Chapter Text
🎵
“You are bored, lethargic, and practically dripping with ennui!”
“Okay, that’s a bit much,” David protests, continuing to halfheartedly defend himself as his mother laments his apparent squandering of his social capital.
A small part of him wants to bring it up. That not only is he on a much-needed respite between jobs, thanks so much, but that he is doing something with his time. That actually, he’s been calculatedly slipping away once a week, never sticking to a consistent lesson time with Patrick so that he can plan his escape around his family’s schedules and avoid their questions, and tiptoeing to Stevie’s back room whenever he can. That maybe if they weren’t so suffocating, or so wrapped in their own individual dramas, they might have known he’s not only been occupying himself, but that he’s found something that brings him the creative joy he’s been missing.
But there’s clearly an endgame to this conversation on his mom’s part, and he knows better than to think she’s actually listening to more than ten percent of what he’s saying. Besides, it’s early days; he’d rather not face the inevitable embarrassment of having to tell his family he’s dropped the lessons, or he’s flunked out of them, finally reaching the limit of his musical ability.
When Moira mentions the party, he internally cringes away from the idea. But… making not-at-all-beautiful music with Patrick in a hideously-decorated study at Ray’s is the highlight of his social calendar at the moment, so maybe he can extend himself a little. He’ll make Stevie go, too.
“Fine, I will make a surprise appearance. But it’s twice around the room and then I’m out.”
🎵
David can allow his mom one thing: she knows how to throw together an event. He’s actually taken aback by the amount of people in attendance at the cafe, particularly after Stevie had informed him no one had RSVPed ‘yes’ as of a matter of hours ago.
However, his mom is also a traitorous snake and he should know better than to believe a word she says, honestly.
“Ugh!” David exclaims as he hangs up the phone, turning to Stevie, who’s thankfully holding two very generously-filled solo cups. She raises her eyebrows in question, and he rolls his eyes. “My mom’s not coming. Obviously.”
“Huh.” Stevie pulls a face. “I’m pretty sure she’s the murderer, though.”
“This is what I just said!” David throws his hands up, narrowly avoiding knocking a cup out of Stevie’s hand. He plucks it from her grasp and swigs from it instead. “It’s never going to end! Can I be the murderer to put us all out of our misery?”
Stevie snorts, and then drops her mouth open, looking over David’s shoulder. David frowns, whirling around to follow her gaze.
Oh, no.
Standing across the room, leaning casually against a doorframe with a hand in his pocket and apparently enthralled by whatever story Twyla’s recounting, is Patrick.
“Motherfucker!” David hisses, whipping back around before Patrick can see him.
“You should talk to him,” Stevie says in a dangerously enthusiastic tone, practically vibrating with glee at David’s discomfort.
“Why? Why would I do that?”
“Um, maybe because the first word of every sentence out of your mouth for the last three weeks is his name.”
“Yes, well!” David snaps. “That means nothing! It’s not like I’m doing literally anything else with my time right now!”
There’s a rising well of panic inside him at the thought that Patrick is here, in this environment where David’s not prepared to spar with him. Until recently, David’s been used to knowing exactly where he stands, with his feet firmly on the ground, even if the landscape is rocky and barren and desperately unhappy. Patrick makes him feel unbalanced, unsure; in danger of falling.
“David. Look at me.” Stevie’s voice is suddenly serious. She sets down her plate of assorted cakes on the nearby table and grabs David’s shoulders with both hands. David blinks rapidly at her, waiting. She still doesn’t speak.
Finally, he bursts out, “Ugh, what?!”
She cracks a grin. “Nothing. I just wanted to make sure you couldn’t escape.”
David pulls his chin all the way back to his chest and flails his hands a little as she claps his shoulder brusquely and disappears into the crowd.
“David, hey!”
Oh, that absolute witch.
David turns with a tight smile to see Patrick standing in front of him expectantly.
“My god. You… certainly committed to the role,” David says, raising his eyebrows as he takes in Patrick’s attire.
His grey slacks leave, if possible, even less to the imagination than his usual choice of jeans, paired with a darker charcoal waistcoat with a subtle pinstripe. A delicate, gold watch chain loops down and disappears into a pocket. His tie is neatly tucked in and a crisp white shirt offsets the look, loose around his biceps and rolled up to the elbows.
Mhm, yup. Very… on-theme.
Patrick beams and tips his newsboy cap at David. He’s wearing it at a completely incorrect angle.
“Ginger Roberts, freelance reporter. If I find out who bumped off the duchess, it’ll be the scoop of the century. I’m gonna crack this case wide open, see?” Patrick reels off in a questionable transatlantic accent, as he pulls out a little notepad and taps it with a pencil to punctuate his introduction.
David can’t help but laugh, pinching the bridge of his nose in feigned despair. “What the fuck is in this punch? Is this a fever dream?”
“For the record, I’ve heard Twyla’s punch can actually give you fever dreams. And heart palpitations.”
David’s eyes widen, and he slowly puts down the cup. Patrick swirls his own drink around before glancing back up at David.
“I see you’re adequately dressed for the occasion. I read that, ah, oversized sweaters with unnecessary zips were actually a staple of roaring twenties fashion.”
There it is again. The Patrick-patented brand of teasing, both soft and sharp at once, stopping David in his tracks while drawing him uncontrollably closer.
