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There is a piece of cat fur that has stuck itself to Patrick’s shirt. It’s right next to the top buttonhole, the one that is left bare because Patrick likes to display his neck to the world at all times, apparently. This piece of cat fur is perhaps single-handedly ruining David’s life.
First of all, it’s placed perfectly so that David’s eye is always drawn down to it, just lingering at the bottom of David’s field of vision when he tries to look into Patrick’s eyes. So, inevitably, David’s eyes end up dropping down to Patrick’s collar and then suddenly he’s staring at the base of Patrick’s throat, the clavicles that stick out under his skin just under that, and the sliver of Patrick’s chest that’s visible above the expanse of blue cotton.
Second of all, it’s a piece of cat fur, and the fact that it is stuck on clothing, especially Patrick’s clothing, is absolutely incorrect. He’s never hated his sister more for wrapping that stupid cat scarf around Patrick’s neck, because now this is a problem that he has. He’s never ordering from that vendor ever again.
David has to actively stop himself from picking it off. He wants to, so badly, but it feels like a dangerous operation. He feels like the second he touches Patrick, even for the millisecond it’ll take him to remove that bit of fuzz off his shirt, David might crumble into dust. Or explode, like he’s swallowed a bomb. Maybe both.
But then Patrick is behind the counter, checking something off of the list of products that need to be set out onto the floor, and David feels like, if he’s going to take this piece of fuzz off, it’s safer to do it when there’s a big slab of stone and a computer between them.
Patrick is saying something, he thinks, probably about the product and what else they need to do before he goes back to Ray’s, but David isn’t listening. He leans forward, just a little bit, to the edge of the space that he feels like is still a safe distance away from Patrick’s skin, and his hand breaches the invisible force field he’d built in his mind. Carefully, he pinches the piece of fuzz between his thumb and his pointer finger and pulls it off before dropping it to the floor. Then he tunes back in to look at Patrick, and when did he stop talking?
“There was, um. A bit of fuzz on your collar. From the cat scarf, I think. It was bothering me, sorry,” David spits out, stumbling through his words. He swallows the full-body cringe that wants to roll through him.
Patrick smiles and squints at him for half a second, like he could see right through this intimate little gesture, like he knew exactly why David touched him and it wasn’t just because there was fuzz on his clothes, before his face relaxes and he lets out a chuckle. “No, it’s fine, thank you. I’m sorry it was bothering you.”
David’s hand tingles for the rest of the day. He briefly thinks he should go to the hospital to get that checked out, because a tingly hand isn’t normal, but the idea of explaining to a doctor that it started tingling when he touched some straight guy’s collar sweeps the idea out of his mind. He’d probably die of embarrassment from that alone. If he has to get his hand amputated one day because of this, then so be it.
---
David does not have to get his hand amputated. But a week later, Patrick walks in on a Thursday morning to check on something, saying he’d come here straight from a hike because there was something or other that he forgot, and maybe David should have gotten that hand amputated because there’s part of a leaf caught in Patrick’s hair and David’s hand is literally aching to brush it away.
They’re in front of the counter and Patrick’s looking at some big and complicated spreadsheet he’d printed out that David doesn’t have the stomach to look at, and every time David tries to speak, his words die in his throat. There’s something about thinking about carding a hand through Patrick’s hair to brush that leaf away that’s making David go all jelly-boned. He hates it.
Whenever he’s wanted someone before, or whenever he thought someone wanted him, he’s never had a problem with touching them. In his old life, he could zero in on someone he’d like to take with him to bed, and it would be so easy to adjust the collar on their leather jacket or brush a few grains of margarita glass salt from the corner of their mouth. It was so simple to just invade someone else’s space—or, hell, to let someone else invade his—and there is something about Patrick that makes him want to do all that now, too, but that same something is what’s making David too nervous to try.
But, David reminds himself, Patrick is straight and comfortable in his sexuality and is probably one of those people who is fine with a super casual, platonic touch. He didn’t flip out when David picked that fuzz off, right? Maybe this isn’t as big a deal in real life as it is in David’s head. Maybe David just needs a fucking chill pill, as Alexis would say, because it’s literally just a leaf. Maybe the only reason David’s being so weird about this is because Patrick is actually kind of his friend now. Before, he was just some (pretty cute) guy who helped out around the store a bit when he dropped off the Rose Apothecary business license. But now that they’re officially business partners, and now that David has something to lose if he makes the wrong move, he’s feeling a lot more nervous about touching Patrick than he was the last time.
But, dammit, this ache is no joke. Suddenly David feels like he might combust if he doesn’t brush this fucking leaf out of Patrick’s hair, and a leaf is a good enough excuse to touch him, right?
