Chapter Text
“Fuck,” David mutters at no one in particular as milk splatters all over his apron for the fourth time that morning. The ancient espresso machine makes a growling noise, and David can’t stop himself from growling back. That stupid fucking hunk of metal hates him and he hates it right back. The fucking thing never seems to give Stevie any trouble. One of these days, it’s going to ruin one of his favorite sweaters, and he’s going to throw it out into the middle of Main Street.
If anyone had told David five years ago that what he’d be doing on his thirty-[redacted] birthday was working at an underperforming coffee shop in rural Ontario with his only friend, he would have asked what drugs they were on and if they were willing to share. But unfortunately, David from five years ago, or even six months ago, could not have predicted the tragic events that led him here.
He couldn’t have predicted that the one-two punch of finding out his parents were propping up his galleries followed by Sebastien’s exhibit would make him (and his body) the lead story on every tabloid and gossip outlet for weeks. It certainly wasn’t the first time he’d been featured in the celebrity gossip columns, but this was particularly bad. He could hardly walk past the newsstand on the corner without seeing a headline about himself or worse, a picture he didn’t remember Sebastien taking. It got so bad that he simply stopped leaving his apartment, spending the small amount of money he could call his own on food delivery.
That, unfortunately, became unsustainable long before the media circus died down, and since none of his so-called friends in New York wanted anything to do with him, he needed to get out of town. Somehow, through what must have been a fit of temporary insanity, that led to him accepting a job from Stevie at the coffee shop that she now owned.
David is making a latte for another customer, so he doesn’t see the man walk in. At least, he's trying to make a latte, but the espresso machine continues to be an asshole, and Stevie is no help, saying “you’ve worked here for three months, figure it out” before disappearing into the back. So David doesn’t see the man until they’re face to face. He’s cute in a buttoned-up, business casual sort of way, certainly more attractive than most of their clientele. The sleeves of his baby blue shirt are pushed up to expose well-muscled forearms, which momentarily distract David from the task at hand.
“Hi, welcome to Schitt’s Creek Coffee House, what can I get you?” David says, dragging his gaze from the man’s forearms up to his face.
“Can I get a large English breakfast tea to go?” the man asks with a small smile, and David can’t stop his face from morphing into a look of disgust, which unfortunately, does not go unnoticed.
“Is there something wrong?”
David tries to arrange his face into a more neutral, customer-appropriate look.
“No, nothing wrong, coming right up,” David says with what he hopes is a smile but most likely comes out as a grimace. Stevie has been lecturing him about good customer service, as if she’s one to talk, but he hasn’t broken her “don’t make the customer cry” rule yet this week. Sure, it’s only Tuesday, but he counts it as a win anyway.
The man smirks at him.
“It just kinda seems like you had an opinion on my order,” he says.
“Okay, fine!” David says, flailing a little. “This is a coffee shop. You should order coffee! Tea is incorrect! It’s just hot plant water.”
“Hm, well, you could argue that coffee is just hot bean water.”
“That’s not the same thing at all.” Fuck, this guy is annoying. David really wants to do something to wipe that infuriating smirk off his face, but instead thinks about the way this man’s hair is just long enough to have a nice curl to it and if he used an appropriate product for curly hair instead of the three-in-one he probably uses, it would actually look really nice.
“Seems like they’re the same to me,” the other man says, shrugging and handing over a few dollars for the tea.
“Well. You’re incorrect,” David replies dismissively, pushing the cup of tea toward the other man. “Here’s your tea.”
“Thank you, David.”
“What–how did you…?”
“You’re wearing a name tag,” the man says, gesturing at the small piece of plastic pinned to David’s apron. “See you soon,” he adds before turning and walking out the door.
David stands at the register staring after him, money still clenched in his hand, watching him walk away. It isn’t fair that someone so annoying should have an ass that nice, and it is really not good that David finds himself hoping to see it again. God, he really needs to get laid.
