Chapter Text
Their shared prep period has begun to feel like sacred time where they cocoon themselves in their rooms and block out the rest of the world. Sometimes they do use it as actual prep time, to grade tests or assignments, to work on lesson plans or set up for the upcoming class. Other times, they just talk and on even rarer occasions, their lips find each other’s because they aren't able to be in the same room for long without that happening, as if they’re magnets attuned to each other’s oppositely attractive poles. David is glad Patrick has lowered the bar for what is wildly unprofessional behind locked classroom doors.
Today, they’re sitting side-by-side on the couch in the art room, Patrick grading geometry tests and David reading about the Impressionist movement. But David can't remember a single word he's read in the last ten minutes; his mind is overtaken with other thoughts. When Patrick notices David's glazed-over eyes, he nudges David's foot with the toe of his shoe.
"Are you going to go home with me after baseball practice today?"
When Patrick gets no response, he touches David’s arm. "Hey, there. What are you thinking about?"
David blinks, trying to give Patrick his full attention. "Just stuff." He shrugs, and tries not to fiddle with his rings like he does whenever he's preoccupied or anxious. But his fingers itch to feel the weight of the metal dragging against his skin.
Patrick nods gently like he can read David’s mind.
"Have you given much thought to what you’re going to do when the school year is over?"
Apparently Patrick can read David’s mind.
"I don’t know, Patrick."
"Have you considered becoming a teacher for real?" Patrick asks, trying—and failing—to mask the eagerness in his voice.
"That's a real quick no," David says before he can stop himself.
David can see that Patrick has already begun to concoct a future of them just like this, working together side-by-side during the day and curling up to sleep together every night. David is surprised to find that he wants that future too. But he’s still not sure being a teacher is where he actually belongs, not sure it's the thing he was meant to do. He’d only really be doing it for Patrick, he realizes, and he's pretty sure that's not a good enough reason to stay in a job he only stumbled into by accident because he couldn't say no to Jocelyn's sad, desperate face.
David exhales. "I never thought I’d actually like teaching, but…" He twists the silver rings on his right hand now, his mind too frenzied to keep his fingers still as well.
"But you do."
"In a weird way, I do, yes. But they don’t need two art teachers here. Mr. Wells assured me just this morning that Mr. Stewart’s skin grafts are only mildly frightening now and he’ll be back for the start of school in the fall. And I certainly don’t love the hours or the extra assignments or the grading or the politics or even the students most days…"
Patrick laughs, rich and throaty. "So what do you like?"
"I like you."
Patrick smiles indulgently, like he’s just been reminded of one of the fundamental natural laws of the universe, that David Rose likes him. "I’ve noticed."
"I bet you always knew you wanted to be a teacher, huh?" David is surprised they’ve never talked about this before, but he’s even more surprised when Patrick’s blush-stained ears climb up his head in embarrassment. Those ears are going to be the death of him one day.
"Actually, no, I didn’t," Patrick says. "This is only my third year of teaching. I used to want to own my own business, start my own empire. You know, kind of like your dad." He smiles sheepishly at that.
"What kind of business?" David asks and he’s never been more intrigued by Patrick and the past he holds so close to his chest. Patrick has only slowly starting to unravel it so David can see the strings of his former life.
"That was the problem," Patrick admits with a sigh. "I could never figure that part out. My first job out of college was working for the Small Business Association of my local government, helping other people draft their business plans, register for the proper licenses, apply for grants and loans. And I just grew more and more frustrated that I was helping others achieve their dreams while I couldn’t come up with one good idea."
"So you thought becoming a high school math teacher would inspire you?" David tries not to laugh at Patrick, but his face cracks under the pressure.
Patrick rubs the back of his neck, hesitant to confess the next part. "It was Rachel." Patrick looks at David to gauge his reaction to her name, but David masks his face to reveal nothing, so Patrick presses on. "Rachel was...is...a teacher too. They had an opening for a math teacher at her school." Patrick shrugs. "They agreed to hire me provisionally as long as I got the proper certification within a year. So I did. I thought it would be a temporary thing while I figured out my next step."
