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infinite jest

Summary:

Ronnie looks at him over her mocha, a sweet choice of beverage David is continually surprised by, given how salty she usually is. “I have a feeling you’ll be getting that a lot.”

“What? Swooning ingenues?”

“People slow to realize that Patrick Brewer is human just like the rest of us.”

David makes a face because he knows exactly how Patrick would respond to that. An eye roll would definitely be involved.

Or, this is your half-hour call to Part Two of Favored Nations. Half hour.

Notes:

All of the opening night bouquets to missgee for hair pats, commiserating, and the proper spelling of the word 'asterisk', a concept I still cannot seem to grasp. This is will be posting Tuesdays and Fridays, barring any life surprises.

Chapter 1

Notes:

Cover art by the incomparable and magical Houdini.

Chapter Text

                                                               

"I knew him, Horatio, a fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy. He hath borne me on his back a thousand times..."
- Hamlet, Act V, Scene i

ENTR’ACTE

The Internet’s Boyfriend Sets His Eyes on Broadway 

Patrick Brewer collaborating with Tony-Winner David Rose on New Show

The Great White Way is About to Get a Whole Lot Hotter

Workshop for new Brewer/Rose Hamlet Adaptation Set for May

Casting Underway for Hamlet 

How Did David Rose Snag One of the World’s Biggest Superstars?

Patrick Brewer Goes After That EGOT

David texts the last article to Patrick accompanied by a 👀 before turning off his Google alerts. Patrick’s reply is faster than the time it takes to post this bullshit:

[Patrick]
I don’t know how they can claim that when I’m literally missing the E, the O, and the T.

Halfsies?

[Patrick]
😂 Sure. You wanna tackle the Oscar or the Emmy?

🎭 🎭 🎭

David takes his sunglasses off in the lobby of the Ace Hotel and looks around for his agent, knowing from substantial experience that Ronnie prefers to lurk in dark corners. He clutches his Stumptown macchiato to his chest as he catches sight of her on the other side of the room in a plaid wingback, face buried in her phone, glasses sliding down her nose. 

“Afternoon,” he murmurs, taking a seat on the sofa opposite. 

“Glad you remembered to hit the counter,” she stays, nodding at his coffee. 

“Well, I knew you weren’t getting mine. Learned that lesson the last time.”

“You know what happens when you assume.”

“It makes an ass out of both of us.”

Ronnie smirks. “Something like that.” Then she spins her phone around and shows him her screen where The Post is pulled up. “You seen this nonsense?”

Who is David Rose, Patrick Brewer’s New Best Friend?

David rolls eyes, only all too happy that he turned off his mentions. 

“They go through the greatest hits?”

Ronnie hums. “Rose Video, Sunrise Bay, A Little Bit Alexis, Orestes.” Then she pauses. “Sebastien.”

“Fuck.”

He takes comfort, though, in knowing that Patrick has confidence in him, even if the media would love nothing more than to see David fall again. Hell, he hasn’t gotten up after his last tumble from grace if half the headlines are to be believed. But when Patrick announced the project on the red carpet of the AMAs, he put a more official statement out to the Times extolling all of David’s virtues and talking about how excited and honored he was to be working with him. The vultures backed off a bit after that. But only a bit. 

Except this asshole, apparently. David looks at the byline: Antonio Salva. He remembers the name. It’s the same guy Sebastien dumped him in front of at 21. Naturally, the columnist has linked to his previous article detailing the split because he’s an opportunist like that. 

“How were auditions?” Ronnie asks, pivoting away from the press. David sighs but appreciates it all the same. 

“Eventful. Some poor girl saw Patrick on the iPad and promptly collapsed into the piano. Luckily Derek caught her before she hit the floor.” They’ve been Zooming Patrick into auditions while he’s on tour, setting up a tripod behind the table. While Derek helped the girl outside and found her a soda, David had looked at the screen and jokingly hissed, ‘You’re causing a ruckus,’ to which Patrick indignantly replied, ‘I’m just sitting here!’ But she’s honestly not the only actor to fluster at the sight of him. Some guy auditioning for Marcellus completely went up on ‘Something is rotten in the state of Denmark.’ Like, of all the fucking lines. 

Ronnie looks at him over her mocha, a sweet choice of beverage David is continually surprised by, given how salty she usually is. “I have a feeling you’ll be getting that a lot.” 

“What? Swooning ingenues?” 

“People slow to realize that Patrick Brewer is human just like the rest of us.” 

David makes a face because he knows exactly how Patrick would respond to that. An eye roll would definitely be involved. 

“Being human is overrated,” he says instead. 

“Mmhm. And you’re sure you wanna go with Clancy/Lopez Theatricals as General Managers? Someone’s gotta negotiate all of these contracts. Lord knows I’m not.” 

David glares at her. “You know I do.” 

“They’re green, is all I’m saying.” 

“They did a fine job with The Crucible.” 

“Which closed far earlier than expected.” 

“Which is not Ruth and Miguel’s fault! You wanna dump the blame at someone’s feet? Well,” he kicks his Rick Owens on top of the coffee table, which is both incorrect and probably far more dramatic than the situation calls for but he is Moira Rose’s son after all, “have at it.” 

Ronnie considers him carefully. David squirms under her gaze. “I’m gonna go ahead and assume you haven’t been checking the news,” she says, an abrupt left turn that has his still-under-caffeinated brain attempting to catch up. 

“What?” But then a rock drops in David’s stomach. “My God, why would I? Did we not just establish what a terrible idea that would be for me? And my already low self-esteem?” 

“Well, your ‘self-esteem’ missed the fact that you were nominated for a Lortel this morning.” 

David grips his cup so he doesn’t drop it. “I’m sorry, what?” 

“A Lucille Lortel Award. You were nominated for one. And so was the show. Outstanding Director and Outstanding Revival.” 

He’s... still not quite computing this. 

“Now, they don’t separate play from musical, and between us, you’re probably going to lose to the production of Fiddler in Yiddish - ”

At least she’s honest.

“... but you were recognized. For something you’re actually proud of.” He looks up at her then, and she shrugs. “Just thought you’d like to know.” 

Maybe this is why Alexis has been hounding him all day. He finally had to put her on Do Not Disturb when his phone rattled across the table, interrupting an audition for the third time that hour. He honestly hasn’t bothered to check since. 

“So I’ll need you May 9th,” Ronnie says pointedly. “It’s the Sunday after you start rehearsal.” 

He nods a little numbly. She knows he hates these things, at least now. As a Bright Young Thing with the hottest ticket in town, he loved to see and be seen, but getting burned so brutally and so publicly has made him a little hesitant to jump out of the frying pan into the fire again. 

“You ready for this?” Ronnie asks. Because she knows, of course she does. She’s one of the only ones who stayed.  