David shakes his head and shoves the money into the register with unnecessary force. It was just a nice ass in some tight, mid-range denim. It doesn’t mean anything.
“Who was that?” Stevie asks, coming out from the back.
“Just some snippy customer,” David answers, refusing to look at her.
“You look flustered.” The look of sheer glee on Stevie’s face is absolutely unacceptable.
“I’m not flustered! It’s just hot in here.”
“You know it wouldn’t be as hot if you weren’t wearing a sweater in July,” Stevie snarks at him.
“You know what, it’s time for my break,” he says with a glare.
“You’ve only been here for an hour,” she replies, but lets him go anyway.
David slips out the back door and sits in one of the flimsy plastic chairs he and Stevie sit in when they get high in the alley after work. He slides his sunglasses onto his face and leans back. It’s quiet here in a way that New York never was. He’s still getting used to the way the silence presses down on him.
The problem with the quiet is that it’s much harder to find respite from the ever-present swirl of thoughts in his mind. Lately, so many of those thoughts have been about Sebastien or his parents or the people he once called friends, as much as he wishes they weren’t. But today, he thinks about the man with the curls and the forearms and the ass and the attitude.
Nothing the man said was directly rude, but David can’t shake the feeling that he was still being mocked in some way. It’s a feeling that has followed him since childhood, and he’s usually right. If he’d been on surer footing, he would have given the man a piece of his mind, but he’s felt unsteady and out of place since he arrived in Schitt’s Creek. The whole interaction left him feeling off-center, but even as he was teasing David, there was an undercurrent of something different in the man’s behavior, something David doesn’t quite recognize. David lets out a breath and shakes his head to clear it. He’s lonely, not desperate. He’s not going to fuck the first cute customer to wander in, especially one who was so rude. He’s dated enough assholes for a thousand lifetimes. And anyway, that guy will probably never come back.
David checks his phone once before heading back inside. There’s a text from Alexis, which he pulls up, but instead of birthday greetings, it’s a link to yet another story about him. He really shouldn’t click on it, but he’s never been one for impulse control, which Alexis knows all too well.
David Rose’s Sudden Departure
Well-deserved Retreat or Hiding in Shame?
He rolls his eyes at the headline and shoved his phone back in his pocket. He thought that by leaving New York, he could get away from all this, but he underestimated the media’s interest in the downfall of the rich and moderately famous. He’s read far too many pieces trashing the lifestyles of the spoiled party children of the elite that are inevitably written by some bitter Ivy Leaguer living off their own trust fund.
The rest of the day passes without incident, and despite his insistence that all he wants to do for his birthday is pop a pill, cry a bit, and fall asleep early, Stevie drags him out to the Wobbly Elm for birthday cocktails. He tries not to think about his last birthday, which he spent in one of New York’s most exclusive clubs, drinking top shelf champagne and getting high with an entourage of people only there for the use of his Black Card.
Well, maybe this birthday isn’t that bad after all. True, he’s drinking rail drinks in a sketchy bar on the outskirts of town, but at least he knows Stevie is here for the long haul. They survived college and their ill-fated attempt at being friends with benefits and everything that came after, so she’s not going anywhere now.
“Have you heard from your family?” Stevie asks, sipping her drink and feigning innocence. He glares at her, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Not unless you count Alexis sending me yet another article.” Which he doesn’t. “Not that I really thought they cared enough to bother.”
It’s hardly the first time his family has forgotten his birthday. Honestly, they’ve probably forgotten more years than they’ve remembered. And he’s not exactly dying to hear from his parents; he’s still mad, after all. But that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still sting.
“Hm,” she says, giving him a knowing look.
“What?”
“Maybe they just didn’t think you’d want to hear from them.”
David scoffs and sips his drink, grimacing at the harshness of it. He is not going to justify that with a response.
“I’m guessing they think you’re still mad at them. You weren’t exactly quiet about it.” He winces at her pointed look, remembering the video of him screaming at his parents in the gallery that made its rounds on the internet, always captioned with drivel like “Rose Family Civil War!”
