Chapter Text
Patrick Brewer had never set foot in a craft store before. He’d had absolutely no reason to. His mother was into crafts but he wasn’t an artsy person—he didn’t paint… or crochet or… do whatever it was people did with felt. Visual art had never been his thing. Other than music, a hobby he’d effectively dropped when he started university three years ago, Patrick had no creative outlet. He needed a creative outlet.
That’s what his therapist said anyway.
“Why don’t you take an art class?” She’d suggested during their second meeting.
“An art class?” He said.
Patrick started seeing her in the middle of October when midterms were looming and he’d just broken up with Rachel. Again. Things had never felt more wrong—he’d never felt more wrong—in his life. He’d seen all these posters around school, you know, the ones about mental health awareness and self-care and how important it was to talk to somebody. They were colorful and in every building and every Professor’s office, so that you knew they cared even when they were failing you for handing in your paper an hour and half late. And there were counselors and therapists available for the students so he thought it was something he could try, maybe. And nobody had to know. Besides he didn’t need to go back if he didn’t like it. And he was probably just feeling the stress of midterms, right?
So Patrick made an appointment to see a therapist.
Patrick never thought he’d need therapy. He’d never though he’d end up with this… pit in his stomach everyday. He’d been a happy kid, hadn’t he? His parents loved him and he had friends. He got good grades and he played sports—mostly baseball but some soccer and lacrosse too. He had Rachel. Since he was 15, he’d had her. He had a plan for his life and everything seemed easy. Business school was obvious; he was great at math and the career potential was limitless. So business school, a steady job… and Rachel. His vision for his future snagged on Rachel every time and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why.
Rachel was perfect. She was smart and kind—so kind, all the time—and she was pretty. And patient. She’d been so patient with Patrick. Every hang up he’d had about their relationship, she’d understood. She’d listened. And every time she’d managed to convince him that nothing was actually wrong. When Patrick didn’t want to have sex, she never pressured him. She told him it was okay, it was okay to not be ready, or to not want it. Some people didn’t want sex. But it wasn’t okay. Because Patrick did want it, or rather, he wanted to want it. But Rachel never pushed it and so they were together for over two years before they had sex for the first time. And it was fine. It was good. Rachel had liked it and so Patrick had—it was fine.
The problem was that Patrick liked Rachel. A lot. She was a great friend and they had a good time together. It’s just that he never actually felt more than that for her. He didn’t think he did anyway, but how was he supposed to know for sure? Kisses were nice and sex was fine and Rachel was happy so Patrick didn’t object. His friends told him he was lucky to have her, and his parents loved her too. So he felt like it must be right and Patrick liked to get things right.
They stayed together until they graduated high school. Halfway through the summer Rachel suggested that maybe it’d be better to go to college single, and Patrick, perhaps too willingly, agreed. So they broke-up and went to separate colleges and it was nice. They focused on their own lives separate from each other and it was nice. It was nice until it was lonely.
They were back together by the end of their first semester.
This time it felt good to Patrick. This time it would work. It felt nice to have somebody to talk to and to know him and, well, isn’t that close enough to love? He had somebody to call late at night when he felt scared about the future or stressed about exams, somebody he could talk about his family with. Share memories with, because she had been around for nearly all of them. That was love, right? Patrick thought it must be. But he also thought that if it was, it was kind of disappointing.
By sophomore year Patrick had become better friends with some of his classmates and the guys on his baseball team and he didn’t feel like he needed Rachel so desperately anymore. So he’d broken up with her. She’d cried because she wanted him and he’d cried because he had no idea what he wanted.
That break-up lasted nearly a month, until he went home for winter break and she was there and wanted to get back together and it was a lot harder to disappoint Rachel when you actually had to look at her. So they got back together and it was good again.
It was good because they were both busy and hardly had time to see each other… So they’d text a little everyday and talk on the phone twice a week and it was like they were nothing more than friends and Patrick liked it that way.
They spent the summer together but they both had jobs and Patrick made sure to stay busy enough that they only really went out once a week—and even then most of the time it was with a group of friends. So it stayed good.
He started his junior year that September and that’s when things changed. The first week back was always fun; it was great to see all of his friends and classmates and the start of new classes was always easy and exciting. But by the second week things had settled and he’d woken up one morning with a heaviness in his chest and that dreadful pit in his stomach and it didn’t go away.
