Chapter Text
Turns out Patrick does have a sense of humor, considering the text he sent the following morning read, Come to South Carolina.
And David is still wondering why the fuck he’s currently in Columbia when there are perfectly acceptable cities he could have met Patrick in, like Chicago or San Francisco or, fuck, even Nashville. David rarely travels below the Mason Dixon unless forced, yet here he is, being led through security at the Colonial Life Arena and ushered backstage, flashing a blue badge around his neck that he assumes could open Fort Knox considering the access it’s giving him at the moment. The PA accompanying him (Cameron, maybe?) looks entirely too young to be out at this late hour. Surely there’s a babysitter about to report him missing to lost and found.
“Patrick’s green room is just through here,” the child says, leading David down a complicated corridor that smells faintly of cleaning solution and gym clothes: the downside to performing in a sports venue. Luckily, David can almost be guaranteed fried food to make up for this trauma.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, as he’s led into a (shockingly) cozy and tastefully decorated room, considering he’s pretty sure there’s at least one lockerroom nearby. His phone buzzes in his hand and he glances down at the screen to see Stevie’s name lighting it up.
[Stevie]
have you had shrimp and grits yet? fried green tomatoes? sweet tea?
While that all sounds delicious, I am here to work. Not to eat.
[Stevie]
lol says the guy who snuck a burrito into the tony awards
He gasps.
It was four fucking hours long!
And still one of his crowning achievements. Security at Radio City is no fucking joke. And neither is David with low blood sugar.
Damn Stevie because now that he thinks about it, he is hungry, but before he can explore the frankly astonishing selection of craft services spread out on a table on the other side of the room, a door opens and Patrick strides through, making a pair of jeans and a plain white tee look anything but casual.
“Hey, you made it!” he greets, arms open wide. “Thanks for coming.”
“Oh, yeah,” David breathes as those strong arms wrap tightly around him. “Of-of course.”
“Have any trouble?”
“No, no,” he says as he (reluctantly) pulls away. “Smooth sailing. Flying. Smooth flying.”
Patrick smiles in a way that can only be described as ‘delighted.’ David looks to the side to find the child looking at him in a way that distinctly implies What is wrong with you?
“Thanks, Cameron,” Patrick says and the juvenile nods and beats a hasty retreat. “I just finished soundcheck and I’ve gotta shower. How about you grab some food and come on into the dressing room?” He points over his shoulder to the room he just came from, but all David can think of is ‘Patrick’ and ‘shower’ in the same sentence.
“Sure, yep. I can… do that.”
“Great,” Patrick replies with a cheery smile that’s just short of sly. If David didn’t know any better, he’d think Patrick knew exactly what he was doing. He disappears back to his dressing room and David makes his way over to the food table. For as famous as Patrick is, there are surprisingly few people loitering around. He just assumed there would be an eternal entourage hovering on the periphery, but so far it’s just David and a hulking bodyguard next to the door named Ivan who’s currently digging into a puff pastry.
Ivan nods at David and continues munching as David fills up a small plate and hesitantly makes his way towards the dressing room.
“The showers are separate,” Ivan says, noting David’s inability to move beyond the door.
“Sorry?”
“The showers. You can go in. You won’t see anything you shouldn’t,” he says with a grin as he takes another bite, and David mutters “Oh my God,” under his breath but proceeds regardless. The dressing room itself is smaller than the green room, but still spacious. There’s a small loveseat across from a vanity with a counter and a mirror surrounded by lights. He places his plate down on the only surface available and ignores the Sunrise Bay flashbacks he’s getting as he gets a look at himself in the mirror.
“David? That you?”
“I should hope so!” he calls back. “Do you often invite people into your dressing room while showering?”
He can hear Patrick’s laughter over the running water. He tries not to think about what the water is running over.
David digs a cracker into some sort of cheese dip thing and groans when the tang of spicy peppers explodes across his tongue.
“Oh my God,” he moans, digging in again. He’s not entirely sure what this is but it’s coming home with him.
“You okay?”
David looks up in the mirror to see Patrick sticking his wet head around the corner. Only then does he realize that the shower’s stopped.
“What is this?” he asks through a full mouth that he can’t even be bothered to feel self-conscious about. If they’re going to work together, Patrick should know him at his best and his worst.
“It’s pimento cheese,” Patrick replies through a laugh and David groans again.
“It’s so good.”
Patrick disappears back behind the wall and David can hear the rustle of clothing. “I make sure to put it in my rider every time I come here.”
“That’s very smart.” Which also brings him to: “So why South Carolina?”
Patrick sticks his head back around the wall so he can smile and shrug. “The timing worked out.” But there’s something else there. Another reason why David is here, in the south, with nary a Sephora in sight. “I mean - the next leg is in Texas and I really didn’t think you’d want that.”
David can’t help the way his face contorts. “Definitely not. Thank you for having my best interests at heart.” In the reflection of the mirror, he watches Patrick walk around the corner in a tight pair of dark jeans, a clean, more form-fitting white tee, and blue button down that hangs open in the front.
“What do you think?” he asks, giving a little spin.
David’s smile tucks into the corner of his mouth. “I don’t think the people out there care what you wear.”
“But you do,” Patrick counters, so David turns in his chair to give him a careful up and down.
“You’re very on brand.”
“Why do I feel like that’s not a compliment?”