"What does Rachel teach?" David asks, because he can’t help his curiosity’s blatant disregard for his self-preservation.
"Um...French."
Good with her tongue then, David thinks ruefully. He forces himself not to say it out loud.
"So why did you come here then? I mean, teaching high school is soul crushing enough on its own, but I'm pretty sure Schitt’s Creek is the place where dreams come to die."
"I told you. Rachel and I broke up when I came out and I wanted a fresh start in order to explore my...options." Patrick's ears grow even redder. David didn't know that was even possible.
"Yes, I get that. But why another job as a teacher? Why not get back into some sort of business role? Or move to a bigger city where you'd have more....options?"
"I don’t know," Patrick says with a half-hearted shrug. "I was a little overwhelmed at the time what with the redefining of my entire identity. Mr. Wells was the first person to offer me a job, so I took it. I don’t regret coming here at all."
"No? Why not?" David is clearly fishing, but Patrick still takes the bait.
"Because, David, otherwise I wouldn't have met you." Patrick nudges David’s foot again. "I've been waiting my entire life to meet someone who makes me feel the way you do." Patrick pauses like he's going to say something else, but he must decide against it, because he merely smiles smoothly and says, "There are some perks to being a teacher, you know."
"Oh? Like what?" David asks. "Is it the stunning respect and generous paychecks?"
"Not even close," Patrick says with a laugh. "But we do get summers off."
"Mm. I do love summer."
"We could have a lot of fun together," Patrick teases, leaning forward to press a tempting kiss into the corner of David’s mouth.
David can just picture Patrick all aglow in the July sun, blinding and beautiful in his summer skin as they fit themselves together like puzzle pieces every lazy morning for two months. He’d like that very much. But David also can't help thinking that it probably wouldn't take that long for Patrick to grow weary of him. David tries to stamp the vision out before he gets too excited about it. He knows he’s best served in small doses.
"On second thought, that might be too much time together. And summer seems to lasts forever around here."
"I am 87% certain I will never get sick of you, David," Patrick responds, like he’s already penciled David Rose into every hour of his summer calendar. And maybe even beyond.
"That’s seems optimistically high."
"Well, I’m a numbers guy. You can trust me on that," Patrick says with confidence.
"I think," David says, trying to stuff his pleased smile into the corner of his mouth so he can continue the conversation they had originally started before summer invaded his thoughts, "what I liked about this job was more about feeling like I had a purpose, like I was useful. I want...I feel like I need to create something."
"I get that, David," Patrick says softly. "Believe me I know how that feels. But I am also 99% sure you’ll figure it out."
"Just 99%, eh?" David asks with a small, affectionate shove to Patrick’s arm.
"Yeah, but the standard deviation is very low."
David shakes his head. "I don’t know what that means."
"It’s a measure of confidence," Patrick explains. "It means there’s very little chance you’re not going to figure it out. You’re brilliant, David Rose. Whatever your brilliant, beautiful mind decides to do, it’s going to be amazing."
"Well, now I’m 100% sure someone is going to get lucky tonight," David grins widely, fingers sliding down the line of Patrick's arm.
"Oh, I already know that," Patrick says with a wink.
"Well, someone is feeling extremely sure of themselves today."
Patrick laughs with his whole heart. "Of course. That’s just statistics, babe."
***
When they leave the school late that afternoon, long after baseball practice and long after all the students and teachers have left, Patrick threads his fingers through David’s and together they walk down the dimly lit halls of the high school, hands clasped like young teenagers in love.
David can’t remember holding hands with someone like this before, where holding hands didn’t come with strings or complicated expectations of more. David suspects that Patrick would be happy just to hold his hand like this and nothing more and it fills David with an unmistakable longing for the innocence he never had in any of his past relationships. He’d grown up too fast. He’d grown up too hard.
