Chapter Text
The night is characteristically warm and humid, a palpable kind of moisture blanketing the apartment. David shifts uncomfortably, a thin layer of sweat beginning to pool between his crossed legs as he tries to read in bed. The sheets beneath him feel damp. He lets out a loud, profound sigh, sets his book down next to him, and reaches over to the nightstand to turn on the small table fan.
“I want to get married,” he says. Warm air blows listlessly at his face.
Patrick looks up from his seat at the kitchen table. His laptop is open to one of three monthly spreadsheets. A glass of melted ice water is sweating generously in front of him, soaking through the napkin and puddling on the tabletop around the black wire from his earphones. He yanks the earbud out from his right ear.
“What was that?”
“I want to get married,” David repeats decidedly.
Patrick narrows his eyes. He pulls out the other earbud and turns to face his fiance.
“Okay, David, I, uh… I don’t know how to tell you this, but… you are getting married.”
David gives him a slow eyeroll and extends his hands outward, motioning for Patrick to join him on the bed.
“I know, I know, I know, but…” his greedy hands find their spot on Patrick’s shoulders once he’s settled in front of him, heat radiating up into his fingertips. “I want to get married now.” There’s sweat on Patrick’s collarbone and he resists the urge to lick it off.
"Now?" Patrick repeats.
"Now."
Patrick moves off his knees and crosses his legs in front of him. "And how do you suppose we do that?"
"We could do that thing that Twyla's mom's boyfriend just did with his secretary."
"You mean elope?"
"Yes, that."
"So, let me get this straight,” Patrick says after a moment. “You want to forgo your dream wedding that you've been planning for what I can only assume has been years... to run off and elope?"
"Oh, no. God no." David looks utterly offended. "No, we're not forgoing any wedding. Are you kidding? No, we're just going to get married now, and then we can have my dream -- our dream wedding later like we were originally planning."
Patrick nods. "... Okay, I just… where did this come from?"
David chews on his lip. "Um… you?" he answers slowly.
"Me?"
"Yes, you. You asked me to marry you and now that's all I can think about!" he whines, frustrated.
Patrick laughs. "I'm sorry for the inconvenience."
David stretches out his legs, the cloth of his pants damp with sweat behind his knees. "It's just…" He sighs. "I spend so much of my time planning our wedding, and then at the end of the day, when I'm in bed like this and everything's quieted down… " he pauses and looks at his hands, suddenly shy. "I just… I really just want to be married to you. I just want to be your husband already."
The corner of Patrick’s mouth curves upwards reflexively into a lopsided smile. He blinks slowly.
"Okay, that was very sweet, David. But, I just want to make sure I’m understanding you correctly. You’re really saying that you want to... elope?” He says the word carefully. “I'm just… I'm a little concerned this heat might be getting to you." He thumbs at the moisture on David’s upper lip.
"Ew, Patrick," David chides, jerking his head back and swatting Patrick’s hand away. "I'm being serious here,” he protests softly.
Patrick’s face quickly goes from playful to reverent. He tightens his lips into a smile then brings his hand back up to David’s mouth, running his thumb along his bottom lip. He leans in and kisses him once, gently, affirmatively.
“Then let’s get married now.”
David grins. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” Patrick kisses him again. “Where were you thinking?” he asks, the side of his index finger now running lazily along the edge of David’s jaw. “Like, a courthouse? A chapel on the side of the road?”
David physically shudders at the words.
“Actually, um, I was thinking of leaving all of that up to you.”
Patrick’s eyes widen. “Okay, now I’m really worried something might be wrong. What are the symptoms of heat exhaustion?” He reaches for David’s phone on the side of the bed.
“No, Patrick, seriously,” David pulls him back, his hands settling again on his shoulders. “I thought I would let you make the decisions for this one, since you’ve given me full control over the real -- the, um, other one.”
Patrick’s eyes narrow. “Hm, are you sure? Because… I’ve got some ideas.”
He presses his lips tightly together and nods. “Mm-hmm, I’m sure. Now let’s hurry up and get married before I change my mind.” He pushes Patrick away and moves to get off the bed.
“What? Wait, David. I mean, we can’t get married, like, right now.”
“Why not?” He frowns and wipes at the sweat on the back of his neck.
Patrick laughs and has to kiss him again.
“Look, I admire your patience, as always, but I’ll go down to Elmdale first thing tomorrow morning for the marriage license and then we’ll hopefully be able to hit the road in a few days."