“As I’ll ever be, I guess.” 

“Despite the nomination, they’re sharpening their knives.” 

“I know.” 

It’s been four months since he texted two words to Patrick, thinking he’d thought things through and, in typical David Rose fashion, underestimating the situation in the extreme: 

Go ahead.  

Needless to say, the internet exploded, and if David ever needed proof that Ronnie has him on Google alerts, he had it in the only message he received from her that night: 

[Ronnie]
What the fuck, Rose.

He’s since had to adjust all of his social media settings, occasionally even resorting to giving Alexis his logins to do with as she pleases, mainly weeding through his DMs and ghostwriting pithy responses to some of the ruder comments. She’s on probation, however, after a profile mixup saw @davidrose offering tutorials on how best to apply Chanel’s new matte line. Patrick’s reply got the most likes. Naturally.  

@patrickbrewer This is really helpful, David. Thanks. I’m partial to Pivoine Noire myself. 

It didn’t help that Alexis-as-David replied: 

@davidrose actually i think muted fuchsia is more your colour. 
          @patrickbrewer Duly noted. 

David had to text Patrick and inform him that he was not, in fact, responsible for the content on his page and, more importantly, that Muted Fuchsia was absolutely not his color. The exchange spawned a whole new round of headlines that David is still getting teased about in his comments. If he never sees the 💄emoji again, it’ll be too soon. 

Still, the notoriety of the nicer kind means David now gets stopped on the street by colleagues who once would have crossed to the other side just to avoid him. Hell, the last time he walked into Sardi’s, the head of the Shubert Organization waved at him from across the bar. David actually had to turn around and make sure he was the one being addressed. 

“I’m getting calls daily about this,” Ronnie says, bringing him back to the present. 

“About what?” 

“What do you think?” She nods at the script poking out of the top of David’s bag. “This. Everyone wants an invite.” 

“An invite? We haven’t even started rehearsals yet!” 

“Word of mouth is the best advertisement.” 

“But word of mouth on what? ” His hands flap dramatically enough to nearly send his macchiato flying. “Nothing exists yet!” 

“Next steps, David. It’s my job as your agent to make sure you’re thinking about them. If this goes well, then what?” 

But David didn’t dare let himself think that far ahead. He knows what he wants. But he has to keep himself realistic enough to get them all there. 

Ronnie sighs and leans forward, looking at him over her glasses. “One half of your writing team, not to mention your star, is one of the busiest people on the planet at any given moment. Butani is already approaching me, asking if he needs to carve out time in Patrick’s calendar. A theatrical production even at a regional not-for-profit is a huge time commitment for someone booked out years in advance. A Broadway run even more so if you want to have any chance at recouping. Do you want to move forward with Brewer as your star?” 

“Of course I do,” he whispers. God, the thought of doing this without Patrick is… it’s awful. 

“Then you have to let me invite people to the presentation,” Ronnie says, not unkindly. “Let me find you producing partners. Investors. That’s the point of these things.” 

“No, the point of these things is to see if we have something.” 

“David, you’ve known you’ve had something for months! This is just wallpaper. Window-dressing.”

“Well, this window-dressing is my baby, so if we’re done - ” 

“David - ”

But he’s already standing and gathering up his belongings. “No, I promised Patrick I’d FaceTime him to discuss final offers before they go out.”

Ronnie sighs, but gets a hand on his arm and tugs him none too gently down onto the sofa. He slumps back against the leather, refusing to look anywhere near her.

“I know you’re scared,” she murmurs after a long moment. “And you have every right to be.” 

That causes him to look up. 

“I watched this industry take you apart piece by piece and then build you back up, only so they could do it all over again,” she continues. “They’re motherfuckers, every single one. They wrote you off.” 

“But not you.” 

“But not me.” 

This is why she’s his agent. 

“I want you to show them all just how wrong they were. You put together an incredible team - all on your own. Let them help you take it the rest of the way. You’re not fucking Atlas, David. You don’t have to shoulder this burden alone.” 

He wants to make a joke that he can’t be Altas because he’s Sisyphus, and every failed production is his own boulder that’s constantly rolling down, only for him to try and push it back up once more. 

His phone buzzes in his hand, and he looks at it to find Patrick’s name on the screen, requesting an incoming FaceTime call. He smiles before he can help himself. 

Ronnie, ever the observant one, nods at the phone. “And where is he?” 

“Boston,” he murmurs. “Then Philadelphia and finally the Garden. He’s already invited the cast, whomever we choose, to the last concert.” 

“That’s nice of him.” 

“Yeah, well. That’s who he is.” 

“You’re nice, too.” 

David scoffs. “You’re literally the only person who thinks that.” Though as the words leave his mouth, he knows that’s not true. Patrick thinks he’s nice. Poor thing. 

“Sometimes,” Ronnie amends. “On Tuesdays, maybe.” 

“Only when properly caffeinated,” he replies, tipping his to-go cup in her direction as he stands once more. “Send me the list. Of people you’re thinking of inviting.” 

This is probably a mistake, but a necessary one. And he’s in too deep to back out now. 

“Thank you, David,” Ronnie replies. Then she shivers. “Now get out of here before you give me hives.” 

🎭 🎭 🎭

Cast Set for Patrick Brewer-Starring Hamlet

Tony-Nominee Stevie Budd to Join Patrick Brewer in Upcoming Workshop

Rose-Directed Hamlet Set to Begin Rehearsals May 3rd

Patrick Brewer’s Full Count Tour Wraps Its Sold-Out Run at Madison Square Garden Tonight

🎭 🎭 🎭

“Why are there no decent bars around here?” David whines as he stomps up the stairs towards the Garden. 

Stevie groans as she shoulder-checks an oblivious tourist. “Because Penn Station is a pit of despair that only the desperate find themselves in.” 

She’s not wrong, but David wishes the alcohol options weren’t quite so limited. 

“The only redeeming quality,” Stevie continues, leading them through the throngs of people already gathered outside the 7th Avenue entrance, “is the fact that the Macy’s over there sells champagne in their Starbucks and buzzed is the only way to handle that shoe department.” 

David pauses, judgment clear on his face. “Macy’s? Really?” 

“Fuck you, I love a sale.” 

He rolls his eyes as he pulls open the glass door, glad to see the security lines are nonexistent since showtime isn’t for another two hours. David pulls his phone and his wallet out of his pocket to go through the metal detector, not even dignifying Stevie’s claim with a response.

“Where to?” she asks, and David looks at the text Patrick had sent him earlier in the day with the instructions for ticket pick up. 

“Window 9. All of them are under my name.” Sure enough, the digital sign in Window 9 reads Artist Guests. David has been the ‘guest of the artist’ many times but perhaps never quite on this scale. 