“Can I, um—” David started. Patrick looked up, his eyebrows raised.
“Hmm?” Patrick asked.
“You, uh. You have a leaf in your hair.” David can feel his face going warm and he’s choosing to ignore it.
“Oh, do I?” Patrick asked, his hand coming up to his own head.
“Let me,” David says quickly before Patrick can brush it off himself. Patrick puts his hand down and holds still. He watches David’s hand as it moves towards his head, towards the spot above Patrick’s left ear where a broken yellow leaf had stuck itself to the ginger-brown hair. Then, gently and lightly, David pulls the leaf off, careful not to let his fingers linger for too long amongst the short, soft hair. He retracts his hand to show Patrick.
Patrick’s eyes are as big as plates, a little glazed over, but then he looks at the leaf between David’s fingers and David can tell when his brain comes back online.
“Oh. From the hike, I guess,” Patrick says, his voice cracking a bit. David stifles his laugh very well.
“Mhmm. From the hike.”
Patrick smiles and takes the leaf from David’s hand, and if either of them feels the spark that travels between their fingertips, neither of them say anything.
“Thanks, David.” Patrick leans over the counter and tosses the leaf into the garbage can underneath it.
David hums and then wanders off, feeling a little like he can’t let himself get too close to Patrick again, because his brain will invent some kind of excuse to touch his business partner, like an errant piece of fuzz or, god forbid, an out-turned pants pocket, and his heart will not survive it.
If Patrick seems a little smiley-er than usual today, David doesn’t notice.
---
Patrick is wearing a dove blue sweater today and it looks adorable on him, and David wants to take him back to their storage room and continue sliding his hands under it, as he had been earlier that day, and the thought of that alone would consume him on the spot, except for the fact that the tag is peeking out of the sweater. David wants to set himself on fire a little bit.
David studies it a bit when he has the chance, when Patrick has his back to him. It’s a little white nylon tag, with writing that probably says “Made In China”—perish the thought—and instructions to wash in warm water and tumble dry. He can’t tell; he won’t let himself get close enough to read it.
The pull is so strong, though. He thinks maybe his and Patrick’s bodies were outfitted with magnets one day when they weren’t looking, and now the closer he gets, the stronger the force that’s bringing them together is. He isn’t as chaste or as careful this time as he was with the leaf in Patrick’s hair so many days ago. It’s only been a few weeks, really, maybe about a month if he was being generous, but it feels like a lifetime has passed between the days when he couldn’t touch Patrick and the days when he finally could.
David stands next to Patrick, watching him for a second as he arranges pots of moisturiser on the table, then runs feather-light fingers up the upper part of Patrick’s spine. He can almost feel the muscles there tense up, like Patrick is stifling a shiver. He folds the tag up between his fingers and then gingerly tucks it beneath the collar of Patrick’s sweater.
“Your tag was sticking out,” David whispers. Then Patrick lets out a breath that neither of them knew he was holding. He chuckles low, under his breath.
“Thank you, David,” he says as he turns to offer David a grin. Then he leans in and leaves a soft kiss on David’s lips that probably lasts a touch longer than either of them expected.
David hopes the tag slips back out.
(It doesn’t have to, though, because later, David swindles Patrick into applying eucalyptus under-eye serum for him, and Patrick’s gentle touch and the gentle little kisses he gives David while he applies the serum are almost enough to keep David afloat for a whole year. Almost.)
---
There are probably about 25.9 million other things that David should be thinking about right now, like the fact that he should probably start moodboarding a color scheme for the wedding, or the fact that there is a wedding at all, or the fact that that wedding is going to be his. And yes, they are sitting somewhere in his mind right now, but at the forefront of David’s brain is not a thought related to any of that at all. The one thought that has the spotlight in his mind right now is screaming that there is a bug on his fiancé’s leg.
David takes pride in the fact that he doesn’t have to make excuses to touch Patrick anymore. They have established, over and over, that David is allowed to touch Patrick wherever and whenever he wants. Within reason, of course. David likes that. He likes that he can pick fuzz off of collars or brush leaves out of hair or tuck tags into sweaters without getting all nervous or skittish about it because he knows Patrick likes it when he touches him. But that doesn’t mean he won’t come up with excuses to touch Patrick anyway. And if he were just slightly less freaked out by bugs, he would have brushed a hand across Patrick’s thigh by now to shoo it away.
