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“Sing that fucking song one more time,” warns David, taking the last slice of pizza from the extra-large box on the coffee table, and Patrick closes his mouth before he can start to serenade him.
“I’m just saying,” he says, holding up his hands. “If you told me you had a fling with Mika in the mid-2000s, I would say that makes a lot of sense. Diet Coke, David? Really ?”
The look David shoots him is deadly. “I should never have let you listen to that mix CD from college. I made that literally ten years ago.”
“Oh, but I’m so glad you did,” says Patrick, resting his hand on the mound of David’s stomach. “I listened to a lot of Three Days Grace in college, David. They definitely never wrote songs about how much they loved fat people. You’ve introduced me to a very important cultural touchstone.”
“I will divorce you,” David threatens, but his eyes are soft, crinkling at the corners, so Patrick knows he’s safe to proceed.
“ And , for your information,” David adds primly, with the air of someone who didn’t just eat an entire extra-large pizza himself, “Diet Coke just tastes better.”
Well, Patrick thinks, it’s not like he’s under the impression that David is interested in the diet part of Diet Coke. Relationship weight has been kind to Patrick, but it’s been even kinder to David, who’s grown so round and soft that — although he’d never admit it — a significant portion of his wardrobe now is made up of considerably sized-up duplicates of his favorite pieces that he and Patrick have ruthlessly hunted down and outbid on Poshmark and eBay. Even his most oversized sweaters and joggers have grown snug and uncomfortable, leaving angry red marks on the pudding-soft underside of his belly. Patrick would comfortably call himself chubby these days, his XL shirts getting a little snug around his own plump gut, but David has gotten fat . Like, can’t-see-the-toes-of-his-sneakers-over-his-belly, whines-about-driving-because-his-gut-is-too-big, fills-up-an-entire-couch-cushion, jiggles-when-he-walks fat .
(To be fair, Patrick jiggles a little when he walks, too. But there’s a difference .)
Patrick had worried, when David had started putting on weight, that it might trigger some kind of meltdown or insecurity David had buried below the surface, but he’s been surprised — like, very surprised — by how much David has embraced it. Maybe it was the realization that Patrick isn’t going to leave him over a few pounds, or the fact that he’s finally letting himself settle into a world that isn’t governed by size-double-zeros and arcane performance art, but once the weight began coming on, it never stopped. And what’s more, Patrick thinks, is that David has never tried to stop it — and he’s never seemed more content with himself than he is now, either, weighing in at more than twice what he used to.
“Wait until I start writing songs about you,” says Patrick, folding his arms behind his head and leaning back on the couch. “I won’t skimp on the adjectives, don’t worry. I’ll capture all your assets.”
“ Divorce ,” mutters David, gulping the last of his soda from its glass bottle. He braces one hand on the arm of the couch and leans forward to lever himself up, the movement making each roll of his sides and stomach jiggle as it crushes them together, and a deep, surprised burp bursts out of him as he gets to his feet.
Patrick swallows hard, heat rushing through him, and David fixes him with an half-indignant, half-mortified look.
“Don’t you dare write about that ,” he says, and Patrick laughs despite blushing, aiming a cheeky grin up at David.
“It’d be pretty hard to find a good rhyme for belch , anyway.”
—
Patrick gives David a couple of evenings to forget about it, using David’s extensive showers as time to learn the chord changes and commit them to memory. After all, there’s never a shortage of David’s Diet Coke and a pizza, please sentiments, nor of Patrick’s deep, earnest appreciation of David’s peculiarities and his sizable weight gain.
David is busy in the kitchen, doing Patrick isn’t quite sure what, but could entail doing the dishes but probably entails getting himself a second helping of dessert. Patrick, on the other hand, is fussing needlessly with shades in the next room, waiting for the perfect moment to grab his guitar and make a scene.
David meanders back to the living room, belly-first, a dish mounded with ice cream in his hands. He’s pear-shaped where Patrick is just growing round, hips wide beneath the roll of his belly, and it isn’t quite a waddle, the way his gait has thickened with the rest of him, but his thighs are too chubby for him to move quite the way he used to.
