Chapter Text
David sticks around at Raine & Light just long enough for his advance final copy of Vanity Fair’s May issue to arrive on his desk. The spread is beautiful, although this is not exactly news. After the shoot wrapped, he spent ten painstaking days going through hundreds of frames of Patrick, enhancing, adjusting, correcting, cropping, sharpening, softening and tweaking until each shot looked exactly as he wanted it to.
Frame after frame after frame of Patrick. He thinks his own meticulousness saved him a little—without it, he’s not sure he’d have gotten through it. He is sure the time spent just staring at his computer screen and sighing would have been drastically longer.
Having received the enthusiastic praise of the client’s editorial team (and his percentage of the commission), and the much more begrudging praise from Sebastien himself, he declares his intention to take all of his banked leave as an immediate precursor to resignation. Via email, of course. He never sees Sebastien’s reaction, but from all the responses he later finds in his inbox, he is satisfied that it caused the egomaniacal asshat no end of outrage and inconvenience. He retreats to his apartment, and a long-awaited break.
A week later he emerges, rested and butterfly-like, from his overdue-for-a-clean apartment. Stevie is one of the main reasons he keeps this deadline; he could definitely wallow a little longer, and there’s a lot about the real world that he’d love to avoid, but she’s a tenacious little gremlin when she wants to be, and impossible to ignore.
She does have some decent intel, at least. It seems word has gotten out in photography circles—he’s surprised and flattered to find himself being talked about at all—and among the missives from Sebastien (ignored and immediately filed in his “blocked” folder) are a handful of offers to employ him in other studios. He is very tempted to take them up, even as a short-term thing, but he’s a little afraid he’ll never get the courage to break away again, and he might as well take advantage of whatever momentum and goodwill is out there to do what he actually wants.
It's hard. He forces himself to initiate a couple of lunches with one or two recently retired independent photographers whose work he admires—he’s not close with any currently in the business, and is worried that they’ll see him as competition (that general distrust of people still present and accounted for). And while it’s all very anxiety-inducing, the food helps, and after picking their brains he begins to sketch out an idea of what kind of photographer he wants to be.
There are many, many instances where he regrets everything, but whether he’s more determined than he thought or he’s as stubborn as everyone says he is, he keeps going.
He does not call Patrick.
The piece of paper with his number on it is still in his apartment, in a pocket of a camera case. He pretends he doesn’t remember which one.
📸
Late in the month, he meets Stevie for drinks and, inhibitions lowered, gives in and tells her everything.
“You SLEPT WITH HIM?”
She seems only partly humbled by his violent shushing, and demands to know the where, the when, and the how good of it all.
“In the loft, the night the lights blew out, and none of your business.”
“Wait a minute.” She narrows her eyes. “You two had sex and then worked together like normal the next day?”
Well that’s insulting. “Yes,” he huffs. “I am, in fact, quite capable of—”
“No, you’re not. You get all weird and jittery.”
“Look, can we appreciate the fact that I’m growing as a person?”
“Oh, so you’ve called him, then.”
“… No.”
Her expression ricochets between utter exasperation, derision, and something that suggests she’s calling on a higher power to give her strength.
“David.”
“Stevie.”
“This is a guy who is smart, funny, talented, he’s got no problem teasing you—which, honestly is exactly what you need—he’s unfairly cute, and he likes you. What are you waiting for?”
Defensively, he snits: “Well, for starters, he’s not out, so. There’s that.” He lays this information out with a flourish, a fatal blow.
Stevie is unmoved. “And did he tell you he’s not ready for a relationship with a guy?”
David doesn’t want to answer that, so he busies his mouth with the straw of his Bloody Mary. Which, obviously, tells her everything.
“I swear to god, if you don’t call that boy up and beg him to—”
“I don’t even know him! Maybe he’s just really good at faking sincerity!”
“Jesus, David, did you even read that article you did the shoot for, or did you just look at the pictures?”
Did he read it? What does she think he did for the first three days of his week at home, if not scan that interview back and forth, over and over, half-hating every part of it that reminded him of exactly the kind of person Patrick is?
And yes, he looked at the pictures. And yes, there were some other, more shameful things that she may or may not be insinuating and that he doesn’t want to answer to. He had a memory bank full of sensations and he’s not even close to being a saint.
“Of course I read it.”