“Of course I’m still mad, Stevie. My entire professional life has been a lie.”
“I could be wrong, but it seems to me like their intentions were good.”
“Or their intentions were to make sure they didn’t look bad when I inevitably failed again because apparently that’s all I know how to do.”
“Okay, you have to stop reading those articles about you.”
“I would if Alexis would stop sending them to me!” It’s a lie. Even though he did turn the google alert off on his name, he still hasn’t been able to avoid clicking on the links.
“Would you, though?”
Fuck. She knows him too well.
“Mmkay, this is harassment and this is my sad birthday celebration.” David drains his drink and flags down the bartender for another.
“Fine,” Stevie says. “Tell me more about the snippy customer.”
“Oh my god.”
Later that night, David lies on his back in bed, watching the ceiling spin, the taste of alcohol still lingering on his lips. Mixing cosmos and polar bear shots is probably a decision he’s going to regret in the morning. Hopefully, he'll get lucky and it’ll be an easy day with no rude customers.
But of course, David has never been particularly lucky.
The man comes in the next day, just as David has managed to downgrade his hangover to a dull ache with a carefully-crafted cocktail of espresso, water, and ibuprofen. David doesn’t miss him this time. He’s gingerly wiping off the counter after a morning onslaught of customers, trying not to breath in too much of the bleach smell, and he looks up when the bell over the door chimes. The same man is there, in another blue button-up (cobalt blue this time, David notes, which is actually a great color for him) and an identical pair of jeans.
“Hi, David,” he says, making his way over to the counter, his smirk already in place. David is not in the mood.
“Mm, you don’t have a name tag, so I feel like I’m at a disadvantage here.”
“I guess it is a bit of an uneven playing field, huh?” the man laughs.
“Do I look like I know what that means?” David rolls his eyes and taps his fingers against the counter. The light reflecting off of his rings draws the man’s gaze down to David’s hands and he’s silent for a moment, seemingly transfixed.
“I’m Patrick,” he says, finally looking back up and extending his own hand. David stares at him for a moment, uncomprehending, and then takes his hand gingerly, shaking it.
“David,” he says. Everything about this man makes David feel like he missed a step going down the stairs, from the handshake to the smirk to the firm muscles of his forearms.
“I know,” Patrick says, the corners of his mouth turning down into what David can only describe as an upside down smile. David feels his face heat up in embarrassment.
“What can I get you today, Patrick?” he says smoothly, accentuating the “k” at the end of his name, trying to regain some of his footing in this conversation. “Another tea?”
“Well, you made such a strong case for ordering coffee in a coffee shop yesterday that I figured I’d give it a try.”
“And what kind of coffee would you like?” David asks with barely suppressed irritation. “We do actually have more than one kind.”
“Oh, whatever you recommend, David.”
“It’s hard to recommend something if I don’t know what your preferences are.”
Something flits across Patrick’s face, something that, however briefly, shakes his composed exterior, and David is intrigued, but it’s gone as soon as it appears.
“That didn’t seem to bother you yesterday.” Patrick’s tone is teasing and David’s pretty sure he’s being laughed at again, which he does not appreciate. He’s just about to say something cutting in response, but Stevie is watching him from across the room and apparently she thinks customer service is the reason the shop isn’t doing well, so he refrains. Definitely not because Patrick’s teasing smile stirs something in his belly.
“Fine,” David snaps, rolling his eyes. “If you’re not normally a coffee drinker, I’d recommend the cold brew, because it’s not as bitter or acidic.”
“Okay, but what if I wanted the cold brew hot?”
David just stares at him over the counter.
“That’s not—you can’t—it’s cold brew, it says it’s cold right in the name!”
And Patrick is laughing at him again. Fuck.
“Do you get off on harassing food service employees or something?” David asks.
“Is that what I’m doing, David?”
“Okay, you know what?” David starts to say but Stevie appears at his elbow.