David smiles and stands, stepping closer and gesturing to his shirt. “May I?”
“By all means.” Patrick holds out his arms, like he’s at David’s mercy, but David merely rolls his eyes and steps around him.
“Not to get handsy, but…” he takes the right side of Patrick’s button down and lazily tucks it into the jeans. And only the right side. The left hangs open and loose. “There. The best I can do on short notice. It’s more form-fitting and therefore more flattering, without losing the laid back ‘I don’t care about any of this vibe’ you like to project.”
Patrick raises an eyebrow, but there’s suddenly something guarded in his expression. Something that David doesn’t like. “You think I don’t care?”
“No,” David murmurs. “I think you want people to think you don’t care. But you do. A lot. That’s what I like about you.”
There’s a loaded moment stuffy with silence, but eventually, Patrick’s guarded expression eases and he clears his throat, catching sight of himself in the mirror. He gives a nod of approval before smiling over at David.
“That’s what I like about you, too.”
David’s face goes hot and he’s glad the lights are low on this side of the room.
“You can watch from wherever you’d like tonight,” Patrick continues, like he hasn’t just tripped David’s heart up. Like he hasn’t just said seven words David has waited his whole life to hear from someone. “I’ve got a ticket for you in the front, but if you’d prefer to be backstage, my tour manager can make sure you don’t stand anywhere that will get you run over by a set change.”
“Good… good idea.”
“And if you do want to brave the masses, Ivan will be with you.”
And that’s okay. Ivan is quiet and has an affinity for baked goods. He and David will get along just fine.
As the evening ticks closer to showtime, the green room starts to fill with all of the people David assumed would be there the entire time: sound techs and friends, photographers and local press. David tries to make himself as small as possible, but Patrick doesn’t seem to want to give him that option, introducing him to anyone and everyone, from the guitar tuner to Reese Witherspoon, who just so happens to be shooting a movie nearby.
David nearly dies.
Eventually, the auditorium fills and the noise reverberates even through the cinder block walls. Patrick’s opening act is a ridiculously talented young woman named Jade who David has no doubt will be climbing the Billboard charts in no time.
When it comes down to it, David chooses the masses, to the shock of absolutely everyone, himself especially. But he wants to know what makes this unassuming man in front of him who looks like he just walked out of a shift at the Gap one of the biggest superstars on the planet. He wants to know what makes business major Patrick from West Canthor, Ontario, Canada, Patrick Brewer - one of the winningest, most world-dominating singer/songwriters to date.
“Good luck,” he murmurs as the tour manager whose name he’s already forgotten comes to tell Patrick to make his way to the stage.
“It’s ‘break a leg,” Patrick replies with a grin that makes David’s stomach swoop, lingering for just a second longer before heading out into the hall. David quickly helps himself to the open bar and mixes a vodka soda (for medicinal purposes) before following Ivan through the backstage maze and onto the floor of the arena.
The noise is enough to make David second-guess his choice, but then the lights start to dim, his lungs fight for air, and Patrick rises from beneath the deck, backlit against a smoky haze, his silhouette unmistakable. A spotlight hits centerstage and he steps into it with all the casual confidence of someone born to do this.
“How ya doin’, Columbia?” he asks into the microphone, accompanying it with a lazy strum of his guitar. He laughs at the deafening screams he gets in response. “It’s good to see you, too.”
From the downbeat of the first song, the show is phenomenal. Patrick is laid back but in utter command of the stage, making everyone present feel exactly what he wants them to feel and react in a way that is in accordance with the piece of himself he has deemed worthy of sharing. And the audience is… eclectic. Sure, you’ve got your screaming teens and 20-year-olds, but you’ve also got your discerning 30 and 40-year-olds. Not to mention the parents and grandparents ranging from their 50s-70s who seem to be enjoying the music just as much as the people who dragged them there to begin with.
All in all, it’s a joyful night, and not just because Patrick’s gaze keeps finding David’s section in the crowd, despite the bright lights. And maybe because of the bright lights, David’s face flushes every damn time. And though he’s memorized every word to every song, he only sings along to the number ones (of which there are still plenty), because Patrick doesn’t need to know yet how indebted David is to his music. He doesn’t need to know that his lyrics are tattooed on David’s organs, melted into his veins.
When Patrick comes back out for the encore, David remembers to snap a photo, catching him as he reaches out past the stage to pluck a note a young boy is trying to hand him. A few words are exchanged before Patrick slips it into his back pocket and places a hand on his heart in thanks. Then he sits back down at the piano and immediately launches into Make Me Feel Right, which after multiple deep-dives into the ever-evolving setlist, David learns he usually saves for the end of the night. Next up is Around the Horn from his debut album, which despite theories to the contrary, is not about anything deeper than baseball. Half of the words are complete gibberish to him anyway. Like the name of the album itself - Banjo Hitter. False advertising, if you ask David. There are no banjos, though there is a harmonica at one point.
David takes the moment to look at the photo again, at Patrick with nearly a halo of light around his head, the muscles of his forearm flexing as he tries to meet the boy halfway. It really is beautiful, so David puts a black and white filter on it and posts it to his nearly defunct Instagram. He debates the caption, almost getting desperate enough to ask Ivan for advice, but the sportsball song is wrapping up and David knows he’s running out of time. He eventually decides to just stick with the truth because, as Patrick’s lyrics go, ‘in the end, it’s the only thing that matters’:
Thanks for a 💫 night, @patrickbrewer.
