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“David Rose.” He says. It feels like the right thing to say.
David looks up at him from where he’s seated and his face does that awful, beautiful thing Patrick has burned into the back of his brain, where he flicks through an entire series of emotions in half a second.
“Patrick Brewer,” he replies. Patrick can’t tell whether he sounds amused or disoriented or angry. He lost the ability to read David years ago.
David looks good. His hair is a little less upright than what Patrick is used to, although whether that’s a testament to the time of day or a new hair routine, Patrick isn’t sure. He’s wearing a chunky sweater, and there’s a thin line of a gold chain around his neck before it dips under his collar.
He turns back to face the rest of the table he’s sitting at. Patrick’s face blushes instinctually when he realizes there’s a group of people staring at him. They seem like David’s type of crowd: turtlenecks and low collared shirts and soft, glowy sheen over their skin. There’s two women and a man, all of which seem to be sizing up Patrick.
He feels strangely inadequate, the way he hasn’t felt since he was fresh out of college walking into meetings with men with decades of industry experience. He hasn’t felt this way since he looked at David and Rachel over the wooden table of the motel lawn and saw his two lives colliding.
David’s smile twists into the corner of his mouth as he looks at his friends, eyes off Patrick. There are half-empty wine glasses and messy plates on the table and Patrick realizes he is an interruption.
“Sorry,” Patrick says, and it comes out quieter than he expects so he clears his throat. “Sorry, I-uh. Just thought I’d say hi. I didn’t expect to see you in Toronto.”
David looks back to Patrick and shrugs. “Just visiting.”
There’s a moment of silence, and Patrick’s gaze flits over to David’s friends before going back to David himself.
“Well!” He announces, and buries his hands into his pockets. “Have fun. I just wanted to say hi. I realize I’m probably interrupting your dinner.”
He almost turns to go, before David’s face splits into another earnest smile and Patrick is sure it’s the same David Rose but all his mannerisms and the way he’s sitting at some hole-in-the-wall Italian place in Toronto with a group of strangers is telling him otherwise.
“No, stay. We were about to order dessert.”
“No, no,” Patrick protests, and his hands come out of his pockets to wave at the air in front of him. “No, I can’t.”
“Do you have somewhere to be?” David says, and he raises his eyebrow. It feels like a challenge. Patrick’s heart is beating hard against his chest.
“No.” Patrick responds.
“So stay.” David doesn’t smile again, not with his teeth, but his eyes are curious and alight with something that makes the scar over Patrick’s heart ache with phantom pain.
The table is for five, and David and his friends make four, so Patrick slides into the spare seat in between David and his male friend. They’re all exchanging meaningful glances and Patrick feels like he’s half a step behind everyone else.
“This is Vanessa, and her partner Mei, and this is Ari.” David gestures to the two women, and this male friend, who all give Patrick polite nods and smiles.
“I’m Patrick,” Patrick says, and he immediately feels stupid.
“Oh, we know who you are,” Ari says, and raises both his eyebrows as he takes a long sip from his glass.
Patrick feels some of the tension ease. He looks back to David who’s biting his lips together, but seems to be holding back a grin as he looks intently towards Ari.
“Talk about me a lot?” Patrick teases. He shuffles around a little in his seat, trying to get comfortable.
David sets down his own glass with a grimace as he cocks his head towards Patrick. “I’m glad to know you haven’t gotten any less presumptuous since we last spoke.”
“Your friends seem to know who I am, so.”
“Brave of you to assume they’re my friends,” David rebuts, but he has a hint of a smile at his eyes as he says it. Vanessa gasps dramatically, and Ari clutches a hand to his heart, his other arm reaching across the table to David. They’re all very tipsy, it seems, judging by the slow hand movements and the very deliberate blinking that Mei is doing.
The waiter comes by and sets down dessert menus. They ask if everything is alright before picking up the dirty plates and glasses, a delicate balancing game on one forearm, and then they leave the table.
Before Patrick can hazard a glance at the dessert menu, Mei is leaning over and clasping both of Patrick’s hands. He hears David groan and from beside Mei Vanessa is rolling her eyes.
“Patrick,” she says, earnest, and her voice is definitely slurred with alcohol. “You have to tell us how you let David get away with the name Rose Apothecary.”
David throws a scrunched up tissue at her but misses terribly, and Patrick tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his gut as he forces out a laugh.
“I thought it was just pretentious enough,” he says, before Vanessa is shaking loose Mei’s grip and pulling her back into her seat. Patrick looks over to David who is smiling softly, looking between him and Mei.
“Sorry about Mei,” Vanessa apologizes, and she speaks with the cadence of someone who is fluent in English but it’s definitely not her first language. “We need to get some carbs in her.”
Patrick just offers them a smile. “How long have you two been together?”
“Four years!” Mei says, her voice obnoxiously loud. Patrick finds himself chuckling in spite of his nervousness.
“Yep, it’s gonna be five this summer,” Vanessa says, and picks up her menu, giving it a cursory glance like someone who’s already familiar with everything she’s reading. “And then we’re getting married in September.”
“Wow, congratulations,” Patrick says sincerely. Vanessa places her menu back down and smiles. “How did you meet?”
“I was taking my sabbatical here in Toronto, and I wanted something fun and easy, you know? I thought I was going to go back to Lisbon with some funny Canadian fling stories and I ended up with this one,” Vanessa recounts, and looks back over at Mei who’s smiling soppily. “We ended up dating for the entire six months I was here doing my research project, and then when I moved back we broke it off but it didn’t last. I had to be with her.”
“Ugh,” Ari grunts, and Patrick turns to look at him. “Making single people feel lonely since 2018.”
Patrick chuckles before turning back to Vanessa and Mei. “That’s very romantic. I’m happy for you guys.” He spares a glance over at David, who seems to be very interested in the menu, silver rings glinting against the low light. He looks down at his own and scans over all the options.
The waiter returns after a couple minutes of Ari and David arguing over whether mint chocolate chip ice cream is acceptable. Ari places an order with three scoops to spite David, who opts for some fancy sounding chocolate thing, and Vanessa and Mei order similarly.
“Just a latte, please,” Patrick says, and hands back the menu.
Ari gets an alert on his phone and then the table dissolves into dissecting whether a reboot of a reboot can ever be a good idea, (“It’s like taking a microwave meal, microwaving it, freezing it, then microwaving it again!” Mei exclaims) which has Patrick belly laughing by the time his latte is brought over and set down in front of him.