“What’s going on?” she asks, barely hiding her glee. She has some kind of sixth sense for when David’s feeling flustered, and her presence never helps.
“I was just explaining to our customer here that the cold brew is cold,” answers David icily.
“Okay, but if he wants it warm, why don’t you just heat it up?” She’s looking at David with that wide-eyed look of sincerity and if she hadn’t been his best friend since college, he might think she actually meant it. Unbelievable.
“It’s cold brew, Stevie,” he says, exasperated. “If you heat it up, it’s not cold anymore.”
“Ah, but I think the name has to do with how it’s made, not how it’s served,” Patrick chimes in, like he wasn’t the one just asking for coffee recommendations. “So you could still order a hot cold brew.”
Stevie gives a snort of laughter.
“I like him.” She turns to Patrick. “I like you.”
“Fine! Stevie, can you please get Patrick here a hot cold brew?” David says, spitting out the last few words like they taste bad. “I need a break from this imbalanced social dynamic.” With a final glare at Stevie, he disappears into the backroom.
When he comes back out to the floor, Patrick is gone, and David hates that he feels a little twinge of something like regret. Stevie, however, is still there, leaning against the counter, grinning at him.
“What?” David asks.
“Oh, nothing. He’s cute.” Stevie’s grin widens.
“I guess, if you’re into business majors who wear straight-leg mid-range denim,” David answers dismissively.
“Oh, I’m not,” she says. She doesn’t add clearly-implied but you seem to be but it’s apparent from her tone anyway, and he waves her off.
“You should ask him out,” she says after a minute.
“He’s a customer who has come in twice and made fun of me both times!”
“What’s your point? I made fun of you relentlessly for months freshman year and you still slept with me.”
“That was different! That was college. And I was desperate.”
“And you’re not now? I have to live with you, David.”
David groans and covers his face with his hands.
“Why did I agree to this harassment?”
“Because I pay you and I very generously gave you a place to live away from the disaster that was your life in New York.”
He wants to protest, wants to say that it wasn’t a disaster, but he knows she’s right. However miserable he is here, he’d be doubly so, at least, if he were back in New York. He might hate serving coffee, he might hate having to put up with Roland every day, but it’s still better than dodging paparazzi, floating aimlessly through his days, and getting high every night. He just hates when Stevie is right.
Unfortunately, Stevie’s right about more than just how utterly miserable he was in New York. He doesn’t know what it says about him that Patrick’s teasing is actually doing something for him, but he can’t deny that it is. The teasing is part of what drew him to Stevie in the first place, all those years ago. She challenged him, parried his barbs back at him, refused to give in to his bullshit. And she was equally as talented at bringing him out of anxiety spirals as she was causing them. But in the end, they were much too alike to be together without tearing each other apart. Their relationship–if you could even call it that–lasted only a few weeks, but their friendship has outlasted every thing that’s been thrown at them thus far.
It’s Stevie’s turn to put on a playlist while they close up for the day; they had to settle on taking turns because while there are some overlaps in their music tastes, her preference for 90s riot grrl punk and hair metal bands seems to be primarily designed to infuriate him. Today, at least, she settles on a playlist that seems to be Lilith Fair-inspired. They go through their closing tasks bantering back and forth about nothing in particular. When they’re done, they trudge up the stairs to the cozy two-bedroom apartment that sits above the shop. Stevie throws herself facedown onto the couch while David checks the fridge for something edible.
“There’s nothing in here,” he whines.
“So go get something,” Stevie says, her voice muffled by the pillow.
“The cafe is the only place to eat in this town and I can’t eat another mediocre burger,” David complains. “Can we just stay in and order pizza?”
“Fine, but get two so I can actually have some this time.”
“Um, excuse me, you basically ate all of the last pizza we ordered,” David snaps.
“If by that you mean I had three pieces while you had the rest, then yes.” He doesn’t need to see her face to catch the implied eye roll.