“Hi, can I help you?” the man behind the glass asks as David approaches.

“Um, picking up for Rose?”

“One moment.” The man moves towards the back of the office where a wall of cubbies in alphabetical order takes up most of the space. His fingers glide across them until he hits R, and he pulls out a stack of envelopes, beginning to flip through. 

“David?” 

“That’s me,” he says, but he passes his ID over because he knows how this goes. The man checks it and then asks him to sign a piece of paper before him handing the envelope. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, flipping through the tickets inside just to make sure all are present and accounted for, but a familiar voice interrupts him as he gets to number seven. 

“Mr. Rose?” 

He glances up and grins at the towering, suited man in front of him. “Hey, Ivan. How are you?” 

“Good,” Ivan replies, glancing at Stevie and blushing. “Mr. Brewer would like to see you before the show, if you have time. Both of you,” he says to Stevie, blushing further, which is… a thing that is happening.

“We have time,” she replies, and thank God, because David wasn’t emotionally prepped to see Patrick this early in the evening and his words don’t want to cooperate because David hasn’t laid eyes on Patrick in the flesh since South Carolina. He had hoped to get at least two vodka sodas beneath his belt and perhaps a comb through his hair before this particular reunion. 

“Great. Follow me, please,” Ivan says, leading them down the curved hall and flashing his pass at the second round of security, gesturing to David and Stevie in a way that distinctly says they’re with me. David’s heart is pounding as they’re led further into the bowels of The Garden, trying to figure out if “Hi” is an adequate enough greeting, even though he and Patrick text on an almost-daily basis at this point. 

“Um, are you okay?” Stevie whispers. “You haven’t said a single goddamn word since Igor here said Patrick wanted to see you.” 

“He wanted to see us. And it’s Ivan.” 

“You sure about that?” 

“I spent the better part of three hours sitting next to this man. I’m pretty sure I know his name.” 

“I mean are you sure Patrick wanted to see us. Because I’m pretty sure I’m just a victim of being in the right place at the right time.” 

He stares her long enough to nearly run into Ivan’s back when he stops outside a door helpfully labeled ‘Green Room.’ David hopes there isn’t a quiz or an emergency evacuation because he has absolutely no idea how they got here. 

“After you,” Ivan offers, stepping back and gesturing inside. The space is larger than the one in South Carolina, if colder, like it was designed for corporate events instead of comfort. Then again, David’s had a vendetta against this building ever since he discovered that they tore down the original Beaux-Arts-style architecture and replaced it with the current monstrosity. “Help yourself,” Ivan says, nodding at the array of snacks and beverages on the bar that Stevie is already heading for. She’ll probably stuff little bags of Cheez-its in her pockets like a raccoon and part of him hopes she does because he fucking loves them. 

“Hey,” a soft voice says, and David spins around as Patrick appears in the doorway, being chased by a sound engineer trying to get his microphone from him. 

“Hey,” David quietly replies, unsure whether to go over to him or not. He looks good. Really good, if a little tired. Then again, tours will do that to you. 

Patrick rocks forward on his feet, seemingly also unsure whether or not to move toward David, but then he rocks back and stays put. David tells himself he’s not disappointed. Sure, he got a hug from him in Columbia - but they didn’t have an audience then. Speaking of - 

Patrick catches sight of Stevie by the bar and smiles. 

“Brewer,” she greets. 

“Budd,” he returns. Momentary awkwardness vanishing, he crosses the room and stops just in front of David, whose soles are apparently glued to the goddamn carpeting. “Any issues with the tickets?” 

“No.” David shakes his head in emphasis. It’s the only part of his body that can move. 

“Where do they have you?” Patrick steps closer, and David welcomes the excuse to lean in and open the envelope. Patrick gets a hand on his arm as he reads over the top ticket, noting the section. “Good. You should have that whole area to yourself.” 

“And what are these?” David asks, taking out one of the circular stickers tucked in with the tickets. 

“VIP passes. They’ll get you into the open bar in the Delta Club - ”

“Um, yes, please,” Stevie blurts, appearing out of nowhere to pluck it from David’s fingers. 

“Mm, no. Give it back. You remember what happened when you lost our premiere party passes to Mamma Mia 2.” 

“You hated the movie anyway!” 

“Because they killed Meryl, Stevie!” Don’t get him started on the words he wants to have with those screenwriters. “The wrap party for the first Mamma Mia is legendary and now, thanks to you, I’ll never know if I could have done karaoke with Cher. And Christine Baranski.” He doesn’t realize Patrick is still standing as close as he is until he feels Patrick’s body shaking against his arm. Daring to look over, Patrick’s face is beet red with barely suppressed laughter.

“I mean, I’m no Christine Baranski, but I’m sure we can do some karaoke at the party tonight.” He nods at the stickers. “They’ll also get you into The Standard so don’t lose them.” He grins, so pleased with himself. “Though I suppose you know a guy.” It really shouldn’t be as charming as it is.  

“I can’t believe you picked the Boom Boom Room for your wrap party.”  

“So basic,” Stevie chimes in, even though she wishes she could get in on a Saturday night.

“Hey, I would have been happy with Rudy’s Bar and Grill where they give you a free hot dog with every drink, but my publicist told me that was unacceptable.” 

David shudders in a full-body cringe. “I feel like your publicist and I would get along.”

Patrick smiles. “Yeah, I think you might.” 

“Well, we will put a pin in karaoke and return to the topic when I’ve been properly alcoholed. In the meantime, I feel like I should warn you that my sister is attending tonight.”

“I know,” Patrick replies. “I’m looking forward to it.”

That’s... that’s not the reaction David wanted. 

“Kay, I don’t think you understood? My sister. Is attending your concert.” He claps his hands to really drive the point home. 

Patrick chuckles, which is just rude. Does he not understand the severity of the situation? “I know, David. I remember you asking if you could have an extra ticket for her. That was very nice, by the way.”

“Mm, nope, not nice.”

And then Patrick goes and says, “I wasn’t kidding when I said I was an A Little Bit Alexis fan.”

“I wish you had been,” David mutters. 

Patrick laughs delightedly, like they’re talking about something infinitely more interesting than the Rose family’s short-lived dip into reality television. “Nah, I had an ex who went through a pretty serious reality TV addiction. I’ve definitely seen every episode.”

“How unfortunate for us both,” David replies but his brain can only comprehend an ex, an ex, an ex.  

Not ‘my ex.’ ‘I had an ex.’ Could be anyone; doesn’t mean it’s Rachel. 

David wishes Stevie would stop throwing that not-at-all subtle look his way. 

“Patrick?” Someone David recognizes from Columbia is standing in the doorway and Patrick nods, holding up a finger. 

