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David’s first impression of Patrick had been that he was a predictable sort of guy. From the firm handshake to the boring haircut, David immediately pegged him as a generic business-type: smart and nice enough, but with nothing unique to say. The kind of person who churned out the same old jokes around the water cooler and played golf every Wednesday with a guy named Todd.
After exchanging a mere few words with him, of course, David began to realise he was entirely wrong. By the end of the appointment, he’d walked out feeling like he’d been turned on his head by the man in the sensible five-dollar shirt.
Patrick hasn’t stopped surprising him. Whether it was rewiring the lights in the shop (okay, after a few failed attempts, but it worked eventually and that was basically magic to David), or displaying a shockingly encyclopaedic knowledge of 90s rom-coms… David’s been forced to stop and re-evaluate what he thought he knew about Patrick countless times.
David knows now that the grounded presence he’d sensed in their first meeting wasn’t predictability - something close, but just to the left of it. Patrick is dependable, in all the ways that count.
He’s a constant, unwavering line in the midst of David’s chaotic loops and scribbles. Patrick always brings David coffee when he goes to get himself tea, the only person ever to listen and actually get his order right. When David rocks up to the store an hour or so past opening, he knows Patrick will be there without needing to check beforehand. Just last week, when David had bombarded him with texts at almost midnight in a panic that he’d forgotten to contact an important vendor, Patrick popped up in a heartbeat, prepared with all the reassurances David needed to hear.
David can depend on him. In fact, he’s come to depend on him so easily and wholly that it worries him; to the point where, if Patrick disappeared, David fears he'd have a hard time standing up on his own.
But, no. Predictable, Patrick is not. David could never have predicted that Patrick would give a single fuck about his birthday, let alone offer to take him to dinner. He definitely wouldn’t have foreseen that he’d show up at the cafe wearing a dinner jacket, or bashfully present him with the most thoughtful, meaningful gift David can remember receiving, having the audacity to call it nothing.
David sits across from him as they exchange soft chuckles and anecdotes over a shared chocolate sundae (it still counts as shared if it’s a 90:10 split, Patrick agrees), and he can’t help but marvel. He doesn’t know how he landed here in this booth, opposite this man who contains so many multitudes.
When Twyla drops the cheque on the table, vibrating with excitement for the two of them, Patrick has his card ready and waiting, waving away David’s admittedly half-assed offer to pay half. (Dependable, David thinks with a smirk.) Having walked into this evening without acknowledging to himself that he was going on a date, David now finds himself undeniably at the end of one, which brings an unfamiliar surge of nerves. He’s suddenly unsure of what to say, but thankfully, Patrick is there.
“Did you, uh… walk here?”
David nods. “Mm-hm.”
“Can I give you a ride home?” Patrick asks, almost shyly. David feels just as silly, like a fucking schoolboy with a crush, glancing away from Patrick’s wide-open gaze and mumbling that he'd like that, very much.
It doesn’t feel like the countless times he’s been asked that question in the past, where it was often a veiled allusion to something seedier than an innocent car ride, or a negotiation for something in return. This is like… like Patrick literally wants to take him to his home, drop him off at the door, make sure he gets there safe. He’ll probably open the passenger door of his sensible hatchback for David to climb in, and wait until David clicks his seatbelt securely into place before he does his mirrors-signal-manouevre.
“Great.” Patrick flashes a chipper smile. “I brought a spare helmet.”
Um. What. The fuck.
“A heeelllmet,” David repeats sceptically, drawing out each vowel of the word as his voice climbs higher.
“Yes, David. A helmet.” Patrick frowns at him like David’s missing something, although there’s a mischievous glint in his eye. “It’d be pretty unsafe without one.”
As he speaks, he’s reaching for a bag under the table that David hadn’t noticed, managing to avoid it by luck during their extended games of footsie during dinner. He slaps his palm twice in quick succession on the table, then jerks a thumb toward the back.
“I’ll just change and we can go,” he says, as if that doesn’t need any more explanation.
David looks over both shoulders, leaning out of the booth to check the cafe for hidden cameras. Nope… not being punk’d, then. A minute or so later, Patrick re-emerges from the restroom, dressed head to toe in… dear god, a whole lot of leather.
David’s jaw plummets to the floor.
"What is this charming little get-up?" he breathes out, taking in the black pants, padded around the knees and fitted very well (he wonders briefly what his ass looks like in those, and has to shake that thought away). There's a matching jacket too, again a little padded around the elbows and shoulders, emphasising the broadness of Patrick's chest as he casually zips it up over a plain white t-shirt.
Patrick doesn't answer, just grins as he stuffs his blazer into his bag, presumably with the rest of his date night outfit.
"Oh god, okay, we're going to have to talk about proper garment transportation at some point."