Mei starts talking about her workplace drama, which has everyone, even David, pitching in with their own ideas about the acceptability of jeans in the workplace, ranging from “absolutely never” to “it should be encouraged, actually,”. Patrick doesn’t join in so much, taking careful sips of his still hot drink and looking over at David.
He’s smiling a lot with his teeth. He doesn’t – or didn’t – do that a lot, which makes Patrick happy, in a sort of bitter and resentful way. He’s happy for David, he really is. That he has this group of beautiful, attractive friends who he goes out with for wine and Italian dinner while Patrick is getting stood up by his date. He checks his phone absently, rereading the last notification before he feels a warm weight on his leg.
He looks up into David’s dark eyes. His hand is on Patrick’s thigh, and he’s leaning ever so slightly into Patrick’s personal space but he doesn’t care. He’s never cared when it comes to David.
“How are you?” David asks, and it’s the first time since Patrick’s sat down that he’s spoken to him directly.
“I’m good,” Patrick lies, and doesn’t dare to look down because he doesn’t want to figure out whether he’s having a tactile hallucination or David’s fingernail is really running along the seam on the inside of his knee. He doesn’t know which would be worse. “How about you?”
“Good,” David says, dismissive. “I don’t know whether you’re busy, but if you want we could hang out for a bit after this. Only if you're interested.”
Maybe five years ago, Patrick could’ve said I’m always interested in you, David. But he had long since stamped and shot that flirtation dead, so he just nods. David smiles, again with that little sliver of white teeth, and then he retreats away from Patrick, his hand sliding off his thigh with the ease of a frequently rehearsed movement.
“So, Patrick,” Ari says, and Patrick’s attention is turned back to the table. “You live in Toronto?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“What work do you do?”
“Freelance business consulting.” He always feels ridiculous saying it, but Ari just nods. “What about you?”
“I’m a daycare teacher,” Ari says. Patrick glances back just in time to see David give a full body shudder, to which Ari offers a middle finger. “Lots of spit and snot and screaming kids. It’s really fun.”
Spit and snot don’t sound much like fun to Patrick, but maybe he’s just been away from kids for too long.
“How did you meet David?” Patrick asks, looking over towards Mei and Vanessa as well.
“We were all on the Toronto Pride Committee a few years back,” Vanessa chimes in, a spoonful of brownie halfway to her lips.
“Wow,” Patrick says dumbly. He turns back to David. “I didn’t think that stuff was your speed.” David opens his mouth to reply, but Ari interjects.
“Oh, it’s not. He made it very clear that everything we were doing was incorrect. Face paint? Incorrect. Sweaty people in mismatching flag colors? Incorrect. Glitter? Incorrect.”
“Glitter can never be classy!” David interjects, and he settles his chocolate-streaked spoon into his empty plate with a clatter. “It’s horrible! It gets everywhere, it’s impossible to clean up, it's the opposite of biodegradable… some poor cockroach in a gazillion years after the fall of humankind is going to have lesbian flag glitter on it because Ari can’t take constructive criticism.”
“Oh, so I’m the one who can’t take constructive criticism,” Ari says, raising an eyebrow. His spoon is dangling between his lips, which are stretched out into a smile.
“Yes, you are. I compromised on wearing pansexual colors to pride, and that was psychologically damaging. Pink, yellow and blue! Did a toddler put together the color scheme?”
David’s voice is rising a bit, and Mei reaches over and squeezes his hand to get him to lower his voice.
“Don’t silence me!” He exclaims, indignant.
Ari rolls his eyes goodnaturedly as he shrugs his peacoat back on, and raises a hand to gesture for the waiter. They come over immediately and place down the bill.
“Are we splitting?” Patrick asks, already reaching for his wallet, but Mei is shaking her head.
“No, every time we go to dinner we take turns paying. It’s Ari’s turn this time.” Mei and Vanessa also pull on their coats, although Mei is a bit more sluggish than everyone else.
“Oh, well, you didn’t expect another dessert. I’ll cover mine, it’s fine,” he reaches out for the bill, but Ari swats his hand away.
“I probably don’t make as much money in daycare as you do being a business consultant, but I can cover a latte.” Ari’s face is blank as he sets down his credit card.
“I didn’t mean–” Patrick starts.
David huffs out a laugh, and Patrick looks over to him.
“He’s just fucking with you,” David says, shaking his head.
Patrick looks back over to Ari, whose face has split into a grin.
“Oh. Okay.”
Talking throughout the meal was okay, but Patrick feels two steps behind in this entire exchange. The waiter takes the card and comes back in a few seconds, in which everyone at the table decides to stand and shrug their coats on and start talking about next time. Patrick shuffles his feet awkwardly as he watches David hug his friends goodbye.
They chat idly for a few minutes as they head out of the restaurant. It’s on a street full of similar looking buildings, pedestrian signs hanging out from above shops and restaurants. Patrick watches from the group from the outskirts, listening to the soft chatter of David and his friends. It’s the talk of a group who is intimate and familiar with each other’s lives. Patrick waits with them as their ubers begin pulling up.
“Nice to meet you Patrick,” Vanessa calls, as she follows Mei into the car. “David, call me before you leave.” David lifts a hand and Patrick watches as they pull away, leaving him, David and Ari standing in the soft glow of the streetlamps.
Ari and David exchange a few quips before Ari’s ride pulls up. They try desperately to involve Patrick, but Patrick feels a little on edge around Ari and a lot emotionally drained after this evening took a complete 180 from what he expected, so he just nods and smiles and chuckles at the right places in conversation. David presses a kiss into Ari’s stubbled cheek and runs a hand down his arm as he gets in, and the car disappears away into the night.
David turns to Patrick, eyes soft. Yellow light casts a familiar glow over him, and it would be so easy, so easy, for Patrick to step five years into the past and imagine that they were standing outside the Café Tropical, or Patrick’s apartment, or Ray’s house, or any of the other countless places they fell together. It would be so easy to lean into him and pretend that nothing had changed.
“Your friends are nice.” Patrick says, instead, and David’s mouth slips into that easy, sidelong smile that Patrick so rarely saw before but has been coaxed out of him multiple times tonight.
Did I not make him that happy? Patrick thinks, and he knows it's irrational but it's the type of thought he can’t get to leave his brain.
“They are, aren’t they?” David replies.
Then they stand there, looking at each other, half of David’s face coated in amber light, the sound of cars driving past, the smell of Italian food and the buzz of caffeine still bright in Patrick’s system. David looks good, hair a little tousled, eyes a bit crinkly as he holds back a sheepish smile, bundled up in a sweater and a thin jacket. Patrick could trace all the new lines on his face and track the gray hairs that have sprouted in the years they’ve been apart.