Except David, as a rule, does not touch bugs. But...he does touch his fiancé, who is currently so engrossed in looking at him right now that he hasn’t noticed the bug. Or maybe he has, but he doesn’t care, because it’s just a bug, but David already knows that their attitudes on all things outdoorsy are fundamentally dialectically opposed. Still. He just wants to touch Patrick. Now, and all the time, and forever, and he’s so fucking thrilled about it. And if he has to touch a bug right now to get it off of his future husband, then, hey, for better or for worse, right?
So he brushes a hand across Patrick’s thigh, because touching bugs and agreeing to spend the rest of your life with someone are both brave things, and today, more than ever, he feels brave. He rewards himself by looking at Patrick’s face.
Patrick has his eyebrows raised.
“There was a bug on your thigh,” David says, clarifying his actions.
“Did you touch a bug for me, David?” Patrick asks, pretending to be touched.
David huffs. “I did, thank you very much, and it was disgusting.”
“Oh, my hero,” Patrick cries.
“Okay,” David says with a roll of his eyes. Patrick laughs and cups David’s jaw, gently bringing his fiancé’s face to his own and kissing him.
“You’re adorable, David. I can’t wait to marry you,” Patrick murmurs against his mouth, and David’s heart squeezes at the fact that he sounds like he means it.
“I can’t wait to marry you,” David whispers back, and all the 25.9 million things that David knows he has to think about melt away, because right now, he is kissing his fiancé, the love of his life, and they have cheese and champagne and are literally on top of the world, and there is absolutely nothing else that could distract David from this.
---
Their first dance at the wedding reception, where they are alone together on the dance floor surrounded by the people they love the most, is set to Nat King Cole’s “The Very Thought Of You.” When they slide easily into each other’s arms, David thinks about how true the song rings for him. They sway together, close and comfortable and so in love, and they enjoy the first moment they have to relax after the whirlwind that was their wedding ceremony.
After a moment, Patrick slides his hands from their place around David’s waist and drags them up towards David’s chest. They pause around David’s neck, and David loosens the circle his own arms have made around Patrick’s neck to give him better leverage. He watches affection write itself all over Patrick’s face as he smooths the collar of David’s dress shirt in under his tuxedo jacket. David’s heart swells at the quiet intimacy of it.
Patrick meets his eyes and smiles. “Your collar was a little messed up.”
David tugs Patrick closer by the back of his neck and drapes his arms over Patrick’s shoulders. He presses a kiss full of love to Patrick’s lips and pulls him in closer for a hug. His heart goes all fizzy when he feels the soft kiss Patrick leaves on the side of his neck and he buries his face into his arms. When Patrick slides his hands across David’s back, rubbing at it soothingly while they sway to the music, David feels any tension that may have remained in his body melt away instantly.
“I used to do that a lot, you know,” David says, his voice muffled by the sleeves of his tux.
“What was that?” Patrick asks with a laugh, pulling away just slightly. He spins them around on the dance floor, just because.
David pulls back, too, so he can see his husband now. He feels so warm inside just looking at the love and happiness shining through Patrick’s face.
“I used to do that. Fix your collar or...brush leaves out of your hair.”
Patrick quirks an eyebrow, his face pulling into a smirk.
“You still do that, babe.”
David grins, his cheeks heating up at the pet name. Patrick had used it before, but now that they’re married, he’s not going to use it on anyone else, ever again. David likes the idea.
“I mean,” he starts, “I used to do that just to have an excuse to touch you. Little casual things, like pluck lint off your clothes, or whatever.”
“I remember,” Patrick says quietly, giving David that private smile that he knows is like the word “babe” or the spot on Patrick’s neck that David likes to kiss—just for him.
“You remember?”
“I remember when you brushed that leaf out of my hair. I couldn’t stop thinking about it for days. I literally went on another hike that night because of that.”
David feels his jaw go slack. “You could have said something!”
Patrick laughs. “I was still figuring things out. But that helped, I think. You touching me casually. I, um. I’m used to people touching me casually. Like your sister does, for example, or the guys on my old baseball team. But realizing that it felt different when you were the one doing it...I think that pushed me a lot closer to the place where I finally felt like I could admit to myself that I had feelings for you.”
David’s mouth twists up, and he’s so touched by Patrick’s words that he feels like he might explode.
“I love you,” he whispers, overcome.
Patrick laughs and leans in to kiss him. “I love you, too.”
David kisses him back with fervour but then breaks away to say, “Um, actually, I meant I love you for fixing my collar, since I know that would have bugged me if that showed up in the photos. But thank you for...all the nice things you just said to me.”
Patrick laughs. “Okay, David.”
They dance the rest of the night away, all wrapped up in each other, and later that night, they have absolutely no qualms about messing up clothes or ruining hair, because, hey, they could fix each other up the next morning, or before dinner the next night, or every day after that for the rest of their lives.