs. Gunderson started monopolizing his time, and it pained him to watch their exchange from a distance. Blake looked coy, which was annoying, and Patrick looked delectable, which - also annoying, but then he waited until David looked over again to give him a little smile and a wave, and David would have closed up shop in that moment and firesaled the rest of his art just to follow Patrick Brewer out the door. 

He paces the floor and glares at the clock as if it dumped him on New Years to make out with Joey Fatone. Finally, at 5:37pm, Blake snaps. 

It was inevitable, really. 

“Jesus Christ, go,” she urges, grabbing his bag from his office and literally tossing it at his chest. 

“Insubordination!” he says with a grunt as he sort of catches it. 

“Ugh, you’re as bad as he was.”

Oh he perks right the fuck up at that. “Bad? He was bad?” Alexis’ voice comes back to him: 

"Did he swoon?"

Blake ignores the question and fixes him with an unreadable look. “You’re sure you didn’t know him before?” 

“Um, pretty sure.” He’d fucking remember. “Why?” Yes there are more than a few parties that are hazy at best, but his intern doesn't need to know that. 

She shakes her head. “Something about knowing your favorite restaurants.”

He wonders if Blake offered the alphabetized list, but between the Thai and the rom-coms and the coffee, Patrick so far is three for three. David isn’t worried about where he’s being taken tonight. 

“Well?” Blake demands, breaking him from his thoughts as she gestures toward the exit. “Quick, before Mrs. Gunderson changes her mind, comes back, and buys that painting after all.” 

He’s out the door before she can even finish the sentence, not wanting to risk his loyal patron and her penchant for rambling. The days are getting longer and the sun is still high in the sky, casting golden shadows on the uneven streets. He walks at a careful pace, fast enough to be considered ‘hurrying’ but not so fast that he’ll break a sweat. 

He gets to his building quickly and rings the buzzer, letting out an undignified snort when Patrick clearly activates the elevator and not the front door lock. He pulls out his phone and fires off a text, glancing up at the windows on the top floor and imagining what Patrick looks like scurrying around. 

Next button. 😊

The door buzzes open a moment later, and he hops in the waiting elevator, exiting to the penthouse foyer to find the door to his apartment already ajar - and when he imagined what Patrick was doing, his brain certainly didn’t dress him in that.

A missed opportunity if there ever was one.

“So what does the first button do?” Patrick asks cheekily if a little exasperatedly, but David is still stuck on this grey and black trouser/shirt combo. 

“Gives elevator access to this floor,” he manages. ”Obviously.” 

“Obviously. They should switch the buttons, then,” he says almost petulantly. “It makes no sense.” 

That little furrowed brow should not be nearly as sexy as Patrick makes it, and David is walking over before he can help himself, eyes raking up and down his compact frame. 

“Someone’s looking spiffy. Where are we going?” 

Patrick looks like he’s struggling to hold David’s gaze. “The Waverly Inn.” 

“Huh. Good choice.” 

Patrick tries to smirk, but his flush of pleasure at the compliment is honestly darling. Bless. “I made the reservation for 8pm. Gives you about 90 minutes to get ready. I know that’s cutting it close, but it was all they had.” 

Lies. David lets him get away with it anyway. “And how do you know how long I take to get ready?” he asks, little shoulder shimmy sneaking out before he can lock it up. 

“Go on,” Patrick says instead, gaze heated but voice rough, and not with desire. With something… almost sad. “Clock’s ticking.”  

David can feel the weight of his eyes on him as he climbs the stairs, the phantom press of it like a hand on his back long after he disappears to the second and then third floor. There’s something about Patrick Brewer - something David can’t put his meticulously manicured finger on. The notion follows him into the walk-in closet and hovers over his shoulder as he stands, staring at his collection of knits on their custom cedar shelves. And just as it’s there, it’s gone, vanishing the moment his eyes land on the black Neil Barrett with the white lightning bolt carving a precise yet jagged line down the center. Like it was the obvious choice all along. 

He takes a quick (for his standards) shower, but applies his full moisturizing routine. It’s been a trying day after all, and Patrick looks good. He pulls on his black jeans and carefully dons the sweater, smoothing his palms over the front and spritzing some cologne before artfully walking through the mist. 

He returns to the first floor to find Patrick walking in a haphazard oval behind the couch, mumbling to himself. Normally that would be a little too reminiscent of Crazy Walt who barks at him outside the Union Square 4 train, but David can’t help but find it endearing.

“Stop it,” Patrick mutters as he slumps onto the sofa, and David raises an eyebrow, wanting nothing more than to smooth the crease in the center of his forehead. Eventually even La Mer won’t be able to fix that.

“Um, stop what?” he asks, and Patrick abruptly stands again, practically springing back to his feet the second his perfect peach emoji butt touches the cushion. He looks like he’s about to assure David that he wasn’t just talking to himself and that he isn’t, in fact, Crazy Walt’s significantly younger and more attractive third cousin, but his mouth drops open and his eyes rake a slow and careful path down David’s body and back up again.

Patrick grabs the edge of the couch and sways a little. Well that’s flattering.

“Ready?” David asks too casually, and he can only thank his Mediterranean complexion for hiding the blush that’s burning his ears. 

Patrick visibly swallows as he shuffles closer, forcing a smile as he looks down again at David’s sweater. “Yeah,” he whispers, carefully hooking his finger in his sleeve when David gets close enough. “I like this.” 

“You better,” he murmurs, watching as Patrick gently, almost tenderly, fingers the fabric. “It’s Neil Barrett.” 

“I know,” he quietly replies, and that pulls David up short. 

“You do?” 

Patrick clears his throat and lets go, following David into the foyer and hitting the button for the elevator before shoving his hands in his pockets. “You’d be surprised by what I know about fashion,” he says almost cryptically. “For instance, this must be hand washed cold and line dried.” 

David stares at him, barely registering the elevator door opening, because that’s entirely accurate. And there is no way in hell that a guy who wears chain store brand denim and brown braided belts for fuck’s sake knows how to properly care for Neil Barrett. Then again - 

“You’re… unexpected, Patrick Brewer.” 

Patrick ducks his head and gestures with his arm for David to enter the elevator first. 

He never does give voice to the response that David can so clearly see on the edge of his perfectly plush lips. 

They walk to the corner, to the busier intersection where the goal of finding a cab on a Sunday night will be nigh impossible yet still slightly more attainable. The little aw-shucks Canadian at his side must be good luck, though, because one pulls up just as David was working up the courage to take his hand. 

Typical. 

He busies himself watching the tv screen in the back of the taxi, if only to pretend he’s not watching Patrick watch the city. Lights play across that pale face, and it’s really not fair for skin to look that good thanks to over-the-counter products purchased at the local pharmacy. 

His phone vibrates with a text, which immediately sets him on edge. He’s still only getting notifications from his Favorites (Sebastien has since been banished), and hearing from any member of his immediate family, his intern, his publicist, or the family fucking lawyer is not high on his list of priorities at the moment. He pulls it out and rolls his eyes, but a smile tugs at his lips. 

Alexis must still be feeling sentimental. Or wasted. Both maybe, considering it’s nearly 1am in Morocco. 

“How’s your sister?” Patrick asks, startling him as he stares at the moody selfie she tried to take complete with a terrible wink captured on loop for eternity in a boomerang.

David opens his mouth to reply that she’s a fucking nightmare, but the breath stalls in his chest. “How’d you know it was my sister?” he asks, glancing up in time to catch Patrick’s features tighten. 

But he merely shrugs and returns his gaze to the window. “You get this look when you think about her.” 

What? “What look?” He wishes he could properly see his reflection in the glass.

“Just - a look.” Patrick turns back and smiles, but it’s intensely sad and sadly inadequate. “Your Alexis look.” 

“My Alexis look,” he murmurs, glancing back at the phone and snorting indelicately as she winks at him again. “She’s good,” he says eventually as they pull up in front of the Waverly. “I think.” 

David wants to ask how Patrick has seen him think of Alexis enough to know there’s a pattern to his expressions - every interaction he’s had with her, Patrick hasn’t been present for - but when he turns his head, he finds nothing but an empty seat. Patrick has already paid for the cab and jogged around the back to open David’s door for him. 

It’s the funniest thing, he thinks. David didn’t even know Patrick knew her name. 

It takes his eyes a second to adjust to the low lighting inside the restaurant, and Patrick’s hand on his lower back is the only thing that keeps him from colliding with an errant bus boy. When he finally settles into the faint glow from the lamps, clearly meant for nocturnal creatures only, he sees Ricardo behind the maître d' desk, and the poor man’s eyes go wide as he catches sight of David. 

“Mr. Rose, I’m not sure we were expecting you.” He sounds terrified. 

“The reservation is under Brewer,” Patrick says with a winning smile, his arm coming around David’s waist in an inadvertent show of possessiveness that David is here for. 

“Brewer,” David repeats because it’s a nice name and because he can, and Ricardo leads them to a table in the back, as away from prying eyes as one can be in a cramped Manhattan restaurant. He lets Patrick take the chair facing the room mainly so he can people watch, but also, self-servingly, so David can hide. He doesn’t need or want anyone recognizing him and ruining what is already shaping up to be a very lovely night.

He doesn’t get many of those.