“Be there in a second.” Must be his tour manager. He turns back to them, his eyes all big and brown, and David is hit with such a visceral desire to stay that he nearly tells Stevie to go ahead without him. 

Then again, it wouldn’t be a hardship. An Irish bar around Penn Station isn’t exactly on his list of desirable places to be found. 

“Big pre-show plans?” Patrick asks and Stevie slides in to answer because she gets entirely too much joy from his pain. 

“Oh, we’re gonna meet everyone at Mustang Harry’s.” 

And David can’t help the noise of disdain that escapes his mouth whenever he’s reminded of Stevie’s poor life choices that unfortunately affect him as well. 

“Aw, have a pickleback for me,” Patrick says, clapping David on the shoulder. 

“Absolutely not.” But the vehemence in his tone falters when Patrick’s palm lingers against his sweater just a fraction of a second longer than necessary. 

“He will,” Stevie promises, and he makes a mental note to call Ronnie tomorrow to make one-hundred percent sure it’s too late to terminate her contract.

“Patrick.” Tour manager is back again, this time armed with a mic pack and some neon looking sports drink. Gross.

“Yep. Coming.” Patrick turns back to them but still makes no move to go. 

“We should…” David gestures vaguely to the tour manager still standing amiably in the doorway, like he knows he cannot walk out of that room unless his wayward star is with him. 

Stevie goes over to the bar and shoves some snacks into her pockets because she can always be counted on for munchies if nothing else, before heading for the exit where Ivan still stands. 

“Hey,” Patrick murmurs, and David turns back to see he’s stepped close once more; close enough to smell the aftershave on his skin and the laundry detergent in his shirt. “It’s good to see you. You know, not through a screen.” 

“You, too.” 

And then Patrick is opening his arms and wrapping David up in the hug he’d been too timid to hope for at the start. David holds on with everything he’s worth in the limited time they’re allotted, because the tour manager is still standing by the door looking increasingly impatient (but somehow in a very gracious way), and Stevie can only politely nod at whatever Ivan is saying for so long before she melts. 

Patrick lets go and steps back, and David nearly follows just to stretch the moment a little longer. “I thought about asking you if I could play one of the soliloquies, but I know how the internet works. It’d be on YouTube before evening’s end.” 

“Probably.” David’s stomach clenches just at the thought. 

“And I want to protect this just as much as you do,” Patrick continues and David calms just as quickly.  

“I know you do.” 

The tour manager pointedly clears his throat and Patrick smiles ruefully, finally starting to make his way toward the door leading to… wherever it is they’ve got him set up here. “Doesn’t mean I won’t have a few surprises for you,” he throws over his shoulder. 

“Oh God.” 

Then Patrick spins, walking backwards, a boyish grin lighting up his perfect face. “Trust me. You’re gonna love it.” 

They’re words he’s said before, and the last time they left his lips, David was whisked away to South Carolina, which he definitely didn’t hate. 

“See that I do,” David replies with a haughty sniff that’s ruined when the curve of his lips give him away. 

“You know I will,” Patrick replies with a terrible wink before disappearing around the corner. 

David turns to find Stevie and Ivan watching him carefully. 

“What?” 

But Stevie just shakes her head. “You’re a mess.” 

And that’s a very unfortunate thing coming from the woman with Funyuns in her pockets. 

🎭 🎭 🎭

Mustang Harry’s is awful on every level, and by the time David and Stevie arrive, Alexis already has a tray of shots in her hand, which she’s distributing to those currently assembled: Twyla, Jake, Derek, a couple of the new actors whose names David is still trying to learn. She greets him with an obnoxiously loud, “David!” as she kneels up on the booth and waves him over, like this is her party whose tab she will most definitely not be paying. 

“Yes, hi,” he replies as he gets closer, using Stevie as a human shield against the masses. It’s a Saturday - he truly has no idea why there are so many people milling about. There’s no post-work happy hour special. Surely they can’t all be here for Patrick. 

He waves off the shot Alexis tries to hand to him - after all, the evening is a marathon, not a sprint - and goes to the bar to order himself a vodka soda. 

“I feel like I just entered a frat house,” Stevie mutters at his back, and he raises an eyebrow over his shoulder. 

“Like you haven’t already scoped out at least three possibilities to take home tonight.” 

“Nobody here is worth sacrificing a VIP afterparty pass complete with open bar.” 

“You sure about that?” David asks, nodding at Alexis who’s zeroed in on the nearest finance bro in a Patagonia vest, ensuring she doesn’t have to pay for a single drink for the rest of the night. 

“You really think that’ll last the hour? The second you mention a party bus to Meatpacking, she drops him faster than I dropped Calculus.”

“Fair.” Still, David keeps an eye on her because he cannot have the only person he’s blood related to here be the concert-goer who pukes over the railing onto the floor seats. David knows from firsthand experience at Elton’s that it is Not Fun. 

Drinks acquired, they make their way back to the crowd that’s grown since they left. Helen, their Gertrude who’s always down for a good time, has swanned in wearing a fabulous pair of leather pants and is in the middle of introducing herself to all of the new actors with an exuberant “Hi, I’m Helen,” hand outstretched to shake like they don’t already know who she is. A RADA-trained, English expat, she abandoned the West End to give Broadway a try and never looked back. Of the entire cast, she’s the only one David didn’t audition, Patrick included. Having played his Clytemnestra and won a Tony for it, though, he was quite confident in her singular abilities. Not many actors have earned the (frequently self-appointed) designation of ‘offer only’ in David’s not-so-humble opinion. But she’s one of them. 

“David, darling!” she yells, grabbing his face and planting a firm kiss on his cheek. He can feel the imprint of her red lipstick on his skin. 

“Helen. Stunning, as always.” 

“You flirt.” She pinches his chin the way he only allows her to do, before she flits off to pounce on Stevie, another of her personal favorites. David does so love to watch her squirm under the attention. 

His Assistant Director, Ken, arrives and shakes David’s hand firmly. They worked together on a reading for a new show that went nowhere, but David liked him well enough to bring him on board The Crucible. Capable, with a good eye, Ken can be a little cocky, but self-assurance isn’t necessarily a bad thing in theatre. Frankly, David’s pretty sure Ken’s the only AD willing to work with him. Which is a fact of life he will not be exploring further. 

David reacquaints himself with everyone he hasn’t seen since the final callbacks at Pearl Studios. Thankfully, the cast is… not tedious, which is always a crapshoot in this industry. It’s helpful that he peppered in some familiar faces like Helen, Candice from his Crucible cast, and Aldridge, their Claudius, whom David worked with all the way back on Art. David couldn’t believe he got him then, and he still can’t believe he got him now. Aldridge is a Shakespearean force worthy of the ‘Sir’ everyone jokingly, but reverently puts before his name. He’s played Othello, Coriolanus, Macbeth, and, yes, even Hamlet (not that David will be telling Patrick that). He could go toe-to-toe with Ian McKellen in Stratford-upon-Avon if he didn’t have a debilitating fear of flying. And the man loves a rye Manhattan almost as much as he loves a Drag Race marathon. Frankly, David adores him. 