“Alright,” David relents. He pushes his legs over the side of the bed and swings them back and forth.
"So,” David grins. “Are we really going to Bonnie and Clyde this?"
"Bonnie and Clyde didn't elope, David. They were outlaws. They robbed banks."
"I mean, they eloped at some point, though."
"I don't… think so?"
Patrick hops off the bed and heads to the kitchen for a fresh glass of cold water. His bare feet feel tacky against the floor. He hears David following behind him.
Patrick’s head, or, rather, the entire upper half of his body, is soon buried deep in the refrigerator.
“You know,” he says from the back of the ice box. “This Bonnie and Clyde thing?” He pulls himself out of the fridge. “Might not be such a bad idea.” He raises the half-full pitcher of water in his hand toward David like he’s making a toast.
“What? We’re not criminals, Patrick.”
“No, I know. But I’m thinking…” he has a faraway look in his eyes, “... if we’re going to elope, we have to go all out. The whole nine yards. Old school elopement, David. Fleeing after nightfall, alibis, fake names…"
“Fake names? Why do I feel less like we’re about to get married and more like we’re going on the run?”
Patrick beams. “Exactly.” He pours David a glass of ice water and hands it to him with a wink. David takes the cold, proffered glass nervously.
“Now, first things first. Do we know anyone who can be our officiant?”
...
“Gentlemen!” Ray’s voice is five decibels too loud over Patrick’s speakerphone. “Or should I say... ‘groomsmen?’” he corrects with a sly chuckle.
David winces and places the phone on the counter next to the register. Patrick had just arrived back at the store with their marriage license and a box of half a dozen pastries from David’s favorite bakery in Elmdale.
“Actually, Ray, ‘groomsmen’ are the groom’s attendants in the wedding party,” Patrick says while David signals for him to just let it go.
“Anyway,” David speaks up. “Thank you so much for agreeing to do this, Ray.” He bites into a muffin, crumbs falling everywhere. “We really appreciate it, especially at such short notice.”
“Of course, David. It’s my pleasure,” Ray’s smile is nearly audible through the phone. “So, Patrick, you will be sending me the address, is that correct?”
“Yep, I’ll get that over to you right after this. And, uh, it’s a bit of a way’s out, Ray. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Oh, nonsense! Anything for my favorite former roommate slash employee.”
“So... you’ve decided on a location?” David asks once they hang up the phone.
"Yeah. Well, almost,” Patrick walks around the counter to check the afternoon’s till. “It’s between the chapel with the Celine Dion impersonator or the one with the Wayne Gretzky look-alike,” he says casually.
A look of sudden horror flashes across David’s face and Patrick can see instantly that he’s regretting giving him full creative control over this elopement. That, of course, only spurs him on more.
“Or… " he continues, pulling out his phone, unable to hide his grin. “We could drive about an hour more and go to the ‘My Heart Will Go On-tario,’ a Titanic-themed museum slash ice cream parlor. They give a 15% discount off any ice cream purchase if we can answer all 10 Titanic trivia questions correctly.”
David schools his expression, trying valiantly to maintain his composure. Two years into this relationship and he knows exactly what his fiance is trying to do.
“You want to get married in a place inspired by the deadliest boating disaster in history?” he asks flatly instead.
“I... don’t think it was the deadliest in history,” Patrick retorts.
“Mm, I’m pretty sure it was.”
Patrick slides himself right up to David. “Okay, but think of all that ice cream, though,” he says, voice low and tempting.
David responds with a half-eyeroll, half-smile.
Patrick hums blissfully and wraps his arms around David. “Titanic ice cream parlor it is, then.” He squeezes him tightly, rocking them back and forth. David’s jaw is sweet and scratchy against his cheek.
“No, no, no,” David breaks, squirming in his arms, trying to wrestle himself free. “Okay, no, Patrick.”
Patrick squeezes him even tighter. “I’ll never let go, Jack.”
David gives in with a laugh, the vibrations gently shaking them both. He untangles himself slowly, reaching backwards on the counter for his half-eaten muffin. He bites into it like an apple.
“Okay, so,” Patrick switches suddenly to his spreadsheet voice. “That’s a no to Titanic, but I’m going to assume a yes to the Wayne Gretzky chapel? They’ll even provide us with matching jerseys.”
David swallows thickly, his muffin suddenly too dry. “What, um… what was that you said earlier about fake names? Does that include disguises, too? And is there some way we could, like, erase this from public history?”