He slides his phone back into his pocket and, finally, it’s time for the cover. When Patrick comes up to the mic that’s been set downstage center armed only with a guitar, David holds his breath.
“A friend of mine,” Patrick starts, emphasizing the ‘friend’ because he’s a little shit, as he fixes the kapo on the strings, “is a fan of Mariah Carey…”
No.
“So, this is going out to that friend tonight.”
He wouldn’t.
But, with one last look at David’s section - was that a wink? - Patrick dares to launch into a cover of Dreamlover.
The audience goes wild, rightly so, but David can only sit and stare, listening to this slowed down, acoustic version that manages to be both teasing and tender, sincere and sarcastic, a perfect embodiment of Patrick himself.
The fucking audacity.
David is so floored that he doesn’t even think to pull his phone back out and record any part of it; to remember the night when Patrick Brewer sang Mariah just for him.
“Dream lover come rescue me
Take me up take me down
Take me anywhere you want to baby now
I need you so desperately
Won't you please come around
'Cause I wanna share forever with you baby”
He strums the guitar one final time and steps away from the mic to take a little bow. David is on his feet with the rest of the arena as Patrick leans forward and shouts, “Thank you and goodnight!”
“Come,” Ivan murmurs, getting a firm but gentle grip on David’s arm to lead him away from the mass exodus, and thank God for that because David can barely get his feet to move one in front of the other. They wind their way through the halls and past multiple security checks to the green room once more. Ivan stops at the doorway and nods toward the dressing room. “He’ll be in there.”
“Am I supposed to…?” He gestures vaguely to himself and the door, but Ivan is no help whatsoever as he turns and steps back into the hall, crossing his arms over his chest as if to intimidate anyone who dares approach. It would do the trick, to be honest.
David tiptoes across the carpet and peeks around the doorway to the dressing room. Patrick is sprawled out on the loveseat, a bottle of water balanced on his chest. He’s clearly taking a moment and David is loath to break it, but he just can’t help it.
“Mariah?”
Patrick smiles, but doesn’t open his eyes. “Wanted to make it worth the trip.”
And David doesn’t have the words to tell him the trip’s been worth it already. “Great show,” he says in what might be the understatement of the year.
Patrick finally opens his eyes and lifts his head, smiling softly, like he knows David means more than what he’s currently able to articulate. “Thanks.” He holds a hand out and David wordlessly hauls him to his feet, steadying him as he wobbles slightly. “I have some contest winners to greet, and then we’ll head back?”
“Yeah,” David whispers. And it’s good that Patrick is occupied because David needs a second to process; an arduous journey that is not helped by the fact that his phone is absolutely blowing up. Perhaps posting that photo was a mistake. Naturally, Alexis is leading the charge in the comments:
@alexisrose um, invite me next time, david. rude.
It’s enough to drive David to make another vodka soda.
After the pictures have been taken and the swag has been signed, Ivan hands Patrick a beer (now that he’s sufficiently hydrated) and leads them to an idling SUV through the loading dock. David stays quiet as they drive off into the night, letting Patrick decompress. The hotel isn’t far, nor is it very fancy, but beggars can’t be choosers and not every town in the south is Charleston.
He’s scrolling through the headlines in the Arts section for the Times when yet another Instagram push notification comes through: @patrickbrewer added to their story.
He clicks through to find that Patrick has shared his photo to his stories with a tiny @davidrose coming in clutch with the 📸 in the corner. A soft smile pulls at his lips before another notification comes through: @patrickbrewer liked your photo followed quickly by one for a new comment:
@patrickbrewer You’re welcome. 💫
“And I thought you said you were bad at this,” he murmurs, tilting the phone towards Patrick, who chuckles and swigs the rest of his beer.
“I blame the post-concert adrenaline rush.”
“Sure, let’s go with that.”
“And the very good photographer,” Patrick adds just as the car pulls up to the service entrance. Before David can reply to that, Ivan hops out of the front passenger seat and scans the area, then opens Patrick’s door and leads them both into the hotel through the kitchen.
“I feel like Obama,” David mutters and Patrick smirks.
“Something like that.”
The chefs barely blink and some of the busboys wave. Patrick has a smile for all of them while David just tries to keep up.
“Excuse me - ” A woman approaches dressed in the hotel’s waitstaff uniform, and Ivan already has a gentle hand out.
“It’s okay,” Patrick murmurs, before turning to her with a warm expression. “Hi, I’m Patrick.”
“Hi,” the woman says, flustered enough to forget to introduce herself in return. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but could I get an autograph for my daughter?”
“Of course,” Patrick replies, holding out his hand for the black sharpie Ivan is already placing in it. “What’s your daughter’s name?”
“Isobel,” the woman says, holding out a receipt for Patrick to sign because it’s all she has.
“Wait, here,” David blurts, digging into his back pocket. “How’s this?” Then he pulls out the backstage pass that had been around his neck earlier in the evening.
“Are you sure?” the woman asks, blinking down at it like he just offered her floor seats to Beyonce, but David is already passing it to Patrick who takes it with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“Positive.” Then he turns to Patrick, who continues to stare at him. “Make sure you spell it right.” Like he’s never done this before.