“Should we walk?” He offers, breaking the moment.
David nods, and so they head off.
“Where are we going?” He asks, as David turns a corner onto another nondescript street. It’s a Saturday evening and people are still milling around outside. Patrick buries his hands deep in his pockets, trying to diffuse the late-night chill that bites at his extremities.
“Nowhere, really,” David says, airily. “I guess I just thought it’d be nice to talk.”
They don’t speak for another few minutes, and Patrick unconsciously reaches for the pack pressed into his front coat pocket. David’s eyes are on him as he pulls out a cigarette and dangles it between his lips. He tries to bite back a smile at the shock he sees on his face, instead focusing on flicking his lighter repeatedly into cupped hands until the end of the cigarette begins to glow orange.
“Patrick Brewer,” David gasps, giving a small shimmy, or as best he can move his shoulders while still walking. “A man turned to the pleasures of nicotine.”
Patrick puts away his lighter, sucks in a deep breath, and removes the cigarette from his lips. He and David turn another corner, and he blows out a slow cloud of smoke. “My boyfriend did it. We were around each other all the time so I picked it up. I keep trying to quit and keep failing miserably.”
“I was a chain smoker for a hot moment back in like, 2005.” David muses, and he puts his own hands in his pockets. He’s walking slowly, deliberately, and Patrick relaxes his stride to match this new pace. They weren’t walking fast before, but now it’s more like a stroll. “Your boyfriend? Is that who you were waiting for back at the restaurant?”
Patrick takes another drag, and holds it in his chest. “Ex boyfriend.” He blows out the smoke, and feels some of the tension of the evening leaving him. “I was going on a date tonight with this guy from work but he stood me up.”
“From work…” David repeats, quiet. Patrick recognises the buildings they’re walking past: a museum, a bank, and off in the distance he can see the looming figure of a historical building, almost invisible against the black of the night. “You said you lived in Toronto at dinner. I always assumed you moved back home after you left Schitt’s Creek.”
“I moved home for a while but everyone there knew me and all the mistakes I’d made,” Patrick gives a wavering laugh. “So I cleared out and ended up here. But you’re just visiting? Where do you live now?”
“I– maybe you know this already. It's not exactly a secret.” David looks at Patrick briefly before turning back to the path in front of him. “My dad got investors from this capital firm for the motel, and it’s um, a huge chain now? There was suddenly so much money, and I wasn't really excited about staying in Schitt's Creek after, um, you know. Everything that happened. So Alexis and I got this place in Chelsea and I was there for a while.” David blows out a breath, and cuts himself off with a shake of his head. “But I didn’t belong there. Not anymore. The whole place was just… crawling with the ghosts I left behind.”
“Yeah?” Patrick prompts. He sucks in a deep breath of his cigarette again, and lets the smoke fill his lungs.
“Yeah. It was horrible. Then I moved to Toronto for six months before I felt… lonely and stupid and still like I didn't belong. So I moved back to LA.” David winces as he says it. “My parents are there, and I basically grew up there and… I don’t know. It felt right in the moment.”
“Oh, wow,” Patrick sputters around his cigarette, and hits himself on the chest a few times for good measure. “So you’re in LA now. What– uh, what happened to the store?”
David meets his eyes before he looks away. “Well, we’re still the supplier for Rosebud Motels but now it’s not really a… store by itself, it’s kind of a branch of the motel? My dad said 'subsidiary' but I have no clue what that means. We basically don’t sell small-scale anymore, we partner up with local producers wherever the motels are and run all their products under the Rose Apothecary label. I made sure my dad also gets local farmers where he can for the food in the kitchens.”
They stay silent for a few seconds, the sound of their footsteps in sync and people talking on the street plenty to fill the gap in conversation. Patrick is keenly aware of everything they’re not saying.
“So what do you do now?” He asks, after another minute passes.
“I did gallery work for a bit in Toronto, but when I moved to LA I started doing private art curating. Stop laughing.” David has stopped in his tracks now, looking towards Patrick with that indignance and poorly hidden amusement in his eyes, and that little twisted corner mouth smile, and Patrick wishes so desperately things were different but he can’t stop wheezing at the words private art curator being applied to David.
“I’m sorry!” Patrick exclaims, and he throws his arms up and lets his face crease into a normal smile for what feels like the first time in a long time. He brings his cigarette back to his lips and takes another drag. “I just… wow. David Rose. LA Art Curator. I bet your clientele is full of really run of the mill, salt of the earth people.”
“Shut up,” David says, but there’s no malice in it. He starts walking again and Patrick joins him in stride. “I actually like it. There’s something weirdly therapeutic about knowing exactly what someone wants in a piece and being able to give it to them. And I’m not complaining about the money either.” He nudges an elbow into Patrick’s side. “Tell me about your job.”
Patrick sighs, and tries to get one last sip of his cigarette before he throws it into the trash can they’re passing by. He blows out a breath and takes his hands out of his pockets to rub them together. “I guess it’s okay. It's sort of the same stuff as what I was doing with Ray. A lot of paperwork, sitting down in a chair for eight hours a day. I think I’ve been living off of takeout and ready made meals for about a year.”
“You wouldn’t be able to tell,” David says, and then he screws his eyes shut before Patrick has a chance to react. “That is… something I just said. To you.”
Patrick just laughs. “It’s not a big deal, David.”
They walk on in silence for a few moments, and Patrick hazards a glance up at the sky. There are a few gray clouds against the darkness, and Patrick can see the North star. It’s nothing like back home, or back in Schitt’s Creek, though, where the entire sky seemed like it was alive most nights, glittering with pinpricks of white.
“Are you seeing anyone?” Patrick asks, and tries to keep his voice as casual as possible.
David looks down bashfully, and he stops walking a few paces behind Patrick. Patrick turns to face him, watching as David drags a finger under the gold chain of his necklace, and brings it out from beneath the collar of his sweater. There’s a wedding band attached to the end of it, which shines against the tan of his finger.
“Wow,” Patrick breathes. That’s the only word running through his brain. Wow. Wow. Wow. “How long?” Wow.
“Nearly two years.” David says. Wow. That’s almost longer than Patrick and David were even together.
“Oh.” Patrick replies intelligently. He swallows, before shaking his head and laughing. “Sorry I… I didn’t expect that.”
David grimaces. “I’m not really in the habit of telling my exes about new relationships.”
“Right, yeah,” Patrick chuckles, and maybe if he chuckles enough he’ll be able to get rid of this horrible, aching feeling that’s settled over him. “You’re just in the habit of having dessert with them.” He’s glad that David’s face eases into something more natural at his teasing.