He drops himself onto the couch with an oof , the mound of his stomach jiggling madly as he gets comfy. He spreads out, fat thighs set wide to accommodate the heft of his gut, and tugs uselessly at the hem of his sweater as it creeps up his belly. The fabric is stretched almost to its limits, an inch or so of smooth peachy skin just visible where his stomach overflows the taxed XXXL waistband of his joggers.
Watching him, Patrick has to catch his breath. David is stunning at any size, and Patrick found him just as magnetic when he was thinner, but as his body changes, so too do the things Patrick finds tantalizing about him. When he was slimmer, it used to be the roll of his shoulders beneath his sweaters, the slight lines of definition in his arms and thighs from the yoga he’d done in his previous life, that made it hard to breathe sometimes. Patrick had felt like some kind of Victorian jabroni, swooning over the sight of one of David’s slender wrists sliding free from the bulk of his sweater sleeve. When he first began getting chunky, it was the hint of double chin that appeared when he smiled, the way his cheeks filled out, the way he felt spoiled and soft in Patrick’s arms as he let himself indulge more and more.
Now, it’s the way his belly rolls squish together when he moves a certain way, the way his chubby cheeks push up when he grins, the slight dimples appearing below his navel and on his inner thighs, the way his plush thighs crowd together. The thick, wobbly bulk of his upper arms, the little sounds of exertion he makes getting up or sitting down or rolling over or taking the stairs. Patrick blows out an uneven breath. God .
Patrick lets him get settled, waits until he’s a few bites of ice cream in and immersed in social media on his phone before hefting his guitar up against his own belly and taking his first theatrical step into the living room. He thumbs a string, finds his note, and exactly as David looks up, sings, “ Big girl, you are beautiful .”
“Don’t you dare ,” says David in the beat that follows, and Patrick takes a deep breath, channeling David’s Tina Turner energy into every fiber of his being, turning every dial on his stage presence up to a 15.
“ Walks into the room, feels like a big balloon, I said, Hey girls, you are beautiful ,” he sings,
“ Diet Coke and a pizza, please ,” he sings, dipping in toward David. Then, with all the feigned theatrical despair he can muster, taking one hand from his guitar for a big Shakespearean gesture: “ Diet Coke? I’m on my knees! ”
He sinks down to one knee, keeping time with each nod of his head — “ screaming, Big girl, you are beautiful! ”
“ You take your skinny girls, I feel like I’m gonna die ,” he continues, getting back to his feet, taking a few steps back so he can move up on David at a more suggestive line. “’ Cause a real woman needs a real man ” — he spins around, makes finger guns at David in the split second between beats — “ and here’s why .”
“I cannot fuck- ing believe you,” says David, but there’s a goofy grin playing on his lips, like he can’t believe himself, either.
Patrick grins, too, huge and stupid. “ You take your girl, and multiply her by four. ” He winks at David, flashes four fingers. “ Now a whole lotta woman needs a ” — strike a pose — “ whole lot more .”
He strums hard coming into the chorus, dancing up to David and vamping for a few extra beats so he can lean in and kiss him. David kisses hard, and when he pulls away, his eyes are alight and laughing even as he whispers, “I’m going to kill you.”
“ You take your skinny girls, I feel like I’m gonna die ,” Patrick sings again, improvising the chords and only fucking them up a little. “Now, get yourself to the Butterfly Lounge, find yourself a big lady —”
David cocks his head, raises an eyebrow. Rolls his hips just enough to make his belly wobble a little.
Patrick’s throat goes dry. He blinks once, twice. “ Big boy ,” he attempts, a hot shudder rolling over him.
David shoves a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, and then he makes deliberate eye contact with Patrick and drops a hand to his belly. Keeping his eyes on Patrick’s, he peels up his sweater, exposing the soft, doughy mountain of his stomach, grabs a handful, and jostles it, sending ripples through its expanse.