Patrick fiddles with the edge of the menu Ricardo handed him as he shifts in his seat and glances around the room. He seems nervous, which aw, but David can’t examine that too closely because if he does, he’ll discover he’s feeling pretty fucking nervous as well. And he does not need to unpack his unfounded hopes and vicious insecurities in the middle of one of the West Village’s most popular dinner spots. 

He already knows Patrick likes red wine, so he orders a Sassicaia mainly because it’s good but mostly because he’d like to settle his nerves, which is ridiculous because the adorable man sitting across from him is the least scary person he knows. And he knows that deep down in his calcium-deficient bones, despite meeting him a whopping 24 hours ago.

David takes comfort in the fact that Patrick needs some dutch courage as well, if the audible sigh and release of tension in his shoulders after his first gulp is any indication. They order their entrees (medium rare burger for David; he’s nothing if not a creature of habit) and split the burrata to start. David appreciates that Patrick seems to love cheese almost as much as he does, but he also takes great delight in watching him take his first bite of grilled octopus. If he thought that face was expressive before, well… His facial journey here rivals that video compilation of babies eating lemons for the first time.

And suddenly David wants to know everything. He wants to know what kind of people raised him and if they’re as kind as their son. He wants to know what his childhood home was like and if it had a white picket fence like all of those Lifetime movies trained him to presume. Is he an only child? Has he ever broken a bone? Has he ever been in love? What ran him out of town on a journey to ‘find himself’ without a hotel reservation or appropriate luggage? What brought him to David’s doorstep on a Saturday night when David didn't even realize he needed him most?

Over the course of their meal, he learns some of the answers to his questions. Clint and Marcy Brewer sound wonderful, or at least much more stable and attentive than Moira and Johnny Rose. Patrick is polite enough to not look horrified when David regales him with his childhood tales of woe - but it’s more than just good manners. He almost looks as if he’s heard the stories before and is bracing himself for the next one. Then again, it could just be a trick of the lighting.

Patrick’s house did not have a picket fence, but he has broken a bone. Several, in fact. Sportsball is rough like that. 

And he has been in love. Twice. But when David tried to dive for details, Patrick shut him down, his loud face shuttering as if someone just hit the mute button. 

And thus, perhaps, the reason for the journey.

“Well,” David reasons, leaning back and letting the bus boy take his plate, “at least your significant other didn’t splash naked photos of you in compromising positions all over The Whitney and then sell barely censored copies to the highest online bidder for everyone to see.” 

“I haven’t,” Patrick says, and David freezes.

“What?” 

“Seen them,” Patrick murmurs. “I haven’t.”  

David’s answering scoff is ugly and just a little bit wet. “No offense, I know you’re going through some sort of Eat Pray Love thing here, but have you been living under a rock? They’re fucking everywhere.” 

But at least not in Sebastien’s exhibit anymore.

“Not me.” 

“Why not?” he asks. It’s almost petulant. Everyone loves a good downfall, David included. 

Patrick sighs and looks down at the tablecloth, stained with a drop of red wine from a wobbly pour. When he looks up, his gaze is intense - almost pleading - but his voice is as soft as a caress. “You wouldn’t have wanted me to.” 

And what a novel fucking concept that is. 

David feels like someone has taken his lungs and rung them out, twisting and turning his tender organs until there’s nothing left. He wants to grab Patrick’s face, wants to kiss him, wants to tell him that that’s the most beautiful fucking thing anyone’s ever said to him because it means that someone actually cared enough to fucking consider him. 

But before he can do any of those things, their waiter returns with the dessert menus and, despite the emotional upheaval he’s currently feeling, their chocolate mousse is to die for. 

Patrick must see it all on his face anyway, though, because he gives him a soft smile and places his hand on top of David’s where it’s currently clutching his spoon in a sweaty grip. 

“What’s good here?” he asks nonchalantly as he lets go, giving David the out he so desperately needs.

“Everything,” David breathes and as soon as the word passes his lips, he knows he’s talking about far more than dessert.

Everything about Patrick is good. Which makes David wonder what the hell he’s doing with him.

He orders the mousse, because of course, and Patrick seems fine to go along with that choice, which, thank God. Though two desserts is always better than one.

“How long are you planning on staying?” he asks, clearing his tight throat and handing their menus back to the waiter.  

“Oh,” Patrick huffs out a laugh. “I’ll be out of your hair in no time,” he says in a way that sounds like he doesn’t want to go at all. 

David doesn’t really want him to either. “I was merely inquiring because I’m heading to my parents’ next weekend. The LA house. They’re hosting a - ”

“Memorial Day party,” Patrick blurts, and David stills. He doesn’t recall mentioning it.

“How - Did I already tell you?” 

Patrick shakes his head as he pales, a feat David did not think was possible. “David, I have to tell you something.” 

“Uh oh.” He can feel his face doing a thing - an ugly thing. Oh fuck, a sad thing. “Don’t like the sound of that.” 

Patrick’s gaze cuts to the tables around them. “Maybe we should wait until we get home.” 

Home. He doesn’t know why that little word hurts so much.

David rapidly shakes his head, trying to keep his growing panic from spiraling. “No, out with it. You can’t say those words in that tone and then renege.” He starts tugging on a loose thread on the napkin solely to keep from nervously mangling his cuticles. He knew something like this would happen. 

Everything about Patrick is good, he had thought. Yeah, too good -

But then Patrick puts his hand back on top of David’s and all of those little voices hissing at him in his head go quiet. 

“Do you trust me?” 

David’s eyes widen. “I don’t know you,” he breathes, because he doesn’t...

“I know,” Patrick starts, but Jesus, if he asked David to run away with him tonight, he might actually say - 

“Yes.” 

Patrick’s grip on his hand tightens. “What?” 

David inhales, a shaky, weak thing. His voice, though; his voice is as steady as a fucking rock. “I trust you. Yes.” 

Patrick’s features nearly crumple, his relief at hearing those four words palpable. He licks his lips and swallows. “What I’m going to tell you is going to sound insane. You’re going to think I’m insane.” 

“Patrick - ” he starts, but Patrick holds his hand tighter. 

“I need you to know that, whatever happens in the next few minutes, whatever - whatever I say, every word out of my mouth is the truth. Okay?” God, his eyes are so loud. “I need you to know that.”

David nods, but remains silent. His heart hammers out a bass beat Mark Ronson would kill for. 

Patrick licks his lips again and focuses on David’s hand, running his thumb over the scar he got trying to do something nice for his ungrateful sister. “I woke up yesterday morning and it was May 16, 2015.” 

He’s hazy on dates even on his best days, but that sounds like that tracks. He raises his eyebrows for Patrick to continue, holding his breath as he waits for the metaphorical bomb to drop.

“When I went to bed the night before, it was May 15, 2020.”  

O-kay, he’s pretty sure a nuclear warhead wouldn’t jolt him at the moment. He opens his mouth to ask what the flying fuck,  but Patrick barrels onwards, fingers gripping tighter to David’s now-clammy hand. 

“I come from a place called Schitt’s Creek - ”

And David barks out a laugh because that’s not a name he’s heard in a while. “That’s not a real place. Please. My dad faked the deed.” 

“I guarantee you it is,” Patrick replies quietly. “We live there.” 

David stares at him. “We live there," he repeats. Never has such a small word held so much of his attention.

Patrick nods. He looks so earnest, he’s practically a Wilde play. 

It’s the ridiculousness of the situation combined with the brief mental image of Patrick dressed up as Lady Bracknell that has him dissolving into laughter again. It’s short and it’s sharp and more than a bit hysterical. “Bullshit,” he says once he’s recovered. 

“You do, you live in Schitt’s Creek," Patrick says, desperation coloring his tone. "This weekend, before the party, Revenue knocks on your door. Your dad’s business manager - Eli, right?” 

Uncle Eli, he thinks, mouth starting to go dry. Either this is a very long con or… there’s something to it. 

“He isn’t paying taxes,” Patrick continues. “The government is about to take everything from you. You get a very small amount of money set aside and a single asset you’re allowed to retain.” 

“The town,” he murmurs. 

“The town,” Patrick confirms. 

Given everything that’s happened to him this year, this would be the fucking icing on the cake, but he schools his features into a blank slate, giving away nothing. It’s taken a lifetime of practice, but he’s gotten very good at it when he needs to be. 

And right now, he needs to be. 

“That can’t be true,” he murmurs, but Patrick is already leaning over the table. 

“Why would I lie to you?” 

“Because everyone does,” he snaps, his blank slate schtick clearly not enough where Patrick is concerned. And if he continues to stare at him, what’s left of his walls will tumble faster than Alexis’ reality show ratings. Tears gather in those puppy eyes, and David blows out a breath and looks to the side in an effort to collect himself. But how can he when Patrick is still holding tight to his hand, the pad of his middle finger resting over David’s wrist, no doubt counting every traitorous beat of his pulse?

“You said you trusted me.”

“I can take it back,” he threatens, and something settles in Patrick’s features then. A stubborn resolve that’s probably been there since he was a boy, if the stories they just swapped about their childhoods are to be believed. 

David would fall to his knees before that look. And not for the reasons he usually does.  

“You were born on July 2nd, 1983,” Patrick murmurs, and David stills.  

“Okay, rude to bring up a person’s age,” he spits out of habit. “Also, Google can tell you that, despite my lawyer’s interventions.” Donald has done him no favors in that regard, but Patrick nods in concession. 