“Of course. It’s the only way. Sebastien and I go out for ice-cream on the reg.” Patrick raises a quizzical eyebrow, and David huffs out a laugh. “Obviously a joke. You and Sebastien are not in the same league.” He starts walking towards Patrick.
“What league is that?”
“Well. Would we call it a league if it only has two members?”
“Maybe not,” Patrick says, and he continues walking alongside David. “Who’s the other member?”
“Stevie, obviously.”
“I’m honored. You guys still talk?”
David nods, and Patrick relishes in the small smile that fights its way across his face. He doesn’t probe further.
“What about Alexis, and your parents? How are they?”
“My parents are my parents. Alexis is thriving. She has this crazy boyfriend who I hate but she’s convinced is going to propose soon, so who am I to shit on her dreams.” Patrick nods along, not at all surprised. “And Marcy and Clint?”
Patrick lets himself laugh a little. “My dad passed away last year.”
David stops, again. Patrick laughs at him, eyes tracking up from his shoes to his shocked expression. “We keep stopping. Maybe we should find some place to sit down.”
“I’m so sorry.” David says, voice quiet.
Patrick can tell he means it, because he’s saying it in that this-is-something-important voice that he got when he was reassuring Patrick that it was fine he hadn’t come out to his parents, or it was fine that he had to cancel a date because of a migraine, or it was fine that Rachel refused to speak to him after more than a year of her showing up at that godforsaken barbecue. Patrick believed him, then. It was David, David made everything okay. He isn’t so sure anymore.
Patrick shrugs.
“No, I’m serious. I had no idea. How’s Marcy doing?”
“She’s moved in with my aunt. It was bad after the funeral, but she’s strong.”
David takes a couple steps towards Patrick. “And how are you doing?”
“I’m okay.”
“Don’t try that with me.” David warns. Maybe it’s the exasperation in his voice, or the fond way he says it that reminds Patrick of teasing after hours at the Apothecary, or maybe it's the way no-one has really pushed Patrick to speak about how he feels about his dad, but Patrick finds tears welling up in his eyes and burning at his throat.
“I’m sad, and I'm angry. And I don’t know what to do with any of it. I’m going on, and on, but it feels like…” Patrick clears his throat, and tries to rub away the errant tear that’s spilled over. “It feels like I’ve hit a roadblock. People keep saying grief is just, picking yourself up day after day, and I keep doing that, I keep going forward, but it feels like I’m... constantly pushing against this massive weight and it’s moving a fraction of an inch every month and all I think about is when it’s gonna get lighter. When everything will get easier.”
Patrick clenches his teeth together and wipes furiously at his eyes again. His emotions are not made any better by David looking at him with those stupid, soft eyes like he could make it okay, or at least soothe the pain. All Patrick can think about when he looks at him is his Clint's laugh, the way he said I like him a lot.
David takes another step closer, and slowly lifts his arms up to pull Patrick closer to him. Patrick half-resists at first, but the feeling of David’s hands on the back of his shoulders, running up into his hair, smoothing across the plane of his back, makes Patrick melt into him. He wraps his arms around David’s waist and pulls him closer, breathes in his sharp woody scent and lets himself close his eyes and bleed tears into David’s shoulder.
“This is ridiculous.” Patrick says, after a minute, muffled into the fabric of David’s sweater.
“You’re not ridiculous,” David admonishes. “You lost your dad.”
Lost. Patrick hates that word. As if his dad slipped away from him, as if he’s somewhere out there to be found like a loose quarter or a pair of keys in an old jacket pocket.
Patrick pulls away, and he’s acutely aware of how he must look but he finds he doesn’t really care when it’s David looking down at him with those warm, brown eyes and concerned crease between his eyebrows. Without thinking, Patrick reaches up and smooths it out with his thumb, a leftover habit from spending too much time around the David who would stare at a product arrangement for 20 minutes with that same furrow of his brow.
David laughs and smiles small, lopsided. Patrick brings his hand down to his side, and wipes absentmindedly at his nose with the back of his hand.
“When do you go back to LA?” Patrick asks.
“6am.”
Patrick glances at his watch. “It’s eleven now. And I’m also very surprised you’d get a flight that early.”
David’s eyes seem to go distant for a second, and he buries his hands in his pockets. “My… uh, my husband is flying in on the same day.”
“Oh,” Patrick says, and it feels like the moment between them from only seconds earlier has evaporated. “Right. Sorry.”
“Why are you saying sorry?” David says.
They look at each other again, in silence. If Patrick was a worse person, maybe he would just say fuck it and lean up into that pretty mouth, listen as David gasped against him.
“Are you planning on sleeping any?”
David smiles, again with his teeth. It’s not particularly wide or gleeful, but Patrick always finds the small sliver of teeth against his lips disarming. “No, I want to get to the airport at 4, so. I was planning on just… obsessively checking all my packing for the next four hours and then getting a taxi to the airport.” He waves a hand dismissively in the air.
“Sounds like a lot of fun.” Patrick says.
He knows he should let David go, let him go back to his hotel and stare at his packing and do his skin care routine and put on his airport outfit but... but it feels like there’s something alive and buzzing in between them, and the last time Patrick pursued it it left him with the best relationship he’d ever had. So, he doesn’t say goodbye, and he carries on looking into David’s eyes.
They stay like that for another half-minute before Patrick opens his mouth to speak.
“I was–” Patrick begins, but he’s interrupted by David’s, “Do–” and then they cut each other off by laughing.
“Before you so rudely interrupted me,” David says haughtily, but he’s looking at Patrick with a twinkle in his eye. “I was wondering if you’d come back to mine. I get it if it’s too late, but I um. I was having fun.”
Patrick grins, before schooling his expression to a more solemn one. “Oh. You were having fun while I cried about my dead dad?”
“That’s– that’s not what I meant at all,” David defends, his eyes widening, hands immediately shooting out to deflect. Patrick can’t stop his laugh as it escapes him, and it has David narrowing his eyes before biting down his lip and huffing. “You’re a bitch.”
“Uh-huh. I get that a lot.”
“Oh, yeah?” David teases.
“Yeah, especially from strangers, these days. I ran into this weird guy at a restaurant and he made me have dessert with his friends, who were all way cooler and funnier than him, and then he called me a bitch and invited me back to his place. Weird, right?”
David looks at him softly. “Sounds like a good offer. Maybe you should take him up on it.”
