Chapter Text
The ride back to Schitt’s Creek, just like the ride to the hospital, was quiet. David had expected Patrick to be full of energy, talking about the backlog of ideas for projects he had come up with overnight. Instead, he was silent in the passenger seat, only occasionally sniffing and wiping away his tears. Every so often the bag containing his prescription for 5mg of olanzapine and 2mg of Ativan crinkled in his lap. David watched him from the back seat, exchanging glances with Clint to his right and with Marcy in the mirror.
Discharge had thankfully gone much more smoothly than admission. When the Brewers exited the consultation room, Patrick had had the decency to look ashamed about what he’d said. He apologized with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, but David did not quite feel up to forgiving him. Patrick had said it with the intention of hurting him, and being manic was no excuse for being cruel. After his apology, they all moved into the patient lounge, where they waited for Patrick’s prescription and for the discharge papers he needed to sign.
Once things had been squared away with the hospital, they were allowed to leave. Just like David had the night before, as soon as they stepped foot outside the psych ward, Patrick broke down sobbing. His parents moved toward him to comfort him, but David hung back, his heart still hurting over what Patrick said. Seeing his husband in pain was difficult, but David let Patrick’s parents take the reins on calming him down.
While the flood of emotions had calmed on the walk to the car, Patrick had been crying ever since.
“Sweetheart, why don’t you take an Ativan?” Marcy asked forty-five minutes into the drive. “It will help calm you down.”
“You promise it’s not poison?” Patrick asked tearfully.
“It’s not poison,” Clint said. “I’ve taken it many times. It really helps, I promise.”
Patrick reached into the bag, pulling out the bottle. He looked at it uncertainly, reading the label over and over. David could see his lip trembling.
“What is it, honey?” he asked, leaning over and putting a hand on his husband’s shoulder.
“I just…I feel like I failed?” He looked down at his lap. “I was doing so well and I didn’t think this—this disease would ever catch up with me. Like I was outrunning it but then tripped right at the finish line.”
“Does that mean you think I’m a failure, Patrick?” Clint asked quietly.
Patrick looked over his shoulder at his father. “No,” he said even more quietly, casting his eyes down in shame. “I didn’t mean that.”
“Neither of us has control over what his brain does. It is not an indication of failure, just because you can’t control it.”
“Would you call me a failure if it was me coming home from the hospital?” Clint asked.
“Of course not, but—”
“Then you shouldn’t call yourself a failure, either.”
“Why don’t you take a pill so you don’t have to worry about this anymore?” David said, reaching and taking the bottle out of Patrick’s grip. He opened it and shook out a pill, passing it forward, along with a bottle of water he pulled out of his bag.
Patrick accepted these items, staring at the pill mournfully. “Okay, David.” He swallowed the pill.
Hearing those two words come out of his husband’s mouth made David’s heart clench painfully. He hadn’t said it for nearly two weeks, and David didn’t realize he could miss his husband’s turn of phrase quite so acutely.
When they opened the front door to the cottage, Patrick moved, zombie-like, towards the stairs. David kissed him on the side of his head and murmured, “Sleep well,” thankful that the Ativan was knocking him out.
Patrick slept for the next twelve hours.
When David came downstairs the next morning, he found Patrick in the kitchen, following Marcy around as she made breakfast. He was animated, talking about his various plans for the day, none of which sounded easy to achieve.
“Hi, David,” he said, striding over to where he stood in the doorway.
“Good morning, honey,” David said. “Did you sleep well?”
Patrick scratched the back of his head. “Slept better than I have in days.”
“What have you been doing while we were all asleep?” He moved toward the coffee pot which was thankfully already full of coffee.
“I started deep cleaning the downstairs bathroom, but then I realized we were out of toilet cleaner so I began looking up how to make our own, but then I checked my email and decided to sort all of the emails I’ve gotten…” Patrick continued on in that vein for another minute, giving a play-by-play of what he did in the middle of the night. Finally, he fell silent, looking down at the floor. “But I also spent a lot of time thinking. About my diagnosis and how hard the past couple of weeks must have been for you, David.” He looked up, eyes bright. “Thank you for taking care of me. It couldn’t’ve been easy.”
