Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Whiskey 🥃

“Is this seat taken?”

Patrick looks up from his glass of scotch to see a fair-haired man’s eyes widen.

“Oh my god. You’re—”

To his credit, the man stops himself there. Patrick smiles, because he gets it.

“Hey man, I’m waiting for someone, but you go ahead.”

He turns back to his drink, but he’s seen this kind of thing before. In his periphery he clocks a familiar hesitant two-step before the guy seems to make a decision and climbs onto the barstool. He figures he’s in for either silence or an attempt at small talk. He can handle both, but he scrolls through his phone, encouraging the former.

Still, after a moment or two …

“I loved Ordinary Fears.”

“That’s really nice of you.”

“I’m sure you get that all the time …”

He sends him a smile. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it, really.”

Silence returns, and Patrick fights a smile, because he can feel the guy gearing up to ask …

“Hey, uh, is it true that—”

“Hi, hi, sorry I’m late!”

Patrick could swear he can feel the particular warmth that always surrounds David even before he hears his voice. He turns, a pavlovian smile already taking over.

“Hey.” He looks so good. Patrick reaches out and pulls him in by the jacket he’s trying to shrug out of, until he’s close enough to kiss. David’s already smiling when they do, and god, Patrick likes the way his lips curl up like that. He sneaks a quick second kiss before he lets him go.

“Hi,” David mutters, pleased.

“How was your meeting?”

“Really good, actually. Stevie had this really—” David breaks off, distracted by the guy on the next barstool, who is staring. “Hello.” He glances at Patrick.

Patrick tries not to grin. He’s getting better at reading David’s looks. This one means: do we need to start running? He likes it. Especially the we part.

He slides off his barstool. “Nice to meet you,” he says genially to the stranger, picking up his scotch and steering David towards the dining area.

“Was that okay?” David asks, once they settle into their booth. “Me kissing you in front of Ogle McGawkerson?”

“I’m pretty sure I’m the one who kissed you,” Patrick points out, and he gets to watch David duck his head and tuck a smile into his cheek.

“Do you think he recognised you, though?”

Patrick pretends to think. “Well, he asked about the record, so I’d say he did, yeah.” David winces, and Patrick reaches out to rest his fingers on his wrist, tugging just a little on the cuff of his sweater. “It’s okay. It’s not the first time we’ve kissed in public. I’m pretty sure he was about to ask me if the rumours are true.”

“Was he hitting on you?” David’s eyebrows do a complicated dance, and it’s not clear whether the idea has him feeling delighted or jealous.

Patrick shrugs. “I don’t think so.” Although, he thinks, he’s not the greatest at picking up on things like that. It’s been something to get used to. Maybe the guy was hitting on him. A quick scan of his feelings tells him he doesn’t care either way, though, so he just tugs at David’s sweater again. “Hey. I’m okay. Remember what I told you?”

David nods. “If they ask, they ask; if they know, they know,” he recites.

“Right.”

They’ve had a few conversations about this over the last month and a half, about how Patrick wanted to handle it. David made sure they did, and one day Patrick will have to find a way to tell him how much he appreciates that—the pushing. He needed it. In the end, he decided he didn’t want to make some big announcement. He wasn’t interested in hiding things or skulking around or correcting people’s assumptions. The important people already knew, and if he happened to be asked directly, he might answer—but if he did, it would be the truth.

So David has been letting Patrick take the lead in this aspect of their relationship. The more they talk, however, and the more time he spends with David, the less concerned he is with anyone else’s expectations.

“Are you okay?” he asks David now.

“Me?”

“Yeah. Are you okay with me kissing you in front of Snoopy McRubberneck?”

“Of the Oakeville Rubbernecks?” he counters (Patrick laughs, and David practically beams). “I’m not complaining,” he says, raising an eyebrow and giving Patrick a look. This one means: remember how little I was complaining the other night?