"I feel like I’m back in high school, holding your hand like this." David finally says or else he’d be lost in his thoughts forever.
"We are in high school," but Patrick laughs delightedly.
"You know what I mean," David says. "It’s nice though. I like it."
Patrick swallows his smile and looks to David with that earnest face of his, backlit by the glow of the exit sign, gleaming a flushed red across his stubbled cheeks. David's imagines Patrick's cheeks would be red regardless. Patrick tightens his hand around David’s and David can feel his rings dig deep into his flesh, a tangible reminder of what is real and true.
"I like it too," Patrick whispers. "Like I’m finally getting it right this time."
It shouldn't surprise David by now and yet it does, the way Patrick has filled a hole David never realized he had. And how it seems obvious to him now that if he is a trapezoid, all flared sides and acute angles, then Patrick is a parallelogram, a faithful rectangle who has slanted his sides to fit snugly along David's bruised edges just so.
***
That night, David takes Patrick apart bit by tender bit. David did promise Patrick he was going to get lucky, after all. David sculpts the pieces back together, reconstructing Patrick through breathy sighs, searing kisses, and long arching strokes until there's nothing left but the sound of their unrestrained joy. Patrick is pale and luminous against his dark blue sheets, breathtaking and life-giving all at once. And maybe they have already begun to create something beautiful and priceless here; two ordinary men made extraordinary together.
***
Near the end of the school year, amid the stress of final exams and final projects, and well into his own existential crisis, David is blindsided by Dylan, from his first period drawing class, who comes into David’s classroom thirty minutes before the morning bell. Thankfully, it’s a day that began in Patrick’s bed which is the only reason David is present and coherent so early. Maybe not completely coherent. Patrick did wake David up with his tongue.
Dylan is gangly and shy, but possessed of a natural artistic talent. David has never gotten a real read on him before; he hardly ever speaks up but his electric blue eyes observe everything. He dresses in dark clothes with flannel shirts and David wonders if Stevie and Dylan shop at the same store. Dylan fidgets in the doorway before David ushers him in and shuts the door behind him.
"Can I help you with something, Dylan?" David asks gently. Dylan still looks a little skittish, but he obviously has something on his mind.
"You and Mr. Brewer are together, right?" Dylan finally spits out.
"How…" David clears his throat. "What makes you say that?"
"I see the way you look at each other. I mean, we all see. It’s kinda obvious that you two like each other...like that."
"Like what?" David asks without thinking about whether he should actually hear the answer to that question.
Dylan is clearly embarrassed now. "Like you want to kiss each other all the time."
"Dylan, that’s really not appropriate…are we really that obvious? No, don’t answer that. Mr. Brewer has some very strong opinions about what is and is not correct professional behavior for teachers."
"It’s OK. I mean, it’s cool. If you two are together. Like that."
David is shocked into silence, for once. Dylan looks around the room uncomfortably.
"Was there some sort of question that you wanted to ask me then? Or was that it?" David finally manages to ask.
"Yeah. You’re, like, one of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. So how did you figure it out?"
"How did I figure out what?"
David is bracing himself for some grand coming out moment, how to know if you’re bi or gay or queer—and really, this is definitely above his pay grade—but Dylan surprises him by asking him something completely different. Or maybe not that different at all.
"How do you figure out how to be yourself?"
David sits down at his desk and contemplates the question he’s been asking himself for days and weeks and months and years.
"Well, I wish I knew the answer to that myself. I’m sorry to tell you that you’ll spend the rest of your life trying to figure that out."
"Don’t you know? You seem so sure of yourself." Dylan says, dragging the toe of his Sharpied Converse across the pot-marked floor.
"No adult knows what the hell they’re doing. We’re all just making it up as we go along," David responds and isn’t that the truth of it?
Dylan looks at David like he just spilled some confidential government secrets. "Seriously?"