David makes an affronted noise and wiggles his head to make the single feather on his headband wave. “I’m sorry, am I not wearing an abomination on my head for the sake of this event?”
Patrick laughs, and reaches up to flick it. He sways further into David’s space, and - and David is struck by how much he doesn’t want him to move away again.
“It’s a… very tasteful abomination.”
Patrick’s smile lights up his whole face. David really, really likes it.
Oh, god. He’s fucked.
“Also, these are very necessary zips,” David adds lamely, holding up his sleeve to illustrate his point.
“Huh.” Patrick tilts his head. “And what function do they have, exactly?”
“Well, they - unzip, in case you need, like… more wrist freedom!”
Why is he so flustered? He needs to stop talking to Patrick. Like, now. He’s going to embarrass himself imminently.
“Um, I should find my… friend.” David waves a hand in the general direction that Stevie disappeared to.
Before he registers that Patrick’s moving, though, he catches David’s wrist in mid-air with a gentle but firm grip, bringing his hand down between them. He takes David’s hand in both of his, turning it over carefully and gently dragging his thumbs down from the heel of David’s palm to the tips of his fingers.
David holds his breath. Patrick’s fingertips leave tingling trails in their wake.
“You’re starting to get some callouses there, y’know,” Patrick says quietly. “That’s good.”
“Would we call that good, though?” David counters, the words rushing out with his exhale. “Or would we call it the abject destruction of a long-standing, finely tuned moisturising regime?”
Patrick shrugs. “Gotta do what we gotta do. Suffer for your art, or whatever. And, for what it’s worth… they still feel pretty soft to me.”
Patrick is still holding onto David’s hand, and his gaze is fixed there while he speaks, but then he meets David’s eyes, sincere and a little hopeful and oh, no, he’s really close somehow.
David glances at Patrick’s lips.
Then, he panics.
He can’t do this. He’s dated enough musicians to know by now that it’s always a bad idea. None of them dressed like insurance salesmen, but still, he knows what they’re like underneath it all. Even more dangerous than the ones before him, Patrick isn’t a two-dimensional, transparent sham of a person; everything about him is real. He actually has the wit and confidence to knock David down a peg or two, and an enchanting warmth that feels terrifyingly alien. No, this isn’t a promising combination. He’s learned that the better something seems at the start, the further there is to fall later down the line.
David snatches his hand back and clutches it to his chest as if it’s been scalded. “I need to, um…” he breathes out, walking backwards a few steps.
Patrick immediately jams his hands into his pockets, wide-eyed. David can see the apology already forming on his lips. David turns and loses himself in the throngs before he can hear it, although he catches a call of his name over the jazzy music.
It’s fine. This is all fine. It’s a blip, is all. A confusing, terrifying, tempting as fuck blip.
He’ll find Stevie, get very drunk, and forget all about how electric Patrick’s hands felt on his skin.
He achieves… two out of three of those.
An hour or so later - what is time, even? - he’s sitting on one of the tables in the booths, with his feet on the seat and Stevie slumped against his legs as she sprawls out giggling on the cracked leather.
David’s not even sure if Patrick is still at the party. He’s successfully avoided Patrick since the… encounter they’d had, which he’s still trying to piece together in his mind. (It gets a little more difficult with each drink he puts away, surprisingly enough.) He doesn’t know how he melted so quickly, how he switched from just-about-tolerating Patrick to suddenly letting him hold his hand and seriously considering sticking his tongue down his throat. He was basically sober at that point of the night, too, so like… what the fuck?
“Umm, yeah, ‘cause you never actually hated him, you fucking moron.”
Oh, huh. How much of his internal monologue has he been rambling aloud? God, he hopes she didn’t hear his five-minute meander down the ‘I wonder how toned his body is’ path.
“Ex-cuse… me?” David enunciates every syllable perfectly, thank you very much.
“Even, like, from the start, you had a big fat crush on him. It was so obvious. Like, disgusting, actually.”
David frowns exaggeratedly into his punch. Stevie is a dirty, dirty liar. Although… in his mind’s eye, he replays Patrick adjusting his hold on the guitar, Patrick sliding in next to him on the sofa, and the rush of heat and fear in equal measure which had crashed over him every time.
He huffs, avoiding her eyes. “Whatever.”
Stevie leans up and shoves him hard on the shoulder, making him both look at her again and slosh a good portion of his drink out of his cup. “Ouch!” he snaps. Then: “Ohhh, my punch!” He bends at the waist in order to inspect his jeans very closely and confirm that they are, in fact, soaking wet with sticky-sweet god-knows-what.
How much did these jeans cost? He doesn’t remember. My god, that punch is lethal.
“David! Go find him!”
“Umm, how about you go find me a replacement for the drink you just very rudely made me spill on myself!”
Stevie groans in annoyance, punching him in the arm once more for good luck before swigging the last drop out of David’s cup and climbing out of the booth. “Fine. But you’re not getting out of this.” Her face turns oddly sincere (an unfamiliar look on her). “I like this for you.”
David mutters about there being nothing to like, but she’s already gone.
Why is he even here? He’s already stayed way longer than he intended to. There’s tons of people here Stevie can keep partying with; he saw her taking body shots off of Twyla earlier. He’ll… text her, or something.