“I knew to bring you here,” he argues next, but David just shrugs.

“Any decent list of restaurants in the area could tell you to do that.”

”You have a twelve step skincare routine that, if done in its entirety, takes 43 minutes.” 

That is oddly specific and he pauses, eyes narrowing. “You could have seen that in the bathroom.” 

“I haven’t been in your bathroom here," Patrick argues, but how can David be sure? Patrick was alone in the apartment for a decent amount of time. 

David thoroughly ignores the fact that he’s sure. 

"You have a sweater no one knows you sleep in,” Patrick continues, a small smile ghosting across his face as if he’s intimately familiar with it. “It’s L.L. Bean, which is why you refuse to tell anyone you own it, but it’s the most comfortable thing you’ve ever worn. You save it for really cold nights. It’s May, you haven’t worn it. How would I know that?” 

He wants to ask how the fuck he knows how comfortable that sweater is because David takes great care to keep it far away from prying eyes, but what he blurts out instead is, “Are you a reporter?”

“David, I’m serious,” he begs. David doesn’t think he begs often. “I’ve never been more serious in my life.”

“Did Sebastien put you up to this?” Panic attacks might be fake, but he thinks he may very well be having one now. His shirt feels too tight, his breath is too short, his lungs are defective. If anyone was going to long con him, it would be the man who’s already tried to ruin his life once. If Sebastien is responsible for bringing Patrick Brewer into his life, though, David truly doesn’t know what he’ll - 

“You had a nanny named Adelina.” Patrick’s voice is soft but broken, cracking around a name David hasn’t heard out loud in far too long. 

He pulls his hand away, and Patrick lets him go. His back hits the chair heavily and he just stares, the silence ticking by, folding eternities into seconds. The panic attack must have ebbed, though, because David isn’t sure he’s breathing at all. 

“How do you know that?” he whispers. 

“Because, David…” A valiant tear drips down onto Patrick’s pale cheek, and David feels it like a stone dropped into the sea. “In that life, four years from now in Schitt’s Creek, you invited her to our wedding.” 

The words sit there, hovering over the stained tablecloth where Patrick’s hand still rests, as if hoping David will take it once more.

Our wedding.

Our. Wedding. 

“Ah, see. There’s your mistake.” His tongue is thick. His lower lip trembles. “No one would agree to marry me.” He smiles. It’s a pathetic thing. “Now I know you’re lying.” 

Patrick’s head drops and his shoulders collapse in, as if David’s just delivered a terrible, potentially fatal blow. David can’t explain the desire he feels to wrap him up, even as he tries to rationalize the nonsense he’s heard tonight. But Patrick just clasps those capable hands together and leans back in his chair, all fight and urgency seeping out of him. It’s not a good look for someone who could probably build a shelf and then do your taxes for you. ‘Competent’ seems to be his middle name. 

“You came into my office looking to file incorporation papers for an idea you had,” he says simply. “You were wearing a Rick Owens sweater, black with white lines down the front.” 

David remembers the one. He wore it last week. 

“You wanted to start a store named Rose Apothecary, selling products from local vendors on consignment. I loved your idea so much that I joined you.” His shoulders hitch in what might be a shrug. In what might be defeat. “I got you grants for the startup money you needed. We debated about a hard launch or a soft opening. You won, naturally.” He huffs out a laugh, staring at the red wine stain again. “And one day, after I worked up enough courage, I asked you out for dinner. It was your birthday. July 2nd. Your family had forgotten.” 

David exhales an expletive because if anything was going to convince him that everything Patrick has said is true, it would be the Roses’ typical failings as a family.

“We’ve been together for three years, engaged one.”

David can’t help but notice the way Patrick’s eyes drift to his left hand, upon which sit his four silver rings. He wonders what Patrick is seeing there instead.

“We don’t live together yet, but you spend most of your time at my place anyway. Your moisturizer is on my counter, your toothbrush is next to mine, and your L.L. Bean sweater is on my shelf.” He lists them simply, like they’re just a fact of life. To Patrick, they are. “And I don’t know how I got here or why. All I know is that I woke up in a bed that didn’t have you in it in a home that wasn’t ours and I had to find you.” 

Patrick finally looks up, and David nearly gasps at the utter and complete sadness he sees in his eyes. He doesn’t know much, but he knows that Patrick Brewer was not meant to look like that.

David doesn’t know when he started crying, if it was between the moisturizer and the toothbrush or the sweater and the bed, but fat, hot tears are tumbling down his face and no matter how hard he bites his lips, he can barely hold back the hitching sob that wants to break free. Still, he bites until he tastes blood and then keeps going.

None of this is possible. It’s a cruel fucking trick to play on someone; to find out the little things that make them tick, to learn the names of the people that mean the most and wield that against them. To be utterly fucking perfect and kind and good and use those Bambi eyes to burrow deep into David’s heart, far deeper than he’s ever allowed anyone to get before. And yet –

And yet.

Patrick Brewer sits across from him, looking like he’d love nothing more than to launch himself over the table and hold David close, but he sits back, practically shaking with the visible need to do something, and gives David time and room to process.

As if he could ever process this.

“I can’t - I can’t be here,” he rambles, inhaling sharply, just trying to think. “I have to go.” He stands so abruptly, the chair tips over behind him, and he feels the weight of a dozen judgmental gazes land on him, perfectly finding the target Sebastien so kindly bestowed upon his back.

“David, please,” he hears Patrick plead, but he marches on, ignoring the way that broken voice fucking devastates him. Denying the fact that that voice could make him stay, if only David would let it.

xxxxxx

It takes him a block and a half to stop crying and two more blocks after that to realize that Patrick still has his keys.

Stopping dead in the middle of the sidewalk, he groans towards the sky for a moment, grateful for New York and her people who pay him absolutely no mind, sidestepping him deftly like water around a rock. He pinches the bridge of his nose and swipes hastily at his puffy eyes, before stomping off in frustration in a direction he’s not really paying attention to. He just starts making turns, going with the lights, until he’s finally burned off enough energy to inhale and actually feel like the air is getting to his lungs. He stops dead again and lets his chin drop to his chest, the rapid beat of his heart tapping against his temple as if reminding him that everything hurts. 

Everything. 

He glances up, and of course he’s somehow still on fucking Greenwich, a whopping two blocks away from the restaurant where he left Patrick to consume Manhattan’s most delicious mousse on his own. Maybe he should have paid attention harder.

A bass beat he’s familiar with filters out onto the street from an open doorway just up ahead, and he finds himself walking towards it before he recalls making the decision to do so. After all, it’s a song he knows. One he loves. 

The sign jutting out precariously above the entry informs him he’s arrived at Johnny’s Bar, and if that isn’t just the most typical goddamn thing. He almost smiles at the irony; he’ll never go to a Johnny for advice, but he will go to one for alcohol. He wants someplace where no one will know who he is, where no one will blink if he has a little existential crisis in the corner, and this run down dump in a surprisingly charming brick building that looks like it hasn’t changed since the Revolution might just be perfect.

The blue linoleum floor is sticky beneath his boots, but the narrow bar is thankfully nearly devoid of patrons. It’s 9:30pm on a Sunday night and the lone barfly, a regular going by the animated conversation he’s having with the proprietor, is sitting at the end in the corner laughing into a pint of something. David stands by a stool near the taps, close to the door in case he needs to make a quick exit.  

“What can I get for you?” the bartender asks, an older woman maybe in her early fifties, hair dyed too dark for her pale complexion. She has a tattoo on her forearm that’s seen far too much sun and far too little moisturizer. 

He contemplates a cosmo but even a vodka martini seems a little fancy for this place. 

“Um, vodka on the rocks? Please?” he adds because putting a little kindness into the universe can’t hurt the situation. 

“Vodka preference?” 

“Grey Goose.” She winces, and he scans over the bottles lined up in front of the wall of beaten up license plates and corny bumper stickers. His father would have a fucking field day in here. “Tito’s,” he says instead because he sure as shit isn’t drinking Smirnoff. 

He waits until she turns before grabbing a napkin from the stack and wiping down the stool. It looks like it hasn’t seen the business end of a cleaning brush in far too long and these jeans are Balmain.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and he tenses at the thought that it might be Patrick, but the disappointment that washes over him when he finds his publicist’s name on the screen instead surprises him. Why should Patrick be texting him? David just abandoned him in one of New York’s nicest restaurants. With the check. And a serving of mousse that a single person cannot possibly handle alone.

[Emma]
Do I need to be concerned that TMZ has you fleeing a restaurant after a lover’s spat with the dish who may or may not have passed out at your gallery last night?

Fucking TMZ and their fucking super-spies. They’re like mold, growing everywhere. 

David practically growls as he drops his phone on the bar and starts twisting his rings, offering a tight smile for the bartender as she clunks a healthy pour of vodka down in front of him and then promptly leaves him alone. There’s something to be said for dive bars. Everyone minds their own goddamn business. 

“In your heart I see the start of every night and every day...”

He gulps down half of the drink as Tina’s lyrics thread through him, and he tries to remind himself that he already has half a bottle of very nice wine in his system. 

“In your eyes I get lost, I get washed away…”

But fuck that. He downs the rest of the vodka and signals for another. 

It wasn’t a lover’s spat. he texts back, ratcheting up the tip in his mind as the bartender drops another glass of vodka down in front of him, this one larger than the last. 