"Seriously. But the important thing is that you want to find out the answer. Some people don’t want to know who they are. Or just want to be who other people say they are."
David thinks about Patrick and how he came to himself later and how he judges himself for it. But David doesn’t see it that way. He sees how Patrick was willing to be wrong about himself, was willing to change. And David has never given Patrick enough credit for the courage it took to give up something good for the chance of something better. To want more for himself than just good enough.
"You find the thing that makes you happy and you keep moving in that direction," David says. It's good advice. He thinks he might even try to use it himself some day.
"What if I don’t know what makes me happy or who I want to be?"
"You keep on trying. Death is the only deadline for this particular assignment."
"Wow, Mr. Rose. That’s pretty bleak," Dylan says with a startled laugh.
"You know that my family used to be rich, right?" It’s a stupid question. Everyone in Schitt’s Creek and all the Elms within 50 kilometers have probably heard of the down-on-their-luck Roses.
Dylan looks a little wary, but nods his head.
"Well, I used to have everything I thought I wanted. Shopping trips to Rodeo Drive and Fifth Avenue. Expensive vacations and massive homes. A job, but no true purpose. It was only when we lost it all that I realized the truth."
"What truth?" Dylan asks, running a hand through his badly dyed black hair.
"That I hadn’t actually been happy."
"But you’re happy now?" Dylan asks as if any sane adult could be happy as a high school teacher.
David hasn’t stopped to consider that question in a long time. For so long, he’d operated under the certainty that money was the only path back to happiness, but he can see now that he was wrong.
"I am…happy." David pauses, letting the truth of that realization wash over him. "I also realized something else. Something very important."
"What’s that?" Dylan asks.
"It’s about the people you surround yourself with. It’s about your relationships. If you don’t have that, you’ll always be poor."
Dylan nods his head slowly, considering. David knows these words won’t mean much to him now, too young to grasp much beyond himself. But he hopes that maybe he’s become the kind of teacher Patrick told him he should be, who challenges his student to be more than he is, to reach beyond himself to something greater. And wouldn’t that be something?
Dylan finally speaks. "I’m glad you found each other. Mr. Brewer seems really happy now too. He wasn’t...before."
"I know, Dylan." David answers, face softening. "And thanks."
Dylan takes his seat as the bell rings and the classroom churns with more students, all knobby-kneed and acne-scarred as David explains the day’s agenda to a sea of groaning faces. But there’s a thing like affection that burns in David’s chest throughout the rest of the day for these rambunctious puppies still growing into their paws.
***
David tells Patrick about his conversation with Dylan that night as they lay together like corresponding shapes aligned with each other’s bodies.
"Was that...okay? What I said to Dylan?" David whispers, slightly terrified he got it all wrong.
"It was perfect," Patrick says with conviction, cupping David’s face in his large, capable hands. "You were perfect, Mr. Rose."
***
At the end of the year, David stages an exhibition of his students’ best work. He somehow convinces town council to give him access to the newly vacant General Store for a week and he covers its walls with yards and yards of white butcher paper and then drags in some tables to display more art in the center of the room. David could never see the space beyond the ugly metal shelves or past the tragedy of the fungal cream residing next to the cereal boxes, but he sees now how the floors are a stunning mixture of multi-colored wood and how the tall storefront windows let in cascading rays of natural light throughout the day and gleam off the white subway tiles on the walls. At night, though, the store's artificial lighting is atrocious and all wrong for exhibit design, but Mr. Wells refuses him a budget for recessed lighting because he is without vision. Patrick eventually saves the day by watching YouTube tutorials and installs some decent lights to shine on the art. David helps his students craft their text labels, honing down their inspirations and interpretations to 100 words or less and prints them off on cardstock that he finds on the forgotten bottom shelf of the art room’s supply closet.
