Work Text:
“You came.”
His words come out muffled, head resting lazily on the bartop, cheek pressed flat against his half-exposed forearm. The sleeve of his sweater is scrunched up messily to his elbow, skin sticky with sweat and drops of spilled Polar Bear shots. His other arm is extended out across the countertop, his cellphone sitting loosely between his fingers.
Next to him Patrick is standing in his softest T-shirt and his oldest baseball cap and David blinks his glossy eyes at him.
It’s been five days since they’ve seen each other.
David opens his mouth to say something else, then turns toward the bartender instead. “You were right,” he slurs. He tilts his chin and lifts his outstretched hand, gripping his phone tighter and pointing it at the woman. “He came.”
“Of course I came,” Patrick says quietly, more to David than to the woman behind the bar. His voice is strange and hollow. He takes a step closer then looks left and right. “Where’s Stevie?”
“I don’t know.” David furrows his brows. “At home, probably. Why?”
“Wait, you came here alone?”
“I’m not alone.” He lifts his head up slowly then dips it toward the bartender, waving his hand noncommittally in her direction.
Patrick flashes her a sympathetic smile before his eyes lock on something moving below him. The bracelet on David’s wrist. The silver chain looks warm and muted in the dim light of the bar.
“I need a ride home,” David announces, as if Patrick doesn’t already know this. As if he didn’t just call him twenty minutes earlier stating exactly that. “Because it’s late. And apparently I’m drunk,” he continues, his voice coming out thick and heavy. He points to the woman again. “She said you would come.”
“Okay,” Patrick says. He places his hand on David’s back, muscle memory leading it slow and smooth down toward the curve of his hip before he stops and jams his hand into his pocket instead. “Well, I’m here,” he says, taking in a deep breath. “So I think it’s time we take you home.”
David sits up straighter in his stool. He places his elbows against the countertop and leans across the bar, unaware that the edge of his sleeve is now resting in a tiny puddle of liquid.
“Goodbye, friend,” he says to the woman. He crowds in closer. “I’m glad you were right," he whispers loudly.
Patrick watches as David attempts his dismount off the stool, swinging his legs to the side like a child, his hand gripping the counter for support. His fingers twitch in his pocket. He fights the urge to take David by the hand, knows how easy it would be to wrap his arms around his waist, press his fingers into the soft, familiar folds of his sweater.
“So I’m ready to talk,” David says to him suddenly once both feet are firmly on the ground.
Patrick freezes. David sways forward.
Patrick catches his elbow.
“I’m ready to talk,” he repeats, the last word lost in a pronounced hiccup as he takes a step into Patrick’s shoulder. His breath smells of peppermint and vodka, an acrid kind of freshness that toys with Patrick’s senses.
Suddenly, whether it’s the smell or something else entirely, Patrick's feeling a little sick.
“No, David.” He swallows and places his other hand firmly on his back. He’s holding him up cautiously. “Not right now.”
They take a few steps toward the door.
“Why not?” It comes out much louder than it should, and Patrick quickly shushes him as a man on a nearby table turns and stares.
“Because you’re drunk,” he whispers.
“So? I can talk when I’m drunk,” he says, insulted, and he leans away from Patrick this time, far away. So far, in fact, that he’s stopped walking altogether and is simply staring at the back of Patrick’s head. “I’m talking right now.”
Patrick sighs and turns around. “David, let’s just get to the car, okay?” He sticks his hand out toward him, more of a gesture than an invitation. David doesn’t take it.
The warm summer air hits them as soon as they step outside. The night is deep and dark, the yellow moon hidden behind an immovable patch of clouds, the two lone lights in the parking lot struggling to stay lit. It smells like cigarettes and pepperoni pizza and Patrick takes a second to breathe deeply out through his nose.
They walk to the car in silence, shoulder to shoulder, though not quite touching. David’s steps are heavy, the soles of his shoes dragging stubbornly across the asphalt. Patrick wonders if he should text Alexis to let her know they’re on their way.
Inside, the car smells of laundry and the mild scent of lavender and eucalyptus from Twyla’s homemade potpourri, but Patrick can’t shake the lingering stench of cigarettes from outside.