[Emma]
But it WAS the dish from last night.

Patrick is a dish, David can’t deny it. So different from those who’ve orbited him before, though. He hasn’t let himself examine in depth everything Patrick said to him tonight. Unpacking that is like attempting to reorganize his mother’s wig room. It would take care and precision, a healthy dose of emotional fortitude, and a potentially lethal dose of Valium. 

Emma must take his silence for avoidance because another text comes through a moment later:

[Emma]
David, I can’t bloody help you if I don’t know all of the facts. Or I could just give a generic no comment and I know how much you love those.

He loathes those. 

It wasn’t a spat. 

Not entirely a lie. A spat implies there was a back and forth. Patrick just talked while David just panicked. 

[Emma]
Is he your lover? 

And he can’t help the hysterical giggle that rises in his throat. No, he’s my husband. 

He could be. is what he says instead, lifting the glass to his lips with shaking hands. Admitting that gives what he’s feeling validity. Gives it weight. He should be feeling pressed into the stool, but instead he feels lighter than he has in months.

[Emma]
Is he good to you?

He snorts loud enough to draw the attention of the barfly, who merely raises his pint in wobbly salute. David replies in kind, thinking of the pathetic list of Patrick’s competition in that category.

“Tear us apart, baby I would rather be dead. Oh…”

David smiles and shakes his head as his thumbs fly over the screen. 

He’s the best. 

[Emma]
Bloody hell. 

He laughs more genuinely this time and takes a sip of his drink. 

Right?

[Emma]
I’ll run interference. You… do whatever it is you’re doing.

He raises an eyebrow and looks around the bar. No one else need know about his little excursion this evening. 

Okay.

But putting his phone down, he promptly realizes that without the distraction Emma provided, he’s almost forced to focus on everything he’s been avoiding. He’s forced to examine something that for all intents and purposes should be impossible. 

But then he thinks about it. 

And thinks some more. 

Thinks so hard he’s surprised smoke isn’t coming out of his fucking ears. 

The Thai. 

The coffee. 

The movie.

The Neil Barrett.

The Waverly. 

He’s spent the past 24 hours ignoring and denying the facts in front of his face, dismissing them as coincidence only. One incident is coincidence. Five is a conspiracy. 

What Patrick described is something worthy of an HBO special. 

The Thai, the coffee, the movie, the Neil Barrett, the Waverly - 

Sebastien. Patrick wanted to kick his ass from moment one. 

David exhales and leans back, catching himself on the bar just as he remembers that there’s no back to this chair. He flails for a brief moment that makes him grateful for those Body By Simone classes Alexis shamed him into attending. 

He spent the afternoon looking for a post-it that didn’t exist. Because Patrick has his coffee order memorized, down to the fucking sprinkle of cocoa powder. 

He nearly falls off the stool again. 

“You doin’ all right down here?” the bartender asks as she approaches, eyebrows raised in a whisper of concern. 

“Yeah,” he rasps. “I think, uh, I think my world just got rocked a little bit.” 

She tilts her head. The pencil holding her hair up leans precariously. “In a good way or a bad way?” 

“Unclear at the moment.” He gives a little laugh. His eyes are wet again. Luckily this looks like the kind of establishment where judgment is left at the door. 

She hums and nods, before reaching beneath the bar and flipping a shot glass over in front of him. “Next one’s on me, honey,” she says, knocking once on the weathered wood as she departs.  

On principle, he hates being called ‘honey.’ The only one who's allowed is Dolly and that hasn’t happened since his last Little Mister pageant [redacted] years ago, but this fine woman is providing him with much needed alcohol for free so frankly she can ‘honey’ him all she wants. 

He downs the rest of the vodka, and a new one almost magically appears in place of the overturned shot glass. The bar might be a dive, but they certainly know what they’re doing. His brain is telling him he probably shouldn't have another in such a short span of time, but given the immunity his body has built up for things that are bad for him, he makes quick work of it, barely feeling buzzed as he drops two twenties on the bar and stumbles back out into the cool spring air. He does, however, make the very adult decision to walk the 25 minutes or so back to his apartment to clear his head instead of ordering an uber. 

He tries to use that time to figure out what the fuck he’s going to say. 

Greenwich passes in a blur, and by the time he makes a right onto 6th, he’s still no closer to wrapping his brain around the physics of Patrick’s very existence here. He makes a left onto Spring and uses those five blocks to slow down, to reassess. To open his mind (and his heart) fully to the possibility that someone somewhere actually wants to spend the rest of his life with him. 

He makes a right onto Greene and stops outside of his apartment, looking up at the warm glow coming from the top windows. Patrick is there. Patrick is home. Patrick is waiting for him.

It’s the answer he’d been looking for all along. 

“I don’t know how I got here or why. All I know is that I woke up in a bed that didn’t have you in it in a home that wasn’t ours and I had to find you.”

He had to find him. 

No one’s ever bothered to look for David before. 

His finger trembles as he lifts it to press the buzzer. A moment passes, then another, before the latch releases the door. He pulls it open and steps inside, smiling faintly at the already waiting elevator. Patrick must have gotten the buttons right this time. 

The ride is both too long and not long enough, and by the time the doors slide open, he’s sincerely debating slapping the ground floor button again and making a run for it. The apartment door is open, though, beckoning him in to face some hard truths hidden inside seeming impossibilities. He goes, swallowing hard, wondering how harshly he’ll be judged if he passes out before he crosses the threshold - 

But then Patrick is there, standing behind the sofa, as if he’d opened the door and then run away again. The mental image is endearing, and David looks up into that face he’s memorized by now, taking small comfort in the fact that Patrick looks about as terrible as David feels. His phone is pressed to his ear, and David wonders who the hell he’s calling about this chasm in the time vortex - 

“Mom? I gotta go.” 

Mom. He nearly laughs. Of fucking course. And yet a dozen questions flicker across his brain in the second it takes Patrick to end the call: does she know? Is she nice? Does she like me? Do I like her?

Patrick drops his arm and stands there, surrendering himself to David’s scrutiny. He can see it now - the desperation hidden just beneath the cool veneer of competence. The fragility beneath the confidence. 

Patrick is ready to crack apart and it’s an utter fucking travesty that David is only just seeing it now.

David takes a step forward and shuts the door as Patrick blindly drops his phone on the couch. “So when you said you’d had a friend who’d gone through this before," he begins. "Who'd had their own Sebastien. The one that was… more than a friend… That was me.”

“Yeah,” he whispers, the weight of the world resting on that single word.

Okay. David nods like an eager-to-please bobble head and bites his lips. Okay. “You didn’t get off a plane, not book a hotel, and just decide to go to a gallery.” 

Patrick slowly shakes his head and takes a stumbling step forward, like he just can’t help himself. 

“You weren’t looking for art,” he continues, forcing himself to meet that gaze whose depths he could drown in. “You were looking for me.” 

“They’re not mutually exclusive,” Patrick replies simply, like it’s a fact of life: the sun is hot, water is wet, David Rose is a work of art. 

Oh he’s good, he thinks, the blush heating the tips of his ears. Only the adorable asshole in front of him could be this smooth even as his world comes crashing down around him. The adorable asshole who’s currently closing the space between them and thus removing all of the oxygen from the room. He stops just in front of him, though, leaving the decision up to David. Leaving that final foot of space his to cross and his alone. 

“We’re together,” David says, needing to clarify. Needing desperately to get this one point correct. 

“In the future, yes,” Patrick replies. David watches his throat work. 

“You... proposed to me.”

“Yes.” he whispers. 

“You married me.” 

Patrick closes his eyes and swallows hard. “Today,” he rasps. “I was supposed to marry you today.” 

Fuck.

David feels like someone has dug into his most secret spaces and rummaged around his most vulnerable bits. And if he’s feeling like this, he can’t even imagine what Patrick’s going through. He doesn’t want to. He’s not sure he’d survive it. 

“And where am I?” David asks just as softly, afraid that anything louder might rip off the tape barely holding Patrick together. “I mean - the other David.” 

“I don’t know,” he manages, eyes still shut tight. “He’s not here.” 

“I’m sorry,” he breathes. He’s so, so sorry he’s not him. The man that this man fell in love with. He knocks an inch or two off that final foot, shuffling forward until he can feel Patrick’s breath on his face. Those whisky eyes open and if he’s startled to find David looming over him, he doesn’t show it.

“Don’t be,” he whispers on the edge of a sad grin. David knows he means it, just as he knows it breaks Patrick’s heart to say it.

But the thing that’s most confounding, that has tripped David up ever since Patrick Brewer wandered into his gallery with nothing but a beat-up bag and low glucose levels: 

“You chose me.”

Something shifts in Patrick’s eyes then, a fight David hasn’t seen since well before they sat across from each other in a restaurant and Patrick took the biggest risk of his life.

“Every damn day,” he whispers fiercely, and with an answer like that, it seems only right that David return the favor.

A noise punches out of his chest as he steps forward and crashes their bodies together, hugging Patrick like no one ever bothered to hug him. He feels Patrick’s ragged breath against his neck, feels the way he practically sinks into the embrace, and tries not to whimper as Patrick places the softest of kisses to the dip above his clavicle. Marking it as his own. David tightens his grip on the back of Patrick’s shirt, feeling his muscles shift beneath the fabric.