On opening night, David stands in a corner with Patrick, twisting his hands and mouth in equal measure, while he apprehensively waits for someone—anyone—to walk through the doors. At first, just the students and their beleaguered parents come to see evidence of their artistic attempts, but then—in the way that always seems to happen here—the whole town shows up, steadily, effusively, indulgently until the whole space is full of people. Moira waltzes in on Johnny’s arm fashionably late and her face is overcome with genuine wonder.
"Who knew this town was full of so many talented amateur artists? Why, David, it appears that you may have been an adequate instructor to this town’s juvenile residents after all."
"Please try not to sound so shocked when you say that." But David feels a zip of pride that only his mother can instill in him. She hands out genuine praise so infrequently.
"Maybe you could bring the family portrait to your classroom, David," Johnny pipes in, hands clapping together with his bright solution to a sticky problem. "Your students can observe a great piece of art up close. It could be very educational."
"That’s not gonna happen," David answers quickly. Patrick quirks one eyebrow up at David, and David shakes his head quietly as if to say I’ll explain later.
"Well, it needs to go somewhere," Johnny persists.
"Try the dumpster then," David counters. "There’s no way I’m dragging that thing through the halls of Schitt’s Creek High School. That’s like the start of a bad horror movie."
Alexis blows into the exhibition later that evening like a hurricane—or a tropical storm at the very least—squawking about passing her classes and sharing "an adult kiss" with Ted at the vet’s office. The Roses are apparently wildly professional people all around, David surmises.
"What the hell does that even mean?" David asks when Alexis won’t shut up about the adult kiss in front of him and Patrick. Patrick is practically inflating like a bright red balloon from his effort not to burst out laughing at poor Alexis.
"Like, a non-sexual kiss between two adults, David." Alexis explains with a flip of her beautifully braided hair.
"Yeah. I don’t think that’s a thing that happens, Alexis."
"Of course it is, David," Alexis insists. "We can also adult hug and adult high-five each other. We decided...like adults."
"Again, I don’t think that’s a thing, Alexis."
"Ugh, David. Whatever. I need to go. I still need to find out if Mrs. Syzlak has a cat or not." David merely furrows his brow in confusion. His family is ridiculous. (But maybe he still loves them.)
Alexis moves to leave, but then turns back around to David and this time, her eyes are soft. "It looks really good in here, David. You’re a terrible brother, but it turns out you’re not a bad teacher. Kelsey even said so."
"Thanks, Alexis." David eats his lips but the faint blush high on his cheekbones gives him away. "And congrats on passing. You worked hard."
Alexis nods with a knowing double blink and slips out of the store. When David turns back to Patrick, he has his hand up, palm facing David.
"Adult high-five?"
"I’ll tell you where you can put that adult high-five tonight," David says with the barest hint of a dare. They are still ostensibly in a public place and there are rules. Sometimes, there are rules. And they are still trying to be professionals around the students and other teachers. Though David is pretty sure everyone is well aware of their relationship by now.
"It sounds like we’ll be doing some adult kissing tonight," Patrick’s eyes sparkle and David can’t remember a world in which he didn’t have this, a life of laughter and Patrick.
David’s face can barely contain his smile. "Can’t wait."
***
The gifts begin to magically appear the last week of school: scented body milk in a glass bottle, bath salts in a leftover butter container, handmade verbena and lavender hand soap wrapped in wax paper, a gauzy, warm scarf made of cat hair, of all things. The kids must have picked up on David’s love of food because soft cheeses enveloped in cloth, canned mason jars of applesauce, and homemade lemon curd find their way to his desk as well. They come with notes explaining that a parent or relative makes them and they thought Mr. Rose might like them. The cards say impossible things like "you’re my favorite teacher" or "I learned so much from you this year." David tries to read them without crying, but his resolve crumbles when he reads a note that simply says "don’t leave" with no signature.
Patrick finds him like that, completely thunderstruck and surrounded by a desk full of containers and notecards. Patrick picks up one or two of the notes and reads them with a soft smile before pulling David into a hug, rubbing soothing isosceles triangles and dodecahedrons into his back.