“Thank you, David,” he says, brushing a light hand over David’s back as he turns to the woman and raises his faint eyebrows.
“I-S-O-B-E-L,” she says.
Patrick smiles and scribbles a message on the pass before signing his name. “Tell Isobel I said hi.”
“Thank you so much,” she says, backing away and clutching the pass to her chest.
Ivan leads them to the service elevator and David feels the weight of Patrick’s gaze on the side of his face.
“You’re a good person, David Rose,” he finally says.
“Ugh, don’t tell anyone.”
Patrick laughs and tilts his head back against the wall, closing his eyes.
“You okay?”
Patrick hums. “Tired.”
But before David can offer to do any number of the stupid things currently running through his brain (raid a vending machine, fluff his pillows, massage his shoulders), his phone pings in his hand and he glances down at the text from Stevie, frowning at the accompanying link.
[Stevie]
this u?
“Now you’ve done it,” he murmurs as he catches the headline, and Patrick makes a questioning sound, so David tilts the phone to show him:
Does Patrick Brewer Have a New Love?
Singer serenades ‘friend’ with Dreamlover
Patrick rolls his eyes and goes back to leaning against the elevator. “Wouldn’t be a concert if the internet didn’t have me paired up with a new partner before the end of the night.”
David wonders what Rachel thinks of that before glancing at Ivan and deciding not to ask the question whose answer he’s dying to know.
“How do you feel about car rides?” Patrick asks suddenly.
“Car rides?”
“Yeah, to listen to the demos.”
The plan had always been to catch the concert tonight and listen to the songs tomorrow, but David had assumed that Patrick would commandeer a piano at the hotel a la Richard Gere in Pretty Woman (though perhaps without the happy ending). He’s not quite sure how car rides factor into that.
“Okay, how long and how early?”
Patrick laughs. “About two hours. And early.”
“Are there snacks and can I sleep on the way?”
“Sure, David,” he says as the elevator door opens on their floor. “But trust me. You’re gonna love it.”
🎭 🎭 🎭
Patrick answers the “Why South Carolina?” question the next morning, when he plugs an address into the car’s navigation system that he clearly knows by heart.
When Patrick had greeted David outside his hotel room with Ivan, a caramel macchiato, and a pair of car keys, David didn’t realize they’d be making the journey solo. Ivan got them into the unassuming sedan but stepped back after they put their respective luggage in the trunk.
True to his word, Patrick let David pass out (and thank God, because the knock sounded on the door at 8:03 in the morning), but time must pass because the next thing David knows, he’s being awakened by a hand on his shoulder and a voice softly saying, “Hey.”
He groans and tries to roll over, only to find the seatbelt keeping him firmly in place. “Wherezabear?”
Patrick laughs. “Sorry? I didn’t catch that.”
He groans again and pries his eyes open, hitting the button to return the seat to its upright position and blinking in the bright morning sun.
“Where are we?”
“Still in South Carolina if you’re concerned about that.”
David flicks a hand. “My sister was once almost sold to some traffickers so I’m pretty well-versed in getting out of situations like that.” Then he picks up his paper cup, only to find it heavy and still hot. Patrick must have stopped. “How did you know my coffee order, by the way?”
Patrick’s pale cheeks go delightfully pink. “I may have had Ray ask Ronnie.”
“Industrious.”
“I don’t think she likes me.”
“Ronnie doesn’t like anybody. Don’t be offended.”
“She likes you.”
“That’s because I pay her an outrageous percentage of my fee,” he says as he hisses through a sip of hot macchiato, finally glancing out the window to look at the passing scenery. There’s honestly not much to see; just banal stripmalls and billboards for injury lawyers. “Where are we exactly?”
“Near the Georgia border.”
“It’s a big border.”
“Close to Savannah,” Patrick clarifies.
Oh. Okay, he can do Savannah. He once went on a midnight ghost tour with Penelope Cruz while Javier prepped for a stage adaptation of Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.
“Just so you know, I rarely let people see me in this state,” he says as the highway gives way to lush green fields, eventually bordered by a pristine white fence.
“I’m honored,” Patrick replies as he makes a right into a gated community with horse pastures lining the road.
“Um…” But nothing else comes out of David’s mouth as Patrick slows to a stop at the very aesthetically pleasing security hut (which is not something David thought he could ever say about a security hut) and rolls down the window.
“Hey, Joe,” he greets.
“Welcome back, Mr. Brewer.”
“It’s Patrick, Joe.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Brewer.”
Patrick laughs. “You working tomorrow?”
“That I am. The early shift.”
“I have some stuff in the back for Eleanor. I’ll drop it off before I head out.”
“Ah, you didn’t have to do that.”
“Of course I did,” Patrick easily replies.
“You’re a good man, Mr. Brewer.”
“It’s Patrick, Joe!” he calls as he slowly drives away, waving out the window as he rolls it back up.
David smiles softly as he watches Patrick’s shoulders visibly ease down away from his ears, the stress seeping out of his body like tea from a leaf. Patrick knows this magical place well and it’s clear they take good care of him.
“So who’s Eleanor?” David asks.
“His daughter.”
“You flirt.”
Patrick glances at him. “She’s nine.”
David barks out a laugh and looks out the window again. There’s a cute general store, complete with vintage gas pumps on the right and a massive red barn on the left. The road stretches ahead and winds through the community as white bridges stretching over placid lakes and ponds dot the area. If an ex of his who’d been obsessed with Tolkien hadn’t made him visit Hobbiton while they were in New Zealand, David would have thought he just entered the fucking Shire.