“ — come on round ,” Patrick stumbles, the chord slipping out of his fingers.
“You’d better be calling me baby,” says David, his voice velvet-low, and Patrick drops his guitar, its back thumping against his belly as it hangs from its strap.
“ Fuck ,” says Patrick hoarsely, “ David .”
David gives him the world’s smuggest smirk and sets his ice cream aside.
“Get over here.”
Patrick does not need telling twice.
He pulls off his guitar and presses himself to David, one hand tangled in his thick hair and the other cradling a generous handful of gut. “God, look at you,” he says, husky and jagged. “The way you look, all spread out like that, like you know what you’re doing to me …”
“And what are you going to call me?” David prompts, tipping his face to Patrick’s.
“ Baby ,” says Patrick desperately, and kisses him.
David tastes like ice cream, and even sweeter than that are the little sounds he makes as Patrick moves on top of him, his hands roving from between the rolls of his belly to the dimpled flab of his thighs, his joggers pulled snug over their girth. The low little grunts, the sharp, whining inhales, the shallow, urgent pull of his breathing — they have Patrick wild, his hands scrabbling at the plump, lush curves of David’s body, all his happiness exponentially evident.
With a little help, David rolls on top of him, and all the air goes out of Patrick at how heavy he is. He kisses up at David’s thick double chin, the soft skin of his long-buried collarbone, grabbing for handfuls of his plush chest. The warm, enormous weight of David’s belly bears down on him, pinning him to the couch, and he soaks in the sensation, dragging in shallow breaths between kisses,
“If you get any bigger, we’re not going to fit on the couch,” David grinds out between kisses to Patrick’s neck, and Patrick lets out a huff of surprise.
“If I get any bigger?”
David pauses above him, teasing at Patrick’s plump sides. “Well,” he says, a little haughtily, “I thought it was a given that I’m not getting any smaller.”
Patrick’s trouble breathing isn’t just from the three hundred-plus pounds of David on top of him. Three hundred-plus what ? he wonders wildly. It has to be — it must be high in the three hundreds by now? God , he thinks, we need to buy a scale .
“We could just get a bigger couch,” he points out raggedly, and David considers it.
“I would love to see you destroy those Gap jeans for good.”
Patrick huffs out a laugh. “I think we can manage it.”
He pulls David back down and licks up the soft line of his jaw, stubble stinging his tongue, and David whimpers , a high, gentle sound that charges Patrick with something raw and subatomic. “ Yeah ?” he hisses, and David nods, his eyes pressed shut as he gasps.
Patrick wedges himself into the slim space between David’s side and the back of the couch. He’s too chubby to fit comfortably, David’s elbow sinking into his belly and one of his knees jammed against David’s hip, but it makes it easier to roll David onto his back and get on top of him.
He moans into David’s mouth, and David swallows the sound like it could nourish him, like he could glut himself on it, make himself fatter from just Patrick’s pleasure. The thought has Patrick fumbling with the wobbling mass of David’s belly to find his waistband, grabbing at his plump hips —
“Okay, okay,” pants David, and Patrick rolls half off him, dazed. “I need to hydrate, or this is not going to be fun for either of us.”
Patrick nods breathlessly, helping David up to a sit, big belly pouring forward into his lap. “Let me get it for you,” he says, heart still pounding, and kisses David’s forehead when he nods.
He hauls himself off the couch, stops to squeeze David’s chubby shoulders, digging his thumbs into the soft sturdiness of his back fat and massaging gently. David sighs softly, slumping back against the couch, and Patrick’s heart overflows.
“Water?” he asks, dropping a kiss on the crown of David’s head. “Or …?”
David whips around faster than Patrick has seen him move in months. “If you so much as think Diet Coke,” he says, but the laugh is bubbling just beneath his voice.
“You’ll what?” says Patrick, bracing his hands on the back of the couch and hunkering down to his level.
David grins, wicked, beatific. “Why don’t you come back here,” he says, “and find out?”