He just needs to get out before he does something stupid.
Stumbling a little, he clambers off the table and heads for the doors, keeping his head down so as to remain as inconspicuous as possible, forgetting about the bright yellow feather on his head. The night air is refreshingly brisk, washing over him and pinching at the alcohol flush on his cheeks; he tilts his head up to the stars and closes his eyes briefly, until he sluggishly registers the feeling that he’s not alone. Looking around, he spots… Patrick, of course it’s fucking Patrick, leaning against the facade of the cafe, lip caught between his teeth.
“...Hi,” Patrick offers apologetically. David stares at him, contemplating how acceptable it would be to just book it right now.
“Why are you here?” David demands instead, frowning as it comes out a little more accusatory than he intended. “I mean. Outside. Why… are you outside?”
Patrick huffs a laugh. “I was thinking of leaving. I probably should’ve left already. But… I also kind of felt like I didn’t want to be done here tonight.”
Patrick’s pale, pretty face bathed in moonlight is a lot for David to process; the glow catches the movement of his throat as he swallows. His body is lean and solid, his shoulders against the wall and his hips jutting a little forwards, hands hiding in his pockets again. Now David’s noticed his attraction to him, it’s unavoidable. He looks like a fucking vision. Even wearing a newsboy hat, which no one should ever, ever do.
“I was thinking of leaving too,” David admits, his feet carrying him closer to Patrick.
Patrick tilts his head in the direction of the road. “You could.”
“Yes, mm-hm. I could.”
“Well, if you want to, you should.”
Suddenly, Patrick is a breath away. David has gravitated to him, drawn in inescapably, and maybe it’s the alcohol’s fault that he doesn’t even remember walking over, but maybe it’s Patrick himself - this simple, unassuming man somehow cracking all his codes, one by one.
David manages to breathe out, “I don’t want to,” before he’s leaning in and they’re kissing, holy fuck they’re kissing, and it’s inelegant and unrefined, and it’s the best David’s ever had. As David’s hand splays over Patrick’s jaw, Patrick’s soft, gorgeous mouth yields to David instantly, like he’s been waiting for him all this time.
“David,” Patrick gasps against his lips, and David presses closer, tongue insistently plunging into his mouth. Patrick moans for it, and yep, that sound goes right to David’s dick.
David’s head is swimming, his veins are buzzing, no room in his mind to consider the fact that they’re right out in the open, or the newfound pastime he might be jeopardising by doing this with his tutor. He lets himself be carried along on fleeting sensations: the cool air over his bottom lip when Patrick takes a sharp inhale between kisses; the thrum of Patrick’s pulse under his fingertips; the surprisingly silken feel of his waistcoat and the cold shock as David brushes against the watch chain.
“David,” Patrick says again, more urgently, so David tears himself away from his mouth with an effort. Patrick blinks at him, dazed, in complete awe. His lips twitch with a stunned half-smile. “I should tell you. I haven’t, uh… done that before. With a guy.”
Shit.
David’s heart plummets right down to his shoes.
Seemingly reacting to the horror written on David’s face, Patrick grabs both of his arms, stopping him from running. “No. No no, David. I’ve… I’ve thought about this. A lot.”
“Oh,” David says weakly, worrying his lip between his teeth. He gives Patrick a once-over, enjoying the way Patrick leans into his gaze like a physical touch. “Well. Fortunately, I’m… a very generous person.”
“Mm, I always got that sense.” He’s being sarcastic. It shouldn’t be endearing.
“So… Would you want to, um, do that some more?”
“Are you always this smooth?”
“Okay, you know what, that punch is very... ” David starts, but Patrick cuts him off with a kiss.
Gingerly, Patrick’s hands settle on David’s hips, and David groans and pulls them around to his ass. Patrick grins and squeezes, and that’s it. With some pushing and pulling, leaving Patrick’s outfit decidedly rumpled, he drags Patrick around the side of the cafe until they’re lost to the safety of shadows. Once again, he crowds Patrick against the wall, and Patrick whispers, “Oh my god, yes.”
Now that David’s given him permission, Patrick’s apparently obsessed with his ass - not that David’s complaining. His grip is greedy and unapologetic, groping him with these rhythmic squeezes that pull him closer until they’re practically grinding on each other, and even through David’s jeans, the slight press of Patrick’s thumbs near his cleft makes him shiver, makes him want.
David bites at his jaw, lips catching on stubble, and then teasingly kisses his neck.
“Fuck, David.” David didn’t even know Patrick had the ability to swear. His cock actually twitches, the harshness of the plosive ricocheting between them. David grins, pulling back to comment on it, but suddenly Patrick’s shoving his head back down, pressing his mouth to the same spot. “Do that again,” he groans.
Gladly, David thinks, scraping his teeth over Patrick’s throat as he wraps his hand around Patirck’s jaw to tilt his head backwards. The movement dislodges Patrick’s hat, pushing it down over his eyes and making him laugh breathlessly. David drops deliberate, open-mouthed kisses over his skin, blindly tugging his tie loose so he can pop the top button of Patrick’s shirt.
