Chapter Text
{David}
It was only out of necessity, and his dogged determination to prove his parents wrong, that David Rose found himself boarded WestJet flight 703, non-stop from Toronto to Vancouver for an introductory business seminar hosted by the Canadian Federation of Independent Business. Having come into some money when the Blouse Barn went belly-up, David had been working on a plan to open his own business, but just needed to acquire some technical knowledge before rushing into any sort of commitment.
Sitting in the emergency exit row, with its pre-boarding and extra leg room, was the closest to flying first class that David could afford, and it was a far cry from the comfortable pods with warmed blankets, pillows, and bottomless prosecco. He stashed his Louis Vuitton travel bag underneath the seat in front of him, eyeing wearily the crumb-infested carpet, missed by the evidently perfunctory cleaning in between flights. He stashed his headphones in the seat pocket, inflated his newly acquired travel pillow (still with that “new rubber” scent…ew), leaned back and closed his eyes.
Despite having flown hundreds of times, David hated it. Once the plane had reached cruising altitude, he could relax, resigned to the fact that he was in a giant tin can, hurtling through space at several hundred kilometres per hour, but take-off, landing, and <shudder> turbulence were always rough. If he was honest with himself, being relieved of the constant jet-setting was one of the few positives of the low-key, low-income lifestyle that had been thrust upon him in Schitt’s Creek.
He felt a shift when the seat next to him was occupied, but David didn’t even bother to open his eyes, certain that whoever it was would be of no interest.
{Patrick}
Tucking his Samsonite carry-on wheels-first in the overhead storage, Patrick Brewer glanced down into his row, immediately noticing the striking man with his eyes closed, clearly on edge and uncomfortable. His furrowed brow, coiffed pompadour, five o’clock shadow (at 8:15 am), soft sweater, ripped jeans…
The passenger boarding behind him cleared his throat, snapping Patrick back to attention. He quickly took his seat, stowing his Roots satchel underneath the seat in front of him, placing Simon Sinek’s latest book, his headphones, and phone in the seat pocket. He glanced over at his neighbour, whose brow had only become more furrowed since Patrick’s arrival, but whose eyes remained firmly shut. He noticed his jaw clench and unclench, and his lips purse. Patrick wondered what could possibly be going through his mind to cause such a journey of facial expressions.
The high-pitched, overly enthusiastic arrival of the perky flight attendant (“Andi” according to her name tag) perched on the seats in front of them caused David to open his eyes suspiciously, while Patrick snapped to attention, temporarily forgetting about the fascinating landscape to his right.
For Patrick, sitting in the emergency row was a matter of duty. He was physically capable of what would be required of him, in the event of an emergency, and he felt quite confident in his ability to assess the presence of fire, water, debris or other hazards before putting his fellow passengers at risk upon escape. He listened attentively to Andi’s instructions, noting that no changes in protocol had occurred since his last flight a few months prior.
{David}
Just as he was sure he had regulated his breathing, and gotten his heart rate down to a reasonable number of beats-per-minute, an egregiously shrieky and loud voice caused it once again to spike. He opened his eyes slowly, brow deeply furrowed, to find a petite blonde, dressed in those hideous WestJet colours, beaming over the seat in front of him.
“Andi” introduced herself, and immediately launched into her rapid fire instructions as to what David and his neighbour, would be expected to do in the event of an emergency. The thought of fire, water, or debris did nothing to put David at ease, as he immediately regretted his decision to sit in this row. Surely, sitting cramped in a regular row would have been preferable to the possible implications of being responsible for other peoples’ lives? He finally looked over to the man seated to his left. Mid-range denim, a blue-button up, Oxfords. Responsible. Clearly, the hero this plane needed in the event of an emergency. David tuned the remainder of Andi’s directions out, confident he could cede his lifesaving duties to the clearly far more responsible passenger beside him…what with his rolled up sleeves, muscled forearms…and soft neck with collarbones just barely visible thanks to the two top buttons being undone…
David gave his head a shake, closed his eyes at Andi’s departure, and prepared for take-off.
{Patrick}
Feeling adequately briefed on all aspects of commercial aviation safety, Patrick put his headphones in and cued up the album of his newest, favourite artist - an Indigenous man named William Prince, whose voice was like low, slow, deep molasses. He picked up his book, turning to his bookmark, as the plane slowly made its way down the tarmac.
As the plane took off, he noticed his neighbour’s knuckles whiten as they gripped the hem of his sweater, but he said nothing, as the man seemed to be in his own little world.
[David}
As soon as he felt the plane lift off the tarmac, David immediately regretted turning down his mother’s offer of lorazepam for breakfast. He scrunched his eyes shut, concentrated on his breathing, and gripped the hem of his sweater as tightly as he could. The flight was only five hours long. That’s like a movie marathon of Ten Things I Hate About You, Mona Lisa Smile, and Sliding Doors. Put in terms of Julias and Gwyneths, he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Plus, he knew that once the plane had reached high enough altitude, there would be snacks.
{Patrick}
Deep into The Infinite Game, reflecting on his own leadership ability, Patrick nearly missed the Captain’s announcement of the possibility of turbulence as they headed over the Great Lakes. It wouldn’t have mattered much to him. He was educated, and ready, for whatever this flight may bring.
Sure enough, the plane started to rock, sending the flight attendants back to their seats, postponing the delivery of snacks. It was gentle enough at first, but the weather system they were flying over was clearly intent on wreaking havoc in the air, as it was on the ground below.
The plane growled, shook, and suddenly dropped what felt like 100 feet, though it was probably only 10.
The man beside Patrick gasped, eyes open, wild with panic, as he reached, out of instinct, and grabbed Patrick’s hand. Unable to be anything but compassionate, Patrick held on to this man’s hand as the plane righted itself.
Embarrassed, the man pulled his hand back, apologizing to Patrick.
“Sorry. I’m not a good flyer,” he offered, face flushed.
“No problem, though I feel like we should have at least introduced ourselves before holding hands,” Patrick teased, hoping to ease some of the tension. “Patrick,” he said, extending his hand.
“David,” the man said, taking Patrick’s hand and giving it a firm, yet slightly clammy, shake.
Patrick couldn’t help but notice how soft his skin was, his long, slender fingers, and well-manicured nails. Where did these thoughts come from?
Well, shit. Patrick was prepared for fire, water, debris, even catastrophic impact, but he was not prepared for this.