Chapter Text
CHAPTER 9: A Signal, Going Up Like Smoke
They suffer in limbo for three more days. It’s been three days of pulling sleds, stoking campfires, and stargazing in the middle of frozen lakes. Every day, David wakes up with Patrick’s sleeping bag pressed up against him, and successfully skirts around any awkward conversations. They talk about everything: the constellations, how to not burn bannock, why Patrick should take up photography as a hobby given the unique perspective of being closer to the ground when he’s being pulled in a sled. It feels like they’ve talked about everything except their conversation on the first night.
Though David is anxious to get home and wash this trip off of his body, he takes his time on the trek back to Bob the Bus Driver. He walks slowly, with intention, and takes in all the sounds and smells that make up the trails of Algonquin Park. The buzzing in his ears that started when they first arrived has since disappeared. (Thanks, New York noise pollution.) He had forgotten how clean the air is out here, and how beautiful it can be when the sky is absolutely clear. (That, and Patrick decides to provide some travelling entertainment for the hike back in the form of absentmindedly picking on his guitar.)
Every time he looks back at Patrick, just to make sure he hasn’t fallen off the sled, he’s gazing back with a shy, kind look. If it weren’t for the crispness in the air, maybe David’s cheeks would be pink from the attention.
They get to the parking lot a good five minutes after everyone else. Ray’s husband has driven up to meet them and pack the bigger sleds into their truck. Roland steps away from where he’s loading up the bus to saunter over.
“Well boys, looks like you took the scenic route home.”
“I’d hardly call a parking lot home, but thanks for not leaving without us,” David quips.
Roland crosses his arms and nods. There’s a slight air of suspicion about him. “You boys didn’t happen to stop and admire some green trees , did ya?” He raises his eyebrows.
Patrick smiles, climbing out of the sled. “No sir, just letting David take his time.”
Roland sighs, almost disappointed, then motions them onto the bus.
“What was that about?” David asks. He sets a slow pace towards the yellow monstrosity, making sure that Patrick can take his time and be kind to his foot.
Patrick shrugs. Whatever gets them on this bus and home in good time.
They climb the bus and scan for empty seats. At this point, everyone has already filed in. People are taking off layers and trading mukluks back for winter boots to ensure the elk hide stays preserved. Compared to the neat, precise sorting of the bus on the way up, it’s now haphazard, thrown together just long enough to get back on the road. And every seat seems…taken.
David sees Stevie about halfway back and makes his way to her. She’s by herself, but upon closer inspection, she’s surrounded by what seems like half the class’s duffle bags. She’s resting her back on them.
“Hi.” David smiles thinly at her, expectant.
“Oh, hi,” she chirps back, uncharacteristically cheerful.
“Have all the seats been accounted for?” David’s eyebrows inch toward his hairline. (His hair has been a curly mess since day two of trip.)
“Unfortunately, yes,” Stevie says, saccharine. “However, you will find one free seat closer to the rear of the vehicle,” she points like a flight attendant. “It has a lovely foot rest of wanigans for your convenience.”
“You sure about that?” Patrick says from beside David. His hands grip both sides of the leather seats.
A voice behind Stevie pipes up. “Oh, she’s sure.”
It’s Rachel, leaning back in Twyla’s arms while Twyla leans against the window. Rachel smirks, and Twyla giggles into her shoulder. Oh.
David looks back at Patrick, who just shrugs again, and gestures toward the back of the bus. True to Stevie’s word, there is in fact an empty seat, and the gap on the floor is indeed taken up by two of the wanigans. The seat directly across the aisle is the exact same, except there is a mountain of duffels stacked on top of the wanigans. Fucking Stevie.
Patrick clears his throat. “After you, then?” (Was that a blush creeping in, or was he just wind-burnt?)
David sighs, reluctantly climbing into the Jenga puzzle. Patrick follows suit.
The wanigans push their feet and knees up so that they are contorted into a somewhat compromised position.