“I don’t know. He’s taller than me and kind of scary looking.” Patrick says, and tries to suppress his smile as David’s mouth drops open. “If you squint, he could pass as one of those mass murderers.”
“Okay. I take it all back. Stay here on the streets.” David huffs, and takes his phone out of his pocket. Patrick watches as he opens up the uber app.
Patrick chuckles before he nudges David with an elbow to get him to look up. “I would love to watch you obsessively stare at your packing for the next four hours.”
“Good,” David says, and Patrick watches him tap away on his phone. “It’ll be here in three minutes.”
Patrick nods, and puts his hands back in his pockets. He looks back out across the street where they’re standing, notices the cars driving past, the people walking around. He’s never felt so melancholy waiting for a ride. David’s free hand is by his side, and it brushes against Patrick’s thigh as it swings back and forth absently.
As they clamber into the backseat of the car, Patrick notes how David tucks his ring under his shirt. He’s not sure whether David’s hiding it or keeping it close to his skin. He doesn’t know which one he wants to be the truth, so he doesn’t ask.
It’s a quiet drive. Patrick makes small talk with the driver as David checks his phone, nails clicking against the screen. His rings reflect the dim lights in the car, and his expression is perfectly still even as headlights pass across it.
They pull up past a series of office towers, the CN tower appearing briefly behind the curtains of looming buildings. David thanks the driver as they exit, and Patrick looks up at the tall, glowing building of David's hotel and barks out a laugh.
“What?” David asks, trying to hide his smile.
“Nothing, it’s just… this is a really big step up from the Rosebud Motel.” Patrick says, and David rolls his eyes but doesn’t try to hide how pleased he is.
They enter the building and David gives a nod to the clerks as they make their way to the elevators and enter. “Selling your soul to the devil for money, etcetera, etcetera. At least the water pressure is good.”
“How long have you been staying here? And can I ask how much this costs?”
“A gentleman never tells,” David says, and he tilts his chin up in mock defiance. “I’ve only been staying for four days. I can afford nice stuff again now and I don’t plan to take it for granted.”
The elevator dings as they arrive at the correct floor. “I can imagine. Rose Apothecary stocking all the motels across North America.”
David shrugs, and Patrick follows him down the carpeted hallway to an unremarkable wooden door. He unlocks it with a key card he fishes from his back pocket and Patrick sucks in a small breath as he sees the room in front of him.
“You can see the CN tower,” Patrick observes dumbly, as he steps inside. He hears the tinkle of David’s laughter from behind him and the click of the door shutting. He gets closer to the long panes of glass overlooking the city, all the bright lights beaming back at him. He turns to David. “You’re scared of heights. Does that not translate to when you’re looking down on the entirety of Toronto like a Titan?”
David shrugs off his coat, a familiar hidden smile back on his lips. “It’s honestly not that impressive. Four years of motel poverty made me become very skilled at groupon.”
Patrick turns over his shoulder to give David a gentle smile, then sits down on the edge of the bed. He lets his hands hang in between his legs as he looks out over the city. A question is burning at the forefront of his mind.
“Are you happy?” He asks.
He watches David make his way to the minibar. “Do you want a drink? There’s a world class selection of soda, sparkling water or Heineken. Or I could open this bottle of whiskey.”
“Whiskey sounds good.” Patrick turns back to the window. He hears the clatter of glasses and David uncapping a bottle. Then the soft thud of footsteps as David walks over to him and hands him a couple fingers of whiskey.
David takes a drink of his own glass as he takes a seat next to Patrick. Then he says, “Are you? Happy?”
Patrick swirls the drink absentmindedly. “I don’t know.”
“I think it’s normal to not know,” David says, and sips at his drink. Patrick can see him in the corner of his eye but they’re both looking out over the city. “Your life has changed a lot in the last ten years. This is probably the opposite of where you saw your life going.”
“You’re one to speak,” Patrick retorts, and glances over at David. He looks pleased with himself as presses his lips down to hide a smile. “Rose Video heir gone rural motel dweller gone entrepreneur gone married LA art curator. Those are some pretty big changes.”
They sit in silence for a few moments. There’s a couple inches between them and Patrick thinks about how easy it would be to touch David, to trace his finger along his ribs and up his chest, thumb at his lip and press their mouths together.
“Tell me about your husband.” Patrick says, suddenly, and angles himself a little on the bed so he can look directly at David.
David’s lips curve into a knowing smile. “We don’t have to talk about this.”
“We should,” Patrick encourages. “I’m curious.”
David blinks slowly and turns back to the window. The lights of the streets below are nothing compared to the small grin creeping across his face and Patrick aches, aches and aches.
“I guess I have a type. He works for my dad, he does all the financial stuff. We met at one of the stupid company parties and he was so nervous and I thought it was very cute. That was four years ago now. We got married in the spring, in this private botanical garden with all these cherry blossoms, and– yeah. It was really nice.”
David turns back to Patrick who can do little else but give him a quick nod and clear his throat. He looks down into his drink and says, “Sounds romantic.”
David takes a long sip of his drink, and then sets it down on the floor, which seems brazenly incorrect. When Patrick looks up to meet his eyes, David is looking down at his hands, playing with rings on his fingers.
“When you left I thought I was letting go of the only person who was ever going to love me.” David says quickly, as if he’s trying to get all the words out at once. “But I– I don’t think I would be here if you didn’t love me. I probably would’ve run back to the next toxic asshole who gave me two seconds of attention. But you showed–”
David clears his throat, and looks up to meet Patrick’s eyes. He’s crying, and he looks so beautiful and so broken, one tear slipping down, down, down over the skin of his cheek and Patrick wants nothing more to close the distance between them.
“You showed me what love was. For the first time. So, um. Thank you.”
Patrick feels something growing, expanding against his chest, trickling its way down to his stomach.
“I was going to propose, you know,” he whispers. “I bought the rings and everything. I asked for Stevie’s blessing.”
David wipes at his eyes and laughs, a little hoarse. “And what did she say?”
“She said if I did anything to hurt you she would make sure I didn’t live to do it again,” A fond smile crosses Patrick’s face at the memory. “But she clearly didn’t follow through.”
“Huh,” David laughs, and it sounds hollow. “What a bitch.”
They look at each other for a moment. Patrick rolls his bottom lip between his teeth, thinking. There are tear tracks all the way down David’s face now, the puffiness of his eyes so horribly nostalgic.
“You’re the only man I’ve ever loved, David.” Patrick says, and his voice is low.
David’s eyes flit across Patrick’s face, eyes widening. His tips of his ears and his nose are red, and his face looks puffy from crying, and he’s the most beautiful thing Patrick has ever seen.