He alternates between checking his phone for the time and patting his pockets to make sure the tickets are still there. He’s definitely not handing them out until they are literally walking through the door of the Garden. And if he also happens to surreptitiously look to see if he has any new text messages, well, that’s his own business. And Stevie’s apparently. 

“What has he said?” 

“What? Who? Nothing,” David word vomits, wincing as he takes another healthy gulp of his drink. 

“Nice.” 

“Shut up.” At least the vodka dulls the pain of having to listen to the monotonous alt rock melding with the din of the bar - honestly, would some Whitney kill them? - but then an hour to showtime, the jukebox changes, and Patrick’s voice echoes over the sound system. A solid three-quarters of the bar erupts, proving that, yes, they are probably all here for the show. The voice that’s accompanied many of David’s breakdowns remains serenading them until it’s time to pay the tab, and David vaguely wonders if they do this for every artist that rolls through MSG. 

Wrangling this crew is what herding feral cats must be like, or perhaps just tipsy theatre geeks, and they spill out onto the barren, concrete wasteland that is 7th Avenue in the 30s. 

“I have the tickets so you better not lose me!” David calls over his shoulder, channeling his best (and snippiest) Miss Frizzle. 

“We couldn’t lose you even if we tried. Not with that bouffant,” Helen replies, and Aldridge leans in conspiratorially. 

“As Dolly always says, ‘the higher the hair, the closer to God.” Then he and Helen erupt into giggles, and oh my God, they’re supposed to be the elder statesmen of this group. 

“Mkay, the two of you? You’re cut off.” 

Helen blows a raspberry as Stevie sidles up to him. 

“Oh this is going to be fun.” 

“If that’s your definition of it.” He holds the door open and hands out tickets and VIP stickers as each cast member and designer passes, counting them off in his head until only he and Stevie are left. He’s still one short. 

“Where the fuck is Alexis?” 

“Oh my God, I’m right here, David,” she snaps, teetering up the stairs on the arm of the finance bro she was chatting up earlier in the bar. He looks like he just stumbled out of an ad for Vineyard Vines. 

“So nice to meet you, Chad.” 

“It’s Chet.” 

“That’s what I said.” She smiles, booping him on the nose and abandoning him completely as she turns to David. “What? I texted that I was just behind you.” 

“You did not.” He’s been checking.

“Well,” she executes a little shrug/shimmy and dances her greedy fingers towards the remaining tickets in his hand, “thank you so much.” She punctuates each word with a twist of her shoulder, and he sighs, wondering to whatever deity listening how he got saddled with a sibling like her. “Shall we?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

Stevie shoves him in the back and they make their way towards the metal detectors. He can spot the rest of the cast hovering just on the other side. Helen and Byron, one of the newbies, seem to be plotting where they can get their next drink and Aldridge, somehow, is already munching on a basket of french fries that he got from God knows where. David is both jealous and impressed. He comforts himself with the knowledge that an open bar complete with food options awaits him in the lounge and thoroughly ignores the way Patrick’s face seems to stare at him from the sizable merch stand next to the box office. 

They wind their way around the curve of the Garden, heading to the bank of escalators to take them to the first level. They’re a rowdy bunch which earns them more than a few dirty looks from parents shepherding their young children. Continually, though, their eyes flick down to the circular VIP sticker stuck to one of their chests and the frown eases, moving more into intrigue, possibly even respect.  

David has been a VIP at multiple events, but even he can admit it’s quite a power trip. 

They get settled in their section, a block of comfortable seating to the left of the stage, high enough to be level with the instruments currently dotting it. Giant LED panels flank either side so even those in the nosebleeds can still get a good look at that good face. 

And it is a good face, make no mistake. 

“Damn, David, who’d you have to blow to get these seats?” Alexis asks because she’s an urchin, and thank God the lights are low because David flushes redder than a Ferrari fresh out of Milan.

Stevie chokes on her spit (and sadly not something more solid) as Jake clasps his shoulder and holds on, as if reminding David of his skill set in that particular department. 

O- kay. Let’s try to be somewhat professional here. This is technically a work field trip.” 

“Could have fooled me,” Candice mutters as Aldridge hands her a french fry. Sometimes David can’t believe he willingly chose to work with these people. 

He settles into the padded seat and snaps a picture of the stage, pulling up his text thread with Patrick. 

Really? This was the best you could do?

He hits send as a waiter (!) ascends the short flight of stairs leading from the shared lounge to take his drink order. David is no stranger to the finer things, but he can’t say he’s often gotten table service during his usual concert-going experiences. 

[Patrick]
I mean - you’re welcome to come sit next to me at the piano, but I don’t know many duets. 

No thank you. A waiter is about to bring me a chili dog. 

[Patrick]
I told them to keep you fed and watered regularly. 

David gapes. 

Oh my God, I’m not a house plant. 

[Patrick]
Maybe Seymour in Little Shop can be next up for me. 

And though Patrick would absolutely slay that role, does that mean he’s implying that… he wants to keep David fed and watered too? If David is the plant in this scenario? He nearly types back I’d promise not to eat you but he can only put his foot in his mouth so many times before he’s recruited by Cirque du Soleil. Instead, he opts for: 

You wouldn’t be terrible in the role. 

[Patrick]
Aw, thanks, David. 

The lights dim, signaling the start of Jade, the opener. The last time David heard her perform, he spent the entire time in the green room so he’s excited to finally watch her live. 

[Patrick]
Now pay attention and eat your chili dog. 

David smirks, having had just enough vodka to answer: 

Yes, Seymour.

Jade is phenomenal and sensual, like Adele meets Marilyn Monroe, and pretty much everyone in their section has downloaded her debut album by the time she takes her final bow. The lights rise as the crew changes over some of the onstage instruments - a short break before Patrick takes the stage. 

David feels… something as the minutes tick by. Antsy, maybe. Unable to stand it any longer, he stands and makes a lame excuse that Stevie sees right through before heading down to the lounge to get himself another drink, despite the fact that the waiter had been making the rounds. His pants feel like they’re crawling over his legs and he swears his collar is trying to choke him. He gets to the bar to find Derek leaning against it, looking around, taking it all in. 

“Hey, man,” Derek greets, tipping his plastic bottle of beer in David’s direction. 

“Hey.” 

“You alright? You look a little…” he trails off and makes a circular gesture towards whatever is currently happening on David’s face. 