“Glad to hear it,” he says, willing the blush back down his neck. “So,” he says, more brightly, “what number are we up to?”

David becomes very interested in the menu. “Hm?”

Patrick is grinning, because it’s fun to poke at him like this. “You heard me. I know you’ve been counting.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, I think you do. We’ve got to have been on at least twenty dates by now.”

David shakes his head, but he’s smiling too, like Patrick’s an idiot. “Enjoying yourself?”

Patrick grins, tongue between teeth. He shrugs. “Just a little.”

“Such a dork.”

Patrick chuckles and moves his foot so his leg hooks around David’s shin. He adds a little nudge with his toe—it’s not exactly a message he’s sending, just part of him testing his own limits, and David knows it. He feels safe testing himself like this with David, has from the beginning. He wants David to feel safe with him, too—to not worry about whether he’s in this.

Patrick is so in this. He likes this a lot.

He lets his eyes soften. “What number?”

David considers him for a moment, maybe checking to see if he’s serious. He gives a little one-shouldered shrug. “Twenty-two,” he says, and turns back to the menu.

Patrick watches the shy smile tug at David’s mouth. He bites his lip to stop himself.

He likes him so damn much.

Eggplant 🍆

David’s business starts picking up just as Patrick is getting a handle on his schedule, so he tweaks the spreadsheet he began half-seriously back in June to accommodate the changes. It works—they see each other fairly regularly, and they talk on the phone or via text every day. Sometimes they’re travelling, but occasionally their jobs align, and they’re able to collide in other cities outside of the scheduled programming.

One of these collisions happens in New York after a week and a half apart. David texts Patrick the name of a bar in the West Village, and, giddy and playful and thrilled to be back in each other’s company, they fall into a banter-filled pretence of two strangers meeting by chance. This attempt at roleplay fails miserably: it only takes 12 minutes of playful flirting before they’re in the bathroom and trying not to get caught as David sucks Patrick off up against the stall door and Patrick has barely caught his breath before he’s on his knees returning the favour. (He still can’t believe they did that. He can’t believe he did that. His only defence is a sudden absence of common sense and, well, the sheer irresistibility of his partner in crime.) So maybe roleplaying is a roaring success after all, but Patrick is much happier without any pretending.

Sex with David also makes him happy. It makes them both happy, he’s pleased to see. He’s become a dedicated student of David’s body, and loves doing everything he can to make him lose control. He’s good at it, and David seems similarly on board, so Patrick is very happy.

It takes a while before he’s comfortable with David fucking him. Not for lack of thinking about it; he’s just not sure how to broach the subject.

True to form, though, David figures him out pretty quick.

“Is that something you’d like to try?”

“I … I think so. Yes.”

“Are you sure?” He asks this a lot. Patrick has a painful sense that each time the same impulse is behind it, and that what he’s really asking is if Patrick is sure about this whole thing.

“I am,” he tells him, emboldened by his own need to make David feel assured.

David, in turn, assures him that it’s not something he feels is missing from their relationship—it’s not a requirement—but Patrick is actually curious, and he figures he didn’t get lucky enough to end up with David by not trying things he’s curious about.

Not that they’ve “ended up” anywhere, he makes sure to remind himself. It’s been two months.

It feels like more.

So one night he steels himself, and David opens him up, slow and careful, and fucks him: it’s so strange at first, but David’s meticulous preparation means that Patrick is practically melting by the time there’s a cock inside him for the first time. And once he gets used to it, oh, it’s … it’s … amazing. It’s overwhelming. He’s pretty sure he doesn’t intend to make any of the sounds he makes—raspy groans and throaty whimpers and, towards the end, something close to a sob—and he feels a little out of control the whole time. By the time he climaxes he is weak and unsteady, and then afterwards—

Afterwards, something happens. Everything’s just … so much. He can’t really move, and he definitely can’t speak. Mostly he’s just concentrating on breathing and holding in all the … somethings suddenly whirling through him. Good somethings, like rumbling warmth and an echoing pleasure. But also … he remembers all the sounds he made, the way he damn near begged for David to—and all the good feelings collide with things he can’t reconcile, like shame and guilt, and normal function just collapses. He can’t understand why he feels like this.