…
“So Bonnie was married, but not to Clyde,” Patrick says from the sofa. He’s scrolling through his phone, his feet propped on the coffee table as he waits for David to finish getting ready. It’s 11:15 AM the next morning.
They were shooting for an afternoon ceremony and had planned to leave the apartment by 11 AM, but, true to form, they were running slightly behind schedule. David had gone through four different outfits before settling on what he finally declared was appropriate elopement attire. He had traded his usual monochrome sweater for a monochrome, short-sleeve, Valentino silk shirt.
“It’s clandestine chic,” he says, emerging from the bathroom. The misty scent of cologne and hair products follow him out into the living room. “And it matches my new persona,” he says with a wave of his arm. “Victor.”
Patrick wrinkles his nose. “Victor?”
“Well it can’t be worse than Michael.”
Patrick crosses one ankle over the other and throws David a look of indignation. “Michael was named after his maternal grandfather, he’ll have you know. Famed US Navy captain. Oh, the stories he would tell little Michael growing up. It’s why he decided to become a crab fisherman.”
“Oh, you’re a crab fisherman now?”
Patrick gives a quick nod and raises his eyebrows as if to say, obviously.
“Okay, well, yeah, it’s Victor for me,” David repeats, straightening out the ends of his shirt. He looks at himself in the mirror proudly. “Or, maybe Vincent.” He tucks a wayward strand of hair behind his ear. “No, Victor.”
…
Vincent and Michael leave town half an hour later.
It's a two-hour drive to Patrick’s secret location and summer’s death grip is tight and unrelenting. White-hot sun reflects off the hull of Patrick’s freshly washed Corolla. The road in front of them is endless, the sky above them clear and boundless.
“The Wilhelm Gustloff was actually the deadliest boating disaster in history. In 1945 it was torpedoed by a Soviet submarine, claiming 9,000 lives,” David reads from his phone. The passenger seat is reclined, his feet perched on the warm dashboard.
“David!” Patrick glances sideways at him from the driver’s seat. “We agreed, no cell phones.”
David groans dramatically and tosses his phone into the backseat. “Sorry, Michael. Wouldn’t want anyone… tracking us,” he states indifferently, biting down on the words. To his surprise, he was actually enjoying indulging Patrick’s strange elopement fantasy, but two hours in the car without his phone was untenable.
He sits up taller now, pulling the seat back up with him. He fidgets in his seat for a bit, unsure of what to do with himself without his phone, then he picks up the paper map off the car floor. They had grabbed it from the motel lobby on their way out when Stevie had stepped into the back room.
“I’ll do some reconnaissance first,” Patrick had said once they parked at the motel. He crept slowly out of the car. When Stevie was nowhere to be found, he did some vague hand gestures back at David who was leaning impatiently against the car.
“What does this mean?” David whispered loudly, mimicking Patrick’s hand motions.
“The coast is clear.”
“Okay, so… get the map.”
“You get the map, Vincent. That’s why I’m signaling that the coast is clear.”
“Me? You’re right there. You get the map.” David stomps his foot quietly on the pavement.
“This is a team effort. I’m on lookout. You get the map.”
“Why are you on lookout?”
“Because of my naval background.”
In the car, David wrestles with the map for a bit, turning it this way and that, before placing it down on the dashboard. He hunches over, using his finger to trace along the highway lines, the sun beating down on his bare neck.
Outside is just miles and miles of trees, the repetition is almost dizzying.
“I think there’s about four more miles until the next access road,” he says after a while.
“Really? Ok --”
“-- No. No, not really, Patrick. Not really, because I don’t understand any of this.” He waves the map around in the air, the paper bending and wrinkling in his hands. “I don’t even know where we are. Can I please just use my phone?”
“David, we've been driving on a straight road for almost an hour. How do you not know where we are?"
"I'm sorry I'm not a cartographer.” He snaps the map open in front of him and stares hard at the lines and symbols, trying to make sense of it. Maybe if he could just focus a little better he could figure it all out.
He reaches for the radio, about to turn the volume down, when Patrick suddenly stops him. He pulls David’s hand away and, instead, turns the knob in the opposite direction, the music instantly becoming louder. Patrick’s grin is so bright and wide, David thinks his face might split in two.
He whacks David’s shoulder and points at the radio, letting out a small, excited squeak.
“You hear that? What are the odds?”