Every damn day. Every damn day. Every damn day.

Tears slide down his face, staining Patrick’s collar, but he doesn’t seem like the kind of person who will mind. David loses himself to the feeling of Patrick tracing the notches of his spine, letting him take his weight, trusting him to hold him up for as long as David needs him to.

“You are so loved, David Rose,” he whispers, and David could not stifle the sob that leaves his lips if you held him at gunpoint.

He presses his face into Patrick’s shoulder, feeling another chaste kiss against his pulse point as Patrick cups the back of his head and starts to gently sway with him. He should bristle - he hates being coddled – but it’s honestly so goddamn nice. Like an exhale he didn’t know he’d been waiting for.

“You came into my office looking to file incorporation papers for an idea you had. You were wearing a Rick Owens sweater, black with white lines down the front.”

He wonders what Patrick’s first impression of him was. Normally that thought would have him running for the Hollywood Hills, because people’s first impressions of him are rarely something he wants to relive, but – he has a feeling Patrick would say something ludicrous like, I thought you were the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. Because Patrick just says ludicrous stuff like that. Like it’s no big deal. Like it doesn’t rattle the very foundations of David’s daily life. 

And suddenly he wants to know - he needs to know. He wants to see it all: the motel, the store - the place where Patrick decided, Yes, it’s this man for the rest of my life.

“Take me there,” he breathes as he pulls away, and he feels Patrick go still in his arms.

“What?” 

“Where we met. The town, with the terrible name,” David licks his lips and swallows. “Take me there.”

Patrick blinks numbly at him. “Are you sure?” 

“No,” he admits. “But yes.”

“Okay, David.” He says it like it’s habit, fondness etched into every consonant, as he pulls out his phone, presumably to look up flights. “When do you want to go?”

Now that he’s made this decision, he just wants to go for it. Use some of that ‘take charge’ attitude Patrick seems to have coming out of his cute little ears. David kind of wants to bite them. Focus. “Is tomorrow too soon?”

Patrick looks up. “Tomorrow’s perfect.” 

And before David can even say, ‘nothing before 10am,’ Patrick is suggesting an 11:05am flight, and David has to remind himself that he doesn’t have to tell Patrick things like that. Patrick knows them because Patrick knows him. Which means - 

“You, uh, you didn’t bring the mousse home, did you?” he asks semi-casually, and Patrick laughs, something he hasn’t done in far too long that David didn’t even realize he missed. 

“No, David. I had more pressing things to focus on.” He flashes a tight, sheepish smile and buries his face in his phone once more. “Sorry, I know dessert is the base of the food group pyramid for you.” 

“Mkay,” he starts, whirling around, finger pointed, ready to defend his love of tiramisu, but Patrick is staring at him with a shit-eating grin like he expected that reaction and is just ready for the fireworks. 

And instead of being offended, David finds it… comforting. Endearing. Is this what it’s like to trust someone? He honestly wouldn’t know. 

“Well, uh, tickets are booked.”

“You had my info?” he asks and Patrick just stares at him, the levity from the moment before dissipating. “Right.” David nods. “Right, of course you did. Um, I’ll venmo you for my ticket. Just let know how much - ”

“Our first date was on your birthday,” Patrick reminds softly. “I have many reasons for remembering it.” 

He never does ask for reimbursement. 

Instead, they head upstairs since it’s now after midnight and they have a flight at the crack of dawn the next day. David leaves Patrick on the second floor, hesitating only slightly on the step leading to the third. He’ll come back down and say goodnight. That seems like a normal thing to do, right? Say goodnight to your future husband? Who’s come back in time? 

For fuck’s sake. 

He hurries upstairs before he can change his mind and throw himself into Patrick’s arms like a Bronte heroine and significantly cuts his pre-bed routine down. He’ll just finish it later. With all of the crying he’s done this evening, his eye bags need Peter Thomas Roth 24k gold patches anyway. 

He pads back down in joggers and a t-shirt that definitely doesn’t say DON’T, his socked feet silent on the metal stairs. He pauses at the bottom, watching through the glass door as Patrick meticulously folds back the covers and plumps the pillows before plugging his phone in to charge. God, he marries this man. Patrick knows David’s skincare routine takes 43 minutes. Forty-three fucking minutes. What does his David know? How many mundane facts about this fascinating man is he missing? And Jesus Christ, will he ever get the chance to learn them? 

He must make a noise because Patrick turns to him and offers a shy smile, rubbing at the back of his neck. David is noticing he does that when he’s nervous. He tries to remember to start paying attention to those things. 

“Um, I just wanted to say goodnight.” 

“Oh,” Patrick murmurs. He sounds slightly disappointed. Did he think David came back to stay? “Goodnight,” he says instead, looking like he wants to reach out for him but restrains himself at the last moment.

David gives a pathetic little wave (seriously, who does that?) as he turns and goes back upstairs before he can do something he’ll regret. Like jumping into the bed under those covers Patrick carefully pulled back and finding out just how perfectly he fits against the planes of Patrick’s chest. How perfectly those arms hold him with the intention of never letting go. 

The funny thing about life crises is that they so rarely are conducive to a good night’s sleep. Which is how David finds himself rolling over and slapping at his phone at half past three, groaning into the goose down pillow and wondering if deciding to fly to a different country at a moment’s notice was the best decision he could make for himself right now. He knows that even the 24karat gold under-eye patches won’t be enough to save him.

The truth is, he can’t do this alone. If he wakes up in the morning and Patrick is gone, he’s not sure he’ll function now that Patrick has touched his life. He’s unfortunately been changed irrevocably. 

And that’s fucking terrifying.

He tosses the covers back and heads down the stairs once more, going so quickly, he nearly slips and breaks his neck and wouldn’t that be fucking classic. But he just needs to see him, needs to lay eyes on him just once to convince himself that the past 36 hours haven’t been one terrible (wonderful) acid trip.

He opens the glass door and pulls the heavy curtain back, tiptoeing across the carpet even though Patrick is dead to the world, snoring softly as he lays on his back. David sits down on the edge of the bed, and Patrick’s leg is warm against his thigh. He’s pretty sure Patrick’s hand reaches for him before he's even fully conscious. 

“David?” he mumbles, fingers finding David’s knee in the dark. 

David remains silent, bringing a hand that’s not nearly as steady as he’d like it to be up, hovering over Patrick’s chest before pressing down over the beautiful beat of his heart. 

“I’m afraid you’re not real,” he whispers, thankful for the darkness.

“David,” Patrick replies just as quietly, “I’ve been saying that about you for the last three years.”

David laughs wetly and shakes his head. Patrick’s heart kicks up a notch beneath his palm.

“Do you want to stay?”

“No. I don’t think I’m ready for that yet,” he admits, which is hilarious considering he was ready to let Patrick take him up against the nearest wall just 24 hours ago.

Patrick shifts on the pillow. Even in the dark, his eyes seem to glow amber. “I won’t leave, David,” he says, reading David’s goddamn mind. “I’ll still be here in the morning. I promise.”

David nods, rocking back a bit on the bed. “You knew I needed to hear that,” he states. His hand remains firm on Patrick’s chest, even if all he wants to do is thoroughly pace the room.

“I know you, David.” Patrick places his palm on the back of David’s hand. “What I said tonight was the truth, but I also know you. Every hidden fear, every secret you think you have, you don’t have it from me.” 

Jesus.

He tries to laugh and it comes out choked. “I feel like I’m at a disadvantage.” 

“You are,” Patrick replies, thumb rubbing gently across David’s knuckles. He doesn’t even seem to be aware he’s doing it. “But that’s not how we usually are. And I promise to never exploit it until we’re on equal footing.” 

“I promise to never exploit it.”

Never exploit.

David breathes out as he nods again, putting himself and his heart in the hands of the man in front of him. Patrick Brewer isn’t Sebastien Raine. And he couldn’t be even if he tried. 

He hears Patrick inhale as he leans forward, staring at him for a moment. Those pillowy lips are so close, one short detour is all it would take for David to taste them once more. But he moves up instead of down, pressing a chaste kiss against Patrick’s forehead, lingering for a second to feel the warm skin tattooed across his lips. Patrick exhales shakily against his neck, and David runs his nose along his hairline.

“Go back to sleep,” he whispers, and Patrick nods, closing his eyes and bringing their clasped hands to his mouth so he can place a kiss on David’s knuckles. 

“I’m not going anywhere,” he mumbles. 

“I know,” David replies. He means it. “Me neither.” He means that, too. 

“Good,” Patrick says as he drifts off, and David watches over him until the grip Patrick has on his fingers loosens. Until that gentle snore once more fills the room. Until David finally feels like he can walk away without constantly looking back. 

It doesn’t stop him from grabbing his pillow and comforter and setting up on the couch just outside the bedroom, though. He knows Patrick said he wasn’t going to leave; he knows that and he believes him, but -

Well.

Just in case.

xxxxxx

Anna Wintour is about to berate him for his sartorial choices at the Dior show at Milan Fashion Week when he feels a firm hand on his shoulder. He grunts because he’s dealing with a truly horrifying situation right now and can’t be bothered, but the hand is firm, the thumb sneaking up under his sleeve to rub at bare skin.  

“Hey,” a voice says, “we have to leave for the airport in less than an hour.” 