He knew he was too far into his degree to change majors without screwing up his timeline. Besides it’s not like he knew what else he would do. He felt chained to his degree and chained to Rachel and one of the chains was easier to break than the other. So October came and Rachel started to talk about visiting him and doing cute couple things like pumpkin picking and hayrides and corn mazes and Patrick just… panicked.
“Rachel, stop!” He said, his panic making his voice more aggressive than he meant it to sound. Rachel stayed quiet, inviting him to fill the silence.
“I want to break up,” he said, feeling cruel even as the words left his mouth. Just because things didn’t feel right with Rachel didn’t mean he wanted to hurt her. He still thought of her as a friend. He did care about her.
“I don’t think you know what you want, Patrick,” She said, sounding tired and maybe disappointed. At least she didn’t cry this time.
After the break-up, he felt better. For about three days, he felt better. Then he felt guilty and lonely and stressed again. Just the very fact that he still felt bad made him feel worse. What was his problem? When he was with Rachel, he always wished that he wasn’t. And then when he wasn’t, it felt like he’d made a mistake. No matter what, he didn’t feel right.
With midterms coming up, his emotions were a lot to handle. He couldn’t focus on studying but he also couldn’t think about anything else. In his panic spiral he ended up missing two days of class. Of course missing class only made his mood worse. Patrick Brewer never missed class.
So. Therapy.
The first time he went he couldn’t stop shaking. It was like he’d had too much coffee, except that Patrick never drank coffee. It took a lot out of him to admit something was wrong and that he couldn’t handle it himself. He thought about canceling the entire 48 hours leading up to his appointment. He didn’t know if he was nervous to talk about his feelings or nervous to find out something was wrong with him. Or possibly, probably, nervous to find out that nothing was wrong with him and this was just how people felt. How he felt. How he would feel forever. That was the thought that scared him into keeping his appointment.
They’d kept the conversation casual at the first meeting. He talked about school and his friends. Briefly about Rachel and why he’d broken up with her.
“Have you ever dated anyone else?” She asked, casually. She had a smooth voice and a way of speaking that said answer this question or don’t, follow this thread of conversation or take it somewhere else—your choice.
“No, I… There was never anyone else that I wanted to date,” Patrick said.
“So you were with her because there were no other options?” There was never any judgment in her voice, but there was always interest.
“No, of course not. Rachel was great. She was perfect.”
“For you?”
“What?”
“You’ve mentioned three times now how perfect Rachel is, but never that you actually liked being with her. I just wonder what connection you had beyond going to the same high school, growing up in the same town.” Follow this thread said the voice in the back of his head.
Patrick, suddenly uncomfortable, steered the conversation towards midterms and stress, and she, of course, let him. He mentioned towards the end of the hour how sometimes he felt like he couldn’t breath even when he knew he was breathing just fine and that’s when she suggested he maybe come back again next week.
So he did. Though he felt no less uncertain after his session, he did feel lighter. Like just being able to talk about his uncertainty with someone had helped. He knew that was the point of therapy, why so many people liked it, but he didn’t think it would actually work.
At their second meeting she asked about his other interests. What he did for fun. He mentioned baseball and music. She was happy to hear he was part of a team and happier to hear that he had an interest in music. She was unhappy to hear that he hadn’t played anything in close to three years. In addition to having limited free time outside of classes and baseball, he’d also felt no desire to play. He’d brought his guitar with him his first semester but when he realized he didn’t want to play and, even more, he didn’t want anyone to ask him to play, he’d brought it home and stored it in the back of his closet and there it remained.
So when she suggested he find another creative outlet, like maybe an art class, he laughed. He hadn’t taken an art class since it was mandatory in middle school. He hadn’t colored or so much as doodled since then either.
“So you might even learn something. I think it will be good for you.”
“Why?” Patrick asked.
“I think its good to have balance in your life, Patrick. To explore things you are unfamiliar with, to be creative. Didn’t music make you feel good? Art can scratch that same itch.”
Patrick didn’t really want to do it—he wasn’t good at art and he wasn’t interested in things he wasn’t good at—but he did have space in his schedule next semester and so he told her he’d think about it.
They had a standing appointment every Thursday afternoon and Patrick thought it was actually helping. He tried to avoid talking about Rachel because that usually led to his therapist asking questions that he didn’t know how to answer, but he had plenty of other things to talk about. At the very least he could vent and it was another hour out of the day that he wasn’t alone. So he was okay and he thought maybe she forgot about the art class.