“... And the first one said to the second one there, I hope you're having fun. Band on the run, band on the run,” Patrick does his best Paul McCartney as he drums his fingers rhythmically against the steering wheel, singing along to the chorus. David rolls his eyes but then he’s smiling, too, listening to the sounds of the beat of Patrick’s fingers, the rich, soulful timbre of his voice, and the steady thrum of the highway under their wheels.
...
Eventually, Patrick does let David use his phone to navigate lest they never actually make it to their intended location. They’d already made Ray wait half an hour; it would be rather impolite if they failed to show up altogether.
Patrick eases off the highway, his blinker ticking along to the ending of Neil Young’s “Heart of Gold.”
They’re “I don’t know, Patrick, like, a lot” of miles north of Schitt’s Creek.
They pull into a parking lot and David looks around, considering their surroundings with a careful eye. Patrick had kept this location a secret the entire time and David can’t, for the life of him, figure out why. There’s nothing particularly remarkable about the place, nothing that would stop anyone in their tracks.
To the right of the parking lot is a cafe, Aloha Cafe, to be exact, unassuming except for the giant palm tree painted on its side. To the left of the parking lot is what looks like a bed and breakfast, a quaint, Victorian-style house. And to the left of that, a large field of grass lined with trees and hills in the distance. The three spots clash almost comically, and David has seen far more picturesque views from his own backyards growing up, yet there was something oddly peaceful and lovely here still.
They step out of the air-conditioned car and the heat outside is suffocating, pressing down around them like a warm, wet blanket. Patrick squints into his sunglasses as he fans himself through his shirt. The parking lot smells like asphalt and gasoline.
"I would think you'd be used to this heat, Michael. What with all that time you spend out in the sun fishing." He shuts the door and rubs a line of sweat off his neck.
"Actually, Vincent, where I'm from, crab season is during the winter so it's not that hot at all."
“Well, Michael, where I’m from, the days are cool and the temperature is quite agreeable all year long,” he puts on a modest English accent. “So this heat is absolutely insufferable.”
Patrick’s mouth twists into a playful smile. He steps in closer to David, feels the insufferable heat radiating between the both of them.
“You’re from England now?”
“Yes, Michael, I teach art at the University of Glasgow. Five years away from my tenure.”
“Oh,” Patrick plays with a button on David’s shirt. “Professor --”
“-- Oh, gentlemen! Are we doing a thing?” Ray interrupts them from behind. “You know, I can do a thing, too,” his voice bubbles with excitement. “I’ll be…” he clears his throat. “... Oscar O’Malley, misunderstood but well-meaning artist slash poet,” he says with a shockingly impressive Irish accent.
“See this?” David says, stepping away from Patrick and motioning to Ray. A single bead of sweat drips down the side of his face. “Do you see what you’ve done?”
“So where are we getting married today, boys?” Oscar asks. “At this charming little cafe here I’m hoping.” His hands are clasped together and he’s practically bouncing with excitement in time to the soft ukulele sounds coming from inside the restaurant.
...
Vincent and Michael get married in the field next to the bed and breakfast. They don’t have rings, the afternoon air is just as stagnant and stifling as ever, and Oscar is attempting an impromptu Irish wedding song mostly off-key. But then, at the end of it all, after standard vows are exchanged and Oscar sheds a few giant tears, Vincent and Michael are pronounced husband and husband and they kiss for the sweetest five seconds of their life.
The grass is long and lush and it tickles David’s exposed ankles as he laughs into Patrick’s mouth. He closes his eyes and feels Patrick pull him in tight, feels the heat of his chest against his, the damp fabric of his shirt under his fingertips, feels the press of his lips against his neck.
“Love you, David,” Patrick says into his ear, barely above a whisper. The air in the field smells sweet of raspberries and something baking next door.
“Vincent,” David corrects.
“David.”
David pulls back, cups Patrick’s sticky, stubbly face in his hands. “I love you, Patrick.”
...
The gentle lilt of Hawaiian music filters through the cafe. The walls are adorned with Hawaii-themed decor: stock photos of sunsets encased in gaudy, Tiki-style picture frames, paintings of hula dancers and Waikiki Beach, and brightly-colored, plastic lei. Ray had declined their invitation to join them for an early dinner, insisting they spend their first meal as husbands alone.
“Boy,” Patrick says just as two men behind them burst out in laughter. “Ray would’ve loved it here,” he shouts over the commotion.