"I almost think I should be jealous," Patrick says with a laugh, "I only got like three gift cards and a handful of notes."
David pulls back to survey Patrick’s face with its quirked mouth and proud eyes. He waves over the gifts. "This isn’t normal?"
Patrick shakes his head. "If you were an elementary school teacher, sure, but definitely not normal for a high school teacher. You certainly made your mark here, Mr. Rose."
"But I don’t understand," David says wetly. "Why would they give me all these beautiful things?"
"Because David," Patrick says patiently, "you taught them to see themselves as artists. That’s a big deal."
"But you teach math!" David protests, feeling raw and exposed. "That’s, like, a legitimate and necessary skill in the world. Or so some people tell me."
Patrick laughs, that muffled one that means that Patrick thinks he’s not supposed to find David as funny as he does. It both delights and infuriates David. "I agree that math is a very important subject. I happen to love it. Sometimes I get lucky and a few students feel the same way. But to discover you’re an artist, to find the thing that you love? Now, that changes a person." Patrick pauses as he tilts the jar of lemon curd to read its label before speaking again. "You changed a lot of people’s lives this year, David. Mine included. Mine most especially."
Patrick smiles softly before wrapping David into his arms. He leans in slowly and kisses David thoroughly, like his need for David is endless. And that's a big deal too.
***
Graduation falls on David's birthday. As teachers, they're expected to attend, but Patrick promises David a moderately edible dinner and chocolate cake afterwards so he doesn't mind watching from the back of the room. He feels something alarmingly close to pride as Alexis accepts her diploma and he feels a lump crawling through his throat when Moira and the Jazzagals make a surprise appearance. He doesn't mind how Patrick slides his hand into David's afterwards or how he tucks a secret kiss into David's neck when no one's looking or the shimmer in his eyes when he hands David a gift bag full of blue tissue paper.
"What’s this?" David asks, eyeing the package dubiously.
"It’s a gift." Patrick says with a bashful smile.
"Oh. This is just the first gift I’ve received in a very long time."
Patrick gives him a small frown. "Well, I wish it were something better then."
David wades through the tissue and pulls out a simple black box. Nestled inside is a neatly framed ticket stub from the Elmdale Arthouse.
"It’s just the ticket stub from our first date," Patrick explains unnecessarily.
David glances up to Patrick with a surprised smile. "I don’t recall that being a date."
"Yeah. That’s because I was too chicken to tell you that’s what I wanted it to be."
"I wanted it to be that too." David rubs his fingers down the frame. It’s a surprisingly solid frame. "I can't believe you kept this."
Patrick shoves his hands deep into his pockets and shrugs up to his ears. "David, I’ve never been lucky in love. My defenses are down."
"Please stop."
Patrick’s face is so earnest. David can’t stand it. "I’m looking for love. Calling heaven above."
"I don't like you right now." He really, really likes him all the time, but especially right now.
Patrick blinks innocently. "Send me an angel."
"Patrick, that is not going to be our song."
"Of course not, David. Wouldn’t dream of it. I don’t even own a dirt bike."
David looks at the frame, the ticket stub, the man before him with his teasing smile, a scar on his left eyebrow, twin freckles on his right ear, and he knows.
"Patrick?"
"Yes, David?"
"This is something better." And when they kiss, David’s burning heart is on fire.
***
David's birthday celebration lasts well into the night, so it's late afternoon by the time David and Patrick make it back to the high school to finish packing up the rest of their personal belongings from their classrooms. David still can't quite believe he survived the whole five months of teaching. He never would have made it without Patrick. They're in the art classroom now and David is trying to convince himself that he won't miss it, not one little bit. He's failing spectacularly.