“Then you know he’s not like that. Why are you being so—”
“I am not being so!” he snaps, anxious and afraid and lashing out. “I am protecting myself. Okay, I don’t have a lot of experience with nice people, but I have plenty of experience with what typically turns out to be the human version of raw milk. So you can sit there and smirk about how you’re smarter than me and how I’m being an idiot, but in the end, I’m the one who has to live through the nausea, severe dehydration and explosive diarrhea!” He can’t help but feel that would have sounded more devastating without the visual. “Maybe I am an idiot, but it doesn’t cost you anything if it all falls apart. It costs me everything!”
It’s a marginally better finish, but he can’t look at her. He just downs his drink and leaves, half humiliated, half ashamed of himself.
📸
As soon as he gets home, he texts:
She calls him back immediately.
“You’re forgiven. I mean, god knows I shouldn’t be giving anyone romantic advice.”
“No,” he says, protectively, “It wasn’t really you. You—” he sighs, “—you were probably right. I’m an idiot.”
“Only some of the time.”
“Same to you.”
“Can I say one more thing?”
“I don’t see how I can stop you.”
“You’re not perfect.”
“Thanks.”
“Neither is Patrick. But you like him. Which is scary, I know. But do you know why I didn’t realise you’d slept together?”
“Because I’m very discreet?”
“Because the next day you were just as happy to be around him as you were the day before.”
Shit, she’s right. He can’t actually recall the last time he didn’t want to employ at least a week’s embargo before ever running into a hookup again.
“Mm,” he grunts, noncommittal.
“He was happy too.”
He doesn’t know what to do with that, so with a strangled whimper, he hangs up, hoping she won’t take it personally. It doesn’t seem like she does, because a few minutes later, his phone pings.
It’s a link to an article about Patrick, based on an interview completed a couple of weeks ago. He can imagine there have been a lot of interviews just like it after the Vanity Fair piece. It’s the kind of article where the journalist wants to paint you a picture of two best buddies sitting down for a cosy chat over High Tea at the W. His own personal nightmare, but Patrick’s answers are typically charming and engaging. It’s not too bad a read, and the part where the edible “lipsticks” offered at brunch prove too much for Patrick’s poker face is very amusing, but about halfway down it becomes unputdownable.
Patrick Brewer: the heart-throb next door
… … …
… … …
So what kind of time does this busy schedule leave for relationships?
Patrick laughs, as though he isn’t aware of how hot a commodity he is in the “I wish he were my boyfriend” market. “Well, people seem to manage it, I guess,” he offers cryptically. “I figure you make time for what’s important.”
But is he in a relationship right now?
His answer is brief. “No.” Something tells me there’s a story here. I point out that he has no shortage of female admirers, especially after his drool-worthy photoshoot in Vanity Fair’s May issue (reactions from social media have propelled him to status as a bona fide heart-throb). “I’m still working out who I am and what I want, but I’ve never been someone who does hookups.” Laughing, he adds, “I’m not cool enough, for one thing.” I hasten to disagree. “Nah, it’s just not for me. I think I’m not really a person who can feel things … casually.”
This, too, is a bit cryptic. No doubt he’s referring to his longtime relationship with Rachel Westerdahl, his high school sweetheart with whom he reportedly parted ways last year. Has there been anyone since then who has measured up?
Patrick appears to consider this carefully. “I’ve definitely had my heart broken,” he says eventually. He won’t elaborate on this, other than that he thinks the other party “just didn’t feel the same”. I apologise for hitting a sore spot but, ever the Canadian boy next door, he assures me it’s not something he regrets, and we move on.
… … …
David has to lie on his bed and think for a while after that.
📸
They’re late. David blames Stevie. Stevie blames the fact that it took David 20 minutes to leave the apartment.
“Excuse me for caring what I look like,” he says, with a fraction of his usual snark. He’s still not sure he’s happy with it, but in the end decided that the armour of his Acne leather jacket gave him the most confidence.
He’s still shaking.
They slip in through the art-deco lobby of the Dundas Music Hall and pay the doorman the bribe previously agreed upon between him and Stevie. The doorman opens the door with a muttered instruction, “Standing room only,” but David has faith in his ability to find a bar and in Stevie’s ability to throw an elbow.
As promised, the hall is packed. The vaulted ceiling of the interior is bordered by sweeping art-deco lines, a gold trim reflecting the venue’s lighting back on itself and making the whole place glimmer. A bar lines one wall, and dozens of small tables fill the space between. Somewhere above them is a balcony.