She didn’t bring it up again until the beginning of December when she presented him with a list of classes that were open to non-majors. He sighed but looked at the list anyway.
Sculpture 1
Painting 1
Intro to Printmaking
Life Drawing 1
Drawing for Beginners
He thought maybe sculpture would be good and not only because it was the first thing on the list. He could work with his hands. He could make a bowl or a mug and give it to his mom. She’d like that.
He’d already registered for the bulk of his classes at the end of November, because he knew what he needed to take and it was important he make it into those classes. But he left enough room in his schedule for a fifth class in case anything interesting opened up. However, it wasn’t until about mid-December that he went to register for Sculpture. Even after agreeing with his therapist, he’d stalled, hoping that maybe he’d find another business class to take instead. But he didn’t, and the deeper into December they went, the more Patrick realized he’d rather take an art class than risk taking no fifth class at all. Too much free time was not good for him.
Unfortunately, introductory art classes fill up fast, and sculpture was no longer an option. The only open course left was Life Drawing 1. So he registered for it. Because it would be good for him.
Probably.
So that’s how he ended up in a craft store for the first time nearly a month later. It was mid-January and he had a week left of winter break before the spring semester started. He received an email earlier that week with a list—a long list—of supplies he’d need for his art class. Half the things on the list he’d never heard of and the other half was just a list of paint colors. When all was said and done, supplies for Life Drawing 1 had cost him about $200. He wished he’d known it would cost him so much when he agreed to take the class, but as the price was on par with that of a textbook, he let it go.
Patrick was more than happy to return to school a few days early. He managed to see Rachel only once over break, despite his best efforts to avoid her. She’d texted him about five times since they’d broken up, sometimes a random string of letters and sometimes actual words, but he’d ignored them all the same. So when she showed up at the same party, a party none of her friends were at, he’d dodged her for about two hours before finally deciding to leave the party early. His buddies were bummed but he knew that he couldn’t avoid her much longer, and if they did end up talking, the odds of them getting back together were very, very, high. So Patrick had to take responsibility and remove himself from the situation.
Even though he loved seeing his parents, and his cousins and friends, being home stressed him out. He lived in a small town and could run into Rachel literally anywhere. He couldn’t get milk for his mother without looking over his shoulder. So, at risk of disappointing his parents, he went back to school early.
Patrick was happy to be back on campus—he felt closer to his college friends than he did his high school friends, and there was no Rachel to worry about—and even happier to start classes. He had scheduled an appointment with his therapist for that first week of classes back in December, knowing that being home for a month would do a number on his mental health. So he had that to look forward to as well.
His first art class was at noon on Tuesday. He had an economics class that morning all the way across campus. Shockingly, the math building and the art building were nowhere near each other, an issue he should have factored in when making his schedule. He had 10 minutes to make it to his next class on time.
So that’s how he found himself jogging across campus and hiking up four flights of stairs (the fourth floor, really?) to make it to Life Drawing. He was exhausted and sweaty and probably red in the face by the time he shuffled into the classroom and looked around. It was simultaneously like no classroom he’d ever seen before and also exactly like he thought it would be. The room was big and bright—there were skylights letting in a ton of sun—and full of easels and old furniture. Everything was covered in paint. It was assaulting to his eyes and yet, completely pleasant. It was worlds different than a math classroom. All the mismatched furniture made it cozy, homey.
Patrick felt like he could breath. Maybe this would be good for him.
The room was busy with other students talking or working, standing in front of easels or sitting, washing brushes by the sink or just waiting for class to officially start. Patrick shifted his backpack, which was heavy with paint and brushes and something called vine charcoal, and made his way to an empty easel. He put his bag down and dropped his body into a plush, orange chair that had to be close to 30 years old. It was dirty and ratty but very comfortable.
He let out a loud huff, finally able to rest after his marathon across campus.
The guy next to him looked up from his sketchbook with such malice in his eyes that Patrick thought he must have sat on his puppy. Or maybe Patrick only read it as malice because his eyes were so intense; everything about his face was intense. Dark eyes and darker eyebrows and his mouth—his mouth was set so firmly that Patrick had to stop himself from reaching out to touch it, if only to prove to himself that this man was a man and not a sculpture left behind by some careless art student…that he was flesh and not stone.
This guy was handsome, frighteningly so, and Patrick felt his heartbeat, which had only just begun to settle, pick right back up.