Oh. He knows that voice. Oh. He’s growing to love that voice.

He cracks one eye open to find Patrick leaning over him, sleepy soft in a way that makes David want to tug him down onto the couch next to him. It almost makes up for how embarrassing it is to be found sleeping outside his bedroom like some sort of perverted stalker. “You’re here,” he murmurs and he can hear the smile in his voice. Ugh, he feels gooey inside. Patrick has broken him.

But then Patrick smiles back and something mends. “I said I would be.” 

“People say a lot of things,” he mumbles, rolling over and pushing himself up to sitting. 

“I’m not people,” Patrick simply replies, offering him a hand to haul him to his feet. “Come on. Like I said, that skincare routine takes 43 minutes if done in its entirety.” 

“I can’t believe you timed me,” he mumbles, rubbing at his face and stretching out his neck. He’s too old to sleep on couches. 

Patrick shrugs. “It’s what bored fiances do," he says simply as he disappears to his bedroom without looking back, like he knows exactly how hard he just rocked David’s world. 

Yep, definitely broken. Defective. Warranty expired. Return to manufacturer. Refund not available.

David stumbles back upstairs to shower because Patrick isn’t wrong about the in-depth nature of his moisturizing regimen. Around step 8, there’s a knock on the door, and he opens it to find Patrick on the other side, handing over a mug full of coffee. It’s not from Everyman, but he did figure out David’s not uncomplicated espresso machine, which is impressive considering David can’t even be bothered on his most patient days. 

They make it out the door only ten minutes after the arbitrary deadline Patrick set (though he supposes it isn’t arbitrary if the plane will leave without them). Newark is a hellhole, but David uses the short ride to text Blake that he’ll be out of town for a day or two and to give Emma a heads up that he’s going off the grid. Because David googled Schitt’s Creek and if anything was going to be considered ‘off the grid,’ it’s rural fucking Canada. 

Security is uneventful and they don’t take any of his bottles so he considers that a minor victory in his constant battle with the TSA. As he waits for Patrick to get patted down (because honestly who wouldn’t take advantage of the opportunity), he Venmos him more than the cost of two tickets let alone just his own, which causes Patrick to frown when he receives the notification. He looks like he wants to say something, probably a reminder of the fact that kicked off his whole story the night before (“Your dad’s business manager - Eli, right? He isn’t paying taxes. The government is about to take everything from you.”), but he remains quiet, instead treating David to breakfast at the airport - pancakes and bloody marys, because if anything will shore up David’s emotional fortitude, it’s alcohol and complex carbohydrates. 

The vodka knocks him out on the plane faster than an Ambien, and when he wakes, he’s only mildly mortified to be using Patrick’s shoulder as a pillow. Clearly, he can add hates landings to the list of things Patrick knows about him because his future fiance doesn’t even look up from the in flight magazine he’s perusing before holding out his hand for David to grip tight as the wheels hit the tarmac.

They deplane and head towards customs, and David uses the time they stand in separate lines to study the man waiting his turn; the man he somehow tricked into marrying him. He looks tired. Granted, David has that effect on people.

Stop it, he hears in his head. It sounds remarkably like Patrick.

Meeting up once again on the other side, passports freshly stamped, they head past baggage claim and into long-term parking. He doesn’t think about the fact that Patrick doesn’t just look tired - he looks unhappy. What must it be like for the man you love to not know you? 

David couldn’t even begin to comprehend.

“How far away is this place?” he asks instead. 

“A few hours,” Patrick replies, and David groans.

“Snacks. We need snacks.” They stop in front of a midnight blue Jetta, and it takes every ounce of willpower he has to not make a snarky comment about the make and model of Patrick’s car. 

“I know,” Patrick says as he unlocks the doors. “We’ll get licorice and cheetos at the first rest stop I see.”

David freezes, stomach swooping, sweaty palm gripping the handle, and stares at him over the roof of the car. “I’m still not used to that.” 

Patrick frowns. “What?” 

“You knowing me the way you do,” he says quietly. Cheetos should not be making him feel like this. Unless he’s eaten too many.

Patrick preciously ducks his head. God, he belongs in a Norman Rockwell painting. “Sorry.” 

“I didn’t say I minded,” he amends, quickly opening the door and sliding into the passenger seat before Patrick can level him with whatever life-altering expression he chooses today. He silently eyes the stack of boxes and bags in the backseat - oh fuck, is that a guitar? - and briefly wonders if going back in time means that all of your worldly possessions come too, like a pharaoh or something.

It’s going to be a long drive, and David doesn’t know how they’re going to pass the time; he doesn’t even have a curated playlist - 

“Um,” Patrick begins, grip shifting on the wheel, “there’s something else I haven’t told you.”

“Oh fucking great,” he mutters before he can stop himself. 

“Just keep in mind that the you of five years from now knows this,” Patrick begins, not exactly an auspicious start. “Has known it for a while. I mean - I did screw it up in the beginning but we’re good now.” 

“Oh my God, spit it out!” David snaps, hands flailing like a Muppet in a Christmas special.  

“All of this is in the car because - well…” 

David stares out the windshield, holding his breath until Patrick finishes the end of that rather loaded sentence. 

“I just broke up with my girlfriend.” 

Which is not what he was expecting to leave his mouth. “Girlfriend?” Why is his voice so high?

“At least I did it before I proposed to her this time,” Patrick says lightly, and David definitely needs to see a chiropractor given how viciously he whips his head around. 

"What?” 

Oh so that’s how they’re going to spend the ride, he thinks a little hysterically as Patrick launches into the saga of what brought him to Schitt’s Creek in the first place. He tells David about soft openings and sloppy mouths, freezer burned mozzarella sticks and framed receipts. About a guitar and a song and a flame-printed sweater that David knows is sitting in the back of his closet, the tag still attached to the sleeve. Patrick tells him about locking up a box while sitting on a bed with whiskey on his tongue and how the box blew wide open on a sunny afternoon before David could even take his first bite of food. 

He’s laughing and crying and staring at Patrick alternating between disbelief and disdain (monthiversary gifts? Really?). He feels like he’s drowning, clawing his way toward any buoy or lifeline that would help him stay afloat in this sea of information. In this fucking onslaught of emotion. But through it all, the humming baseline that threads in and around Patrick’s words is… happiness. 

They’re happy. 

And what a twist ending that is - David Rose getting to be happy. 

“Wait - I lip-synced for you?!” 

Patrick grins, his grip on the steering wheel now loose and carefree. “You did.”

“I must really love you then,” he marvels, the words just tumbling out sans filter, and that gorgeous grin slips a bit.

“You do,” Patrick says quietly. David can hear the ache in the words. 

“I’m sorry I’m not him,” he whispers, and Patrick makes a wounded sound that will haunt David in the days and weeks to come.

“Hey. You are him,” he says, reaching over to take David’s hand. “You don’t have our memories, but you’re still the man I love.” 

He swallows and nods, clearing his throat and glancing out the window, trying to memorize the feel of Patrick’s hand in his own. He’s had so few opportunities. He doesn’t know how many he has left. 

“Nearly there,” Patrick murmurs, and David isn’t sure if he means to the town or to some sort of mutual understanding. Whatever something like that looks like in an unbelievable situation like this.

He sees a sign in the distance, the name of the town the only thing visible this far out. As they get closer, though, his jaw drops lower, because there’s no way the welcome sign is depicting exactly what David thinks it is. He lets go of Patrick’s hand and practically bangs his forehead on the glass, trying to keep it in view for as long as possible. 

“Um, did that sign just show two people fucking in a river?” 

Patrick snorts. “Don’t worry. It’s his sister.” 

And David would love to know in what world it’s his sister makes it better. “What the fuck kind of backwards podunk town have you brought me to?!” 

“David Rose,” Patrick begins, glancing over and smiling softly. David can see a thousand unsaid things in his gaze. “Welcome to Schitt’s Creek.” 

David stares back, trying to figure out if he’s joking or not; trying to understand how it’s possible that every romantic and wonderful thing to happen in his life is accompanied by a side order of incest instead of a backdrop like Riverside Park or an English cottage or a press conference at the Savoy. 

He’d even settle for an LA fire escape. 

Patrick remains quiet, letting David take it all in (as much as he can - the farms are starting to blur together). A few minutes later they turn into a dive of a motel ingeniously named Schitt’s Creek Motel. There’s no fucking - 

“I lived here?” he blurts. 

“Still do, actually,” Patrick says as he parks the car. “You don’t move in with me permanently until after the wedding.” 

David scoffs. “That’s old-fashioned of me.” It’s downright Victorian. And damn if he doesn't sort of love it.

Patrick hums and unbuckles his seatbelt, uttering a sentence David didn’t even think to contemplate. “You didn’t want to leave Alexis alone.” 

“Oh,” he breathes, “So she - we’re…” 

Patrick seems to know what he’s trying to ask so he saves him from himself: “David, you’d walk through fire for her.” Then he opens his door and leaves David sitting completely thunderstruck in the passenger seat. 

He thinks of his call with Alexis earlier, remembering it had been, well, more tender than he’s used to: 

“Choke on a pineapple, Alexis.” 

“Aw, can’t wait to see you, too.”

Definitely more tender. His threats had no bite, and he didn’t want them to. 

