Work Text:
David Rose is famous for his smile.
His secret lies in how it always comes as a surprise. First a crooked twinkle tugs at one side of his mouth, slowly growing until the other half follows into a full grin that lights up his whole face. David’s lips are delicate, with a perfect Cupid’s bow, and usually overshadowed by his dark, serious eyes and strong eyebrows. But when he smiles, he glows from the inside, and his eyes dance, and movie watchers all over the world smile helplessly in return.
David rarely smiles in real life. Keeping his face neutral, perhaps a little hard, makes him less recognizable. He can’t bring himself to wear a baseball cap, or a hoodie, or any other everyman disguise. He keeps on his sunglasses, avoids eye contact, and doesn’t smile. It’s the only way to protect himself from fans who want to claim a piece of him, who feel like they already know him.
They don’t know him.
David can always tell when he is recognized. Sometimes it’s an immediate shock, the other person’s eyes flaring in surprise, their mouths pursing in an effort not to say anything. Other times it’s more of a slow burn, sneaking glances until, yes, the suspicion is confirmed.
Patrick Brewer is harder to read. When David wanders into the Brewer General Store, really the only place into which one might wander while on location in godforsaken Schitt’s Creek, the man behind the counter greets him warmly. However, he also continues to equally warmly serve the guy with a scraggly beard and droopy, faded jeans.
“I promise, Roland, this is the same foot lotion that you bought last time and you said cleared that fungus right up,” overheard David as he perused the shelves. It was shabby, but homey, with a random assortment of books, jams, toys, t-shirts, and soap in addition to some grocery staples.
David picked up a jar of honey and turned it in his hands, appreciating the weight and golden color. He didn’t realize the man was right behind him until he heard, “Can I help you find anything? Maybe some of the strawberry jam? It’s made right here in Schitt’s Creek. That honey, I’m afraid I can’t verify its origins. I’ve had a suspicion for a while that Farmer Hodgkins is putting supermarket honey in fancy jars and selling it to me. I’m Patrick Brewer, by the way. Owner of the Brewer General Store, such as it is.”
David looked at him coolly. He was accustomed to keeping a literal arm’s length from strangers, in case they were huggers. He didn’t like people coming up behind him, and he didn’t like being startled. Patrick, though, looked safe. His arms stayed by his sides. David couldn’t help noticing his arms. They looked strong in the way of arms that carry heavy boxes or rocks or maybe armloads of puppies out of burning buildings, not like arms trained to only lift weights in front of the gym mirror.
David took off his sunglasses. “I’ll take this, please,” he said, handing Patrick the jar of honey.
“Excellent, all right then.” He was flustered. David liked that. Usually people were so undone just by the sight of him that he didn’t get a chance to provoke them with his actions. “Maybe you’re allergic to strawberries. But in case not, let me throw in a jar of jam on me.”
David watched as Patrick wrapped the jars in butcher paper and placed them in a paper bag. He suspected that Patrick wasn’t usually this pink, but it was a cute look. Sebastien certainly never blushed around him. Though David wasn’t even sure if they were still together. Sebastien had unsurprisingly declined the opportunity to accompany him on location.
Patrick held out the bag. “For you. And can I say, this is the biggest thing that’s happened in this store all month. Or all year.”
So he knew after all. David felt a pang of disappointment, knowing that yet again any special attention was because someone was imagining the famous smile directed at them. But then Patrick looked into David’s eyes and held his gaze. People never did that; they glanced and then stared at their shoes, like he was the sun.
As David reached for the bag, Patrick thrust it forward, knocking over an open bottle of juice on the counter and spilling the contents all over Davd’s sweater. David’s eyes widened in horror while Patrick gasped.
“I’m so sorry. That was so clumsy of me. I’m incredibly embarrassed.”
David wasn’t sure what kind of juice it was, but it was thick and viscous and made a flourescent orange splash across his clothes. He didn’t particularly want to be seen looking like this by even the residents of this town, probably surrounded by a cloud of flies.
“I live just across the road,” stammered Patrick, “and I have soap and towels and hot water. Would you like to…”
“Yes,” said David. He could feel the stain beginning to set, and this was one of his favorites. Plus he was wondering about Patrick Brewer and his towels.
“Yes? Great. I just have to warn you, there’s my housemate. He means well but he likes to talk.”
David put his sunglasses on and followed Parick across the road. The streets were blessedly empty. They entered a tidy house with a blue door, and Patrick directed him upstairs.
“Bathroom. Towels. Soap. Anything else?”
David shook his head and locked the door behind him.
When David came downstairs half an hour later, he felt Patrick’s eyes on him, as if Patrick had been standing at attention the entire time. He had been unable to salvage the sweater—maybe he could mail it back to Svetlana in New York to clean—and was wearing just his snug black short-sleeved undershirt. David covered his body as part of his disguise, but he wanted to see how Patrick Brewer reacted to a taste of David Rose, International Celebrity. He wanted to feel Patrick’s eyes on his bare arms.