He’d thought before that he might be gay, only briefly, the way most people consider it at some point… and all his problems with Rachel had made him think once that maybe… but it had never quite taken hold of him as it did now... had never settled into his brain with such ease as it did in this moment. He’d always found guys attractive—he’d seen plenty of half-dressed guys in the locker-room to know—but he’d never had a crush on one, and it wasn’t like he found girls unattractive. And any sexual desire he’d ever experienced had always made him think of Rachel, never mind that it wasn’t Rachel he’d been thinking of when the feelings came on. But he’d always been with Rachel and he was nothing if not loyal. And even when things felt off, he had never really thought to look for anyone else.
But now… he was by no means certain enough to shout it to the universe, but he was maybe curious enough to give it more thought. Because he’d never actually gotten butterflies before, not the good kind anyway—the light and happy kind that meant you were excited about something… someone. Any butterflies he might have experienced before, for Rachel maybe, he knew now were more like wasps—a nervous buzzing in his stomach, annoying and more than a little scary. A feeling that you wanted to immediately get rid of, not one that you wanted to chase.
After eyeing Patrick for a solid 5 seconds—a very long time to be on the receiving end of a stare like that—the guy dropped his gaze back to his book.
“You’re sweating,” he said, all nonchalance.
Patrick was shocked the guy had spoken to him at all, let alone insulted him, a stranger. It was an insult, right? Or was it just an observation? Could someone point out that you were a sweaty mess without meaning to insult you at least a little bit? Could someone who looked so pristine, in what Patrick could only assume was a very expensive black sweater, point out the disheveled appearance of someone else and not intend for it to sting?
“I just ran up four flights of stairs,” Patrick answered, a little defensively. The man may not need to look at Patrick for more than a few seconds to form an opinion, but Patrick could not say the same. He had no idea how to read this person and was maybe a little desperate for this guy to like him. Or at least not immediately dismiss him.
“Why?” The guy had stopped scribbling in his book and looked at Patrick again, his gaze taking him apart for the second time in as many minutes. Patrick, feeling shaken by his impromptu workout and even more unexpected sexual crisis, did not know how to answer him. Why else would he run up four flights of stairs other than to make it to class on time? Why would he even ask this question, if not just to mess with him?
Patrick, three crises removed from coherent human interaction, answered, “I…uh, we… we’re on the fourth floor,” as if the question was ‘why not run up three flights of stairs? Or five? Why four?’ Patrick was entirely out of his element and wasn’t yet used to sounding so stupid.
“Mm. We are.” Haughty.
“And I’m in this class.” Patrick was just stacking stupid on top of stupid at this point. What was wrong with him?
“Okay.” Dismissive.
“And it’s the first day and I didn’t want to be late and my last class was all the way across campus.” He could tell his voice was desperate but he wanted this conversation to be over. He wanted this conversation to have never happened in the first place. He wanted this… this person… to not think he was a total waste of space.
“You should’ve taken the elevator.” He said it so casually but the way the corner of his mouth twitched gave away his satisfaction.
“The…elevator?”
“Mm.” He turned away from Patrick, punch line landed, conversation over.
“There’s an elevator,” Patrick said, incredulous.
“There are two actually.” Patrick didn’t know this man but he could hear something like humor in his voice. Glee, maybe. “Yeah one of them is right outside the stairwell… you must’ve just… run right past it.”
Patrick thought that if his face were not still flushed from his race across campus, it certainly would be now. This guy was making fun of him right? Verbally poking him? He thought he should be annoyed but he actually kind of liked it. He liked anybody he could laugh with. There was a thrill that came with being teased by someone so attractive. Teasing was how he flirted, too. Not that he thought this guy was flirting with him, but… he could be, right? His mouth quirked.
“Wow. Next you’re going to tell me there’s a bathroom in this building and I didn’t have to pee in that bush outside,” Patrick said. It was a cheap joke, but it landed exactly the way Patrick hoped it would. The guy’s entire face transformed—he scrunched his nose and his mouth turned down in one of the most dramatic frowns Patrick had seen.
“Okay,” the guy said, like he meant to say we’re done here. Patrick had put them back on even ground and it felt good.
“I’m Patrick,” he said, holding out his hand. The guy looked at it and glanced away, his features going neutral again. Patrick held his hand out for a couple more seconds before letting it drop. He thought maybe that was it.
But then,
“I’m David,” he said, and Patrick thought he saw the stone crack, just a little.