David’s eye fixes on the stage, where someone he doesn’t recognise, a full-figured Native American girl with a smoky voice, sings into the mic. For half a second he panics that they’ve come to the wrong venue, but when he looks for Stevie, she’s already at the bar. He gently shoves his way through the crowd and joins her there.
“He’s not here,” he hisses at her, while she catches the attention of the bartender.
“David, it’s his show. Relax.” To the bartender, she says, “Could we get a Long Island Iced Tea and—”
“A cosmopolitan,” David interjects before Stevie can order for him. “Also, who the hell is that?” he adds, gesturing at the stage.
“What my friend is wondering, in a calm, rational manner, is how long this lovely support act has been on stage?”
The bartender chooses to answer Stevie. “It’s just a short one. He likes to have a break before the last set.”
This settles his anxiety, but only a little. Stevie and the cosmopolitan do such a good job of distracting him, though, that when the crowd bursts into a raucous cheer David whips round and almost chokes on his drink to see Patrick back at the mic and joining in with the support act, while three or four bandmembers take up their instruments.
“He looks good!” Stevie shouts into his ear.
She’s not wrong. While there is, mercifully, no sign of the toque he had on the first time they met, Patrick’s jeans are noticeably more fitted and he’s wearing a dark navy button-up with—it’s nice to see some things don’t change—his sleeves rolled up. His hair looks much the same, which is to say that David still wants to bury his fingers in it.
After he calls for a round of applause for the support act, Patrick and the band launch into some of his own songs, one or two of which David hasn’t heard before. Remembering their conversation back on the last day of shooting, he can’t help agreeing that live music suits Patrick. His voice curls effortlessly and organically around the notes, at turns rasping and deep, soft and soothing, with a clear belt that rings out and fills the space. Most of all, he seems to love it, his joy radiating out from the stage like a golden beam of light.
All too soon, the final song comes to a close and Patrick bids the crowd farewell. He still hasn’t really looked their way, though, and David isn’t sure how to go about catching his attention.
“I hear he always does stage-door,” says Stevie, and David groans. He’s still not certain of the reception he’s going to get, and he’d rather not find out in front of a gaggle of fans. But before he can admit that he doesn’t have any better ideas, aside from bribing yet more of the venue’s staff, Patrick jogs back out on stage again. The adoring crowd responds with great enthusiasm, and David can’t help echoing Patrick’s laughing grin.
Settling at the piano, Patrick runs a hand through his hair and turns to face the room. “How would you feel about a cover?”
The audience would like that very much. Someone at the bar gives a whoop and upsets a glass, turning heads and sending glances their way.
And then Patrick spots him. David wishes he could say the other man looks happy to see him, but Patrick just freezes mid-grin. There’s a moment of indecision before he appears to remember the rest of the room, and his gaze drops back to the piano.
“Uh. So.” He plays a few quick melodies. “A cover.”
“Good to know he also turns into an idiot in your presence,” Stevie mutters.
David swats her away. “Shh.”
On stage, Patrick wipes his hands on his jeans and laughs to himself. “You know, I had a bunch of songs in mind for the encore, but, uh … for some reason I can’t remember any.” Titters from the audience. “There’s actually only one I can think of right now, so … I guess that’s what I’m playing.” The crowd laughs along, but David thinks the back of his neck looks a little flushed. Even from where he sits, he can see Patrick take a deep breath. “Here we go.”
The melody starts slow, and vaguely familiar, but it takes until Patrick is part way through the first verse for it to register.
Here you come again
Just when I've begun to get myself together
You waltz right through the door
Just like you've done before
And wrap my heart around your little finger
Oh god. David loves this song. Loves this song. It’s so different, though. It’s sweet and it’s sad and it’s full of insightful little changes to the melody that make David feel like he’s never really heard it before.
And Patrick is singing it for him. To him. Because of him. Right?
No one has ever sung a song for him before.
Stevie’s nails are digging into David’s arm, but he’s having a little trouble breathing just this minute.
Here you come again
Looking better than a body has a right to
And shaking me up so
That all I really know
Is here you come again
And here I go
The final notes ring out, and there’s a lingering moment of stillness, and then the crowd explodes and David is jolted back into the reality of a roomful of other people. With it comes doubt, an itching reminder that there has to be a catch. It can’t be a good thing. He has to be misreading it.
"I have to go.”
“Why?”
“He doesn’t want me here.”