David pulls a face and nods at their surroundings. There are multicolored Christmas lights strung up above them.
“So you want to know why I chose this place to get married?” Patrick takes a bite of his Hawaiian-Style Chicken. (“Just chicken and some pineapple glaze, hon,” explained the waitress.) He licks the corner of his mouth and spears a chunk of pineapple with his fork.
David drops his utensils with a loud clatter. “Yes , Patrick. I’ve only been asking you that for the past hour.”
Patrick laughs, swallows his bite of food, then leans forward on his elbows.
“I stopped here the day I left home. On my way to Schitt’s Creek.”
“Here as in... this cafe?”
“Yeah. Well, here... and there,” he nods vaguely toward the door. “I came here to the cafe for a late lunch and then spent the night at the bed and breakfast next door. I was actually, uh… I was actually thinking of turning around.”
“Turning around?”
Patrick takes a deep breath and leans back in his seat. “Yeah, um. I was thinking of heading back home first thing the next morning.”
David’s brows are furrowed. His eyes search Patrick’s, discerning, careful, and with a certain kindness Patrick knows is reserved just for him. It makes his heart stutter, even now, two years later, in a dimly-lit, overdone tropical wasteland of a cafe where pineapple is synonymous with Hawaiian.
He lets out a slow breath and chews once on his bottom lip. “I just… I was sitting here eating some God-awful pineapple burger, when I suddenly realized I had no plan whatsoever for once in my life. You know? I went from being this guy who -- who planned out every little meticulous thing in his life to someone who had thrown away all those plans and just packed up whatever was left into a barely functioning car to travel to who knows where. And that was both freeing and absolutely terrifying. It was just like a knife-edge kind of moment right here that afternoon and I knew I had to make a choice.”
He pauses, sipping loudly on whatever was left of his melting pina colada.
“And that choice was you, it turns out,” he says simply. He laughs, “I mean, not at the time, obviously. But I must have known it back then, somehow, because -- let me tell you, David -- I was this close to turning around. But something tipped me in the other direction. So, in some way, some really important way, I’ll forever be grateful for this terrible place,” he says with a faraway smile. “And, that’s why I wanted to marry you here today. I feel like I owed it to that person two years ago.”
Patrick’s words squeeze at David’s heart. He looks at him, blinking twice, glassy-eyed, and then reaches for his hand on impulse.
“How am I supposed to finish my dinner now?” he cries.
“Were you really going to finish that anyway?” Patrick makes a face at the blackened chunks of pineapple on David’s plate.
“It’s pizza, Patrick. Of course I’m going to finish it.”
Patrick uses his free hand to stab at a piece of ham on David’s pizza, then a piece of pineapple and, lastly, a large slice of soggy bacon. He feeds him the makeshift kebab just as their waitress stops by to refill their water.
“Aren’t you two just the cutest little things?” she says with a wide grin, her teeth marked with bright red lipstick.
“Thanks,” David says. “We’re on our honeymoon.” He kicks Patrick’s shoe gently under the table. They play footsie until their plates are empty.
...
The night sky is growing dark except for a dusky sliver of orange and pink at the horizon. Outside in the parking lot, Patrick takes David’s hand and leads him toward the bed and breakfast. It’s cooler now, the afternoon heat having burnt off into a comfortable evening chill. They walk slowly, fingers laced together, eyes up toward the sky. The stars aren’t visible yet but David thinks he sees something just north of the trees. He sways a little into Patrick’s arm, slightly drunk on one too many pineapple rum coolers.
They check into the bed and breakfast just after 8 PM. As they step into their room, Patrick looks at David and snorts, laughing through a close-lipped smile.
“What?”
They’re standing in the doorway, a gentle cross breeze flows through the room, a welcomed reprieve to the miserable heat from earlier in the day.
Patrick points to the center of David’s shirt. “You’ve got a little something…”
There’s a tiny, stray piece of pineapple, dried up and stuck to the outside of David’s elopement shirt. He pries it off with his fingers and pops it quickly into his mouth. Patrick looks alarmed.
“David,” he says in disbelief.
“I was saving it for later,” he slurs a little, looking at Patrick with a cheeky grin. “Pineapple pizza, round two.”
“You know, that’s all going to start catching up to you soon. All that pizza can’t be good for you,” Patrick says, sloughing off his weekend bag and switching on the lamp at the corner of the room. “Now that we’re married, we better start taking it easy, Vincent.”