Patrick shrugs. "I couldn't exactly carry a garment bag with me. It doesn't matter now, anyway. I just had to hope it didn't crease on the way here. I knew you wouldn't approve of that."
Well. That's endearing enough that David's questions - and there are many - die on his tongue.
But then, Patrick is thrusting a helmet at David, tucking the other under his arm, and grabbing David's hand decisively to tug him out of his seat. They're holding hands, David realises; from the almost too-hard squeeze and the determined crease in Patrick's brow, David imagines he psyched himself up to do that, and feels a strong wave of affection for him.
And if he hangs back a step so he can sneak a peek at Patrick’s ass in the leather (and good god, those pants are mouthwateringly tight), well, he’s very, very subtle about it.
"So, um, if you're expecting me to put this thing on my head, I have several questions? Most of them beginning with why —"
David stops in his tracks as they step outside, the door to the cafe tinkling softly behind them. His hand falls from Patrick’s as Patrick casually strolls over to a huge, gleaming motorcycle. David must have walked right by it when he arrived, but he was so preoccupied with what this dinner was or was not that he wasn’t exactly stopping to appreciate his surroundings.
The bike is a deep, inky blue, almost appearing black except for where the light streaming from the cafe windows illuminates its true colour. A long, silver exhaust pipe runs along the bottom on one side, parallel to the ground. David has no idea what all those other pipes and gears do but they’re very shiny, matching the handlebars and the rest of the metal parts. It’s clear that this is a pride and joy, polished and primed with love and dedication.
“Oh, so. That’s a motorcycle.”
Patrick grins and smartly pats the black leather seat, which looks big enough for two. “What, this isn’t a classy enough ride for you?”
Patrick stows his clothes in a handy little compartment on the side of the motorcycle (Saddlebag? David’s brain supplies, a remnant of information from an ex long-gone), then folds his arms and leans against the bike. His gaze is steady and smoky, and he makes a picture of confidence and sheer fucking sex appeal.
David clears his throat and tries to claw back some sense of reality. “I’m pretty sure, like, ninety percent of road accidents happen to people on motorcycles, and also did I mention my hair…?”
“Your hair will survive, and I’m a very safe driver.” He tilts his head, lips curving into that upside-down smile that usually signals he’s about to troll the life out of David. “I mean, I did bring a spare set of leathers if you want them. Y’know, for protection. Those very accurate statistics are pretty worrying.”
David recoils. “Oh my god, ew, imagine. This is enough of an insult,” David replies, gesturing with the helmet he’s awkwardly holding. “I’d rather risk serious injury, thanks so much.”
“Shocking.” Patrick’s eyes dance in the orange glow of a streetlamp overhead. Oh, fuck, he’s so pretty.
“That’s not to say I don’t approve of leather in the… right contexts,” David blurts. He can’t stop his mind going there, not when Patrick looks so ludicrously sexy right now. As soon as the words are out, he tucks his lips between his teeth.
Patrick’s eyebrows quirk upwards in clear interest, and he gives a soft, slightly nervous laugh. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
David cringes internally - too much, you’re being too much - but then Patrick’s beckoning him closer with a gentle, encouraging smile, taking the helmet from David and carefully slipping it over his head. The visor is up, and David peers through the opening. Patrick pauses with his palms on either side of the helmet, holding David’s gaze for a moment or two, and looking all sincere.
“Have you ridden before?”
David has to bite his cheek to hold back his immediate response to that, but thankfully, his face is partially obscured. “Um, yeah, a few times.”
His mind flashes through the rare instances where he and motorcycles have crossed paths: a trashy ex, a ‘friend’ in New York, a random guy who had drugs. If he’s honest, they aren’t good memories. They set his teeth on edge, remembering how out of control he felt, how unsafe.
But… this is Patrick. Dependable, steady, solid Patrick. David exhales slowly through his nose, breathing out the past and making room for something new.
“You gonna take me home or what?” he asks breathily, watching Patrick’s face light up with the same anticipation currently fizzing in David’s stomach.
Patrick climbs onto the bike and helps David settle behind him. David finds the footholds easily, and with a moment’s hesitation, David tentatively settles his hands on Patrick’s hips, wrapping around just enough to hold on. His grip is loose, but he’s close at Patrick’s back, and he can feel it when Patrick stiffens for a second - holds his breath - then lets it out slowly.
David can relate.
“Hold tight, okay?” Patrick says. “We’re gonna take a scenic route. You’ll like it.”
That nonchalant, take-charge energy never fails to spark a shiver up David’s spine, although he’s never allowed himself to dwell on that until tonight. Now, it’s a thrill he can luxuriate in.