“What are you talking about? He just sang a song about you!”
David shakes his head. “He sang a song about how I’m messing with him. I—” He almost falls off the barstool as he rushes to get up, but there’s a woman with dark skin and an over-it expression blocking his way. “Is one of you David Rose?”
David and Stevie look at each other. Then back at her. Finally, David says, “I am.”
“Right. Mr Brewer said he’ll be a few minutes, but have a drink on him.” Message delivered (with absolutely no enthusiasm), she goes to leave.
“Wait—” David stops himself just short of grabbing her arm, but she raises an eyebrow like he did anyway. “Uh, what would you say his vibe is?”
The eyebrow arches still more, cementing her unspoken disdain for this line of questioning. “Listen, I’m not your mailman—or your vibe-checker. He’ll be out here when he’s out here. Sit.” David obeys, and the woman leaves, muttering to herself about not being paid enough for this, or any other shit.
“Relax,” Stevie says, and orders another Long Island Iced Tea. “You got what you wanted, right? He wants to see you. And we don’t even have to stalk him at the stage door.”
David isn’t feeling great about the emissary Patrick sent, though. “Maybe we should organise another meeting. Maybe brunch?”
“There he is.”
“Oh god. Where?”
“Walking this way.” She sends him a steadying look. “You’ve got this. Just be yourself.”
“Fuck off, please. And thank you.”
“Warmest regards.” She takes her drink and vanishes. David says a quick, generalised prayer and turns around.
He has to catch his breath again. One thing to be looking at Patrick’s photographs all month; quite another to see him alive and real and vital and walking towards him. David watches, transfixed, cataloguing all the little differences: he’s changed into a dark Henley, his hair is a little shorter, and he’s grown in some scruff since they last saw each other. David is the furthest thing from mad about it.
He’s not smiling, though. Not really. Just a little. He looks nervous.
“Hi.”
“Hi.”
David is staring, he knows it.
“Where’s Stevie?”
“Oh, she, uh, had to go.” Patrick nods, but he’s not telegraphing much. David barrels forward. “Uh. Drink?”
A slight hesitation. “Sure.” Patrick slides onto the barstool next to him, and David can’t stop staring as he orders, joking with the bartender in that effortless way he has. But he keeps his attention on the bar. There’s a pause. “Didn’t know you were coming.”
“Oh, um. It was a last-minute thing.” Ugh, that came out wrong, and Patrick nods like he got the message, which means it’s definitely the wrong message, and maybe he was too quick in sending Stevie away … “So Dolly Parton, huh?”
It gets a laugh out of Patrick, and even though it’s a little strangled, David feels his heart lift, just a little. “Ah. Well, can’t help it if I have good taste, right?”
Warmth blooms in the centre of David’s chest at this remembrance. “I believe it was your mom who was the fan, wasn’t it?”
“Hey, I’m a fan. I may not be a throw-up-in-the-bagpipes kind of fan, but …”
David laughs in surprise, and some of the tension slips away from his shoulders. He still isn’t sure the song was meant for him, exactly, or whether the sentiment is welcoming or damning, but, well, here they are, so he’s going to try being optimistic for a change. “It was lovely. You—you sounded … really lovely.”
Maybe Patrick is relaxing a little, too: he finally looks at him. And smiles. “Thanks.”
David smiles back, a candle of hope flickering into life. But then Patrick’s drink arrives and there’s another pause while he takes a sip. David is gathering courage, but it’s Patrick who speaks first.
“I saw the magazine piece,” he says quietly. “The photos were—” he catches himself with a laugh, but next minute he’s looking at David again. “They were amazing. Thank you.” He winces. “I mean, I know it was your job. I don’t mean—”
“It’s okay,” David assures him as warmly as he can. “I’m glad you liked them.”
But Patrick’s smile drifts into confusion before he turns once more back to the bar. David has a beat to worry what he’s done wrong before Patrick says, in a low voice, “You didn’t call.”
Oh. Right. David is an ass.
“I—”
“Which is fine—I’m not—obviously, it’s fine. I just …” Patrick stops himself to let out a heavy sigh. “I get it.”
“No, I—”
“I guess I thought maybe you were—” he breaks off again, frustrated, and scrubs at his hair, “—I dunno. Interested.”
“I was.” Patrick blinks, and it’s not right that he’s so surprised, so David says it again. “I am.”
Now Patrick’s surprise is replaced by confusion. Which is fair.