“This is… stunning,” he breathes as they make a left at what looks like it might be a golf club and go over one of the white bridges onto what’s known as The Island. Because the sign says so.
“Yeah,” Patrick murmurs. “Yeah, it is.”
“Is this the secret third house?” David squawks and Patrick has the audacity to laugh at him.
“No. I mean, I did buy the house, but it was a gift for my parents. They want to retire here. It’s their name on the deed.”
“And you just… pop in and out. And no one says a word.”
Patrick follows the road around a curve before turning into a long driveway lined with oak trees. “Much like the residents of 81st Street, we have very good neighbors.”
“Holy shit, Patrick,” he breathes. Thanks to his dabbling in design (and a fling with one of the city’s preeminent architects), David knows lowcountry style when he sees it and the house is stunning without being ostentatious.
“Yeah. I try to spend a day or two here whenever tour brings me to South Carolina. There are a shocking amount of Canadians here.”
“I can see why.” He unbuckles his seatbelt and opens the door, breathing in the warm November air and the smell of the water from the river he can see winding just beyond the house.
“Shall we?”
He looks over at Patrick who already has both of their bags in his hands. Like he’s a bellhop at a hotel and not last month’s GQ cover.
“We shall.”
Patrick leads him into the house, into the bright foyer with its cream walls and exposed beams. The back is almost all windows with a pair of french doors that lead onto a spacious screened-in porch that David would kill to spend an afternoon on.
Patrick drops the bags by the foot of the stairs and heads to the island in the kitchen, picking up a handwritten note on the counter and smiling softly before tilting it to show David.
Welcome home, sweet boy.
Love, Mom and Dad
“Your parents seem like wonderful people.”
“They are,” Patrick replies before placing the paper back down and gesturing around. “Well, this is it.”
‘It’ being the house David could happily spend weeks in. Months. He refuses to let his fantasy drift to years, but it’s a near thing.
“Do you want to take a nap or anything?” Patrick asks, looking suddenly nervous; like he hopes he’s making a good impression.
“Do you? Only one of us slept in the car. And only one of us played a sold out concert to 18,000 people last night.”
Patrick chuckles and nods, his eyelids already drooping. “Yeah. Yeah, that might not be a bad idea.”
“Go sleep. I suppose I can make myself at home on this terrible porch with that frankly horrific view for a while.”
Patrick laughs again but gestures for David to follow him and, for a brief, blinding moment, David thinks he’s being invited to join said nap -
“Let me show you where your room is in case you change your mind,” Patrick continues, and disappointment burns thick in David’s throat, which is ridiculous on multiple levels.
“Right.” He follows him up the stairs, keeping his eyes firmly on the hardwood floor the entire way and not on that ass in those jeans.
Patrick makes a left at the top and leads him down a small hallway where two rooms branch off on either side. “The guest of honor gets the best view,” he says, gesturing to the room on the right which - David glances at the large windows adorning the two walls opposite - clearly overlooks the river.
“Wow.”
“I’m down at the other end,” Patrick says, tossing a thumb over his shoulder. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen. Mom and Dad had a neighbor stock up on the essentials.”
“Thanks.”
“And we’ll do the music later?” Patrick asks, anxious excitement filling his tired eyes.
“And we’ll do the music later,” David confirms, watching with a soft smile as Patrick stumbles back down the hall and closes the door to the other room. He moves into his own, placing his bag down on the cushioned window seat and watching in wonder as a dolphin inspects someone paddling by on a kayak.
Where the fuck is he? It’s a long cry from Soho.
He brushes his teeth again and uses the facilities, noting the quality of the towels and products. He’s never met the Brewers, but he likes them already. They look kind, which David can’t say of many people. And he only knows this because of his extensive late night gentle Getty images stalking.
His phone buzzes with a text from Stevie as he makes his way back downstairs with his journal and script binder under his arm.
[Stevie]
proof of life please
He pauses in the kitchen to make a quick cup of coffee and thumbs out a response as he waits for it to brew.
I have discovered pimento cheese and I’m obsessed.
[Stevie]
don’t get used to it. you’re too rude for the south.
I’m going to pretend to take offense even though that’s wildly accurate.
[Stevie]
heard the music yet?
later today.
[Stevie]
and how is our sondheim?
Sleeping.
[Stevie]
👀
🖕🏻
He pours his coffee and puts his phone on airplane mode because there’s literally no one he wants to speak to right now - at least no one who’s currently conscious - and makes his way to the screened-in porch where a tasteful blue couch waits for him to lounge upon. The porch spans the entire back of the house, but only half is protected from flying insects. The other half is open to the air, with comfortable outdoor furniture, a wet bar, and a rope hammock strung from the ceiling.
Looking towards the water, a long dock stretches out over the marshland to reach the deepest part of the river. Old oak trees dot the bank, their branches reaching like long fingers with Spanish moss hanging in coiled tendrils to brush the water.
David can understand the appeal of wanting to retire here.
He sits on the couch and spreads his binder out on the glass coffee table in front of him. The pages alternate between the script and the ground plan Jake designed, and David’s been taking it scene by scene, plotting out the movements and deciding where he’d like Derek to take over with choreography.