Patrick leans in and closes the distance between them, lifting one hand to the back of David’s head.
It feels so right. It feels like the only place he’s ever belonged, mouth pressed against David, hand tangled in his hair, pulling him closer. It feels so different from the last time they did this but so familiar, it hits Patrick right in the middle of his chest. David smells like another person's house; he doesn’t smell like the dust in the store or the air freshened motel room or the sheets in Patrick’s apartment. Everything is different but the curve of David’s lips, dry but soft, the scratch of the short hairs on the back of his neck against Patrick’s palm so known to him he could pretend like no time has passed at all.
Patrick opens his mouth slightly but David startles, jumping backwards and hitting the glass on the floor where it sits beside his foot.
“Shit, shit, shit,” David chants, and springs up from the bed.
Luckily the glass is empty. He just picks it up and places it on the side table. Patrick watches his shaking hands place the glass back on a solid surface. David turns to look at him and then bites down on his lip.
“I’m married, Patrick.”
“I know.”
“You can’t just… come here and kiss me and pretend like the last five years haven’t happened.”
“I didn’t just come here,” Patrick retorts. “You invited me into your hotel room. At,” he checks the clock, “Twelve am.”
They look at each other for a long time, not saying anything. The David that Patrick first met all those years ago would maybe be pacing and waving his hands, but this David is almost spookily calm, fists clenching and unclenching, teeth biting down hard on his bottom lip. The worst part of it all is Patrick wants to kiss him again.
“You haven’t changed at all.” David whispers, and Patrick doesn’t know whether it's an admonishment or an accusation or just brute fact.
“I don’t know, David. I live in Toronto, I’ve dated more than one guy and I had to trim my ear hair for the first time about a week ago. So I’d say things are pretty different.”
David seems to relax a bit at that, and Patrick’s entire body is coursing with a strange mix of relief and adrenaline.
“I would do everything all over again to have you for even five more minutes,” Patrick mumbles, and he doesn’t know whether it's the alcohol or some otherworldly force but everything seems to be coming out tonight. David presses his eyes shut and nods a few times. “Wouldn’t you?”
David barks out a twisted laugh that sounds more like a sob before he opens his eyes. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“I want the truth. Tell me that you’re happy in LA, that you’re happy with your husband.”
“I’m happy in LA, I’m happy with my husband,” David says, quickly. “The first guy you date isn’t going to be the one.”
“You’re not just ‘the first guy I dated’,” Patrick says, voice impossibly quiet but so, so loud in the still of the room.
He tilts his head to look up at David whose eyes are shiny with tears and whose lips are bitten red.
“You’re the one who left,” David says, louder. “You can’t come here and say you’re not happy when you’re the one who made this happen!”
“You wouldn’t let me apologize, David, I don’t understand what I was supposed to do. How was I supposed to hang around at a store that we built together and pretend like I didn’t want to be with you everyday?”
“I don’t know!” David yells, and his hands come up and flail out wildly and it’s the most like David he’s looked all night. “I don’t fucking know! All I know is that, that you lied to me about Rachel, then you lied to me about your parents, and then you lied to me again about the store and I couldn’t take it anymore. I’m sorry if I needed more than three months to regroup from my boyfriend keeping secrets from me every chance he got.”
There’s a pause in the conversation, and Patrick just looks at David. He looks wound-up, so tight and bunched together in a way Patrick hasn’t seen since he left Schitt’s Creek all those years ago.
“I didn’t come here to argue about this again,” Patrick says, and he tries to keep his voice perfectly neutral.
David buries his face in his hands and groans. “This is why we wouldn’t have worked.” He takes his hands away from his face and points an accusatory finger at Patrick. “You ignore all the problems in our relationship and leave me to overanalyze them by myself. Have you ever thought about how I felt being lied to? Or were you just angry that I wasn’t willing to be your damsel in distress?”
Patrick downs the rest of his drink, and sets it next to David’s empty glass. He runs a hand over his face and grunts.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know how many times I have to say it.”
“Maybe one time with you actually meaning it.” David scowls, and then he’s crossing his arms over his chest.
Patrick laughs. “You think I didn’t mean it? Are you being serious, right now, David? All I did was say sorry and mean it. I mean it now. If I could undo all of it I would.”
David just stares at him.
“If you had the chance to go back and make things right between us, would you?”
David doesn’t answer, just pulls his arms tighter around his chest and deepens his frown. His eyes are glossy with unshed tears.
“Just give me the honest answer, David.”
“Stop saying my name,” David snarls. “And don’t make me answer stupid questions. Things happened and we can’t change it. Why would I think about the past?”
Because that’s all I do! Patrick wants to scream it at him, wants to grab David’s shoulders and shake him until he understands. That’s all I think about!
“I can say your name if I want to, it’s your name! Why won’t you answer me?”
David exhales slowly, and his mouth quivers. “Because, and I don’t know whether you’ve realized this, Patrick, but it’s been five years. It’s been five years and I have a husband and a life and you’re here acting as if, as if you can say a few things about regrets and how you would change things and I would throw away what I have for someone who let me down over and over again.”
“I’m not asking you to throw anything away,” Patrick says. “It’s just a question. It’s a hypothetical question.”
“Just like the hypothetical kiss you gave me five minutes ago?”
Patrick scrubs both his hands over his face in frustration, and sighs deep into the flesh of his palms.
“What if I said ‘yes, Patrick, I would go back and change everything and we would be together right now.’ What would that do for you, or for me? Does it make anything better?”
There’s another moment of silence before Patrick drags his hands away from his face, his pulse racing in his ears. He's craving a cigarette but he thinks David would scream at him before the hotel smoke alarm got a chance.
“You’re right. I’m sorry. I got caught up in the moment.”
David huffs and sits back down on the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight. Patrick looks up at the clock ticking on the wall.
“My mom still asks me about you, you know.” Patrick says, not turning to face the man beside him.
David is silent for a long moment before he speaks. “What do you say?”
“I say nothing because your social media hasn’t been updated since we opened Rose Apothecary. But I guess now I can go back and tell her, 'yeah, he has a husband and a successful career and his chapstick isn’t really working for him, I think he needs something a little more moisturizing.'”
He looks over at David to see how that one landed. David is looking at him as if he’s an alien object, and for one sickening moment Patrick thinks he’s made everything worse.
Then, as if by magic, David’s entire face crumples into laughter and he’s wheezing – legitimately wheezing – shaking his head, hand over his mouth as he turns away from Patrick. David’s happiness has always been contagious and maybe it’s the absurdity of the situation that’s the cherry on top but Patrick also finds himself dissolving into laughter, the type that makes him feel like all the air has been drained out of his body as he gasps for air.