“Patrick—”
“Brewer!” The lady from before is back. “Are we doing this or not?”
“Ronnie, yeah, I—” It takes Patrick a second to tear his eyes away from David. “I am. I’ll just—” His consternation switches back and forth between them. To David, he says, “It’s this stage door thing. It takes a little while but do you think—would you—would you wait?”
Would he wait?
“I—yes. Yes.”
📸
The stage-door thing takes more than a little while, or maybe it just feels like it. If it were anyone other than Patrick, David might think he’s been ditched. He might deserve it.
He picks at the bowl of pretzels the bartender took pity on him with and regrets sending Stevie away so quickly. He itches to text her, but he’d like to pretend this stupid plan of their’s might work for a little longer. He tries to rehearse a kind of explanation for when Patrick comes back, but can’t bring himself to imagine a best case scenario, so he keeps to the bullet points of things he just wants Patrick to know. Mostly he tries to think of another way of confessing that he’s an idiot.
He is really bored, though. Anxiety about whether the guy you actually really like still likes you isn’t the antidote to mundanity that one might think it is.
“Rose.”
Ronnie is back. “Mr Brewer is ready for you.”
“Oh. Um. Is he—”
She stops him with a raised hand. “If you ask me about his vibe, I will walk away right now. Follow me.”
“Sorry, sorry.” He stands up and trots after her across the now-empty floor, through a door near the stage. Inside is a maze of narrow corridors. He sticks close. “Sorry, are you his agent or something?”
“Or something,” she mutters, turning up a flight of stairs.
Okay, not a chatter. He can relate. He does need to know how much climbing he’s going to be expected to do, though. “Are we going very far? Only I’m not what you’d call a natural athlete, and I’m definitely not wearing the right kind of jacket for stairs.”
“You and me both,” she says, and it’s the friendliest she’s sounded since he met her. “Mr Brewer is on the roof.” David stumbles to a halt, mid-stair. Ronnie notices, and turns to look down at him. “Something wrong?”
He doesn’t get the sense that she’d be that sympathetic to a fear of heights, though, so he shakes his head. “No, nothing.”
Ronnie looks doubtful, but resumes the climb, and, gripping the handrail rather tighter, so does David.
📸
It’s not that far, really, and when they step onto the roof it passes David’s initial checks for rotten surfaces and steep inclines. It’s quite a wide surface, really.
Patrick is standing with his back to them, hands in pockets, looking out over the rest of the neighbourhood. He’s closer to the edge than David would like.
“Brewer!” Patrick spins around at Ronnie’s voice. “Consider Mr Rose delivered. Is it all right with you if I go home now?”
“Yeah, of course, Ronnie. Thanks for everything.” To David’s fascination, this warm comment is met with the same stony expression from Ronnie.
Once the door is closed behind her, David says, “So she’s a fan.”
Patrick laughs a little, and that candle of hope stays lit. “My booking agent. She’s warming up to me.”
The sun has long dipped below the horizon, but it’s not completely dark yet: the eastern sky still has a yellow-pink glow. This is the backdrop Patrick stands against, and this is why David’s hands are clammy. He takes a tentative step forward.
“I don’t bite, David.” Patrick looks amused, but David only just stops himself from citing previous, damning experience. “You can—oh god, the roof!”
“No, it’s fine!”
Patrick hurries back from the edge to meet David in the middle. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think! I’ve been coming up here to get some quiet after the shows, and I didn’t—” He swallows the rest of his apology when he realises he’s reached out for David’s arm. David feels a sting of disappointment as he pulls back without making contact.
“It’s really okay,” he says. It kind of is. What’s one more fear faced when you’re already so far out of your comfort zone you can’t even see it anymore? “Just don’t ask me to look down.”
“Yeah?” Patrick is assessing him, and David can’t help melting a bit.
“Yeah.”
The eye contact holds until Patrick breaks it and clears his throat. “Hey, how’s life as an independent photographer?”
“Oh. I’m still in the planning stages, but I’ve been talking to some people in the industry and … I think I’m going to start my own company. Keep a team on retainer, or something, maybe I can get enough work to employ people full-time. That’s what I’d like, anyway.”
One of the foundation stones that David has laid in the past few weeks of focused thinking is the certainty that he wants to choose the people he works with. Tentatively, he’s begun to think that it’s not that he doesn’t like people; he’s just not well practised in trusting them. And no wonder. He hasn’t spelled it out to anyone in so many words before, though.