He gets lost to the process, getting well past the act break, and that’s how Patrick finds him some two hours later as he leans sleepily on the doorframe to the house, a cup of tea cradled in his hand.
“Morning, sunshine,” he says, voice rough from sleep.
David flushes as he moves over to make room for him on the couch. “How are you feeling?”
“Human,” Patrick murmurs, plopping down next to him and rubbing his eyes as he looks over the mess of papers. “Whatcha working on?”
“Directing on paper, essentially. It’ll all change inevitably, but at least I feel somewhat prepared. Oh, and these are for you,” he says, reaching for a leather padfolio and handing it over.
“Oh,” Patrick breathes as opens the folio and blindly sets his mug down.
“Obviously we won’t be able to do any of this in the rehearsal room, but I’m going to have Jake blow up the renderings and hang them on the wall, so you actors know what this hopefully will look like.”
Patrick smiles softly as he flips through the graphics, an expression containing far more depth of feeling than Jake’s designs should allow for, beautiful though they are.
“What?” David asks, but Patrick just shrugs.
“Still getting used to being called an actor.”
“Feels good?”
“Feels good,” he replies with a nod. “These are stunning.”
“Yeah. I want to keep the Elizabethan feel of a unit set, but make it a bit grittier. Timeless, but contemporary.”
Patrick pauses on a rendering of a lone, faceless man on a dark stage. “To be or not to be?”
David nods. “That is the question.”
“Wanna come for a walk? I need to move before I sit down and play almost two hours worth of music for you.”
“Wait - two hours?”
Patrick raises an eyebrow. “Yeah, David. Two hours, give or take a minute.”
But - “You wrote the full show?”
“Well, pending director approval,” he says wryly. “And Gary needs to tackle the underscoring, but I’ve got the basic templates for each scene.”
“Patrick…” but his throat has gone too tight to finish whatever the thought was. Patrick graciously doesn’t comment on it and just gently nudges his shoulder.
“I wouldn’t have made you come all this way if I didn’t think it was gonna be worth it. I know you a little better than that.”
And Patrick does. Despite the relatively limited time of their acquaintance, Patrick knows him thoroughly. More thoroughly than David would like at this particular point in his life, straddling the line between the pain of his past and the potential of his future.
“Come on,” Patrick murmurs, clapping a hand on David’s knee and squeezing. “Let’s walk.”
He nods and wordlessly follows, grabbing his sunglasses in a daze. He honestly thought he’d just be coming to hear some more clips - and getting a free Patrick Brewer concert in the process - but to be faced with… everything is - It’s a lot.
Oh God, what if he hates it?
He’s not going to hate it.
Patrick must know he’s working through some things because he remains quiet as they stroll along the gravel path next to the river, a Blue Jays cap pulled low over his brow. David doubts Patrick’s neighbors would give him away, but still. Anonymity is a luxury Patrick is not often afforded. David himself is C list at best (B list in the theatre district), and even he knows what that can be like.
“My mom left a frozen lasagna when they were last here so we don’t need to worry about dinner,” Patrick says, apropos of nothing.
“Good,” he replies. Then again, if Patrick is trying to get him to talk, food is the natural topic of discussion. “I love lasagna.”
“My mom makes the best.”
“Well the only kitchen my mother has stepped foot in is on the set of The Today Show and YouTube will tell you how well that went down.”
It’s enough to crack the shell of uncertainty that had formed, and they walk for about an hour, talking about everything and nothing, following the path as it winds along the river’s edge before circling back.
Patrick sets out some snacks before disappearing to the home office to take care of some emails, allowing David to dive into the pimento cheese with gusto while he scrolls through his phone. Stevie has apparently given up on torturing him from afar, though Alexis does send him an interesting article from The Guardian about how a London theatre upped its social media game to get young people into its classical shows.
Speaking of social media, Patrick’s little story has garnered David a few hundred new followers. And he only had a couple thousand to begin with.
He bookmarks the article for later as Patrick returns and steals some cheese before grabbing a beer from the fridge.
“Liquid courage,” he jokes before pulling a bottle of pinot gris out as well. “Wine?”
“Yes, please.”
Patrick pours him a glass before heading into the open concept living room. There’s a piano in the corner - not quite as fancy as the one Patrick has in his New York apartment, but still beautiful. Patrick takes a seat on the bench and gestures towards the couch for David to sit.
“You ready for this?”
“Yes,” David replies with such conviction that Patrick pauses midway through sorting out his music on the stand and stares at him.
“You really mean that,” he says almost wondrously.
“Of course I do,” David replies. Of course he does.
And Patrick must hear the truth in it because he looks at him with those overwhelming eyes and just says, “Thank you, David,” before turning back to the piano.
Much like how David’s binder mixes script pages with ground plans, Patrick has musical charts interwoven with the text in his own. Though David divided the script into a more traditional two act structure so he could place the intermission at the most emotionally impactful place, he kept the markings of Shakespeare’s Acts and Scenes for organizational purposes from I.i all the way to V.ii.
“I’ll just… read out where I am so you can follow along before I move on?”
David nods.
“Okay,” Patrick breathes, looking down once more, hands braced over the keys. “Act one, scene one.”
And then he starts to play.
It’s a slow beginning, this overture, full of pain and grief and an ache for something more. It builds in longing before dying down, quieting, to make way for the opening lines of the play.