“This is not a structurally sound configuration for napping,” David scoffs, which earns a small laugh from Patrick.
“I’ll wake you when we get there,” Patrick smiles, eyes loud.
Despite his misgivings, David is able to nap. So is Patrick. Much like road trips they’ve taken in the past, they fall asleep with David’s head on Patrick’s shoulder. Both their bodies and brains are heavy.
Thanks to their unfortunate location in the back of the bus, the ride is especially bumpy. It jerks David awake roughly an hour in and makes him bang his head on the window.
“Ow!” David yelps. His eyes take in the sinking sun through the glass pane. How long had he been asleep for? There’s a tiny gasp from beside him.
“You okay?” Patrick half whispers, face riddled with concern.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” David rubs his head and stretches his neck. He notices that Patrick is still watching him out of the corner of his eye. “What?” He asks.
Patrick shrugs. (Again with the shrugging?) “Just wanted to make sure that you were okay.”
David nods. He’s unsure of where to take the conversation from here, and he knows that it would be too rude to simply turn his head and stare out the window. Besides, it seems like Patrick is waiting for him to say something.
“So, did you,” David clears his throat. “Did you enjoy winter trip?”
Patrick’s mouth quirks up at the corner. Either it’s the movement of the bus or the noise of other students, but Patrick seems to close more of the space (if there was any in the first place) between them.
“I did, yeah. Besides not feeling like I was able to do anything, it’s beautiful to get out in winter.”
David hums in agreement, and before he thinks, he can hear himself saying, “I, uh — I finished some new pieces. When we were out on solos? Would you like to see them?”
Patrick’s face softens and takes on a glow in the dusk. “I would love that.”
David’s eyes fill with panic as he reaches for the sketchbook in his leather satchel. He can't remember the last time he showed Patrick his art. His fingers are frantic and shaky as he flips between pages. Finally, he pinpoints where his art from winter trip starts.
The first one is a red cardinal done in water colours. (David added the water colour paper with scotch tape because he is not an animal.)
Then there are a few charcoal drawings of campfire embers. Next, an a-frame tent glowing in the night is done in coloured pencil.
Then, there’s a fine line silhouette; it’s a landscape of the lake, littered with stars. Two tiny figures lie in the middle of its frozen expanse.
Patrick’s fingers dance a few inches above the page, because he knows that David prefers his art to be untouched. “Just like your mukluks. From when we were on the canoe trip,” he whispers.
David turns to him and nods slowly. “You noticed?” He asks, voice soft.
Patrick stares at him and let’s David’s question hang between them. His eyebrows pull together. “David,” he says. But it’s too much for David — he can’t look Patrick in the eyes right now. He shifts his attention back to his sketchbook and carefully closes it.
He hears the sound of a zipper beside him, followed by the rustling of paper. A few pieces of loose leaf, neatly folded, slide onto his sketchbook cover.
“What’s this?” David takes the pages, turning them over in his fingers. He’s afraid to open the letter and discover its contents.
“I wrote it,” Patrick says, low and clear. “It’s for you. You don’t have to read it now — you can read it when you’re ready. Or, you know, I’d understand if you wanted to throw it into a fire. But it’s there. Everything.”
“Everything?” David looks back at him, eyes filling with tears.
Patrick nods. “It kind of starts off as an apology, but it’s all there. Might even have turned into song lyrics at the end.” Patrick looks down at his hands and clenches his jaw. He lifts his gaze back to David, and looks at him through his eyelashes. “And if you get to the end and there’s more you want to know, you can just ask.”
David nods and stares at the letter. He can’t find the right words. Or any words. He finally looks back at Patrick, who’s blinking something out of his eyes. They’re quite a pair.
“Patrick?”
Patrick bites his lips. His beautiful, pink, chapped lips.
“Are you rooting for us?”
Patrick nods and wraps his hand around David’s, which is still holding the letter. He uses it as an anchor to pull David into his space, and then he reaches out with his other hand to hold David’s jaw. David hears a faint but firm whisper of yes before registering Patrick’s lips on his. Finally.