And then he feels David’s arms wrap around him, and he leans into him, exhausted; he’s so all over the place that it’s a relief to have someone else keeping him together for a minute. David talks softly to him, murmuring praise and lightly joking until Patrick feels more like himself.

It happens, David says. Sometimes there are just a lot of emotions being unlocked. And Patrick knows he’s not the best at talking about the big stuff, but he makes himself do it then. He makes sure to tell David that he liked it, how much he liked it, and how the liking made him feel—not wrong, never wrong, but … guilty? Something, anyway. David talks a bit about internalised heteronormativity, and it makes things a little clearer. They keep talking, and by the time they’re done, Patrick has made it clear that he definitely wants to try it again, and David has clarified that holding him afterwards is not only welcome but a handy way to help with any overflow of emotion.

The next time it feels just as good, and Patrick is much less conflicted. He still needs a minute, afterwards, just to gather himself. He’s a bit embarrassed—it’s clearly not something David has to deal with when their roles are reversed—but David doesn’t seem at all concerned. In fact, he doles out soft assurances and his own stories of embarrassment, and there’s something about this that makes Patrick realise something big. It’s not the stories themselves, but the knowledge that David is offering them up to Patrick solely to help him feel better …

Later that night, when David is burrowed into his arms and snuffling softly, Patrick figures out the rest of it. It’s almost three months, now, but … yeah.

He might be falling a little in love with David Rose.

Little Bird 🐦

Patrick knows how lucky he is. God knows, he knows. He loves music. He loves writing the songs, teasing out the lyrics. He loves it when a melody just clicks. He loves working to build the production behind it. He loves performing. He’s enjoyed so much about the music industry, not the least of which is that he actually gets to make and release music. He gets to work with wonderful people, talented musicians and visionary producers. Playing live gigs in cities around North America, with a few lined up in Europe.

Sometimes, though, his favourite thing in the world is to sit in his music room and noodle about with a new melody on the guitar, David’s socked feet tucked under his thigh as he stretches out on the couch next to him, sketching and making notes in his journal.

It’s raining heavily outside, turning the world silver and green, and the place Patrick is renting is warm and cosy (he’s looking to put a downpayment on something, and it might end up being this place, because he loves the light and the honey-coloured floorboards, and David has made several reverent remarks about the closet space).

(He’s thinking about things like this more and more lately. He worries it’s too soon. It doesn’t feel too soon.)

He’s circling this song that started with a lyric about traversing a maze under a night sky, finding his way through it via the melody. He can feel David’s toes wriggling to the rhythm, and Patrick glances up to see him with the end of his pen between his lips, bobbing his head from side to side. There’s something so endearingly dorky about him in this moment that Patrick can’t stop himself from just … looking. He knows he’s wearing what David calls his “fond” eyes, but honestly—how can he not be? How can he keep from being astonished, daily, that he is with this man.

Is the miracle of him breaking into the industry even half that of him finding David Rose?

“What?”

Oops. David is looking back at him, quirking a suspicious eyebrow, and yet Patrick is unfazed, because David is sitting here, swimming in Patrick’s old Blue Jays jersey that’s so big and soft that David has let his distaste for organised sports slide, and he’s looking like that, and it all just makes the warmth inside him warmer.

He doesn’t mean to say it out loud.

“I love you.”

It comes out with a chuckle, because he can’t help that, either. Maybe it softens the shock for David a little, because he doesn’t immediately fly off the couch. Actually, he goes still.

Patrick takes a deep breath and sets down his guitar. “Okay. You’re okay.” With a careful eye on David, he places a gentle hand on his ankle. David tenses, eyes wide, but he doesn’t pull away.