He walked over to Patrick, probably standing a little closer than was necessary. “Thank you,” he said.
“It was nice to meet you. Surreal, but nice,” said Patrick, and then fortunately winced at the sound of that. David was close enough to see the slight blush creeping up his neck, and to feel the warmth radiating off his skin.
David took another step closer. Patrick froze, except for flicking his eyes to David’s mouth. And before either of them realized what was happening, David lay his cool fingers against Patrick’s hot cheek and kissed him.
And then David Rose smiled.
****
“David. David! Earth to David!”
“Hmmmm. What?” David opened his eyes to see the Apothecary, correctly decorated for Christmas with evergreen boughs and understated white lights.
Patrick walked out of the back room holding a dust mop. “I need you to help me with ...oh my God, you’re thinking about Notting Hill again, aren’t you.”
“Really, Patrick, why would I be doing that?” David rapidly resumed spritzing the vegetables in their bins.
“I don’t know, David, but after not answering any of my calls to help me move these boxes, I come out to find you doing your Julia Roberts smile.” Patrick’s jaw throbbed slightly with tension, one of his few outward signs of annoyance.
“My what”?
“You’re out here batting your eyelashes at the lettuce, and then all of a sudden this weird, slow smile takes over your face like you’re at the Grammys.”
“The Academy Awards. Or maybe the Golden Globes. Why would Julia Roberts be at the Grammys?”
“Hah, so I’m right!” Patrick thwacked the dust mop on the counter for emphasis and crossed his arms. “It looks very strange.”
David didn’t say anything, pursing his lips and looking down. He felt himself slipping into his old default mode, withdrawn silence. He felt raw under Patrick’s teasing today.
Patrick caught the heaviness in David’s silence. “Hey, what is it?”
David took a deep breath and looked up at the ceiling. He was surprised by the shakiness of his voice. “Okay, so you remember when you took me on that hike?”
“And asked you to marry me? I remember that pretty well.” Patrick’s voice was softer now, as he took David’s hand and gently touched the four gold engagement rings.
“And right before that, you told me I needed to stop watching Notting Hill, because it was bad for our relationship?”
“I was nervous. I was trying to get you up the mountain, and you were looking around for an English garden.”
“Okay, here’s the thing,” said David, taking a deep breath. “I don’t love that movie because I want you to turn into Hugh Grant, though he is one of the few men with enough charm to carry a rom com on his shoulders, or because I wanted you to propose to me in an exquisite private garden, or because I actually had a subscription to Horse and Hound magazine when I was 12.”
“Well, what is it, then?” asked Patrick. And he truly wanted to know. That was his Patrick, who almost always saw through him immediately, and when he didn’t, asked questions.
“Anna Scott...:” David could see Patrick’s confused blink. “Julia Roberts’ character. She’s not a nice person. She’s distant and cold and cowardly and lets Alec Baldwin think Hugh Grant is there to deliver room service. She’s kind of a bitch.”
Patrick’s hand tightened in his. David hoped he could understand.
Patrick paused, and his brown eyes met David’s.
“But she tries,” Patrick said.
David exhaled the breathe he hadn’t realized he was holding. Something warm began to grow in his chest.
“She comes to his sister’s awful birthday dinner,” continued Patrick, sliding his hands to David’s waist. David’s arms automatically flew to Patrick’s shoulders, and there they were, in that familiar position where they just seemed to fit.
“She wears jeans to the party. Blue jeans, Patrick,” moaned David.
“And even though she thinks she doesn’t deserve it, she goes to him and asks him to love her.”
David nodded, suddenly overwhelmed. He tilted his head back to slow down the inevitable tears.
Patrick was still talking, his voice low and tender. “And of course he does. He knows he can’t go back to how it was before. Not after she’s come along and filled his life with color and shape and beauty.” Patrick brushed his thumb under David’s eye. “Because he understands that she has to protect herself from the world. And he knows that she’s a good person.”
Patrick leaned in to kiss him, just like that first time right here in the store, when he first told David he was a good person. Not a nice person, but something better. Just like that first time, his hands gripped David’s waist and his eyes flicked to David’s mouth before his own mouth followed.
If there was one flaw with Notting Hill, not that Patrick needed to know, it was that Julia Roberts and Hugh Grant had better conversational chemistry than kissing chemistry. Seeing them smash their lips together left David cold. Not like this, here with Patrick, the first person who saw through David’s armor of sarcasm and thick sweaters to the raw, beating heart they protected. This was better than any movie.
Patrick pulled back. “I have an amazing idea,” he whispered. “Let’s watch Notting Hill tonight.”
David smiled. His real, crooked, imperfect smile.