It’s been an incalculable amount of time between when Patrick gave David the letter, and where they are now: sprawled out across the length of the seat and squished in the back of the bus, kissing like they haven’t in, well, two years. To be exact. It hasn’t all been kissing, though. It’s been wiping the other’s tired eyes free of tears, running hands through unwashed curls, tracing unshaven jawlines, and whispering secrets to the soundtrack of Bob the Bus Driver’s evening selection of The Mamas and the Papas.
There’s a knock on a nearby, stowed away sled, and an emphatic clearing of the throat makes both of them jump and sit up in their seats.
“You guys seem pretty busy.” Stevie raises her eyebrows, smug.
“Why are you back here?” David practically snaps. Patrick reaches over and squeezes David’s thigh in an effort to calm him. (It doesn’t work, but the touch is most certainly welcome.) Stevie looks back at David, face kind but eyes full of mischief.
“Roland got a call from your sister.” In that case, they must be getting closer to home. “She said it’s, and I quote, ‘her turn to take a selfish,’ so she’s unable to come pick you up.”
“Ew.” David winces. “That either means she’s gone to a tailgate or is picking up Ted, and I don’t want any of that.”
“I could drive you home?” Patrick pipes up.
Stevie smiles, dramatically turning around and exiting back to her seat.
David turns back to Patrick. “You wouldn’t mind?”
Patrick shrugs, lips tugging into a smile. “I mean, my place is always an option.” Patrick winks. Winks.
David is stunned, and his mouth hangs open. He hasn’t read Patrick’s letter yet, but something about the confidence in Patrick’s eyes tells him that coming over will be different this time. Patrick drops a kiss on his shoulder, as if silently confirming David’s thoughts.
When Bob the Bus Driver pulls into the Elmdale city limits, he starts blasting Adele, encouraging everyone to “wake up and smell the roses.” Patrick decides to sway along to Right as Rain, singing in an off key falsetto. It’s not exactly a love song, but David is absolutely smitten. Easy laughter bubbles up from his chest as he watches Patrick under the glow of fluorescent lights. It’s the happiest they’ve been in a long time.
***
Patrick’s body is buzzing, and he feels absolutely on edge. He didn’t want to lead with “my parents took a last minute trip out to Newfoundland,” because he is certainly no longer hiding this part of himself from them, but he also wants David to know that they have the house to themselves.
When they walk through the front door, David all but melts. He takes everything in slowly, just remembering what it feels like to be back. He spins around, still holding his duffel, and looks a little confused.
“It’s barely nine p.m., and all the lights are off.”
Patrick shrugs and tries to hide his smile as he strips his ski jacket off. “That’s right. My parents are out of town.”
David lets go of his bag with a thud, and his mouth twists in giddy suspicion. “Patrick Brewer, did you invite me back here, knowing that little piece of information?”
Patrick unbuttons David’s coat for him while he stands there, dumbfounded. “That’s correct.” He hangs David’s coat up and takes his hand, then leads him up the stairs while walking backwards. He doesn’t want to stop looking at David yet. “Thought you might want to get all the campfire smoke off your body.”
“Oh I do,” David picks up the pace and nudges Patrick to do the same.
The steam and hot water of the shower slowly lift the salt, sweat, and smoke of winter camping off both of their bodies. They steal kisses in between swipes of minty shower gel against skin. Patrick wraps his arms around David’s middle, and splays his hands across David’s lower back. David massages Patrick’s scalp and rinses out shampoo to the sound of Patrick’s gentle humming. He cracks open one eye and tries to look at David while avoiding soap suds.
“This time around,” he opens his other eye, confident that David has gotten most of the shampoo out by now. “I hope you stay.” Patrick whispers, then pulls David closer.
David stills his fingers and tips his head so that they’re looking directly at each other.
“I’m going to,” David says, smiling.
This time, David is sure of it.