“Yeah, yeah. Good. Just wanted to move.” He does something with his knees that must look ridiculous to the award-winning choreographer in front of him, but Derek is kind enough to hide his laughter in his Heineken. 

“It was really classy of Patrick to invite us all.” 

“Yeah, well. Patrick’s a classy guy.” A fucking troll, too, but he doesn’t say that. Not when he’s contemplating ordering cheese fries provided by said troll. He glances over to find Derek watching him thoughtfully. “What?” 

“David, how long have we known each other?” 

“Oh, I’d really rather not do the math.” 

“This will be my third show with you,” Derek continues, ignoring the quip. “I know what you’re capable of.” 

David shifts and the antsy feeling increases. “You don’t think I’m capable of this?” 

Derek barks out a laugh. “Oh, I know you’re capable of it. But sometimes, I still wonder if you do.” 

But that’s not it. David remembers what he said to Ronnie when he first brought this up to her in her office all those months ago: “You know I can do this.” And he meant it. If he can do anything in his career, in his life, it’s this. 

“It’s not my doubt,” he says, hiding his sudden vulnerability behind a nonchalant shrug. “It’s everyone else’s.” 

Not many have believed in David Rose, even at the height of his success. Other than a scant few, hardly any still do. 

“Well, fuck ‘em,” Derek says, tapping his bottle against David’s near-empty cup. The gesture is well meant even if the sound of plastic against plastic is a bit underwhelming. “And don’t count me among them.” 

David smiles. He would never. 

“I’m still trying to figure out how you bagged Brewer, though,” Derek teases with a grin, and David rolls his eyes but laughs anyway. 

“Yeah, join the club.” 

A bartender leans over and clears her throat. “Gentlemen, the show’s about to start.” She slides a fresh vodka soda to David without him even having to order, and he supposes he can live without the cheese fries he actually came down here for. 

“Shall we?” Derek asks. 

“Sure,” David replies. 

“Let’s see what our Hamlet can do.” 

Turns out, quite a lot. 

If David thought the show in Columbia was good, Patrick was clearly holding out on him. From the moment he bounds out with a booming, “Hello, New York! How you doin’ tonight?” Patrick commands the stage like no one David has ever seen. And David has seen some legends. The audience is electric with a wattage high enough to power One World Trade. It hums with an energy that seems to coalesce; a kind of magic that only the man onstage can harness with a smile and wield with his voice. 

“Holy fuck, David,” Stevie mutters next to him, and he finally tears his eyes away to look around their section. Everyone is on their feet wearing various expressions of rapture: wide smiles, dropped jaws, clasped hands, arms in the air. Most are singing along, belting as only Broadway babies can when Patrick drops out and encourages them all to fill in the lyrics with a wave of his guitar pick.

It’s fucking… religious. And though David is by no means a pious man, he kind of sympathizes now with the fans who burst into tears at the sight of the man onstage. He feels a bit like crying himself. 

In lulls between songs, Patrick talks. He talks to the audience like he would an old friend, telling stories, making jokes - some good, most bad. He puts everyone at ease as his fingers dance idly over the keys, strum lazily at the strings. Even - David shudders - squeeze the accordion. 

During a late break, Patrick sits back down at the piano, settling on the bench as he fiddles with the microphone. “Some of you may have heard I’ll be heading out to do something a little different,” he says as the audience goes wild. His fingers deftly play a few chords of Give My Regards to Broadway, and David tucks his lips behind his teeth. “Yeah, I think it’s gonna be good,” Patrick continues. “Great, actually. With some pretty fantastic people. And some of those people are here tonight.”

The roar that erupts from their section gives everyone on the lower level a decent idea of where they’re sitting. David would normally shrink under the attention as a thousand heads swivel in their direction, but fuck it, he can’t help but beam. That’s right. David fucking Rose somehow brought perfect Patrick Brewer over to the dark side. 

“There they are,” Patrick laughs into the mic, before saying much more softly, “Can’t miss ‘em.”

He launches into another song, a ballad from his new album, and from that moment on, he peppers snippets from Hamlet into the show without anyone not in the know realizing. He does it while switching songs, while underscoring as he banters with the audience. He can only be doing it for David because David is the only one who’s heard the entire thing. Well - Gary has, too, but Gary had a prior engagement and couldn’t come this evening, so. 

Patrick is playing for David. 

And absolutely no one else. 

David sits back heavily against the luxury seat Patrick picked for him and just watches. He watches and yet the concert goes by in such a blur, he has to keep reminding himself to take stock; to breathe for a moment and soak it all in. Sometimes he even grabs his phone and records one of his favorite songs to play again on a quiet night when he wants to remember what it felt like to be one of Patrick Brewer’s Very Important People. 

Eventually they get to the encore and David holds his breath as Patrick steps up to the microphone for his cover of choice. He strums the first few notes, a vaguely familiar tune that David can’t quite place. And then Patrick goes and opens his wicked mouth:

“There used to be a graying tower alone on the sea
You became the light on the dark side of me...”

Oh. 

“Love remained a drug that's the high and not the pill
But did you know that when it snows
My eyes become large and the light that you shine can be seen?”

Oh no. 

“Baby, I compare you to a kiss from a rose on the gray
Ooh, the more I get of you, the stranger it feels, yeah
And now that your rose is in bloom
A light hits the gloom on the gray...”

David turns to Stevie, who is looking entirely too gleeful to be hearing a (shockingly decent) cover of a Seal song from the mid-90s. 

“You bitch.” 

“Oh yes,” she replies, bringing her drink to her lips, only all too smug, “one hundred percent.”

He wants to be mad - so, so mad… but he can’t because Alexis is swaying back forth, singing at the top of her lungs with one arm slung around Twyla and another around Ken, Derek is channeling his best Seal, devastating smolder and all, as he sings into his bottle which is clearly working wonders on Jake, Helen and Aldridge are thisclose to making out despite the fact that neither is attracted to the other, and Stevie is filming the whole goddamn thing. 

David looks at them all and he wants to be mad, but this is his crew. This is whom he chose; whom he cast. Whom he decided to wage his war with. 

And for the first time, perhaps ever, it feels like David isn’t going into battle alone. 

🎭 🎭 🎭

The shuttle to the Meatpacking District isn’t exactly a party bus, there are no stripper poles or disco lights, but Alexis still makes horrifyingly exuberant use of the in-car microphone anyway. By the time they pull up to The Standard, David’s half-deaf from her screeching, a dramatic retelling of her escape from the Yakuza that is (terrifyingly) barely embellished, but everyone seems almost as rapt as they were at the concert so he lets her be. The driver even gives her a fistbump and a murmured, “Respect” as she passes by. It’s a good story, David can’t deny it - once he dissociates himself from the fact that it’s his sister whittling a chopstick into a shiv. 