Patrick’s hand slides into his hair, knocking David’s feathered headband to the ground, and when Patrick whispers, “Harder,” David complies with a soft moan, obediently sucking and worrying at a spot just under Patrick’s jaw. It’s enough to bruise, which sends a sharp pang of arousal through David’s dick, but Patrick must realise that too. “Wait - lower, lower down,” Patrick murmurs, and David rolls his eyes even as he noses his way down past Patrick’s collar.
“I’m sorry, that placement wasn’t good enough for you?”
“Unprofessional,” Patrick manages, his hips rocking needily into David’s. Fuck, he’s hard. David can feel it. His mouth is watering.
“Should have known you’d still be telling me what to do,” David snickers, sucking hard just above Patrick’s clavicle, and Patrick gasps, yanking David’s hair and pressing him closer all at once. “You know, someone once told me I wasn’t good at following instructions.”
Patrick laughs, a tight, strangled sound. “I don’t know who said that, but clearly, they’re an idiot.”
His other hand finds its way past David’s waistband, fitting to the curve of his ass - god, David shivers at the scrape of his callouses, years and years of honing his craft evident in the roughened pads of his fingers. David pants against Patrick’s neck, his body thrumming with the need to feel those fingers caressing every inch of him. He’s seen Patrick’s fingers dancing on the strings and the gentle yet firm way he cradles the guitar, taking something heavy and ungainly and drawing such sweet, delicate notes from it.
“Kiss me, David,” Patrick implores, and David rushes to deliver. He kisses him and kisses him and kisses him, until his lips are numb and people begin to drift out of the cafe in dribs and drabs, unknowingly passing by metres from their embrace.
David could show him, right now, just how well he can take direction. He could drop to his knees, let Patrick really sink his hands into his hair, beg Patrick with smouldering eyes and a willing mouth to show David exactly what he wants. How fast, how deep; whether he wants David to tease him or swallow his cock until his eyes are streaming. He’d do it all for him, and something tells him Patrick would be more than willing to direct.
Fuck, his knees are weak with the desire.
He could do that, and Patrick would probably be on board, judging by the hard dick rutting against his own and the possessive hands down David’s pants.
But as much as the alcohol has slowed his blood-flow and diminished most of his inhibitions, he… doesn’t want that. Not tonight. Not with Patrick. Patrick trusted him with his first kiss (well, multiple kisses) with a guy, and fuck if David hasn’t caught the most dangerous of feelings, because with a surge of protective affection, he realises he doesn’t want Patrick’s first time to be like this. He can’t be for Patrick what so many others were to him in the past.
Besides, Patrick is just as annoyingly talented at making out as he is at playing the guitar. David could do this all night.
So, he does.
🎵
“Uuuuugggghhhhhh.”
“Oh my god, David, can you die quieter please?”
David sluggishly hurls a pillow in the general direction of Alexis’ bed - then instantly regrets it as the movement sends his stomach churning and the room spinning. He grabs his other pillow and buries his head underneath it, groaning.
Jesus Christ, he really should get that punch recipe from Twyla.
Slowly, pieces of the night before filter through: memories of questionable costumes and Stevie punching him a frankly rude amount of times, and… oh yeah, making out with his fucking guitar tutor.
Even as a frisson of nerves swirls through his already uneasy stomach, David can’t help but hide a giddy, too-large grin under his pillow. He can’t count the number of drunken hookups he’s had - most of them far more salacious than this one - but he’s never woken up the next day with this glimmer of hope in his heart. Kissing Patrick was maybe inadvisable, and maybe a little messy, considering their existing relationship… but it had felt like the start of something good.
After he’s managed to pour some water down his scratchy throat and struggle to a relatively upright position, David reaches for his phone. He almost coughs it up in surprise at the notification waiting on the screen, from a disgusting 7:34am this morning.
2 new messages: Guitar Guy
David opens the thread quickly, shielding the phone from Alexis’ prying eyes, even though she’s now snoring again.
Hi, David. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to tutor you anymore. If you’re still interested in guitar, I’ll send you the details of another tutor I’d recommend. I really hope you continue. Good luck with everything. Patrick
David stares at the message until the screen blurs and swims. He blinks furiously, then stares at it some more, his knuckles white as his unsteady hand grips the phone.
The next message, sent two minutes later, is a contact for someone called Skye, and a link to their website. And that’s it.
David didn’t feel nauseous before, but right now, it’s a battle not to run to the bathroom and hurl. Carefully locking the screen and placing the phone on the side, David crosses his legs and sits bolt upright, trying with all his might to temper the shuddering, panicked breaths currently ripping from his lungs.
Patrick’s words echo in his mind. I’ve never done that before, with a guy. David had thought, stupidly, that when Patrick said he’d been thinking about ‘this’, he meant he’d been thinking about him. About David, specifically. Perhaps he was too desperate to really analyse it, too eager to find something real that he looked past the obvious.
But he sees it for what it is now. So it goes, the age-old story he’s played out too many times. He’s just a means to an end, an answer to someone else’s questions, a moment of debauchery so that some generic, white-bread guy can say he’s experimented.
Well, fuck him, then. Fuck that guy.
David only realises he’s crying when Alexis is clambering onto his bed and throwing her arms around him, unaware of what’s wrong but wonderfully there regardless. He clings to her, feeling the empty space inside him that both guitar and Patrick had started to fill collapse in on itself once again.