"Look what Mr. Stewart sent me as a thank you for teaching his classes." David pulls out a stained glass window edged in green trim from the pile of gifts still on his desk and holds it up for Patrick to see. Patrick makes a choking sound as soon as he sees the vaguely suggestive shape.
"David, that looks like a…" Patrick makes a likewise suggestive shape with his hands.
"I know."
"Where are you going to hang that?" Patrick asks. It probably would look pretty silly hanging in his motel room.
"I don’t know," David looks at it intently. "I kinda love it though." He sets it down gingerly with the items to take home with him, careful to protect its sharp edges and fragile glass from cracking.
David yanks open one of the desk drawers and starts to pile all the loose leaf bits of paper, half filled notebooks, and broken bits of charcoal and colored pencils into an empty cardboard box so he can go through it later. Patrick thumbs through some of it and pulls out a paper, slightly tattered and crinkled at the edges but David recognizes it immediately. A mouth and a hand and a wish sketched into reality.
"David," Patrick says, voice hushed and awestruck. "You drew this?" He turns the paper over so David can see it, but he knows what it is without glancing at it.
"Um...yes," David answers, not meeting Patrick’s eyes. The remaining contents of the third drawer on the left side are suddenly very riveting.
"This is me," Patrick states and his voice is rough with emotion.
"Yes," David answers though he wants to roll his eyes and scream, obviously.
Patrick looks down at the smudged drawing again. "When did you draw this?"
David looks up now with a slight wince. "When you took a nap on my couch. After the Jake thing."
"That was before we were...before prom."
"That’s correct, yes," David agrees.
"Before our first date?"
"Again, is it really a date when one of the participants has not been informed of that fact?"
"How long...how long did you see me like this before we got together?" Patrick asks quietly, maybe piecing together for the first time how long David wanted him, how long they both wanted each other.
"From the very first time we met," David admits.
A soft smile tugs tenderly at the parentheses of Patrick’s mouth. "Can I keep this?" Patrick asks and when David nods, he tucks it into his small box of personal items he’s already collected from his own classroom. David notices Patrick’s hands are now slightly black from the charcoal and he reaches for one of the bottles on his desk.
"Here. Try some of this body milk," David unscrews the lid and rubs the concoction into Patrick’s marked hands. "Amber said her grandma makes it from her own goat’s milk. Can you believe that?"
It is incredible stuff. The scent is not overpowering or cloying; it’s a subtle, perfect aromatic blend. The lotion itself isn’t greasy at all; it spreads into every worn groove of Patrick’s hands and smooths them, Patrick’s eyes blazing as he watches David methodically rub it into his hands and forearms.
"It feels nice," Patrick says when David’s done. "I would have thought you’d drink something called body milk. But apparently it’s lotion?"
David laughs with a shake of his head. He sets the bottle down and starts to finger each item, marveling at the talent and skill each item took to produce. He was wrong, perhaps, that this town isn’t full of artists. He just didn’t realize that many of them don’t use canvas and paint. Some of them use milk.
"Hey," David says to Patrick, "you know all about starting a business, right?"
"I sure do," Patrick replies with a smile. "Why?"
"I have an idea," David says slowly. He looks at Patrick’s quietly beautiful face, and it’s almost like he can feel the beat of Patrick’s wide open heart in his own. "Will you help me?"
Patrick leans in, kisses the side of David’s shy-smushed face with velvet soft lips. "The things I’d do for you, David Rose. Yes, of course I’ll help. What’s the idea?"
"Well," starts David cautiously, but there’s something warm and certain growing in a tiny, tender spot deep in his gut. "It’s a general store, but it’s also a very specific store."
David isn’t even done explaining his idea before Patrick face melts into a smile, flashing bright, almost blinding him. David should have expected it by now, the way Patrick has already taken David’s dream and made it his own, made it theirs, but it leaves him breathless all the same. David thinks for the first time that maybe Schitt’s Creek isn’t the place where dreams come to die, after all, but where they come to take flight.
And David never saw that coming at all.