Patrick slips his own helmet on, along with a set of leather gloves (which, wow, okay), and before David quite knows it’s happening, the engine roars into life beneath them. David quickly wraps his arms tighter around Patrick’s middle, letting out an embarrassing squeal that he only hopes is lost to the noise as they take off into the night.
At first, David’s body is tight with tension, muscles in his thighs already aching as he tries to cling to the bike with every limb he has. His jaw is clenched, and he belatedly registers that he’s squeezed his eyes shut. But as they steadily build speed up Main Street, David cracks one eye open to watch their store sail smoothly by.
This is nothing like the rides he’s had before. Cautiously, he allows his back to straighten and his legs to relax, leaning into the firm shape of Patrick in front of him. In every deliberate rev of the engine and kick of the throttle, he feels it: Patrick is entirely in control, and David’s never felt safer. He never had the chance, before, to really enjoy this experience for what it is, too on-edge to focus on anything other than the fear of being thrown off. Now, knowing that Patrick holds their safety in his capable hands, he can embrace the rush of it. So he does.
Patrick reaches the edge of town (also known as… the end of the street), but instead of following the road in the direction of Elmdale, he throws a left. David jolts in surprise, because Patrick is surely driving them right into a ditch or something - but a partially-hidden, dirt track materialises, bordered on either side by long grasses. David would never have spotted it from the road, but Patrick navigates it like he’s driven it for years.
As Patrick hugs a corner, the wheels kicking up clouds of dust in the dusk, Patrick leans into it and whoops, with an almost childlike excitement - and David soaks it up, laughs giddily as he leans in as well, he and Patrick and the bike moving as one. Blades of grass whip at their feet as they zoom along the twists and turns of the track, the rolling thunder of the engine an intrusion in the stillness of the fields.
David can't get enough of the adrenaline shooting through his veins, or the somersaults and kickflips his stomach performs as Patrick takes them over slight bumps in the road, flying through the air for seconds at a time before landing with a bounce.
“Hey, David, look up,” Patrick yells over the rumble of the engine, slowing his pace. David does, and splits into an achingly wide grin as he takes in the canvas of twinkling stars above them. It’s a perfectly clear evening, and away from the streetlights and storefronts, they seem to shine even brighter.
Glancing back down, he hugs Patrick tighter, one arm stretching diagonally over Patrick's front to splay his hand over his chest. He settles his chin as close to Patrick's shoulder as he can get it with the helmet in the way, and spots the wilderness opening up to their right - he catches a glimpse of the creek, beyond the grasses, sparkling in the moonlight.
He’s never been a nature person, but… he could get used to this.
The wind whistles past them as they cruise back into town, snatching both of their reckless laughter and carrying it away, but David can feel the joy coursing through Patrick’s body. He can feel how much Patrick loves this, and it’s fucking infectious. It could be hours or mere minutes before Patrick putters to a controlled stop outside the motel, but either way, it feels too soon.
When Patrick kills the power, the night is almost too silent. David instantly misses the deep growl of the motor. But as Patrick hops off the bike and pulls his helmet off, revealing his flushed, exhilarated face, it’s easy to forget all of that. Feeling equally elated, David removes his own helmet as carefully as possible - his hair is fucked, he can feel it sticking up at odd angles and a strand or two sticking to the sweat on his forehead - but all he can do right now is burst into disbelieving laughter, trying to calm his rocketing pulse.
“Well, that was an unexpected end to the night,” David breathes out, grinning wildly.
Patrick looks pleased at that. “You didn’t think I’d just take you to the cafe for your birthday, did you?”
David twists away a smile, glancing down at the leather seat he’s still straddling. “So you’re a motorcycle guy. Learning a lot about you tonight.”
“Kind of. I loved ‘em as a kid. My dad had an old Harley he was always working on, and I’d spend hours in the garage handing him tools and bugging him about what he was doing. I learned to ride back then, but I sort of fell out of it as I got older.”
Patrick toes the ground, and his hands reflexively search for pockets to hide in, finding none in this outfit. For once, he looks… hesitant. Unsure of himself.
“I always wanted one of my own, but, uh… adult life didn’t really work out that way. It wasn’t… practical. Then I moved here. And I figured, why not now? So I, uh… I sold my car, and bought this.”
At that, Patrick seems to grow taller; his shoulders roll back, and he meets David’s eyes. David sees a fiery determination there, an unshakeable resolve. Then I moved here. Those four words are thick with an untold story, telling of more than just a simple relocation. It occurs to David that he never asked what brought Patrick to this town, or what he left behind to come here. Maybe, one day, he’ll get to find out.
“That’s…” David starts. He offers Patrick a warm, soft smile. “I’m glad you did that for yourself.”