“That’s amazing,” says Patrick, soft and encouraging, and David knows he means it. Patrick drops his gaze again and shoves his hands in his pockets. “I take it that’s why you came tonight?”
“No, I—what’s why?”
“To talk about your business, right? I’d like to help, if I can.”
David is nonplussed. “You’d … still help me?”
A familiar, amused curl of the lips. “Said I would.” David is so confused; maybe it’s the altitude? Patrick sighs and shakes his head. “Listen, I should apologise.”
David blinks. Huh? “Apologise,” he repeats, because he has absolutely no idea what else to say.
“Downstairs, I shouldn’t have blamed you for not calling.”
“But … I came here to apologise to you!” He feels a little miffed, actually. It’s not like he had a complete script coming up here, but he’s pretty damn sure Patrick is stealing his lines.
The thief shakes his head. “David, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
“No, but I—”
“You told me from the get that it was a one-time thing. I knew what I was—” He cuts himself off and bites his lips together, like he’s regrouping. “I’m a big boy, David. I can handle being ghosted.”
“I wasn’t—okay, technically I was ghosting you, but not because I didn’t want to call you,” David says, trying desperately to get this conversation back to where he wants it. “I wanted to call you.”
Patrick frowns. “You wanted … why didn’t you?”
Oh god, where to start. Frankly, David has had more than enough time to come up with a coherent explanation here, and the fact that he hasn’t yet is irritating, even if it’s his own fault.
“I told you why I don’t date.”
Patrick nods. “You said you’d had a lot of bad experiences. And it didn’t fit in with your schedule.”
Jesus, he really was listening. David swallows. “Right. Well, that last bit was kind of a cop out.” Patrick rasises an eyebrow, as if this is not news to him. “But the first bit’s true.”
“You don’t want to get hurt again?” Patrick ventures, and David nods. “Are you worried I’ll hurt you?” And no, he really isn’t. Handling rejection is one thing; how were you supposed to handle the possibility of something working out? He shakes his head, and Patrick’s brow furrows. “Then I’m missing something here.”
“I’m not … I’m not used to people like you.”
“Like me,” Patrick echoes, because it seems he’s the one who’s lost now.
David fumbles for the right words. “You’re … good. Actually good. And I’m—well. Different.”
“I like that you’re different,” Patrick says, earnestly, taking a step forward. “And I wasn’t trying to crowd you. I could have just been your friend. I would have been your friend, if that was what you wanted. I know I’m … I might not be in your league, I mean—” he forces a laugh. “I’m not even really out yet, and … I don’t want to hide that part of me, but it’s going to be a thing—a thing I have to process—”
“No, Patrick.” David is already shaking his head, already taking his own step closer. “That’s not true. I mean, yes, obviously, you can process whatever you need to, and you never need to feel obligated to anyone to come out before you’re ready, least of all me. That was never a problem. You were never the problem.” He takes a deep breath, because this might be more vulnerable than he’s ever made himself, at least deliberately. “I was the problem,” he finishes quietly.
There’s something almost fierce in Patrick’s expression now, but not angry; he shakes his head. “No, David.”
God damn it, he’s charming. “You’ve got to stop doing that,” he chides, looking away to hide a smile.
The corners of Patrick’s mouth tick down. “Doing what?”
Making me like you. David just shakes his head and bites his lips together.
“Why did you come here tonight?” Patrick asks softly.
Okay David, you can do this. You can. “I read the interview you did with Hello.”
“Uh. Which one was that?”
“The one with the edible makeup.”
“Oh. The scones were really good.”
“You said you don’t do hookups.”
He can see the moment Patrick remembers. “I did say that.”
“But you did with me.”
Patrick sighs. “I … yeah.”
“Why?”
He tilts his head, looking at David as though he can’t figure out why he’s asking this. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Wide-eyed, David shakes his head, and Patrick lifts his hands and drops them in consternation. “I’ve never met anyone like you. David, you’re … you’re technicolour. You’re brilliant and you’re funny, and you’re so …” He bows his head and sighs. “Five minutes talking to you and my heart was beating in an entirely different rhythm. I liked you. I wanted to know you. And I felt all that before you even touched me. I’d never felt like that about anyone before.”
Speaking of hearts, David’s is trying to climb out his throat. Unable to speak, he wills Patrick to keep going, desperate to believe him, desperate for more.