He leans back and drops with a thump into the bed. David follows soon after, and he can feel the brush of his sweater against his shoulder. There’s a moment of chuckling and bed shaking before they both relax into the silence, looking up at the hotel room ceiling.
“What’s your husband’s name?” Patrick asks.
“Rafael.”
Patrick closes his eyes. “Is he Mexican?”
“Peruvian.”
“How tall is he?”
He cracks an eye open to see David smirking at him. “What?”
“Just…” David chuckles, shaking his head against the sheets. “Why are you asking?”
“I’m trying to conjure a mental image.”
“I can conjure a physical image for you, if you’re so interested.” There’s a smirk dancing at the corner of his mouth.
“No, my eyes are tired,” Patrick lies, and quickly closes them both. David sighs, no malice behind it. “C’mon, describe him to me.”
“Okay. He’s six foot. Kinda lean looking but not exactly magazine cover material? Very easy on the eyes…”
Patrick winces. “This is horrible.”
David smacks his shoulder. “You’re a menace.”
There’s another few seconds of silence.
Then, Patrick says, in his most seductive voice, “Is Rafael a menace?”
David gives a little tinkling giggle but no real answer, which has Patrick opening his eyes to look at him across the bedspread. He’s flushed pink in the cheeks and down his neck, and laying this close to him has Patrick noticing the beautiful fan of smile lines around his mouth, the white hairs in his eyebrows, the alcohol on his breath.
“I’m not answering that,” David says, and he sits up. “Do you want more whiskey? I need to be sober in a couple hours but I think I can have a teensy bit.”
Patrick waves his hand around in the air. “Yeah, sure.”
“Oh my god,” David says, as he stands up. He’s a little unsteady but he gains his balance by grasping at the wall. “I need to tell you about the time I came into work and my client threw up all over my desk.”
“That sounds disgusting. Tell me more.”
David comes back over with the bottle of whiskey and tops both his and Patrick’s glasses up. He shrugs off his high-tops and Patrick follows closely, shedding his off-brand sneakers.
They sit cross legged on the bedspread, bumping knees as they sip and talk about David’s worst art curating experiences, mostly just entitled people doing entitled things and spending way too much money on meaningless objects. And that reminds Patrick of a story from his old job, where his friend came in stoned out of his mind and was convinced that everyone apart from him and Patrick were CSIS agents. David laughs and recounts a story about the first time he did acid in a club and when his girlfriend came over to make out he thought that she was going to eat him, which has them both wheezing until their lungs hurt. Patrick rubs at his ankle and talks about his first experiences on Grindr, which David rolls his eyes at and meets him par for par with increasingly horrific stories, some of which Patrick is sure he’s heard before, but it's the whiskey and the soft lighting and the fact it’s edging dangerously close to three am that has him resting his hand on David’s knee and laughing his ass off at the image of David crawling out of a fire escape because the front door of his one-night-stand’s apartment was locked and he was too scared to wake him up and ask for a key.
There’s a brief pause in the conversation as they check their phones and drink the last of their whiskey. David picks at the loose threads in the duvet as the seconds stretch on, light conversation seemingly exhausted.
“It was cancer, by the way.” Patrick says, sudden, and David looks up with wide eyes. “My dad.”
“I’m sorry, Patrick.” David says, softly, and it's the first time Patrick has heard those words from someone outside of his immediate family who actually sounds like they mean it.
Patrick thumbs at his glass. “It was diagnosed so late. It felt like one day everything was normal and then there were all of these treatments and surgeries and he declined so quickly…”
David reaches over to him and places a reassuring hand on his forearm. His thumb strokes up and down repetitively, a movement Patrick has become well accustomed to. Patrick reaches up and rests his palm over David’s hand, and gives it a soft squeeze.
“I didn’t speak to my parents enough after we broke up. I was so ashamed. I spent two years hiding away in Schitt's Creek and I thought… I thought things were perfect and this was the way it was going to be for the rest of my life. Then when I left again I thought I had more time to live up to their expectations.”
“Their expectations?” David questions.
“Yeah. I know you’re a guy and that’s not the what they expected, but my dad always wanted to see me happy. I blew up my relationship with them because I couldn’t stand them knowing I’d run away and then messed it up again.”
“But you know that’s not true, right?” David’s hand gets a little tighter around his arm. “They just wanted to see you. They just wanted to know you. I only spoke to your dad for five minutes and I could tell all he needed was to know you were safe.”
Patrick squeezes his eyes shut, and brings his hand from over David’s to cover one side of his face. “I know that rationally. I know that. But I can't stop feeling like I let him down over and over again. It feels like ever since we broke up my life has just been one big fuck up.”
David winces, and Patrick looks up to see him fighting back a smile. “Spoiled you for anyone else?” He teases, and his voice is shaky.
“Yeah. If you can believe it.” Patrick laughs, and shakes his head. He brings his hand down from his face and looks down to where David is still running a thumb over his forearm.
“Your dad would be proud of you Patrick, no matter what you do. He loved you too much for it to be conditional. I know you don’t believe me but it doesn’t make it less true.”
“Yeah,” Patrick whispers, and his voice breaks. “It’s just hard to believe. But thank you.”
They’re silent for a few more moments, and then David takes his hand back, and tucks it into his lap. Patrick wants to cry for that small inch of skin touching his own, David’s warmth, David’s presence – he wants it back. He wants to crawl into David’s arms, inside his sweater, under his skin, he wants to live close to him and hear the beating of his heart.
“Do you think we would’ve worked?” David says.
Patrick meets David’s gaze at that question. He looks unsure of himself for the first time all night, as if he can’t quite decide whether to pretend those words hadn’t left his lips.
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” David says, and clears his throat. “If we had gotten past the argument. Would we be married right now? Or divorced?”
“I don’t know.”
David flicks Patrick’s kneecap. “Maybe if you spoke to me about the stuff that was bothering you once in a while, we wouldn’t be here.”
“Yeah. If you didn’t shut down and assume the worst every time something went slightly wrong. If you learned to trust me.”
“Huh,” David says, thoughtfully. “Who knew. Seems like our problems could’ve been solved by being honest with each other.”
“And a hell of a lot of therapy.” Patrick says, voice quiet.
“And a hell of a lot of therapy,” David repeats, and lifts up his empty whiskey glass, giving his best false smile, teeth and all. “Cheers to that.”