“I know that was out of the blue,” he says with a soft smile. “Although if I’m honest it’s kind of been on my mind for a bit.”

It’s not the wisest thing to admit; he can almost see David wondering how long. He rubs his thumb back and forth over the knob of David’s ankle.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to say anything. And if you want, I won’t say it again until you’re ready.” And yeah, he’s gotten pretty damn good at reading David, and he thinks … he’s pretty sure, actually. One thing he’s certain of is that there are a lot of questions whirling around in his boyfriend’s brain right now, and the least he can do is answer one of them.

“You should know, though,” he waits until David meets his eyes, half-afraid. Patrick tries to keep his expression as open and unguarded as possible. “I’m sure. I meant it. I mean it.”

There’s a long moment where David just looks at him—not frozen, but searching, maybe. Patrick holds steady. Eventually, David must find something of what he’s looking for, because he gives a jerky sort of nod.

“Okay.”

Patrick debates pressing him, making sure that they’re okay, checking if there’s anything he can do—but, short of taking it back, he can’t think of anything. And he’s not taking it back.

So he squeezes David’s ankle and picks up the guitar again, pretending not to see David biting his lips together as he turns back to his notebook. Patrick keeps playing, and somewhere into what he’s hoping will become the bridge, he feels David’s toes start moving again.

He is so fucking lucky.

Cheese 🧀

One morning in early October, Patrick wakes up to an empty bed.

It’s not like he hasn’t before, it’s just that he could swear he went to bed last night with David plastered up against his side, and he’s become kind of a fan of waking up the same way.

There’s something on David’s pillow.

It’s a polaroid. Of Patrick. Sleeping.

Breaking into a grin, he spends a moment lying there, playing with the edges of the picture. It’s just an instant candid, yet there’s an unmistakeable sense of David’s careful framing and eye for structure. He likes the way David sees him, always has. Sometimes he wishes he could take photos like this, or paint, anything to show David how he sees him.

He rolls out of bed, bringing the polaroid with him, in search of the photographer. He’s not in the kitchen, and there’s no sign of coffee having been brewed. There is, however, another polaroid sitting on the kitchen counter.

This one is of David, the bottom half of his face mostly covered by two ticket stubs, leaving just his sunglasses and hair visible. The smile it wrings from Patrick is a quizzical one: David doesn’t take photos of himself. He’s not even a big fan of Patrick taking photos of him, but he’ll acquiesce if Patrick promises not to post any on social media. In this little oblong, David is arching an eyebrow, and although his eyes are hidden behind the glasses, Patrick imagines he’s squinting with the early hour.

It doesn’t explain where David is, though, or why he left before Patrick even woke up. There’s nothing written on the back, no hint about the reason David is leaving him polaroids like breadcrumbs. He wonders if they’re about to get dirty.

He makes himself a tea and sits down to study the photo some more. The ticket stubs are for the Dundas Music Hall. They’ve never gone to a show there, so … maybe they’re from the time David and Stevie came to see him, the night they officially started this thing. He can’t see the date, but he’d like to think so.

He gets dressed and carefully tucks the polaroid of David into his wallet. He’s hanging onto this.

📸

It’s still pretty early, but there’s someone futzing around in the ticket booth when Patrick walks in. He taps on the window.

“Oh hi!” The girl back there drops the logbook she’s holding and rushes over. “You’re Patrick!”

“Uh, yeah.” He can usually tell when people recognise him from his music, but something tells him this is more than that. “Listen, I know this is a weird thing to ask, but are there any tickets, or a message or something, for me here?”

“No tickets, but—” she fishes around in a drawer for a minute before coming up with an envelope. “This is for you.”

Patrick takes the envelope gingerly. “Thanks,” he starts, but the phone rings and she’s off to answer it. He turns around and tips out—yep, another polaroid. David’s in this one, too, partially. Most of the frame is taken up with a cocktail glass, but it’s David’s eye peering over the rim.