🎵
The following days are stagnant. Several times, David considers replying to the texts - he even thinks about calling, one particularly miserable evening - but what’s the point? Patrick made it very clear that he wants nothing to do with David, cutting him off with all the genial platitudes he’d offer any one of his students. As if that night never happened. David supposes that’s how Patrick is moving through life - writing it off as either a mistake or something he has no plans to pursue any further.
On a drizzly afternoon, he slopes off to the back room of the motel lobby, shoving boxes aside to make room to sit down. He pictures those stereotypical montages in the movies, the protagonist plucking a melancholy tune as rain patters at the window. He wishes he could be That Guy, effortlessly strumming all his feelings away, except he can only play the few measly fucking chords Patrick taught him, and he’s not even good at those.
Pulling the guitar into his lap, he focuses on the fingering - snorting derisively at the memory of their banter over that - and strums a single chord. It doesn’t ring quite right, and he knows it, but he doesn’t know how to fix it. Clenching his jaw, he tries again - better. Almost. But not perfect.
Patrick would know what was wrong.
He tries a G instead, and he thinks it’s right. There’s a small gratification in that. But the notes hanging in the air taunt him in a way - a suggestion of what could be, with more energy and dedication that he can’t quite find in himself without Patrick’s teasing eyes urging him on.
It takes a week, a lot of grumbling, and many bottles of cheap wine split between Stevie and himself, until eventually David gives in and calls Skye. They’re professional and friendly enough, and they actually have a little studio space in town that they teach out of, which is far more appealing than having to suffer through Ray’s enthusiastic greetings and the distracting floral decor in Patrick’s poky office room.
So, really, it’s a good thing that Patrick dropped him. Totally.
After a faltering start where David struggles to adjust to Skye’s matter-of-fact method of teaching which leaves absolutely no room for David’s complaining, he settles into a routine of twice-weekly lessons. Without the distraction of Patrick in the room, David finds a grounding sort of calm in the weight of the guitar on his lap and the slight bite of the strings pressing into his fingertips; the scent of polished wood and the vibrations cascading from the instrument through his body become familiar and comforting. He learns enough to play a simple tune, shifting between a few different chords and sailing through a basic strumming pattern. It’s nothing, really, but it’s also a huge fucking something, and he can’t remember the last time he was so proud of something he’s made.
“Yes, nailed it!” Skye exclaims, pumping their fist in the air.
“I fucked up at the end,” David points out, though he tucks a shy smile into his cheek, absently running his fingers up and down the frets.
“Hey.” Skye jabs their finger at him menacingly. “None of that. You’re doing great. I’m really happy with your progress.”
David mutters a reluctant okay, and they start packing up as Skye checks their watch and notices the time. As David’s sliding his guitar into its case, Skye gestures to a scuff-mark on the polished chestnut side of the guitar’s body.
“You really gotta take better care of that thing. You can’t have had it that long - when did you buy it?”
David opens his mouth on a tilt of his head, then closes it again, regarding the guitar as if it might suddenly grow sharp teeth and snap at him.
He didn’t buy it, of course. He doesn’t know where that mark came from, or any of the similar scratches that litter the wood, telling the tale of a lifetime of use. He doesn’t know if it was dropped at a gig, or mislaid at a particularly boisterous party. He doesn’t know the origin of the stickers that litter the back, or the barely-there initials, R.W., carved haphazardly into the bottom of it.
He really should give it back. Patrick hasn’t asked, and a vindictive part of David wants to withhold it to teach him a lesson, but it’s not David’s to keep. And anyway, every time he’s reminded of who gave it to him, it shoots a sharp pang through his chest. As he plays, sometimes, he can’t help but think of Patrick’s fingers forming the same shapes as his own, and the way this guitar has felt the warmth of both of their bodies cradling it.
“It’s not mine, actually? I borrowed it from a friend.” Friend. Patrick was a lot of things to him, but David isn’t sure they ever landed on friend. “I’m going to get one of my own, though. Soon.”
It starts off as a bluff, but with those words, he speaks the conviction into reality. Why not? He’ll buy a fucking guitar. Despite himself, he cares about this; he wants to continue learning, and he wants to eventually make music he can be proud of, even if it’s just for himself.
Skye smiles. “Good.”
*
“Um, David, what is this?”
“What does it look like, Alexis?”
“Okay, but like, why?”
David squints at her, pulling a sour face. “It’s an interior design choice.”
The guitar is a deep, shining black, the pick guard a splash of white which matches the trim around the edge of its body. The silver tuning pegs and flashes of silver along the fretboard glitter in the light. Patrick’s guitar is nice, and David came to know its curves and its weight - but this one feels like a piece of him already, although he’s only tuned it so far.
Alexis pops her eyes at him exasperatedly, tottering across the room to pluck the very tip of the brand new guitar’s head between thumb and forefinger, examining it with mild curiosity. David bats her hands away, and she tuts at him.
“David.” Alexis pins him with a serious look. “Is this like the time you pretended you could paint so you could get with that artist guy?”
“Mkay, those were my paintings, and this is not like that!”
“Are you like, playing on a li’l street corner for money? Because we’re not that hard up, David.”
“Oh my god, no, could you imagine?”
Alexis plants a hand on her hip, waiting. David’s palms are sweaty, but he juts his chin up defiantly, challenging her not to take him seriously.
