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“David, you’re not even trying.”
They had just finished making their way through half of the East Coast Arts and Craft A-Fair, the regional craft fair held biannually about an hour outside of Schitt’s Creek. The convention center was the largest in the area, and David and Patrick had seen upwards of 50 booths by the time Patrick’s interest started to wane. He knew David wanted to find some new vendors for the store, but there were only so many aromatherapy candles, ceramic bowls, and artisanal breads (and then there was that one vendor that made artisanal bread bowls) that he could take.
“Okay, is it… that man’s shoes?” David waves vaguely at the group of people to their left. His indifference is nearly palpable.
“I said it starts with a ‘G.’”
“No, you said ‘S.’”
“That was the other round.”
They’re holding hands and walking leisurely up and down the aisles, their steps unhurried and so in sync that one would have never guessed their relationship had only recently changed from business partners to something more.
“Okay, let’s just start over,” Patrick says. He stops walking, causing David to bump into him. “I spy with my little eye something beginning with…” he looks around until his gaze settles on something in the distance. “‘C.’”
David looks around too, mildly interested if only for Patrick's sake, and then his eyes lock on something to their right. He gasps quietly, his grip on Patrick's hand tightening with excitement.
“Cotton candy,” he marvels, just above a whisper, like he had just stumbled upon water in a desert.
“What? No, David --" but before he knows what's happening, David is yanking him frantically toward the booth. Propelled by his sudden urgency, they almost crash into the carnival-themed display in front of the table.
“Newest vendor,” David says decidedly, standing proudly next to the cotton candy machine once he’d gathered his bearings.
"Where are we going to put a cotton candy machine in the store, David?"
"Oh, you wouldn't actually get the machine," the woman behind the table interjects sweetly. "We would just supply the cotton candy," she reaches to grab a sample off the table, "... in these cute little compostable containers." She hands one to David with a smile. He cracks open the lid instantly.
"Compostable," David mouths to Patrick while shoving a handful of the airy treat past his lips.
Patrick narrows his eyes skeptically. He picks up the woman’s business card and tells David, “We’ll think about it.”
“And we’ll also get three more of these,” David gestures toward the containers on the table and digs his wallet out of his bag.
Back on the main floor, David picks at the remaining pastel pink and blue bits of his first container of cotton candy. Once the plastic tub is empty, he holds it up in front of Patrick’s face. He thinks about twirling it on his finger but quickly decides against it.
“Tasty and eco-friendly. What more is there to think about?”
“You know, those aren’t actually compostable in the everyday sense of the word. They require a commercial facility to compost which I don’t think we have access to in Schitt’s Creek. So unless we can find a way to properly dispose of them, they’re not actually eco-friendly at all. Not to be pedantic or anything,” Patrick says pedantically.
David wrinkles his nose. “Hmm, remind me why I brought you along today?”
“Because I’m so much fun to have around,” Patrick says, wrapping his arm tightly around David’s waist. “And, because I have such a discerning eye for these kinds of things. In fact… I spy with my little eye… ”
David whines loudly. He pries open another container of cotton candy in defeat. Patrick leans into his shoulder and they resume their comfortable stroll down the aisle.
“... Something… dark."
David looks around. "Dark? What does that even mean?"
"It's the opposite of light."
David sighs. "Just --" he pauses and turns to face Patrick. He wants to kiss his smart mouth. "Just tell me what it is."
"No, you have to guess. That's the point of the game."
“But I don’t want to play the game.”
“Why not? My cousins and I would play this all the time in the car when we were children.”
"Okay, but we’re not in a car right now and I’m not a child."
"You’re not a child? You're on your second tub of cotton candy," he says flatly and knocks on the container in David's hand. He looks up at him with wanton amusement in his eyes and takes a small step forward, closing the gap between them. David pulls the tub in tighter against his chest like he's afraid Patrick’s going to try to snatch it away from him.