Patrick flashes him a rueful smile. “And yeah, when you said it could only be a one-time thing, I was pretty sure I was going to end up wanting more—I knew I would—but … I don't know. I couldn’t walk away. Didn’t want to. I told myself … if one night was what you were offering, I’d take that chance.”
“… And? You don’t regret it?”
Patrick actually laughs. “Jesus, David,” he says, but so warmly that David doesn’t care that he’s also clearly exasperated. “I know what I sound like, okay? And I may not have a whole lot to compare it to, but that night … it’s never been like that for me. With anyone. So, no. I don’t regret it. Not for a second.”
David feels strange. All giddy and warm and … grateful? He’s felt it before, he realises, when Patrick was last holding him. And it strikes him that this was a long time ago, and that seems vitally, foundationally wrong.
“I like you.”
Uh oh. He’s done it. It’s out there. Only the fear isn’t melting away like he’d hoped it would, and Patrick is staring, and the only thing he can think to do is to fill the silence with something.
“I’m an idiot. That’s an overstatement. I just wasn’t expecting … you. You’re not like anyone I’ve ever been involved with. But if you think that means I’m not interested … fuck, I am. I haven’t stopped thinking about you since that fucking shoot. And not just the sex, although you should know that I haven’t stopped thinking about that, either—” (the corners of Patrick’s mouth tick down, a flash of mirth amid the astonishment) “—but it’s also just … you. You make all the noise just … stop. Does that make sense?” He can’t stop for an answer; he’s getting this out if it kills him. “That’s why I have all these rules. They help with the noise, and they make me feel like I’m not constantly careening towards disaster. When I’m with you, I don’t feel like that. I still feel like me, but I don’t feel like that. And god knows why, because you never stop teasing me, you’re a complete smartass, and I honestly cannot fathom how someone can look as good as you do in such a mediocre wardrobe, but—” running out of steam, he shrugs helplessly. “I like you. I don’t want to just be friends. I just don’t know how to … do that.”
Oh god, he’s said it. Twice. Also he might have insulted him. What do normal people do after they’ve done this? Leave? Hand over a feedback form? He searches Patrick’s face for a clue, and Patrick …
Patrick is looking at him like he finally understands, like he’s figured out the snarled mess of hieroglyphs that make up David’s personality. It sends a zip of fear through him, but he doesn’t run.
“I told my parents. About me.”
David is so thrown by what feels like a full-on subject change that for a second he wonders if he just imagined making that whole speech. “Oh?” Then, realising belatedly what Patrick is saying, “Oh. Um. How—how did it go? Are you okay?”
Something about this makes Patrick smile, and for a flash he looks almost … fond. “I’m okay,” he says. “They were really—really great. Not that I … I guess you never know, do you, until you open that door? If you’re going to disappoint someone. Or be disappointed.”
Now David is the one feeling fond, because, fuck, how could he not? “I don’t see how any parent could ever be disappointed in you,” he says shyly, to his sneakers, before lifting his head and clearing his throat. “So, what, did you just bring home a bunch of steelworkers and have them form a chorus line in your living room?”
Patrick laughs, loud and bright, and David’s grin could split his face in two.
“I mean, I thought of that, obviously, but in the end I opted for sitting them down at the kitchen table.”
David nods. “Simple, minimalist, I get it.”
“And, uh …” Patrick bites his lip. “I also told them about you.”
Inelegantly, David’s mouth drops open. “Um. What?” His nascent panic is mollified slightly by the pinkening tips of Patrick’s ears.
“Not everything. But I did tell them there was someone I was, uh … interested in.”
Oh.
“You told your parents? About me?” he squeaks.
“David,” Patrick sighs, and oh, there’s that, the way Patrick says his name: warm and gentle and fond, and David aches to lean into it, like he’s some kind of cat being stroked. “How can I convince you that I am completely—” (he takes a step forward, and David inhales sharply) “—helplessly—” (another step) “—maddeningly—” (David could count his eyelashes, he’s so close) “—captivated by you?”
David’s breath hitches, a small, hopeful gasp. “Yeah?”
Patrick’s eyes glow warmly, like whiskey, like deep water, and they crinkle at the corners. “Yeah,” he murmurs, softly, steadily. “I know it’s inconvenient, what with all the rules, and you probably—”
But David is done with the rules, with any and all second-guessing, any and all notions that Patrick might not be in his league, and so he does the only logical thing, and kisses him.