“I’m - okay, whatever, I’m learning the guitar, okay? I’ve been learning. For a while. And I like it. I think it’s… good for me.”
He forces himself to hold his sister’s gaze, as she tilts her head this way and that and scrutinises him for any sign of a joke. Alexis is a lot of things, but she’s sharp as a tack, and being under her undivided attention for more than a few moments often makes David feel like he’s under a microscope. Finally, she steps forward and slaps him on the arm. “And you didn’t tell me?!”
“Okay, ow!”
“Cute, David! You’re like a li’l musicman. Play me something!”
David feels himself turning red, although a smile is threatening to break through his unamused facade. “Absolutely not.”
“Ugh, you’re the least fun.” Alexis rolls her eyes, then twangs one of the strings just because she knows it’ll irk him. He slaps her hands away again. “I like this for you, David,” Alexis says with a lopsided smile, booping him on the nose.
David ducks his head and grumbles a few choice words, but among them is a soft, “Thank you.”
🎵
The budding confidence growing as David builds this new skill is partly to blame for the idea niggling away in the back of his mind. To open a boutique store of the kind that exists in David’s sketched-out imaginings in this town might be an easy way to flush all of their (his) current life’s worth down the toilet. But the general store is closing, and David’s more used to seeing opportunities where he might have once seen only failures, and y’know what? He’s capable of grabbing hold of them. He fought for the job at the Blouse Barn and then turned the place around; he picked up the phone to Patrick and took a plunge into something completely unfamiliar, because he wanted to, because somewhere inside he felt like he could.
He feels that way about this, too.
He’s never going to be a renowned musician, but his guitar skills are improving by the day; dedication, practice, an unexpected but welcomed passion. So why shouldn’t this work out the same way? He’s even had experience as a business-owner before.
Moira’s reaction being less than ideal is expected; David isn’t prepared, however, for her to shake his confidence to the core with the revelation that he had not, in fact, run a business on his own before, or for her to snatch this chance away from him before he can even try to prove himself. He spends that afternoon wallowing, but between Stevie’s surprisingly sincere reassurances and the flakiness of Christmas World, the lease is his. And he takes it.
When he asks Stevie where one would go about obtaining a business license in this town, she hesitates. “You’re not gonna like this.”
“What?”
“It’s Patrick.”
David’s jaw twitches. “What. What about Patrick.”
“Patrick Patrick. He does business consulting stuff out of Ray’s, as well as the tutoring.” She spreads her hands helplessly as David tries not to explode. “He’s a multi-faceted guy?”
David pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs sharply. Of course Patrick has to be incredibly smart, on top of being musically talented and a wonderful kisser. “Fuck. Fine. I have to return his fucking guitar, anyway.”
🎵
David walks into Ray’s in an outfit he spent far too long picking out, with the express purpose of appearing as if he hasn’t thought about it at all. Not for the first time that morning, he wishes he had a pill to calm the roaring in his ears and the jangling adrenaline in his veins. His sweater sticks to his back under the weight of the guitar case he’s carrying, anxious sweat that he just hopes isn’t showing on his face. At least he powdered it before he left.
The bizarre scene he walks into does nothing to calm his nerves, although he really should be used to it by now. “David! I haven’t seen you here for a few weeks. Did you finally give up on the guitar?” Ray asks sweetly.
“I - no!” David exclaims, offended. Ray tears himself from the odd photoshoot he’s conducting and presents David with a paper ticket reading B13. David’s not sure what the point of that is. As he reels off a slew of different businesses all apparently run out of this house, David can barely pay attention; his eyes dart around, not wanting to be caught off guard by Patrick.
“I’m here to file my incorporation papers for my business,” he manages, and Ray delightedly calls for Patrick. Footsteps approach from the other room. David steels himself.
Patrick rounds the corner with a smile, but his face falls when he sees who’s waiting for him. He looks as good as ever, irritatingly. David clutches the paper ticket in both hands, shuffling his feet awkwardly as Patrick stares at him, open-mouthed. Still smiling, Ray looks between the two of them, seemingly unaffected by the tension in the air. “I’ll leave you to it, then!” he finally declares, and retreats, leaving only a mile of space between David and Patrick.
David has been hanging onto a whole lot of anger since receiving those texts, and that’s where he drew the strength to come here today. It’s gone now. All he can think about is Patrick’s lips on his, and how much he misses the way he teased him.
Pressing his mouth into a thin line, David shrugs the guitar off his shoulders. “Um, this belongs to you. So.”
Patrick crosses the room to take it from him - he’s wearing the same cologne, just like in their second lesson, and David has to fight not to close his eyes and breathe it in. “Thank you,” Patrick says gently, those wide, honeyed eyes looking right into David’s.
“I bought one,” David blurts, instantly loathing himself. Damn those fucking eyes. Patrick doesn’t need to know, and likely doesn’t care. But he’s said it now, and Patrick’s wispy little eyebrows are raising in interest, so he forges on. “Um. A guitar, I mean. I’ve been going to lessons, still.”
Patrick’s lips part - in surprise, probably. “Oh. Well, I’m glad to hear it.”
He sounds frustratingly sincere, and David hates the way his chest flutters in response. He squashes it down.