Multiple shuttle busses have pulled up to the hotel, ferrying those attending the wrap party from midtown to the far west side. Given the size of their group, the Hamlet crew had been given their own, the driver standing outside on 31st Street with a sign reading Gertrude, which gave Helen the biggest non-medicinal boost of her life. She was “chuffed to bloody bits” when the driver gave her the sign as a keepsake. It’s currently stuffed in her bra for reasons David does not wish to explore. 

The elevator opens, spilling them onto the top floor and revealing wall-spanning windows with breathtaking views of the night skyline. At the far end, the center of the circular bar rises towards the ceiling like an art deco atom bomb detonation. It’s been a while since David’s been here; he stopped coming when he stopped paying and the invites dried up.  

There are a decent amount of people so far, despite the fact that their shuttle was one of the first to arrive. David had asked Patrick if they should come backstage, but he said it would be nothing but chaos and that he’d meet them at the bar. Sadly, there’s no sign of him yet. 

There’s a step-and-repeat that Alexis takes full advantage of, dragging Jake, Ken, Derek, and Twyla in to join her as she throws a pucker and peace sign up for the camera. She yells for David and Stevie to join them, but Stevie grabs a hold of his hand tight enough to grind his bones and drags him towards the bar, which is looking more and more like a nuclear dust cloud. 

Drinks acquired, they settle into one of the couches overlooking the city. David inhales deeply, tipping his head back against the leather. With Patrick’s tour completed, they’re one step closer to the start of this next chapter, and David isn’t sure whether he wants to dive in feet first or run screaming in the other direction. Perhaps he’ll find clarity at the bottom of his glass. 

Stevie remains quiet, because she’s good like that; good at sensing his moods. She kicks her feet up on the polished wood table, crossing her legs at the ankle and carefully bringing her overfull martini glass to her lips like the professional she is. 

“This is gonna be good,” he states, apropos of nothing. And he doesn’t mean the vodka in his hand or the party that’s rapidly assembling around them. 

“Good? It’s gonna be fucking great,” Stevie replies, and sometimes, he really doesn’t deserve her. 

There’s a kerfuffle towards the elevators and scattered applause breaks out, steadily growing until the entire venue is cheering. Through the bobbing and weaving bodies and the flash of the cameras, David can see that Patrick has finally arrived. He bashfully ducks his head and claps his hands at everyone around him, pointing out particularly his fellow musicians and his tour manager. David is happy for him. Really happy. Patrick must feel such a sense of accomplishment at having pulled off something of this scale so successfully. 

David is lucky if he makes it to the end of a single New Yorker. 

He loses sight of Patrick in the crowd and leaves him to his meeting and greeting, but when he looks up sometime later, Alexis has somehow intercepted Patrick, monopolizing his time as only she can. The absolutely terrifying thing is that they’re both chatting animatedly, his sister’s arms flailing as Patrick nods over-enthusiastically at whatever insanity is coming out of her mouth. 

“Well that’s an imminent disaster,” he mutters as Stevie kneels on the seat of the booth to try and see what he’s seeing. 

Patrick looks over Alexis’ shoulder, craning his neck, and David idly wonders who he’s looking for. Idly, because somehow he knows he’s looking for him, and for whatever reason, it makes David want to shrink down further in his seat. 

“Go save your man,” Stevie says, hitting him. 

“Stop that. People will hear you.” 

“Over that bass beat? No way.” 

David wants to hotly retort that there are eyes and ears everywhere and he fucking knows better than most. Stevie does, too, since she held his hand (metaphorically, ew) as those eyes and ears rapidly and viciously took him apart. But then David watches Alexis place a hand on Patrick’s (very nice) bicep and give it a squeeze as she twirls her hair around the fingers not actively stroking his forearm and whatever verbal lashing David had on the tip of his tongue evaporates. Oh, he does not like this.  

It wouldn’t be the first time Alexis swooped in on a man David had his eye on first. Not that he has his eye on Patrick. Or any claim on him at all. 

Still. 

“Breathe, David,” Stevie mutters, flicking his ear. 

“Ow, don’t! I’m breathing!”

“I can practically see the steam coming out of your ears.”

He gasps and irrationally clasps his hands over the sides of his head, like a gullible idiot. 

“Stop it,” he hisses, but Stevie only grins and pops an olive in her mouth. He turns back around but both Patrick and Alexis are gone, and before he can look for them in the sea of people, his sister is plopping down on the leather sofa next to them, startling David into upending the bowl of bar nuts on the table. “Jesus.”

“Patrick is, like, a dream, David. I can see why you’ve been keeping him all to yourself.”

“That’s not what I’ve been doing,” he says, ignoring Stevie as she kicks his ankle. “So what’s-what’s going on there?” 

“Where?” Alexis asks, and David gestures with an exaggerated nod of his head back over to where she and Patrick had been talking. “Oh nothing. I know his exact relationship status is TBD, but he hasn’t even asked for my phone number, which in my experience, means he’s either newly married or he’s gay.” She pins him with a look, pressing her lips together. “And we know he isn’t married.” Then she pokes him with a finger and he hisses in her general direction. “So, like, if you’re sensing a vibe or something, maybe that means that his eye is on somebody else.” 

David scoffs. “He’s a rockstar that wears straight-legged, mid-range denim. He’s not into me.”

Stevie has neither snide comment nor annoying ear flick for him, and David doesn’t dare look in her direction. 

“Okay, well it’s either that or he’s really into the show, which no offense, seems a lot less likely to me. Ugh, Shakespeare.” 

“Plebeian.” 

Alexis stares at him blankly and says in all seriousness, “No, I’m pretty sure that club closed down last year because of an illegal iguana fighting league run from the back room.” 

Stevie snorts her martini literally through her nose, and David takes that as his cue to conduct a lap around the room in search of better company. His circle doesn’t bring him any closer to Patrick, though, who’s surrounded by roadie-looking people by the bar. David tries to catch his eye, but he fails, settling for heading over to Helen who’s loudly beckoning him from her perch by one of the windows. 

An hour or so passes, during which time speeches are made as David eats his body weight in pigs in a blanket (Patrick definitely picked this menu). The man of the hour gets up on the piano bench and thanks a laundry list of people, some David has heard him mention before, but most he doesn’t know. Patrick’s eyes scan the crowd before finally brushing over David and immediately returning as a bright smile crosses his face. David feels warm in a giddy way he truly can’t pin on the alcohol, try as he might. 

When the speeches wrap, Patrick is once again swept up in the crush, and David occupies himself with getting to know his cast, incredibly grateful that they seem to be a good bunch. Not a diva among them (even Aldridge, despite his vociferous claims to the contrary). 