Instead, Patrick licks his thumb and presses it against the corner of David's mouth where a little bit of sugar has dried up and settled. He brings it back to his lips and sucks the melting sugar off his finger. It tastes lightly sweet.
David swallows hard, his eyes darkening.
"Beer," Patrick says.
"... What?" he asks, slightly dazed.
Patrick nods past David's shoulder. He turns and sees a large booth behind him, the black backdrop emblazoned with a sign that says "Don't Stout Believing" in giant block lettering.
"Dark beer," Patrick says.
"No," he shakes his head vigorously. "No, no, no. I draw the line at beer puns."
But now Patrick is pulling David by the hand, making a beeline for the pints of beer on the table. They’re greeted by a woman with a platinum blonde bob and warm, raspy voice. Patrick runs his fingers excitedly along the reclaimed wood tabletop as she pours them a glass of their bestseller.
"This here is our imperial stout. Our richest and thickest one yet. It’s got a nice, sweet little surprise in there, too.”
Patrick clinks his cup against David’s and they take a sip in tandem. He swallows slowly, licking his lips, luxuriating in the graininess and the dark, creamy taste of maple syrup.
David, on the other hand, is not as impressed. He places the cup back down on the table and thanks the woman silently with a kind smile.
“Didn’t seem very thick to me,” he says quietly to Patrick, under his breath.
Patrick swallows another mouthful. “That’s what he said,” he mumbles too loudly into his empty cup.
“Oh my god,” David throws his hands up in resignation. “Do I have to remind you we're here on business? Are you going to be like this the entire time?” He's walking them away from the booth now.
Patrick brings David’s hand up to his lips and kisses his knuckles gently.
“Maybe?” he says into the back of David’s hand.
David feels the soft vibrations of Patrick’s lips on his skin, feels a very faint residual stickiness from the beer, and can’t help the smile spreading across his face.
“Okay, well I want to check out that booth with the jewelry over there, so can you please not say anything to embarrass me this time?”
Patrick lets himself be led down the aisle by David. “I'll try."
But then, "Oh," he says suddenly. "I spy with my little eye something that rhymes with jewelry.”
David looks up at the ceiling, plaintive but thoughtful, and continues walking. “Nothing rhymes with jewelry."
“Coffee," Patrick points to the booth coming up on the left.
David stops in his tracks, his face knotted with confusion. “Okay, in what universe does coffee rhyme with jewelry? "
“Oh now you’re the expert on this game?”
They come to a stop in front of the clean, white, gallery-like booth, a stark contrast to the previous vendor. David remembers then that they're actually in the market for some sustainably-sourced coffee, especially after the debacle with Mr. Hockley’s tea.
“Okay, so this wasn’t a completely wrong choice,” David admits reluctantly, eyeing the small selection of coffee beans in front of them. “And, you know, I’m actually really feeling their aesthetic,” he looks around the booth, at the potted plants in the corner and the faux shiplap in the back. “Look at this chic packaging,” he picks up one of the bags of coffee beans. “Look at these rose gold accents, Patrick. This would be a perfect fit for the store.”
Patrick is beaming proudly.
The tall gentleman behind the table sets down two cups of coffee and explains something about the pourover process, rambling about temperatures and grind settings. “Good coffee should taste good black. Or it’s not good coffee,” he finishes pedagogically.
“See, David?" He bumps his shoulder, sliding the coffee closer toward them. "Aren’t you glad you brought me here? This whole day would have been a bust without me.”
“Mmkay, no. This whole day has just been like one giant experiment to see how you can make the past four hours a little more fun for you and a lot more exasperating for me.”
Patrick hums in agreement and shrugs. “You could say that.”
He hands David his coffee.
“And has it been fun for you?” David asks, bringing the cup to his lips.
“Always,” Patrick answers, smiling at him with the warmth of a secret, shared joke. David’s eyes soften. Then, suddenly, a certain kind of horror flashes across them.