Patrick looks up at David. The memories are all so painful to sift through, the moments where he didn’t let David in, the moments where he bottled everything up, the moments where he shouldered all the responsibility and in doing so assumed that things were better kept secret from his boyfriend. Looking at David, now, he sees it. It could’ve been good. It could’ve been so good.
An alarm trickles through the room. Patrick raises his eyebrows and David taps it off, and then turns to smile tensely at him.
“That’s my cue.” David says, voice falsely bright.
All Patrick has wanted to do for the last few hours, (and if he admits it to himself, five years) is lean over and close the space between them but… David doesn’t want that. David is happy and he loves Rafael and Patrick would never stand in the way.
He stumbles off David’s bed, and David gets up gracefully, clearly having paced himself better than Patrick.
David heads over to his suitcase, shoes pinched between his fingers, and pulls out a small toiletries bag and what looks like a black lump of clothes.
“One minute,” he says, as he heads into the washroom.
Patrick lets himself close his eyes and lean up against the wall, and it feels like hours have passed and simultaneously no time at all when David emerges from the toilet, clothed in a completely different sweater and joggers, and zips up his suitcase. The gold chain around his neck shines in the warm light.
The ride down in the elevator seems to stretch out forever, and its only made worse by the frankly criminal amount of time that David takes to check out at the desk and double check his suitcase across the lobby sofa.
Then, then, they’re heading out into the cool three-thirty-am night and the wind is chill against Patrick’s cheeks and David shivers as they stand outside of the hotel, bathed in the strange stillness and light of the witching hour, and Patrick hopes this moment extends on for even a fraction of the time that they spent in that lobby. David taps away on his phone to call a taxi to the airport.
“This was fun,” Patrick mumbles, and buries his chin inside his coat. He glances over at David to look him in the eyes.
“Oh yeah. Hearing about your dead dad, arguing about our relationship, the hangover I’m going to have in the morning. So much fun.”
Patrick chuckles, and his breath forms condensation in the cool night. “Is your husband going to be upset about tonight?”
David shakes his head emphatically. “No. I texted him at dinner to let him know. And I texted him in the bathroom, too.”
“Wow,” Patrick laughs. “I don’t know whether I’m happy that you two have better communication than we ever did or sad that I’m not your dirty little secret.”
David rolls his eyes and glances down at his phone, but there’s a small grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Between the both of us I think we know which one keeps the dirty little secrets.”
Patrick winces, “Ouch,” but he’s laughing at the same time, and then David is laughing too and squeezing his eyes shut and he’s so, so beautiful under the city lights and Patrick wants to kiss him and tell him to stay, but he can’t.
They quieten after a few moments and then they’re trapped once again in the oppressive stillness. Patrick takes a chance.
“You should call me the next time you’re in Toronto. We can do this again.”
David looks at him, expression unreadable. It frustrates Patrick that he hasn't catalogued every twitch of his eye, every quirk of his mouth while he had the chance.
“Is that a good idea?”
Patrick shrugs. “I don’t see why not.”
David bites his lip, and doesn’t reply.
The car pulls up beside them, and rolls down the window. “David Rose?” The driver asks, and David nods and then Patrick is popping open the trunk and loading David’s obnoxiously large suitcase in there and shutting it, and then they’re standing in front of the backseat door and David is about to leave – he’s about to leave Toronto and go back to his life and Patrick will probably think about this night forever but David will go home and talk about it to his 6”0, easy on the eyes husband who will laugh and kiss him and fuck him into the mattress like Patrick has been wanting to do all night.
David turns to him, and the lights of the hotel are reflected bright in his eyes, two impossible pools of black.
Patrick is at a loss for words. He reaches out for David’s hand, and takes it in two of his own. David is looking at him with something simmering in his gaze and Patrick could drown in this feeling, the way it’s rising up in his chest and threatening to choke him. There are words on the tip of his tongue that would be the worst, most inappropriate thing to say but he can’t stop thinking about them.
“Tell me again.” Patrick whispers.
“What?” David curls his fingers tighter around Patrick’s grip.
“Tell me that you’re happy in LA. That you’re happy with Rafael. I don’t know why but I don’t believe it.”
David looks at him for a long moment, and his bottom lip starts to quiver. “I should be. I will be.” His voice is thick with emotion. “Tonight is just a night. It won’t always be like this.”
“It could be better than this if you stayed,” Patrick offers, desperately. “You have friends here. I have an apartment. We… we could get therapy, and I would be honest, and we could be together. David, I told you that you made me feel right six years ago and I thought it was because I was gay, but it’s so much more than that. You’re the only person, the only man that’s ever made me feel like this. I can’t let you go again. We can be better together. Just give me a chance.”
“Patrick…” David whispers, and his breath almost gets lost in the wind it’s so quiet.
Then David is leaning forward, just minutely, and Patrick won’t pass up this chance twice, so he crashes forward and pins David to the side of the car, lips bruising against his. He licks up into David’s mouth and David gasps against him, pulls their interlocked hands close to his chest and Patrick can feel the pounding of his heart where their hands are digging into David’s sternum. David takes his free hand and grabs a fistful of Patrick’s hair to pull them closer together, his tongue sliding over Patrick’s, and Patrick sighs into his mouth.
The driver honks and they pull apart sharply, hands still interlocked. Patrick can’t take his eyes off David even as he puts space in between them because David is so, so beautiful, still, all kissed and cried out, lips swollen and cheeks flushed with the cold and the tip of his nose is reddening and his eyes are shiny in the low light. Patrick gives him another quick peck, and then separates their hands to run them over the plane of David’s face, thumbs quickly skimming over his cheekbones down to his jaw and over the thin skin of his neck before they come to rest on his shoulders. Then Patrick takes a step back, his hands falling to his sides.
“That’s all I have,” Patrick says, quietly. His heart is in his throat and he’s looking at David, so ethereal and windswept and real, so real, right in front of Patrick’s eyes, ready to be reached out for and touched and kissed. “I hope you can be happy, David.”
David opens the car door, eyes wide as if he can’t believe what just happened. Patrick doesn’t know whether he’s imagining the smile at the corner of his mouth.
“Goodnight, Patrick,” he mouths, or he says, Patrick doesn’t know – he can’t hear anything over the wind and the car and the ringing in his ears.
Then David is pulling the door shut and the car starts moving and Patrick has half a mind to run after it and wave it down, but he doesn’t. He watches as it pulls away and disappears over the horizon, swallowed up by the blackness of the night. He looks up, tilting his head back, and sees the North star, burning, burning, burning, white against the dark sky.