The plot thickens.

📸

Mickey the bartender, also here earlier than one would expect, seems pretty amused when he hands Patrick his polaroid, even more so when Patrick tries to get him to tell him what’s going on.

“Sorry, mate, I’m under some really specific threats not to spoil anything.”

Patrick can imagine. And so now he’s climbing the stairs to the roof, the door to which he’s now holding a photograph of. He’s just wondering where else these polaroids are going to send him when he opens the door and steps out onto the roof to find …

David. (Fully dressed.)

“Finally!”

There’s a picnic blanket and cheese and fruit and a bottle of something and David sitting there looking at him with an expression that is half-nervous, half what Patrick assumes is relief that he doesn’t have to wait anymore.

“What the—”

“Happy 100th date,” David says, getting to his feet and walking over, and before he can ask any questions Patrick is being kissed so firmly that there’s no option of thinking about anything else. It’s the sort of kiss that declares itself, so he just slides his hands into place around David’s waist and meets him beat for beat.

When he draws back, Patrick blinks up at him, feeling dazed. David swallows.

“It’s actually only our 87th date,” he begins, silver rings glittering as his hands fly in nervous gestures. “I rounded up. I promised myself I’d wait until we got to 100, at least, if it ever came to it, but you went and did what you did, and, well …”

“David …” Patrick interrupts gently, trying to follow along, trying to ground him. And there’s definitely something glistening about David’s eyes, and Patrick has that familiar impulse to say … it, that thing he promised not to say but never promised not to feel, powerfully and often. He forces himself to swallow it back down, because he promised—

“I love you.”

If he hadn’t been looking right at David when he said it, Patrick might have thought he’d imagined it.

“Sorry?”

David laughs, a little wetly, but he meets Patrick’s wide-eyed gaze and says it again: “I love you.”

Patrick’s heart gives a little kick and restarts again. There’s no keeping the smile from his face as he asks, because has to, “Are you sure?”

Another laugh, and maybe David thinks it’s a joke, or maybe he understands Patrick enough to know that it isn’t, really: he nods … and Patrick figures he’s waited long enough now.

“I love you.” The words are barely out of his mouth before he’s capturing David’s; the last of them brush against his lips as Patrick circles his arms tighter, folds David against him, feels the warm weight of David’s arms wrapping around his shoulders.

Sometime later, after David decides he needs to get his mouth on Patrick, and Patrick insists on a brick being wedged against the door and the spare blanket that David brought being press-ganged into service to protect them from the threat of public indecency … they’re lying there looking at the bright October sky, and Patrick brings up a question he hasn’t figured out an answer to.

“What did you mean about waiting for 100 dates?”

David ducks his head against Patrick’s shoulder, a flush at the back of his neck. “Oh. That.”

Patrick reaches down with gentle fingers to nudge David’s chin upwards until they’re face to face again. “What, was that our trial period?” he teases, letting loose a tiny thread of worry along with it.

But David shakes his head, and the thread disappears. “No, it’s just … I haven’t ever … said that, or … had that. With someone. And then you came along and it suddenly seemed like it might be an actual, some-day, down-the-road possibility, and of course that freaked me out.”

Patrick smiles. Fondly.

“And I was pretty sure that if I stopped to think about it, I was going to panic and ruin things, so I figured, okay, let’s make a hard marker and not think about it at all until then. So I was trying—really hard, actually—not to think about it, and then … And then you said it. And I couldn’t not think about it anymore. And then … it felt like too long to wait.”

It's halting and imperfect and a little confusing, but Patrick gets it. He runs his fingertips from the curl of David’s hair, down his temple, over his cheekbone and under his ear, whereupon he slides a hand around his neck and pulls him in for a series of soft kisses that David keeps smiling into.

David stops counting dates. Patrick says it as often as he can.

He is so fucking in love with this man.