“Yeah. Yeah, so am I.” Patrick runs a hand through his short hair, bashful yet proud all at once, like he still can’t quite believe he did that. “God, I just love that feeling, y’know? It’s like… freedom, but not just that. When I'm on the bike, I feel… alive? More than I have in a long time, honestly. I don’t know, I - sorry, this is a lot. I’m talking a lot.”
David happens to think it’s fucking adorable that he’s so passionate, that he sought out his own excitement and autonomy and grabbed it with both hands. David shakes his head emphatically, leaning forward to rest both hands on Patrick’s shoulders.
“Mm-mm, no. I like a lot. I like that you love this,” David says quietly. The moment stretches, thin and ready to break without warning, and yet full of possibility. With a tentative hope written all over his face, Patrick swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, which pretty much breaks David’s entire brain.
“Um,” David says, as Patrick steps in closer, so that somehow David’s hands slide from his shoulders to the back of his neck. He’s standing so close David can feel his body heat through the leathers, and his legs bracket David’s thigh where he’s still straddling the bike. “I, um… I would have pegged you for, like, an electric eco-scooter kind of guy.”
Patrick, endearingly, looks somewhat ashamed. “...I recycle a lot to compensate for owning this thing.”
David can’t possibly be expected not to kiss him after that.
Glancing down at Patrick’s mouth, which turns slack under David’s focused attention, David leans in by an inch. Gives Patrick a moment - to pull back, to change his mind about David entirely, to snap out of whatever magic spell brought him here tonight. But Patrick doesn’t move. He’s wound tight with anticipation, his eyes wide and eager but just scared enough not to close the gap himself.
Patrick’s been brave this whole evening and long before it, throwing out flirtatious quips and pulling David into unexpected hugs. David doesn’t feel brave at all right now, but he can do this for them.
Tamping down a silly, nervous smile, David bows closer and tilts his head and cups the side of Patrick’s face as gently as if he were made of glass - and he kisses him. It’s all sweet, pouty lips, an innocent kiss, but Patrick braces his hands on the bike either side of David’s body and pushes firmly into it, wordlessly demanding for it not to stop.
David’s thumb traces the shell of Patrick’s ear, and hears a sharp inhale through Patrick’s nose in response. Patrick’s lips are perfect, plush and willing as he follows David’s lead, his head tilting minutely to chase every movement David makes.
When they break apart, it’s impossible to contain that smile. The bike creaks softly as David straightens up, body still twisted toward Patrick. Patrick looks stunned. His ears are pink. David aches to kiss him again. It seems like his white-knuckle grip on the seat and the handlebar is the only reason he’s still upright, which is pretty flattering.
“Thank you,” Patrick murmurs.
David crinkles his brow. “For what?”
“I've never done that before.”
Huh?
“With a guy.”
Oh.
Imbalanced by the weight of this moment, David is unsure what to say. This could either be a momentous triumph for Patrick, or an instant regret. David is far more used to being the latter.
“...Okay.”
“Yeah. And, uh…” Patrick chuckles self-consciously. “I was getting a little scared that I was gonna let you leave here without us having done that, so. Thank you. For making that happen for us.”
David nods stupidly, the only thing he can manage as the butterflies already flitting around in his stomach burst into his chest. Fuck, he likes him; he likes him a lot. He's powerless to this incredible, brave man who holds David’s trust like it’s nothing, but sweeps him off his feet when he least expects it.
“Well. Thank you for not commenting on the state of my hair.”
David drags a useless hand through it. Patrick rolls his eyes, though his shoulders drop in relief; David guesses he made the right call in not pressing for more information, instead accepting Patrick's confession and guiding them back to familiar territory.
“Honestly, David, it really doesn’t matter what your hair looks like. You’re always beautiful - that doesn’t change.”
Patrick blushes, but he doesn’t break their eye contact, even as he reaches up to sweep a rogue strand away from David’s forehead. He means that, David realises. Not only does he mean it - he doesn’t have any ulterior motive for telling him. He just… said it.
With a helping hand from Patrick, David clambers ungracefully off the motorcycle, his other hand landing on Patrick’s shoulder to steady himself. His thighs ache slightly and he’s unsteady on his feet, the rush of the ride still singing in his blood and heightened by the tingling memory of Patrick’s lips on his.
“Oh my god, my legs feel like actual jelly!” David laughs.
“Yeah? Damn, I’ve got a lot to live up to on our next date.”
David looks at him sharply, raising an eyebrow. “Next?”
“If you want that.”
David’s lips twist one way, then the other. He wonders if it’d be too much to kiss Patrick again already. “Mm-hm. Yes.”
Patrick takes the helmet from David, biting his lip against a goofy grin. “So… how did this ride compare to the others?”
David shakes his head, gazing into those eyes he already knows so well. “They don’t even come close.”