He looks through the windshield once more to find Patrick waiting for him by the office door, leaning against the wall, hands shoved into his pockets. He wonders how many times future him has come outside and been met with the same sight. He unbuckles his seatbelt with clumsy fingers and meets Patrick at the door, who hesitates as he grabs the knob.

“She would, too, you know,” he murmurs.

David frowns. “What?” 

“Alexis. Walk through fire for you.” 

He scoffs, but it catches in his throat. “Yeah, in six-inch, rubber-soled platform wedges.” 

Patrick smiles in that loaded way, hiding so many stories that David isn’t privy to. “Barefoot, David.” 

And, well, David doesn’t really know what to do with that. 

The door opens with a squeak, and David’s senses (and his knits) are immediately assaulted by the scent of mold and a hovering layer of dust he doesn’t think he’ll ever scrub off. He can feel it seeping into his skin, clogging his pores, and tightening his airways. 

“It’s, um, bleak.”  

“Can I help you?” a voice asks, and he jumps, clutching Patrick’s elbow and muttering holy fuck under his breath. Through the dark, he can make out a woman sitting behind the desk, nose buried in a book. Even from this distance, with her pale skin and raven hair, David can tell she looks like the lovechild of Morticia Addams and Christian Slater in Heathers. 

“Uh, we’re looking for a room,” Patrick says, and there’s something odd about his voice. David has seen him greet strangers before, and this isn’t it.  

“Well, you came to the right and only place,” she says, finally glancing up. Patrick stumbles next to him, and David is glad he hasn’t let go of his elbow. 

“Room 7, if it’s free,” he murmurs after a moment. He’s clearly processing something so David leaves him to it.

Goth Girl raises an eyebrow at the request, but just mutters a “Whatever” in return. Patrick hands over his credit card, and David watches the exchange closely, before getting thoroughly distracted by the fucking deer head behind the desk.

The Winona Ryder Wannabe goes back to her book, and he and Patrick are summarily dismissed. David opens his mouth to make some snarky joke, perhaps to ask if she’s auditioning for a revival of Ghost or something, but then he clocks the tension holding Patrick’s shoulders hostage and decides that his snark can stay inside his head for now.

“Do you know her?” he eventually asks as they make a left out of the office, even though he’s pretty sure he knows the answer. 

Patrick clears his throat. It does nothing to soften his rough voice when he finally says, “I do.” 

David bites his lip. “Do I know her?” 

Patrick stops in front of room 7 and looks at him then. Fuck, his eyes are a menace. “She’s your best friend.” 

Best. Friend. 

David isn’t entirely sure he knows what that means. He doesn’t think he’s ever had one before. 

“Is she always like that?” he finally asks, and Patrick shakes his head, David’s favorite fond smile smoothing the crease in his forehead. 

“Not anymore. Well, not really,” he amends. “She runs this place with your Dad. They take pride in it.” 

Pride. You couldn’t take pride in this place even if you flew rainbow flags from every fucking surface. 

Patrick unlocks the door and pushes it open, whispering a weighty, “Welcome home” and stepping back for David to go in first. He’s not sure if Patrick is being gentlemanly or just ensuring that any hiding highway robbery men will come for David first. 

“Oh you’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.” It’s so much worse than he imagined it would be. And David had imagined a lot. He spins around to pin Patrick with a look of betrayal, but the little shit just smirks and gives a tiny shrug. 

“You get used to it.”

“Do I?” His voice is only audible to dogs again. 

“Yeah,” he says softly. “This is - it’s your home.” Christ, he really needs to trademark that fond expression. It’s getting out of hand. 

David holds his free hand close against his chest in case he brushes up against anything. There’s a questionable stain on the floor that he steps over to drop his bag on the bed furthest from the door. Or, at least he would have if Patrick hadn’t made a noise like he was being strangled. 

“What now?” he snaps. He doesn’t know the Heimlich. 

“That one’s yours,” Patrick murmurs, and David glances between the two beds. 

“What?”

“The one closest to the door,” Patrick clarifies. “That one,” he says, pointing to the bed David had been about to claim, “belongs to Alexis.”

“Oh my God,” David gasps. “Why does she get that one?” It’s a serious question so he has no idea why Patrick is laughing.

“Something about murder? I never actually got the full story.”

David groans and drops his bag on the end of the apparently appropriate bed, because the comforter looks marginally cleaner than the floor. “She fucking would,” he mutters, slumping down and glancing around morosely. “So I live here.” 

Patrick lets his bag slide from his shoulder onto the bed furthest from the door and smiles. “Not for much longer.” 

Right. Marriage. Cohabitation. Happiness. Novel concepts for someone who can’t even get a date out of a one-night-stand. Patrick gave him that, though. In fact, Patrick gave him a date and David tried to turn it into a party. With -  oh dear God - the girl from the front desk. 

“You brought your best friend to our first date,” Patrick had said in the car. He didn’t use names. He didn’t say where she worked. He didn’t even mention a pronoun.

“She’s your best friend.” then came later, and yes David can be dense, but he’s perfectly capable of putting two and two together, despite what Alexis says. 

Huh. A best friend and a husband. But first a grumpy motel proprietor and a business partner. And in that moment, he knows exactly what he wants. 

“Take me to our store,” he breathes. 

Patrick’s faint brows fly up - he clearly wasn’t expecting that request, at least not this soon, but David is curious. He wants to know what was so special that this man went all in with him from day one. Yes, he knows it doesn’t exist yet, but - Patrick could tell him. Patrick could show him. David could see it in his eyes. 

“Sure,” Patrick says, and David assumes it’s walking distance when they bypass the car and continue through the parking lot and down the driveway to the main road. He doesn’t have the heart to tell him that these shoes are Rick Owens and not made for gravel. 

Much like the ride in, there’s not much to see - lots of greenery and the occasional enthusiastic cow. But the trees eventually give way to buildings and the buildings form what David can only assume is supposed to be the 5th Avenue of this godforsaken town. He can feel his blood pressure rising because how the hell did he end up here, but then Patrick takes his hand, their fingers slotting together as if they were always meant to, and his breath comes a little easier. His panic stands down – just for a while.

It’s clearly not the first time Patrick has done that. He’s almost better than a Xanax.

He sees a restaurant (if it can be called that) and a garage owned by someone named Bob. He wants to ask what the hell kind of food they serve at Café Tropical but before he can, Patrick is squeezing his palm and murmuring, “There she is.”

David follows his gaze to a rundown general store that looks like you might get syphilis just by walking in the door. “That’s Rose Apothecary?” he asks, and Patrick nods. 

“It will be.” 

David sighs and cocks his head, trying to see past the dilapidated sign and the terrible paint job. He can feel Patrick tense next to him, and he knows how important this is to him. How important the store becomes for both of them. He lets go of Patrick’s hand and crosses the street to take a closer look, listening to the slap of Patrick’s shoes as he rushes to catch up.

The layout is disastrous, but the hardwood floors are gorgeous. The counter is salvageable and the natural light stunning. “Yes,” he breathes as he presses his face to the window. “This could be - this could be something.” He can see it, he really can. And knowing the man at his side helps him do it makes it all seem slightly less petrifying. “Do we make it something?” 

“David,” Patrick breathes, “we make it everything.”

David stares at him, his partner, his friend, his fiance. He wants nothing more than to kiss him in this moment.

“A general store, but also a very specific store,” Patrick murmurs with a small smile, like it’s another inside joke. It probably is. It sounds like something David would say. But then Patrick goes and fucking kneecaps him: “David, you have no idea what you’re capable of,” he says, breath hitching. "Christ, I can’t wait for you to find out.” 

Not a single goddamn person in his entire life has had as much faith in him as the man standing before him. The man who’s been through Dante's seventh circle of hell and back over the past couple of days and yet still manages to look at him like that. David almost wants to tell him he’s not worth the effort, but he can’t because Patrick has made him believe he is. 

“Is that the cafe?” he asks, once he gets himself semi under control. Eh, debatable. “The site of the infamous mozzarella sticks?” 

Patrick laughs, a quick, sharp thing - an emotional release. “Yeah. Do you - do you want to go in?” he asks, but David hums and shakes his head. 

“I can see the promise from afar.” 

“You’ve said that about a lot of things,” Patrick replies, and David wonders what those things are. "You're usually right." 

"Well, there's a first time for everything," he mutters, but his tone isn’t nearly as biting as it usually is. Ugh, Patrick really has broken him.

“Takeout? It’s the only food joint in town so it’s this or we try our luck with whatever microwaveable meals they have in there,” Patrick says, pointing a thumb at the store behind them and laughing at the look of sheer terror that drops David's features.

Suddenly the Cafe doesn’t seem all that bad. Even if the chalkboard out front reads Meatloaf Special. 

“I promise you can wait outside,” Patrick says, and it’s tempting. 

He is hungry. Cheetos do not a meal make - even two whole bags of them.  

“Fine,” he clips. “But I do not even cross the threshold.” 

“Fair enough.” 

They order cheeseburgers with an extra side of fries, and if David didn’t believe Patrick was his fiance before now, the fact that he knew his thoughts on what the proper amount of fried potatoes is would seal the deal. They head back to the motel, and in the light of magic hour, David can contemplate thinking about admitting that the town might occasionally be charming one day in the perhaps distant future. 

They eat at a little round table in the motel room that Patrick smiles at, and once again, David wonders what mundane and life-altering moments have happened around it. 