“Is that, uh… all you came for?”
David holds up the ticket jerkily, passing it from one hand to the other. “No. I, um…”
“Ah - you bought the general store, right? I heard.”
“Leased. Leased the general store, yeah.”
Patrick nods, with a small smile. “That’s great. David, I’m happy for you.”
“Yeah. Okay. Well.” David squirms. “Should we just…?” Get this over with, he doesn’t say.
“Sure, yeah. Have a seat.”
David can almost see him shrugging on his Business Persona as he sits across the desk from David, shuffling through different forms and uncapping a pen, and suddenly it’s just - it’s too much. “Y’know what, maybe you can just - just give me the paperwork or whatever and I’ll fill it out and then we don’t have to… whatever this is. Just. It’s fine.”
David stands as he says it, flustered enough that he bumps into the desk and has to steady Patrick’s little mini globe so it doesn’t fall. Alarmed, Patrick stands as well, and as David turns to leave - without the forms, fuck it, he just needs to not be here - Patrick catches his wrist. His touch is warm and sure, just like it was at the party, or every time he gently corrected David’s positioning.
“David, wait - don’t go. I really would like to help you with your forms.”
David scoffs a little, but those eyes are so fucking loud. His heart skips weakly, hopeful despite all it knows. Narrowing his eyes, David lowers himself slowly into the seat, Patrick mirroring him. His hand lingers on David’s wrist for a moment longer than it needs to, before he withdraws it.
“David, listen… I should apologise for the way I acted.”
“Yes, you should,” David says without thinking, then tucks his lips between his teeth.
Patrick twists his hands together on the desk. “That night, I shouldn’t have… I overstepped a line. We were drinking, and I was your teacher. It doesn’t matter how much I liked you - that was wrong of me, to put you in that position.”
David blinks. That's not what he was expecting Patrick to apologise for. “Liked me?”
“Well.” Patrick’s starting to turn pink. “‘Like’. Like you, still.”
David’s reeling from this information.
“I felt terrible the next day. I couldn’t carry on teaching you after taking advantage of you like that. I didn’t want you to feel… obligated, knowing I was in a position of authority over you.”
David snorts. “To be clear, I have never once thought that you had any authority over me.”
“Oh, well, that was pretty evident from our lessons.”
It takes a moment for David to realise he’s smiling, and Patrick is too, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners.
Plenty of people have taken advantage of David in the past. Not one person has expressed remorse for doing so, and it just so happens that the first man to apologise for it is perhaps the most respectful, nicest person he’s ever kissed.
“Um. You didn’t,” David says hesitantly, his fingertips dancing nervously on the surface of the desk. “Take advantage. At all. I… wanted to kiss you very much. I kissed you first.”
“Huh. You did?” Patrick furrows his brow. “...Maybe I had a little more punch than I realised.”
David bites his lip, nodding in big, slow bows of his head. “Maybe, if you’d spoken to me like a normal person afterwards, we could have saved ourselves this hassle.”
“Yeah, not so smart on that one, huh?” Patrick rubs the back of his neck. “For what it’s worth, though, I could never have focused on teaching you again. Not after that.”
“Mm. A valid concern.” David can barely focus on this conversation, constantly glancing at Patrick’s mouth, now that he knows it’s allowed. His patched-up, ever-foolish heart aches and strains against his chest, demanding to be let loose.
“So, when you say you wanted to kiss me… you mean you like me, right?” Patrick says, his eyes dancing.
David rolls his eyes and shifts in his seat, falling into the familiar game, Patrick prodding at just the right spots to rile him up, without ever touching the ones that would hurt. “I mean. I don’t know if I’d go that far.”
“Uh-huh.” Patrick doesn’t believe a word of it. Neither does David. A silence falls between them, loaded not with tension but with excitable possibility. Patrick clears his throat, very much blushing now, and gestures to the forms. “Well… I think the least I can do is actually help you with, um…”
“Yes. Right. Yeah.” David shakes off the silly, giddy feeling and tries to concentrate.
“So, why don’t we start with the name of the business?”
“Oh, um, I'm oscillating between two names at the moment? So if we could just leave that one blank, that would be great.” David bites his lip against a wince, as Patrick watches him in amusement.
“Sure, sure. Give you more time to… oscillate.” David hates how much he’s having to hold back his grin right now. “Business address?”
“Okay, so I'm working on that. Um, I'm currently staying in a motel, and I think it might be confusing if I gave you the address to another business.”
After David stumbles through some more questions around the description of the business itself - it’s really not as complicated as he’s making it sound, but Patrick is very off-putting - Patrick nods slowly, and then sets his pen down. “Okay, um. David… Do you think it might be easier to discuss this over dinner?”
David gapes at him, caught between indignation that Patrick thinks he can’t answer some simple questions, and a cautious hope at the prospect of… “I’m sorry, are you asking me on a date?”
“Maybe.” Patrick sits back in his chair, folding his arms in a deliberately casual way. It pulls his shirt tight over his shoulders, which is… distracting. “Um. I’ve never actually eaten at the Cafe, but I've heard people raving about how moderately edible the food is there.”
David twists one of his rings around his finger, his face downturned to hide his expression. “Mhm. Well. I suppose I can… make that work.”