“Who’s there?”
“Nay, answer me: stand, and unfold yourself.”
It’s a perfect underscore, setting the tone for what’s happening while teasing what’s to come. The last note of it lingers, shaking David from his reverie.
“One, two,” Patrick murmurs, not looking up from the keys, like he’s too afraid to see David’s face, but he needn’t have worried.
It’s so beautiful, so… so fucking perfect that David keeps forgetting to turn his page. Eventually, he gives up altogether, puts the script to the side, and just listens as Patrick alternates between playing the scenic underscoring and singing the soliloquies David had marked in the script, embodying Hamlet to Ophelia to Claudius and Polonius as he makes the poignant march towards the play’s end. Towards his end. Towards “The rest is silence."
One hour and forty-one minutes.
That’s how much time the clock on the mantle tells him passes while Patrick brings David’s vision to breathtaking, gut-wrenching life. The last note fades away and David inhales raggedly, slowly bringing his hand up to his cheek to wipe away the tears that had spilled there. Tears that he hadn’t even noticed falling.
Patrick turns on the piano bench, wiping his palms on his jeans, his head still bowed as if awaiting a blow. David stands from the couch, pins and needles poking at his legs, and crosses the distance, pulling Patrick to his feet and wrapping his arms around him. Patrick freezes and David has a brief moment of panic, of Oh God, did I overstep? but then Patrick’s arms come up and grip his back, tugging him even closer as he buries his face in David’s shoulder.
“That was beautiful,” he whispers. Sure, he has notes and ideas because if anything is going to get his creative juices flowing, it’s this; this score written just for him - but they can hold a moment.
Patrick pulls away and clears his throat, placing his palm on his chest. “Now cracks a noble heart.”
And David laughs, because if he doesn’t, he thinks he might burst. “Someone’s been studying. Though that’s not your line.”
“I know,” Patrick cheekily replies. “I’m dead by then.”
“You are.”
The cheekiness fades and worry creeps back in. “But it was… okay?”
“Okay?” Does he really not know? “Jesus, Patrick. It was stunning.”
Patrick smiles bashfully, before moving away to the kitchen and preheating the oven for the lasagna. He pushes David to give him his notes while they’re still fresh (“I know you have them, so lay ‘em on me.”) as he pulls a bottle of red wine from the rack before grabbing a pad of paper and a pen and looking up at David expectantly (“You pour. I’ll write. Wine glasses are in there.”). They spend the evening eating at the island as Patrick darts back and forth from his plate to his piano, trying things out for David and listening as David tells him about his staging; about how Patrick’s music sparked ideas and choices he never would have had the confidence or courage to make.
It’s after 10pm before either of them looks up and actually takes note of the time. The bottle of wine is long gone and the little lasagna that’s left is cool on the counter.
They say their goodnights, physically and mentally spent, and David trudges up the stairs and changes into joggers and a t-shirt, starting his skincare routine robotically, too busy trying to process the last few hours. As he pads back into the bedroom from the ensuite, he glances out the window and frowns at a shadow passing under the first light on the dock. Nearly pressing his nose against the glass, he recognizes Patrick’s outline as he moves closer to the water.
What the ever-loving…
Too intrigued to sleep now, David heads back downstairs and slips his shoes on, regretting not grabbing an extra layer when he steps out onto the porch and promptly shivers in the cold night air. Borrowing a throw from the outdoor sofa, he wraps it around his shoulders and follows his wayward colleague - his friend - down the dock.
“Patrick?” he whispers when he gets to the end, squinting in an attempt to see through the dark.
“Down here,” Patrick replies, and David peeks over the ramp leading to the floating dock that rises and falls with the tides.
“Oh my god!” he hisses as he gets closer, gesturing at Patrick’s legs which dangle off the edge. “What about the crocodiles?”
“You mean the alligators? And no, they prefer freshwater.” David is still looking at him like he’s insane so Patrick pats the wood next to him. “Join me?”
“Oh, no thank you.” That doesn’t stop him from sitting, though, crossing his legs in front of him and offering Patrick a corner of his blanket.
“Thanks,” Patrick quietly replies, scooting just that much closer to slide under it. Silence settles, save for the lapping of the water against the pilings.
“Do you ever wonder what’s true?” Patrick suddenly asks, and David doesn’t say anything at first because God does he ever, but Patrick must take his quiet as confusion because he keeps going: “Like, when I meet people these days, I never know if they’re happy to be with me for me, or if they’re just happy to be with Patrick Brewer. And all that that entails,” he says with a sweeping gesture over the water. Then he shrugs. “It might be why I’ve been holding onto the people that have been with me since the beginning so hard.”
Which might be the closest David’s ever heard him get to mentioning Rachel.
“I know what that’s like,” he offers quietly. “Not trusting anybody. Being constantly braced for the other shoe to drop.” He inhales and thinks of his parents and Sebastien and the critics who loved him and loathed him in the time it took to call ‘places.’ “Perpetual disappointment is one of my dearest friends.”
Patrick looks like he wants to say something. Something serious. Something true.
David holds his breath.
But then Patrick closes his mouth and looks back out over the water. “You’re not the only one people are looking at to fail. You can only rise so far before people actively seek out ways to take you down. And my doing this would be a prime target. I don’t want to be the thing that hurts your show.” That hurts you, his eyes say. “Not everyone can make the jump from music to acting. And hardly any of them can do it successfully.”