David twisted his mouth to the side, looking at his husband sadly. “Of course, I took care of you. You mean the world to me. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
“Come here, sweetheart,” David said, holding open his arms. Patrick stepped into his embrace, winding his arms around David’s waist and burying his head in his shoulder. David flicked his eyes above Patrick’s head and saw Marcy looking on fondly. When she saw him looking, she quickly busied herself with making bacon. They stayed there for a long time, long enough that Marcy was able to announce that breakfast was ready.
The three of them helped bring plates into the dining room, where Clint was sitting and reading the newspaper. They helped themselves to breakfast, which was delicious, as Marcy’s cooking always was.
Midway through the meal, David got a text from Jocelyn saying that today was the last day of winter break, would he still need someone to look after the store? He shot back a quick no , thanking her for taking care of it while Patrick was sick.
“Who was that, David?” Patrick asked around a mouthful of toast.
“Just Jocelyn, saying that winter break is over.” He looked at Clint and Marcy. “Which means I’ll have to go to the store tomorrow if that’s alright with you.”
“Why can’t I go to the store?” Patrick said petulantly. “Oh! I bet I could rearrange the whole thing and make it flow really well.”
David was shaking his head before Patrick finished speaking. “We agreed when we first started the store that I would be making all of the creative decisions and you handle the business stuff. Plus, your parents are here, and, well, should you really be out in your condition?”
Patrick’s face turned stony. “So my condition is something to be ashamed of, is it?” he demanded.
“That is not what I said.”
“I think,” Clint said, interrupting, “what David is trying to say is that, if you want to, you should be able to tell everyone about your diagnosis when you’re ready. You don’t want people making assumptions. So until you start feeling more like yourself, you should stay here, with one of us.”
Patrick stared hard at Clint for a second before his face crumpled. “I’m sorry,” he said, burying his head in his hands. “I don’t know why my first instinct is to be argumentative and defensive. You guys are just trying to help.”
“I understand,” Clint said softly. “It’s easy to think that everyone is against you and that all we’re trying to do is hold you back. But I promise that we’re not.”
“Yea. It does feel that way.”
They all fell silent, the only noises the scraping of forks against plates. When they finished, David asked, “Have you taken your pill yet today, honey?”
Patrick shook his head. “My dad said that taking it could make me nauseous, so I should wait until I’ve eaten. So I suppose I should go take it, right?” He looked nervously at his father.
“It’ll be okay, Patrick. They’ll help you feel better,” Clint said. “How about we go take our pills together?”
“I’d like that.”
Over the next couple of weeks, Patrick slowly returned to normal.
Four days after coming home from the hospital, he went to bed and woke up at a reasonable time without taking an Ativan. Six days after the hospital, he started speaking at a speed that was close to his normal cadence. Ten days after, he returned to work with David, though he was able to admit that he probably shouldn’t run the store on his own for at least a couple of weeks.
Twelve days after they arrived in Schitt’s Creek, Clint and Marcy prepared to go back home.
“Please call us if things start getting bad again,” Marcy said tearfully, hugging David.
“I promise,” David said. “I’m so glad you were able to come and help.”
“We wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
“Remember that bipolar has two sides,” Clint said as he hugged Patrick. “Depressive episodes can be just as bad, if not worse than manic ones. So if you feel yourself starting to lose hope, reach out.”
“I know, Dad,” Patrick said. “I will.”
“You’re going to be okay, Patrick,” he said. “You’ve seen me at my worst, but I’m still here.”
Patrick nodded, an upside-down smile on his face. David hugged Clint while Patrick hugged Marcy, then they watched, arms around each other as they got in their car and drove off.
“Do you really think I’ll be okay, David?” Patrick asked.
David turned to his husband. “I know you’ll be okay. And even if you’re not, I’ll be here, and we’ll get through it together.” And because David couldn’t stand not to for a single moment longer, he leaned down, kissed his husband, and pulled him through the front door, locking it behind them.