He starts the car. The bright green digits of the clock read 1:09 AM.
“Seat belt?” he asks, the first words spoken between them since they left the bar. He’s not even sure why he said that, except maybe just to fill the empty space between them.
It takes David three tries to buckle his seat belt, and Patrick lets himself watch, fondly, just for a second, the way his mouth pinches in the corner when he finally clicks the buckle shut.
They drive for almost five minutes in silence, the quiet broken only twice by the buzzing of David’s phone, before Patrick drags his palms up the steering wheel and sucks in a shaky breath. He glances over to the passenger seat and sees David staring off somewhere in the middle distance.
“What’s going on, David?” He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help but ask.
David continues to stare straight ahead. “What?” It comes out sounding like a sigh.
“You’re out alone. It’s late.” Patrick’s knuckles are snow-white against the black steering wheel.
“And?”
He blinks slowly, focusing on the stretch of road in front of him. “Nothing. Nevermind.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
Patrick keeps his eyes trained in front of him, but he thinks he can see David looking at him out of the corner of his eye. The dark, inky silhouette of his profile looks foreign in his periphery.
“Are you mad?” David asks a few beats later. He sounds unsettling sober.
“Why would I be mad?” Patrick asks.
Mad that David was getting drunk -- alone -- because of him? Mad that this is the first time they’d seen each other in almost a week and they can’t even talk to each other? Mad that he was getting mad at all.
“Nevermind," David mumbles.
Patrick sniffs and grips the wheel tighter.
“Nevermind,” David repeats, tipping his head back against the headrest.
“I didn’t say anything.”
They drive in even longer silence then, the quiet of the car growing more and more suffocating the farther they go, the dull yellow of the streetlights flashing by outside nauseating.
Patrick clicks the radio on, something sweet and gentle coming out low and soft from the speakers.
He pulls up to a four-way stop and presses slowly on the brakes even if there hasn’t been another car on the road since they started driving. He checks his watch, a deliberate move since there’s a working clock right in front of him.
He doesn’t remember the drive back to the motel being this long. Maybe it only feels long. He tries to recall the number of miles between the two towns, he calculated it once on a vendor trip with David, but his mind is drawing a blank. Whatever the distance is, it’s probably shorter than whatever lay between them right now.
"What is this?" David asks suddenly. His voice is a little slurred at the edges again, and if it weren’t for the faint gentle tone in his voice, Patrick would have thought he was addressing the chasmic space, the minutes passing slowly between them.
But he glances sideways and sees David looking at the radio in front of them.
"Oh,” Patrick says, his voice a little rough. He clears his throat. “It’s Otis Redding."
David reclines his seat slightly with a click and shuts his eyes. "Sounds old."
"It is." Patrick reaches to turn the volume up. “Do you like it?” As if he doesn’t already know all the things that David likes.
“It’s nice.”
“It’s one of my favorites.”
He catches a glimpse of a smile on David’s lips.
They’re finally coming up to the edge of town. Patrick slows to a stop at the first traffic light they’ve seen all night. He rolls down the window, letting in the warm air and the gentle sounds of the night, breathing in its fresh, earthy scent.
“Patrick,” David says all of a sudden over the rhythmic chirp of the crickets, in a voice that he hasn’t used in almost a week, a voice that Patrick hadn’t realized he’d missed.
Patrick looks at him, his eyes moving about, searching the familiar points of his face. The red of the stoplight casts strange and uncertain shadows across his cheeks, up along the narrow bridge of his nose. There’s something open about David’s expression now, an unfamiliar mixture of curiosity and confusion.
“Are we going home?” he asks simply.
Patrick’s stomach flips.
Quiet hope warms his body even though he knows David is drunk, and the hint of longing is inevitable. Because it’s been five days since they’ve seen each other. Because all he wants to do is tell David he’s sorry, to fit his hand to the line of his jaw, to kiss him there once again.
The traffic light flicks to green before he can answer him. He smiles shyly as he lets off the brakes, watching the way the green glow of the light sinks deep in David's dark eyes.
David pulls his legs up onto his seat, tucking his knees up to his chin. He makes a small, indecipherable noise, and Patrick presses forward slowly, picking up speed carefully as the dark road stretches out behind them.