One and a half pizzas and several glasses of wine later, they’re on opposite ends of the couch, watching Project Runway. It’s a routine they’ve settled into easily, not that there’s much else to do in this town.
“Patrick works for Ray,” Stevie says suddenly, apropos of nothing.
“Hm?” David is far too engrossed in the latest designer meltdown to process what she said.
“I said, Patrick works for Ray,” she repeats, kicking him lightly.
“I heard you,” he snaps, “but what could possibly make you think that I care that for some reason, Ray thought there was enough market for another real estate agent in this town?”
“I never said he was a real estate agent.”
“You said he works for Ray.”
“Ray has like, eighteen businesses. Patrick is a small business consultant.”
David snorts. Of course he is. The man looks like the living embodiment of a spreadsheet.
“He could help,” Stevie says, kicking him again. David really doesn’t like the thoughtful look on her face.
“Help with what?”
“Uh, I don’t know, David, maybe the business I’m trying to run?” she says, glaring at him. “Unless you’ve suddenly decided to help with the paperwork.”
“Oh, um, I would,” David responds, grimacing. “But I don’t want to.”
“Well, we need to do something, or else you’re going to have to get a job at the Dude Cave.”
“Oh my god, imagine? This town is not ready for this.” David does a full-body shimmy as he gestures at himself. Stevie just rolls her eyes. “You know I think you should rebrand. ‘Schitt’s Creek Coffee House’ just doesn’t roll off the tongue.”
“For the last time, I am not naming my coffee shop something pretentious like Rose Roastery.”
“Well, obviously,” David says. “You wouldn’t call it a roastery; you’re not roasting your own beans.”
Stevie doesn’t bother justifying that with a response, just pours herself another glass of wine.
During the mid-morning lull the next day, David is leaning on the counter, sketching in his journal. He knows the rebrand is a good idea, even if he hasn’t convinced Stevie of it yet. Maybe if he can get this mock-up of the new logo right, she’ll get on board.
He doesn’t look up when the bell over the door chimes, too caught up in getting the shading right. In fact, he doesn’t look up until a now-familiar voice says, “what are you working on?”
David finally looks up to see Patrick in yet another blue button-down and a soft smile. He slams the journal shut. He’s not ready for anyone to see it.
“Nothing,” he says, ducking his head. “Just an idea I had for a new logo for this place.”
He expects Patrick to mock him or make some teasing remark. Instead, he nods.
“A new logo could help with marketing,” he says seriously. “Maybe help you guys engage with the community a little more.”
David gives him a skeptical look, and Patrick ducks his head bashfully, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Yeah, sorry, this is kind of what I do.”
“Offer unsolicited business advice?” David asks.
“Yeah, kind of,” Patrick answers, laughing. He pulls a business card out of his pocket and hands it to David. “Here, in case you want some solicited advice, feel free to call or whatever.”
David studies him, fingering the edge of the business card as he watches the blush spread across Patrick’s cheeks. It’s strangely endearing. David pockets the business card.
“What can I get you today?” he asks. “Another hot cold brew?”
“No, no, I don’t think that’s the drink for me.” Patrick laughs. “What do you usually order?”
“Um, a caramel macchiato, skim, with two sweeteners and a sprinkle of cocoa powder?”
The faintest grimace passes across Patrick’s face, and David, again, expects to be mocked. It wouldn’t be the first time. He spent a lot of years in New York suffering through black coffee just to avoid the snickers and pointed looks and comments about his waistline. It had taken him a long time to be able to drink his coffee the way he liked it without the all-consuming guilt.
But Patrick doesn’t do any of that. All he does is smile and say, “I’ll take two.”
“Really in need of a caffeine fix today, huh?” David asks.
“Something like that.”
“I can get you a large?”
But Patrick insists on two small coffees, so David makes two macchiatos and slides them across the bar to Patrick.
“Thanks, David,” Patrick says, picking up one of the cups and taking a sip. He gestures at the other cup. “That one’s for you, by the way.”
Then he fucking winks and saunters out the door.
Fuck.