“Oh, well thank you, David. I appreciate the effort.” Patrick winks at him, as poorly as ever, and as cocky as he's been since day one.
Well, that just won't do.
"No tutor-talk, though," David says in a playfully reprimanding tone, dimples carving deeply into his cheeks. "You don't get to evaluate my fingering techniques anymore. Not tonight, at least."
Patrick sputters a little, gratifyingly ruffled, his gaze dropping to David's hands before he clears his throat and clasps his own together. "Um, yeah, I - maybe I could assess that at, uh... at a later date," Patrick manages.
David's mouth twists. "Mm-hmm."
They grin at each other stupidly for a beat. Patrick breaks the moment by tipping his head back on a slightly disbelieving laugh, then suggests eight o'clock, and it’s easy. Simple.
Unequivocally in-tune.
🎵
two years later.
"Okay, hi, everybody! Thanks for coming."
Perched on a tall stool at the corner of the little stage, David watches as his husband - his husband, he'll never tire of calling him that - launches effortlessly into his usual patter. This is a familiar routine; not long after David agreed to bring Patrick on board at Rose Apothecary, Patrick had suggested their first Open Mic night. To David's displeasure, it was a wild success, and they've been a staple of their calendar ever since; a hub for the community and eagerly looked forward to by friends and strangers alike.
In the beginning, David had zero inclination to get on stage. David remembers watching Patrick's ease and confidence in serenading him that first evening, the way his hands danced through his gorgeous arrangement without him even having to look at the strings, and thinking there's no way in hell he'd ever reach that skill level.
He still hasn't. He's not fucking delusional.
But as he grew in confidence and ability, he began to tentatively edge away from his solely behind-the-scenes role in these events, closer to the stage, the lights, the watchful eyes of a captivated audience. He's only joined Patrick onstage a few times now, but… well, he's his mother's son. He can’t deny that he loves the attention, loves proving to everyone watching that he's more than what meets the eye, loves the rush of pride at the end of a performance when he knows he hit the right notes.
Most of all, though, he loves doing it with Patrick.
“So, David and I met when I taught him beginner’s guitar.”
Oh god. This is not a part of his usual spiel. And he’s got that look on his face - the one that says he’s about to do something either incredibly stupid or incredibly heartfelt, or both. David’s pulse quickens, nerves and excitement and an overwhelming love for the man standing confidently at the mic suddenly consuming him.
“I’d just arrived in Schitt’s Creek, and to be honest, I didn’t have a plan. I was living day by day, just waiting for something to fall into place. I don’t think I was prepared for the… the whirlwind that was about to hit me when David Rose walked through the door that day. But I’ll always be grateful that we found each other through music - even if we didn’t exactly get off to a smooth start.”
Patrick shoots a look at David, who smiles bashfully. He keeps his eyes trained on Patrick, unable to look out at the sea of predictably teary eyes, for fear that he’ll start weeping himself.
“I’ve always loved hosting these things. But being able to get up here and perform side-by-side with the love of my life, in this place we built together… nothing compares to that. So thank you, David, for being here with me.”
Patrick presses four fingers firmly to his lips, then blows a kiss across the stage to David. He can almost feel the ghost of it, warm and soft against his cheek.
“As most of you know, we took a short break from the open mics… so I could take my new husband on our honeymoon! Yeah!” The crowd claps and whoops as Patrick raises his voice and spreads his arms, his face radiant with happiness. “But we are both so, so glad to be back tonight. We’ve got some awesome acts lined up - Bob, lookin’ at you with the steel drums!”
As Patrick enthusiastically points into the crowd, David presses both hands to his mouth in horror, disguising it as a quiet cough. He really, really hopes he can busy himself with… something in the back while that’s happening.
“So, without further ado… let’s get this show on the road, huh?”
Patrick directs the question at David, who nods his assent, tweaking a couple of the silver pegs and experimentally twanging a string or two as he makes sure he’s in tune.
Patrick situates himself on a stool that mirrors David’s, set up with a mic to catch his vocals as well as his playing. David’s not the singer here; he’s perfectly content to follow Patrick’s lead in accompaniment, the two of them twining a melody together while Patrick’s voice carries them to the finish.
The first notes, soft and slow, rise up from Patrick’s delicate fingers, and David takes advantage of these few bars to close his eyes and soak up the sound of Patrick’s music, swaying a little in his seat to the gentle rhythm he’s building.
The way Patrick plays is fluid and natural, as if the guitar is an extension of his own body. And when David joins him, two sounds effortlessly weave into one, the vibrations under his fingertips complimenting Patrick’s tune in harmony, and filling in the spaces he leaves for David. It’s a little like the way they fit together - different but alike, balancing each other’s lows and highs to make one unique, intricate song.
Patrick is singing now. It’s a beautiful sight, the cords in his neck standing out and the light flush on his cheeks, the earnest honesty in his eyes as he throws his heart behind the lyrics.
Belatedly, David realises he’s so enthralled with him that he hasn’t looked down at the strings in at least half a minute. His stomach lurches in panic - what if he stumbles? Has he messed up already? Is he even at the right place in the song? - but… he’s still going. His hands know the tune, and he feels it in his core that he’s doing this right.
David breaks into a beaming smile, and plays on, catching his husband’s gaze.
He’s exactly where he’s supposed to be.
🎵