David sucks in a breath and drops his bag to the floor. “I hate to tell you this, but we’re going to live forever, darling,” he puts on his thickest English accent and flops soundly onto the bed.
...
“David,” Patrick says gently to the snoring mass of blankets.
It’s 7:30 AM and the white morning light spills in mercilessly through the curtains, casting a sharp triangle of sunlight over the bed.
“David,” he tries again, louder. He places a steady hand on a lump in the blanket where he thinks David’s shoulder would be. “David, wake up.”
Nothing.
“David,” Patrick says with more urgency. “We have to be back at the shop by one. I promised Alexis.”
Patrick hears a soft grunt come from deep within the blankets, and then a very muffled: “Who’s David? I’m Vincent. Vincent doesn’t know an Alexis, sorry.” The mass rolls over to the right, pulling the blankets in tighter. Patrick can now make out the distinct peak of David’s left shoulder.
He fists his hand into the blankets and yanks them quickly off his husband.
“Come on, now. We’ve got to hit the road, Vince. Our cover’s been blown,” he tries his best old-timey accent, a blend of New York cop meets Cary Grant and the horrible impression is enough to jostle David right out of bed.
“Oh God, it’s too early for that, Patrick,” he moans, pinching the spot between his eyes. He drags his feet slowly toward the bathroom. His hair is flat on one side, sticking to his face with sweat and sleep. “Actually, please just never do that again.” He shuts the door behind him with a soft thud.
…
Bruce Springsteen’s “Born To Run” comes on the radio on the ride home just as they re-enter the town and Patrick nearly jumps out of his seat in excitement again. David is sleeping with his arms pulled in tight, feet on the seat, knees tucked up against his chest. Patrick leans his head back against the seat and shuts his eyes for a brief second. He fiddles with the radio and turns the volume up just a bit. His left hand is perched on the crest of the steering wheel, his right hand pressed against David’s leg.
“... ‘Cause tramps like us, baby we were born to run.”
"We're home," Patrick rouses David gently from his sleep once he pulls up to the apartment. Per David’s request, he’s dropped the old-timey accent.
David blinks, eyelids heavy, a tiny bit of drool dried up at the corner of his mouth.
“Okay, carry me across the threshold, husband,” he says with an air of sleepy superiority, his arms outstretched, waiting. They’re a little pink and raw with sunburn he didn’t even know he had.
“I thought we weren’t doing that.”
“No, we’re not. I’m just really tired. You woke me up at 7:30 AM. So, please. Just carry me.”
Patrick laughs. He pulls David up and out of the car and they walk up the stairs to the apartment, leaning against each other like two world-weary fugitives after a long day on the run. Vincent and Michael’s grand homecoming.
“So when do you want to start telling people about this?” Patrick asks, unlocking the door. David practically falls into the apartment. He walks toward the sofa and sinks down with a long sigh. His eyes are closed and Patrick wonders for a second if he’s fallen back asleep. He sits down next to him and nudges his shoulder.
"It’s just…" David starts, opening his eyes slowly. “... Just… after the whole engagement announcement thing? The entire town knew about our engagement before I wanted them to. So, um, I don’t -- I don’t think I actually want to tell anyone about this this time?” his voice is timorous and he glances at Patrick for any signs of agreement. “I just want this to be our thing for a while. I want to look across the room at you and think, that’s my husband without Jocelyn screaming it out loud first.”
Patrick looks at him with a slow, sweet blink.
“I’d like that, too.”
“Really?”
“Yeah,” he takes David’s hand in his, playing with the tips of his fingers. “I think I can pretend to be your fiance for a little while longer.”
David laughs. “Thanks, Michael.”
“No problem, Vincent.”
David loosens his grip on his hand and turns to get up off the sofa.
“Hey,” Patrick stops him, squeezing his hand tighter and pulling it into his lap. David’s palm is warm in Patrick’s hand. They sit there for a beat in the silent room, their bags left untouched haphazardly by the door, their cups from yesterday morning's breakfast still sitting on the table, windows still closed, curtains drawn, their entire apartment not yet open to the world.
“You’re my husband, David,” he reminds him.
The thought makes him pleasantly dizzy. David closes his eyes for a second. He feels Patrick move their hands up to his mouth and sees him press his index finger to his lips. He’s smiling slyly and David smiles back. “Shh,” Patrick whispers against their fingers. They’re missing any real wedding bands, but they feel golden all the same.