Chapter Text
“You’re allowed to have these days.”
David has been telling himself that for years now. A mantra repeated right when he cracks his eyes open early in the morning - earlier than normal - and knows it’s going to be one of those days. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel some guilt in regards to it.
These are days where food is too much, where people are too loud, and work is just too exhausting. Days where his arms feel like lead and like every cell in his body is vibrating.
Patrick knows David well enough to pick a bad day out from the get-go. Granted, sometimes the bad days start at three in the afternoon when things had been going well, and at the drop of a hat David’s mood shifts.
But, Patrick knows his husband. He can tell by the look on David’s face or how he doesn’t react to teasing. David will lay there beneath layers of blankets with a somewhat vacant stare, glassy-eyed as Patrick sits and runs a hand through his messy hair, promising with a kiss to his forehead that he’ll come home during lunch.
Today is one of those days.
David spent a good amount of time in the mirror rubbing his fingers over his cheeks, pulling at them, angling his jaw to memorize the structure, the sharpness. His eyes feel heavy and look sunken in the early light. He wants to jump out of his skin, really.
He tugs hard on his shirt and turns to exit, but Patrick’s leaning against the doorframe.
His husband gives him a soft and knowing look, and David's shoulders drop. Patrick’s arms open wide for David to sink into, letting himself hiccup and swallow thickly through a wave of anxiety. Somehow, he’s guided back to bed where Patrick stands between his knees, nose buried in David’s dark hair as he whispers gentle affirmations.
“Lay down.” It’s said quietly, but David obliges, tucking himself well under the covers as Patrick sits beside. him.
“Is it anything specific?”
David grumbles out a, “No,” a long and heavy sigh accompanying it.
“Can I get you anything?”
He doesn’t respond, instead he lets his eyes shut slowly. Patrick must take that as his cue to leave, because the bed shifts and the lights are out when his eyes reopen.
He can’t pinpoint the cause, no bells are going off alerting David to a reason, and it’s not entirely abnormal. Sometimes his mind decides to go a bit haywire, and now that he knows what to look for, David isn’t scared half to death anymore.
David can hear quiet movements down in their kitchen below them as Patrick readies himself for work. He must drift off again, however, because the light outside has shifted slightly and the time on their bedside clock reads 10:00 A.M.
He feels the weight of the world pressing into every bone in his body and every unfamiliar sound outside their home makes him jump; a truck driving past, a lawnmower kicking back down the street.
He’s going to explode, and it’s enough to make him jump from the bed rush down to their living room where he begins to pace in a rigid line. He focuses on creaking of the old wooden floorboards under socked feet.
On one turn, he sees, haphazardly over the back of the couch, Patrick’s sweatshirt.
David gathers it up in his arms as he continues on back and forth through the room, pressing his face into the soft grey fabric. He breathes in, the smell of his husband soothing his frayed nerves just slightly, but he keeps pacing in a numb motion until the front door opens.
A clatter of keys being set down and the soft thump of footsteps, Patrick appears in the room, his eyes big and round.
“What are you doing here?” David asks in a whisper as Patrick walks over.
“I put a sign on the door,” he replies simply, matching David’s whisper. “You’re my priority today.”
David musters up a smile, a weak one, and goes lax in Patrick’s arms.
“Food?”
His response is a shallow sigh.
“Something light, David. Okay?”
“‘Kay.”
Patrick deposits him on a barstool in their kitchen, making him a cup of peppermint tea and a slice of crusty sourdough with salted butter, un-toasted.
Patrick navigates these days well, and David’s thanked him for that on several occasions. But it’s rare that Patrick closes the store before lunch.
“You’re sure nothing prompted this?” He leans across the counter, his own cup of tea in his hands.
“Just happens, Patrick,” is what David says as he pulls apart his bread into small pieces. It’s a control thing, lingering tactics from years ago that arise every so often.
Patrick nods in understanding because he really does, and doesn’t press any further. They stay there in silence until David slides his half-eaten plate away and his husband dumps the remnants in the trash.
He guides David to the couch and wraps him up. David still has Patrick’s hoodie in his arms, and one of hand slinks under David’s sleep shirt to trace lazy circles on his bare hip.
Sometimes, on these rough days, David cries. Sometimes, on these days, David shakes and moves too quickly for his brain to keep up with. Sometimes, on these days, David sleeps for ten hours.
But Patrick is always there. He isn’t a cure-all, but he eases the blow, he makes things bearable.
Right now, David feels less like he’s going to crawl out of his skin and more like Patrick is the glue holding him together.
Patrick’s lips press into his hair, a quiet murmuring of, “Baby,” being enough for him to pull David’s attention toward him.
“I know you really don’t want to hear it,” he starts, and David’s already grumbling in mild protest, eyes closed. “But it’s just today. Take it by the hour, okay? I’ll be right here. You’re allowed to let it fester, you’re allowed to feel like this, David. Alright?”
“Yeah,” he replies quietly. “Thank you, Patrick.”
His husband’s only response is to squeeze him tight, a firm pressing of arms against David’s shoulders that brings his racing heart rate down.
“You’re allowed all kinds of days. Okay?”
David buries himself further into Patrick’s strong hold, and it’s enough to get him through this one day of many days.