There. This.
It’s a ridiculous thought, but he has missed this. He’s missed the way Patrick leans into him, the way he kisses—no hiding, no confusion, just open and unwavering, leaving no room for doubt. He curls a hand around Patrick’s neck to dissuade any notions of drawing back, and when he cards eager fingertips into the short hairs at the back of his neck, Patrick makes a little sound that maybe he didn’t mean to make, and David likes that he can do that, so he reaches out with his other hand—
Patrick is leaning back. A knot twists in David’s gut. He tries to back up, but a fist tightens in his sweater.
“Are you sure?” Patrick asks, and oh.
He’s rarely 100 per cent sure about anything. But he thinks he could be sure about Patrick. Because Patrick offered to help with David’s business just so he could be around him again. Patrick has told his parents about him, and no one has ever done that. And he thinks he might like to meet them one day. Oh god, which means he’ll have to introduce Patrick to his own parents, an idea which should scare him a lot more than it does—although he suspects that if anyone could handle Johnny and Moira Rose, it’d be Patrick, with his kind nature and his quick mind and the way he doesn’t seem to judge anyone, and—is he seriously contemplating taking Patrick home to meet his parents?
Jesus Christ, who even is he anymore?
Baby steps.
“I’m sure.”
And Patrick has never looked more beautiful than right now, trying to swallow a deep breath and a smile and failing utterly, because his whole face is glowing with it, and David is smitten. There’s a lot to be said for someone who feels openly, he thinks. He certainly isn’t brave enough, but Patrick is. Patrick likes him.
Patrick is looking at David’s mouth.
“Well, then,” he says softly, and the last of the doubts in David’s stomach start to unwind as Patrick leans back in, unhurried and undeterred, and brushes his lips against David’s—once, twice, three times—before capturing his mouth properly, and David is allowed to sink into him. This kiss is somehow even better than the first, even warmer, because David is so sure. And when Patrick tilts his head up to lick at David’s lips, begging entry, it’s David making the sounds.
It's a while before they come up for air; every time one of them goes to stop, the other puts up a counter-argument that’s accepted without contest, and the addictive cycle starts again. When they do part, it’s only insofar as Patrick can rest his forehead against David’s. David closes his eyes and lets the moment sit, lets them stay like that, lets Patrick sway them slightly, like he’s dancing them to a melody he hears in the rhythm of the city below.
“You know,” David ventures at length. “There’s a pretty good pizza place around the corner from here.”
His eye are still shut, but he knows Patrick is smiling that downturned smile of his.
“I don’t know, David. Sounds very second-date to me.”
David leans back and boldly drops a playful kiss on Patrick’s upturned mouth. “Is it? Been a while since I’ve been on one.”
“Don’t worry,” Patrick leans back in to return the kiss, just a brief thing, but sweet. “I’ll walk you through it.” As he steps back, he reaches for David’s hand and entwines their fingers. David feels all sorts of ways about it. He thinks he’s blushing. “C’mon.”
Patrick tugs him towards the door, and David follows, readily. They only get partway down the stairs before he wants to kiss Patrick again, and since he can now—he can, right?—he does, pulling on their joined hands until Patrick is in his arms once more.
“Mm,” he hums, and it’s only the draw of pizza that keeps him from suggesting they stay here instead. “What else do people do on second dates?”
“Well,” Patrick says, between kisses. “Sometimes—” kiss “—they might order—” kiss “—dessert.”
David chuckles against Patrick’s lips. “Ooh,” he says, because, actually, he would like dessert. “And then?”
Patrick snorts, but he lets David keep kissing him for a moment. “Then, as a gentleman, I’ll make sure you get home safely, and bid you goodnight.”
Hm. David leans back, but not out of the circle of Patrick’s arms, and narrows his eyes. “That’s what happens, huh?”
“Mhm.” Patrick’s face is deadpan, but his eyes are laughing. “Classic second-date stuff.”
“You know, technically, we went out for lunch at the café the day after … after the night before. So, technically, this would really be more of a … third date. Thing.”
Patrick, all innocence, raises his eyebrows. “Oh, you mean that lunch that Stevie was also at?”
David shrugs. “Every second-date needs a chaperone,” he says, and leans back in for another kiss, only he can’t stop grinning, and neither can Patrick, and it really gets in the way of the kiss, but neither of them stop trying until they’re laughing too much to continue.