“Ugh, what is that?” David smacks his lips and looks down into his cup in disgust.
Patrick laughs and puts his cup down. “That is what coffee actually tastes like. You know, without all the sugar and caramel and cocoa powder.”
“Mmkay,” he sets his cup down solidly on the table. “Now that we’re officially doing this,” he motions down at their fingers interlaced below his hip and he can’t help the way his heart leaps at the sight. “I think you should learn to be a little more complimentary.” He’s trying his hardest to be admonishing but Patrick’s big, warm eyes disarm him and soften the warning edge in his voice.
“Oh, you want compliments, huh?” Patrick turns to face him, taking him by both hands. He proceeds to walk him backwards down the aisle, slowly, step by step, a smart little smile forming on his lips.
“Wait, the coffee --”
"-- We'll come back."
David rolls his eyes as Patrick leads him gently backwards.
“I spy with my little eye…”
David groans and then looks off to the left, away from Patrick, trying to hide the expectant grin on his face.
“Something… timeless.”
Their feet fall easily in line together. They're taking slow, measured steps, and David can't see where he's going but he trusts Patrick completely.
“... Something classic, captivating, sweet, beautiful…”
He punctuates each word with a step backward. David starts to shake his head.
“... Mesmerizing, radiant, blushing, budding, flowering, aromatic… "
“Is it… a ‘rose,' ” David says through a five-second eyeroll, wrestling his fingers from Patrick’s hands to make large air quotes in front of his face, annoyed but definitely blushing.
“It is,” Patrick stops walking and leans in with a grin. “My favorite kind,” his voice is gravely and he nips once at the edge of David's jaw. He presses his body soundly against David's, the warm, feather-light touch of his lips against his ear sending a long shiver down his spine. Patrick's foot clips the side of David's shoe and then David feels him shift slightly and notices a bit of added pressure against his shoulder as Patrick reaches for something behind him.
In one swift motion, Patrick straightens up and brings his hand out in front of them.
In it is... an actual rose. Large and bright yellow.
“The yellow kind,” he says buoyantly, grinning ear to ear.
“Wha --” David blinks, mouth open. He turns and looks behind him. His eyes land on a massive, eight-foot tall floral arch. Rows and rows of floral arrangements are lined up across the table and buckets of flowers have spilled over onto the floor. "The Secret Garden" is written in flowing letters on the banner across the table.
David wants to kill him.
But first he has to kiss him.
He grabs Patrick’s hand firmly, palming the flower in one hand and Patrick’s cheek in the other. He kisses him squarely on the mouth, fully, insistently. He feels some resistance from Patrick, some hesitance at being kissed so thoroughly in such a public setting, but David isn't going to let up. There is something so annoyingly addictive about Patrick’s stupid games, and one push of David’s tongue into his mouth demands him to concede. He runs his free hand roughly against Patrick’s jaw, deepening their kiss with a strong, heady inhale. He licks every snide comment greedily from his mouth, cotton candy sweetness mixing with the dark taste of beer and coffee on Patrick’s tongue.
David pulls back just a fraction of an inch, catching his breath.
His rational brain is quickly catching up with the rest of him and he remembers they are here on business, standing in front of a potential vendor and practically poised under a fake wedding flower arch. He looks down and sees Patrick with his cheeks pink and lips swollen. Freshly kissed and breathing hard, Patrick looks back at him with wide eyes, and he's the one blushing now, and it's David's turn to look smug.
David looks down at the flower in his hand, toying absently with the petals as he considers his next move. Patrick leans in again, chasing after him, drifting back toward his mouth but then David stops him suddenly, brows slightly furrowed. He places a hand on his chest and pushes them apart gently.
He holds the flower up to Patrick’s face and there’s a spark in his eyes, a hint of a smirk on his lips.
“Mmkay, Patrick?” He waves the flower between them. “This is a peony.”