Eventually, David looks over and is somewhat surprised to find Ivan staring at him intently across the room. Having caught David’s eye, the security guard raises his eyebrows and nods meaningfully towards the corner. David can’t see what’s there from his position, but he can guess. He offers Ivan a small, grateful smile and makes a lame excuse to Twyla and Jake about finding the bathroom. 

Winding his way closer to the corner in question, he realizes that Patrick has miraculously managed to hide himself almost behind a curtain and is completely alone for the first time all night. Considering that this is basically his party, it’s an impressive feat. Lord knows David’s tried to escape from various hosting duties on multiple occasions. 

“Hey,” David murmurs as he approaches, startling Patrick from whatever had his brain so obviously occupied. 

“Hey, there you are. Have a seat.” He pats the space beside him, so David obliges. “I’m sorry I haven’t gotten a moment with you yet.”

“No, it’s a big tour,” David says, shaking his head. “You’ve got people to talk to.” Though he doesn’t know what a ‘moment’ implies. This certainly feels like one; a second teetering on the brink of something momentous. His eyes scan the room because he now has absolutely no idea what he came here to say - 

Ah. Perfect. 

“Should I be concerned that my sister is hitting on your tour manager?”

Patrick looks in the direction David is staring. “Ted? Oh he’s harmless.”

“Exactly. She’s going to eat him alive. Trust me, my concern is not for her.”

“I’ve known Ted since we were fourteen,” Patrick says, laughing. “He can hold his own.”

“You’ve known your tour manager since you were fourteen? ” 

Patrick hums. “Best friends since freshman year of high school. We went to different universities but always stayed close. He studied to be a vet - he is a vet, technically. He has the degree - but when it came time to apply to this prestigious program or something he’d been dreaming of in the Galapagos, he didn’t get in.” He shrugs. “I was about to start my first tour and I asked if he wanted to come along; see the world and figure things out for himself. And maybe he still is because he hasn't left yet.” Patrick chuckles softly. Fondly. “I guess it’s a family business now.”

Family business. 

David knows what that’s like. 

Across the room, Alexis’ laughter rings out, joyous and genuine. He doesn’t hear it often, but he can pick it out in a crowd sure enough. 

They’re not great yet, but they’re better than they were. The Ridiculous Roses - navigating familial love like a drunk in a hedge maze. 

“So what’s this about?” he asks, shaking off the… feelings or whatever and tapping the sticker he cannot believe is still on his sweater. 

“What’s what about?” Patrick replies, gaze looking a little vacant probably from a combination of beer, exhaustion, and celebration. 

“Full Count.” His fingers trace the words on the pass. “What’s that about?” 

“David, are you asking me what the title of my album means?” 

“Well, the fan sites only tell me so much,” he admits before his brain can admonish his traitorous mouth. 

“Do they.” Patrick looks fucking thrilled. “Well, enlighten me, please. I’ve never been on them.” 

“And neither… have… I.” 

“Does this mean you don’t know what my first two album titles mean either?”

Yes. 

“No.”

Patrick chuckles tiredly. “Banjo Hitter,” he murmurs, raising one finger to indicate his debut album. “A hitter who notches a lot of bloop hits without hard contact.” 

David stares at him. “Was that a full sentence?”

Patrick laughs, beautiful and carefree. “A bloop is a weakly hit fly ball that drops in for a single between an infielder and an outfielder.” 

Still not a hundred percent understanding, but he powers on. “And you wanted to name your album that… why?” 

“Because the other terms for it are ‘dying quail’ and ‘duck snort.” 

“Oh my God. Absolutely not.” 

“That’s what my publicist said.” But then his expression sobers; turns serious. “There was just something self-effacing about naming it after a term that literally means ‘someone with little power.” He shrugs. “That’s kind of how I felt.” 

David gets that. Hell, he feels like a banjo hitter every damn day. 

“And Shoestring Catch?” he asks, as Patrick raises a second finger to join the first, creating a kind of peace sign for his sophomore album. 

“A running catch made near a fielder’s feet. A stroke of luck.” He shrugs. “Worked out well enough the first time around. Why jinx it?” 

Makes sense, even if the words sound absurd. “And Full Count?”

Patrick reaches forward, thumb brushing carefully across the sticker, boldly tracing the words on David’s chest. David doesn’t breathe. “Three balls and two strikes on the batter,” he whispers. “Could go either way.”

And David could make any number of jokes about the terminology but not when Patrick’s gaze is flitting over his face like that, like he’s trying to memorize it. Not when he’s close enough for David to spot the gold flecks in his brown eyes. Not when those eyes are glancing down to David’s lips like… 

Like he wants to do something with them. 

David doesn’t think he’s imagining it when Patrick tilts forward ever so slightly and David wants to meet him halfway, wants to take him all the way but -

“Hey, bud!” the tour manager - Ted - exclaims, stumbling in and ruining absolutely everything. “C’mon, they want to do a group photo.”

Patrick blinks, like he’s just waking up. He looks at Ted, then back at David, and then down to David’s lips. He sucks in a breath and drops his gaze to his lap, nodding his head and rubbing his palms on his thighs, and David knows that’s it. Whatever this ‘moment’ was is over.

It’s for the best. 

He knows it is. 

It is. 

“Go,” he whispers. 

Patrick looks like he wants to argue, but duty wins out. He closes his mouth and nods, clasping a firm hand on David’s shoulder as he stands and follows Ted towards the other end of the venue. 

David watches him go until he can’t anymore. And only when Patrick’s gone does the iron vise squeezing his lungs seem to ease. There are a multitude of scenarios he could have imagined for how this night might have ended, for how he might have wanted it to, but David doesn’t think his brain could have conjured this. Whatever it is that it was. 

Stevie appears out of nowhere and takes a seat next to him, calmly sipping her drink and decidedly not looking in his direction. It’s her most blatant tell. 

“I can’t believe you suggested that song,” he says, and if his voice sounds a little choked, he blames it on the hour. 

“Oh no,” she says with a firm shake of her head. “I gave him three options.” Then she takes another slow sip of her drink. “What does it say that he picked that one?” 

But he can’t go there. It’s a yellow brick road that ends in a poppy field - David high and alone with no Glinda the Good Witch to rouse him. “It says that he’s secure in his heterosexuality. It was a joke.”

She finally pins him with a look. “At whose expense?” He stares at her like the answer is obvious, but that’s not enough for her. “Because I think you and I both know Patrick Brewer would never do that to you.”

“Maybe.” But he thinks of the way Patrick leaned in and the way he looked at his lips. 

And he wonders. 

Across the room, a cheer goes up and a camera flashes. 

Whatever. It was probably all in his head anyway.