As the meal progresses, though, Patrick seems to get maudlin just as David is finally getting ready to lean into the sentimental. Maybe he regrets finding him. 

“I’m sorry I’m not him.”

Maybe he’s disappointed in who his David used to be. 

“I’m sorry I’m not him.”

“It’s, uh, it’s been a long day,” Patrick manages as he throws out their garbage. “I may - " He waves vaguely in the direction of the bed and toes off his shoes, starting to unbutton his shirt before he notices David watching him. 

For God’s sake, don’t stop on his account. 

"Sorry," he says, looking sheepish, face flushing a stunning shade of pink. "Habit." 

David shakes his head because of course they'd be used to changing in front of each other, and he’ll be the first to admit he’s been curious about what’s hiding beneath those buttons, but Patrick doesn’t give him a chance. 

"I'll just - " He makes an aborted gesture towards the bathroom and turns to go, but David can’t let him leave yet. Not when he’s looking so broken. 

“You fell in love with me here?” His tone is soft, but… amazed. It seems impossible that beautiful things can happen amid stained carpeting and drab bedspreads and peeling wallpaper.  

But here Patrick is, proof of it all the same. 

“David,” he starts, voice breaking, “I’ll fall in love with you anywhere.” 

Air whooshes out of David’s chest like he’s just fallen from a very great height. His lips part, but what does he say to that? To quite possibly the most gorgeous thing he’s ever heard in his life? The declaration that he is not only capable but worthy of loving and being loved. 

He doesn’t have to worry for long because Patrick doesn’t give him a chance to reply. He disappears into the bathroom, shutting the door quietly but the sound of the lock sliding into place seems thunderous in the silent room.

David uses the time to change into pajamas and waits for his turn. Patrick’s skincare routine takes significantly less time than his own, which isn’t fair really, considering how perfect that fair complexion is. He almost expects him to start singing with animated woodland creatures and biting into poisoned apples at this point.

The bathroom door opens and David abruptly stands, staring at Patrick in his pajamas pants and white t-shirt. It’s an outfit he’s seen him in before, but David is a fan so he drinks his fill. Patrick offers a small smile and moves toward his bed, but not before David gently takes hold of his wrist, soft enough that he could break away if he wanted, but hard enough to let him know he’d like him to stay. 

“You okay?” Patrick asks, because of course he does, and David nods. “I know today was a lot.”

“Not just for me,” David replies, squeezing his wrist. Patrick’s been so brave. So strong. Had their positions been reversed, he highly doubts he’d be handling any of this as well as his future fiance has. 

“Thank you, David.”

He nods again and lets go, grabbing his toiletry bag from the table and disappearing into the bathroom, trying not to gag at the state of the towels. It looks like Patrick left the best one for him. 

By the time he returns to the room (yes, 43 minutes later), Patrick is nearly asleep in his bed. David usually gets annoyed when his nighttime companions pass out on him, but a) this isn’t a sexy situation and b) he just looks so damn precious. Which is not a word he uses lightly. He slides into the murder bed with a smile on his face (that lasts about as long as it takes him to feel the thread count of the sheets) and shifts until he’s comfortable. Or as comfortable as he’s going to be on this mattress that’s missing at least half of its springs.

“Have we ever shared this bed?” he asks, because he saw the way Patrick looked at it earlier. Almost wistfully. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “We have.” 

David tries to imagine the physics of that, of two grown men pretzeling themselves into a twin bed. He assumes a lot of cuddling is involved, which… actually sounds really nice right about now. 

He shouldn’t do this, but he’s going to anyway. 

Throwing the covers back, he scoots to the edge of the bed and rolls over onto his side to face as much of Patrick as he can see in the dark. “I still don’t think you’re real,” he whispers, and Patrick lets out a noise that could either be a laugh or a sob. It’s getting harder and harder to tell these days. They’re folding into each other so often. 

Patrick kicks back his own covers and stands, and David holds his breath as he crosses the short distance and curls himself into David’s side. He knows exactly where to put his knees, his elbows, his feet, as if he’s been doing it for years. 

“I don’t know what I have to say to you to get you to believe me - ” he starts, but David’s finger promptly presses against his lips.  

“Who says I never believed you?” 

Patrick looks incredulous, but it’s true. David doesn’t think Patrick is real because people just aren’t… made like that anymore. But it doesn’t mean he hasn’t believed every word that’s come out of his mouth. 

“What I’m going to tell you is going to sound insane. You’re going to think I’m insane.” 

It doesn't mean that he doesn’t trust him.

“I need you to know that, whatever happens in the next few minutes, whatever - whatever I say, every word out of my mouth is the truth. Okay?” 

It doesn’t mean he couldn’t love him. 

“I need you to know that.”

“Tell me about him,” he whispers. 

A tear tumbles onto Patrick’s cheek, and David hears his heart crack. Patrick reaches out and brushes a thumb over one of his eyebrows, while David wants nothing more than to catch that tear with his palm.

“He’s you,” Patrick replies, and in those two words, David hears everything he’s not saying: I loved you then, I love you now, I’ll never stop loving you. 

He could do this, he thinks. If Patrick is willing to go through it all again, then David is all in. 

His gaze flicks down to Patrick’s lips before he can help himself, but it’s Patrick’s whispered “Please” that brings their lips together. It’s not necessarily fireworks, but it’s no less life-altering. 

They don’t talk about plans when they break apart, breathing in each other’s air. They don’t talk about when David returns to New York, if Patrick will be with him or not. They don’t talk about the logistics of reliving five years of your life, and the pressure David would feel to live up to Patrick’s expectations, even if he doesn’t have any. They don’t talk about how Patrick might always miss the first David, his David, no matter how many times he says they’re the same. Because they’re not. Not now. They’ve reached the Before point and the After. 

But they don’t talk about any of that.  

Instead, David picks up Patrick’s right hand with his left and watches again how Patrick’s gaze hones in on his vacant ring finger.  

“What did you propose with?” he asks, but Patrick shakes his head. 

“Nah. Not telling,” he whispers, and David frowns. In fact, he nearly pouts.

“Why not?”

Patrick’s eyes gleam in the darkness, and he has a look on his face that’s nervous but smug; that says he’s about to go out on a limb but rock David’s world, and don’t worry, he’s gonna like it.

“Wouldn’t want to ruin the surprise."

“Oh fuck off,” he starts to blurt, but Patrick captures his lips in one last kiss, and David’s mind whites out. He doesn’t just hear it, he feels it now too: 

I loved you then, I love you now, I’ll never stop loving you. 

He falls asleep with Patrick’s arms around him and that on a loop in his head. And for the first time since he sat across from him over a stained tablecloth and told him the impossible, David actually thinks he’s real. 

xxxxxx

He wakes up in his apartment on a Saturday from the strangest dream he can’t quite remember and a raging hangover that he really doesn’t think he’s earned, if the still-full bottles on the bar cart are any indication.  

Four days later, he gets on a plane to Los Angeles. 

Three days after that, Revenue knocks on the door, and his life slots into Before and After. 

He moves to a place with an incestuous sign and a dirty slogan that sounds like an old joke he’s heard before. 

He meets a girl who’s rude but responsible for his towels, holding them hostage like an embassy takeover. He sleeps with her, which is a mistake in a long line of them, but he thinks he gets something better when the dust settles after the implosion. 

Two years later, he has an idea, an idea he thinks could be good, and an unassuming man in an unassuming office greets him with a firm handshake and a smile that could topple dynasties.

He opens his bedside drawer to throw the latest batch of branding samples in when he sees it: the really fucking horrifying carving that reads, I’ll find you, David Rose. He blames the alarming message on the creepy girl behind the front desk who may or may not be his best friend. He doesn’t know. He’s never had one. She denies it every time he brings it up. 

Turns out the unassuming man from the unassuming office wants to join his business. Wants to take him out for dinner. Wants to date him, wants to sing to him, wants to love him, wants to marry him. 

His life slots into a new Before and After. 

And one morning, on the best weekend of his life, he bursts into his motel room after the worst fight he’s ever had. 

The man, his Patrick, looks about as awful as David feels. 

Their reconciliation is swift and fierce, the argument a misunderstanding exacerbated by alcohol and Stevie, who nevers helps a situation.

And when Patrick starts rooting around the bedside drawer that David hasn’t looked in in months, he’s confused. Perhaps a little worried. But then Patrick seems to find whatever it is he’s looking for as he straightens and pins David with an indescribable expression that both shakes and thrills him to his core.

“I found you,” he whispers, and David is perplexed. Perplexed and relieved and so, so goddamn happy that he gets to marry this man in a day. He feels like he’s waited forever. 

“Oh, Patrick Brewer," he says. "What makes you think you ever lost me?” 

But Patrick just beckons him closer, holding out a hand David will never stop taking, and points to the inside of the drawer. 

“Who did this?” he asks, gesturing to the carving that David had completely forgotten about. 

“Stevie, I assume,” he replies. “To freak me out. She denies it, but I’d know that serial killer scrawl anywhere.” 

The unassuming man who no longer works in the unassuming office, who established a new new Before and After in his life; the man he’s going to marry, who’s believed in him from day one and is the realest thing David has ever laid eyes on, stares at him and starts laughing.

He laughs so hard, he cries. 

“Oh, David Rose. Have I got a story for you.”