“If you mention Glitter, so help me God,” David says before he can help himself.
Luckily, Patrick laughs and it’s like the spell is broken. Whatever bubble of sincerity and candor had enveloped them has popped. And that’s okay. David can only handle so much at one time.
“Ray had Ronnie switch your flight out of Savannah. I’ll drop you off on my way to Atlanta.” Patrick nudges him. “Don’t worry, we’re not leaving early.”
“Thank God,” he replies, regretting his choices a little. Wishing he was one of those people who could have serious conversations without wanting to break out into hives. “What do you have coming up?”
Patrick sighs the sigh of someone grateful for his lot in life, despite the toll it takes. “The concert in Atlanta. Then Tampa, Miami, and Nashville. I have to make a short trip to LA at the end of the month for the AMAs before picking up the tour again in Texas.”
“Wow. Why the AMAs? You’re not - ”
“Not nominated, I know. Who knows.”
“You were last year,” David reminds.
“That was last year.”
“You have a tour to promote.”
“Which is already sold out.”
“Okay, you were only not nominated because your new album isn’t yet eligible. Don’t fish for compliments. It’s unbecoming.”
Patrick barks out a laugh and nods. “Fair enough. Wouldn’t want to ruin my humble reputation.”
“Mmm would we call that humble?” David teases, before looking back over at the water, at the moon reflecting in the ripples. “This really is a beautiful spot.”
“Yeah. It is. I come here to process, sometimes.” Then he nudges David’s shoulder again. “Keeps me humble.”
David nudges him back. “Well, I’ll leave you to it then.” He stands and brushes off his pants, but Patrick halts him with a hand on his wrist.
“I’m really glad I joined your show, David.”
David takes the blanket off and drapes it over Patrick’s shoulders, squeezing him once before letting go.
“Our show.”
🎭 🎭 🎭
David says goodbye to Patrick at the Savannah airport the following afternoon, after which he orders a Bloody Mary from a bartender named Darby that could tip a Clydesdale head over hooves.
He lands at JFK, feeling an odd combination of buoyed and bereft. He misses Patrick already, which is… not good.
But Patrick continues to be in his life daily, sending him tweaks to the music he’s made and ideas that collaborating with Gary have given him. And memes. So. Many. Memes. Enough that David thinks Patrick must be getting pointers from Stevie on how best to annoy him because it’s truly the only way.
Despite this, David allows Stevie to join him for the AMAs against his better judgement, even though her running commentary throughout the Golden Globes nearly put him off awards shows for good.
He’s just looking over the costume designs Twyla sent him as the red carpet coverage plays in the background when Stevie yells, “There he is!” as she hurries back over from the kitchen with a too-full wine glass that she’s once again very close to spilling all over his cream couch. Suddenly, though, she stops. “Oh and there’s - ”
“Rachel,” he blurts, as the camera pulls back to reveal the beautiful redhead standing in front of Patrick, pulling something off of his lapel. They’re off to the side, waiting for Patrick’s turn as Demi Lovato wraps up her interview.
Something heavy and unpleasant crashes into David’s chest as he watches Rachel say something and Patrick throw his head back in laughter. And before David can tell himself that this is a terrible idea, he’s pulling up the designs and opening up his text thread with Patrick.
“Why are you sending them to him now? ” Stevie asks, looking over his shoulder. “He’s a little busy.”
The petty part of him knows exactly why he’s sending them to him now. Because he wants to remind Patrick that even though he’s with his maybe girlfriend, David is becoming a more prominent person in his life. That David is also deserving of space there.
“It’s not like he’ll check it,” he murmurs, hitting the arrow. “He probably doesn’t even have his phone - ” But then he sees Patrick look down and pull his cell out of the breast pocket of his suit jacket.
Oh.
Better phone placement. he sends off quickly, watching Patrick smile as it comes in.
[Patrick]
I’m learning.
On the television, Patrick moves his thumbs across the screen, probably pulling up the designs because an ellipsis doesn’t appear in their text box, before he raises an impressed eyebrow. An ellipsis then pops up, followed quickly by a message:
[Patrick]
Twyla did a great job. Matches your mood board.
David narrows his eyes at the television, trying to gauge his tone but Patrick’s face is just… fond.
Are you mocking me?
Patrick laughs and looks directly into the camera before redirecting his attention to the phone.
[Patrick]
Never.
Liar.
[Patrick]
Yes.
“Patrick Brewer!” AJ, the correspondent, calls and David watches Patrick step forward with a smile, noticing that he doesn’t put the phone back in his pocket. “How are you doing?”
“I’m good, I’m good,” he gamely replies, shaking AJ’s hand.
“How’s the tour?”
“Tour’s great. The audiences are amazing. Can’t ask for anything better than that.”
“You’re here to present tonight and then continue with your tour. Can you tell us about what’s next for you after that?”
David holds his breath and watches Patrick do the same. His fingers are moving before he can stop to think about how everyone in his life will probably yell at him for this, Alexis included. Alexis especially.
He thinks about how easy it would be to fall for this man.
He thinks about how he might have fallen already.
Go ahead.
Patrick glances down at the phone as it vibrates in his hand, a soft smile gracing his face as his eyes flick briefly up to the camera once more.
“Well, funny you should ask…”