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His bowtie is choking off his air supply.
That can’t actually happen, right? David tied it and David knows what he’s doing. David doesn’t want him dead.
Patrick was perfectly happy with a clip-on before he was informed passionately and emphatically how incorrect that would be. Notably because David couldn’t tug it loose at the end of the evening, which Patrick had to admit, he was very much looking forward to.
If this went well.
The soles of his dress shoes traverse the red carpet of the lobby without a destination, though his subconscious has him pacing from one open bar to the other until a poor waiter takes pity on him and offers him a glass of champagne from a passing tray.
“I’m good, thanks.” He barely makes a 90 degree turn before he’s spinning back and nearly slipping in his slippery shoes. “Actually, yeah. Yes. I will.”
The waiter holds the tray out with a knowing smile and Patrick plucks a flute gratefully. He ignores Ronnie’s snort from her station by the foot of the stairs to the Orchestra of the opera house.
“Thumbelina is heading to the Eisenhower,” she radios into her earpiece. “Oh, nevermind, he’s back.”
He’s too nervous to even be annoyed at his new code name. Logically, he knows the Secret Service doesn’t choose them - he can thank the White House Communications Agency for that - but there’s no way in hell Ronnie didn’t slip the idea into the pile.
She watches him like a hawk as he paces, back and forth, back and forth. He doesn’t have his own detail, at least no more than any of the staff do during official engagements, but since the rest of the family is in the Presidential Box and he’s the only staffer wandering the lobby like a vagabond, he does wonder if David had a word with someone. Or maybe Ronnie just loves to torture him by hovering unnecessarily.
The flute empties, but he doesn’t grab for another. He already had one at the pre-gala White House reception and, though his duties are technically finished for the night, undoubtedly Ronnie would judge. Also, President Rose might decide he has an emergency word thing, which Patrick will then have to massage until it sounds like the quippy, off-the-cuff remark it’s supposed to be.
The eyes of the eight-foot bronze bust of Kennedy seem to follow him wherever he goes. It weighs 3,000 pounds and was designed and created by American Sculptor Robert Berks in 1971. And Patrick knows this because the President likes trivia almost as much as he likes baseball. Which he does. Enormously. There was a press release and everything because it turns out your approval rating will plummet if you’re a member of the First Family and express unadulterated loathing for America’s favorite pastime. David learned that the hard way when the polling numbers came back.
“You goin’ in there eventually?” Ronnie drawls. “I would actually like to see some of the show.”
“You don’t have to babysit me, Agent Lee. This is the probably the third most heavily guarded building in the District at the moment. I think I’ll be okay.”
She raises an eyebrow and shifts her weight but remains exactly where she is. “Mm hm.”
He’s about to head to the terrace for some fresh air when movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. He’s become so attuned to watching an agent’s hand fly to their ear that sometimes he sees it in his sleep, perpetually braced for the moment when the message that comes over the radio is one he’s trained for but not necessarily prepared to hear.
Ronnie nods at whatever it is and her gaze is on him a second later. “Stick around. POTUS is en route.”
“What?” He moves away from the door and glances down at his watch. “But it’s - ” He never finishes the sentence, though, because when POTUS is on the move, you change demarcation lines and renegotiate UN peace treaties to join him. He passes Ronnie and takes the stairs two at a time to the Orchestra level before continuing up towards the First Tier. The President meets him halfway, looking harried yet excited which usually means a late night in the office for Patrick.
“Sir, you really should get inside. They’re about to start - ”
“I know - ”
“And this isn’t like the Puccini, where you can fall asleep and no one notices, sir. They literally have a light on your box the entire time.”
“No, I know that, too. It’s just - ” the President claps his hands and licks his lips, “this is a big night for you - ”
Oh no.
“... and I wanted to be supportive.” He pats Patrick’s shoulder and rocks back on his heels with a proud look on his face, though whether he’s proud of Patrick or of himself for getting through that, Patrick isn’t entirely sure.
“Thank you, sir. But it’s really - I didn’t…” do much.
“We all know this is because of you anyway.”
Oh God.
“For better or worse,” he mutters. He really, really can’t take credit for this. After all, there’s a Special Honors Advisory Committee, the Executive Committee of the Board of Trustees, and an online form for the general public.
Patrick just made a phone call. Technically two.
“John,” the First Lady calls as she peeks her head over the railing, “your truancy is positively fluorescent.”
“Coming, dear.” The President gives Patrick another shoulder squeeze before heading back to his wife.
“Hello, sweet Pat.”
“Hello, Mrs. Rose.”
Her multicolored bob matches the ribbons on the Honorees’ medallions and the broach tucked just above her ear catches the light from the huge chandeliers as they start to dim.
“Oh my God,” David’s voice hisses from somewhere Patrick can’t see, “what are you doing? Yo-Yo Ma is starting to look very conspicuously in our direction. Please, let’s go.”
“We’re coming, David!” The President joins Mrs. Rose and they disappear.
David’s perfect head pokes over the railing a second later, and Patrick feels the fist that’s been clenched in his chest all day release its hold on him a little.
“Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi,” David replies, distressed features going soft and simple, a look just for him.
“Go.”
David glances to his left and to his right before blowing Patrick a kiss and then promptly rolling his eyes at himself. Patrick chuckles and makes an obnoxious show of catching it and pressing it to his thundering heart.
“Ugh, gross,” David whines through a smile and then he’s gone.
Patrick waits on the stairs, staring at the spot David vacated until the lights stop blinking and he hears the orchestra kick in. Then he finally makes his way back to the lobby to pace once more.
“And if he hates it?” Ronnie asks as he passes, because she just can’t help herself.
He eyes the terrace and the fountain beyond. He could really use that fresh air right about now.
“Then I guess you won’t have to hold the motorcade for me.”
Five Months Ago
Patrick’s been expecting this call.
In fact, he’s surprised it took David until almost noon to make it. After all, the press release went out at 10am.
“Ummm…?” David’s voice starts when the call connects.
“Hello, light of my life,” he replies, just to be a pain.
“Excuse you. When were you going to tell me this? I can't believe I had to read about it on Variety! Your office is literally steps away from the White House Press Secretary. And I know you played baseball with at least one board member of the Kennedy Center last weekend.”
“David, I’m good, but I’m not that good.”
Patrick is exactly that good.
“Patrick! The Kennedy Center is honoring Tina Turner?!”
“Yes, I read that,” he says nonchalantly as he shuffles through the President’s latest speech, crossing out the more ridiculous editorial suggestions from Stevie regarding Homeland Security’s latest brief.
“You must have had something to do with this.”
“And why’s that, David?” If David’s huff is anything to go by, he can hear Patrick’s grin through the phone.
“You know why.”
He writes lol in the margin next to Stevie’s note which reads, Do they think this is a Michael Bay film? and then puts an asterisk for himself to remember to circle back and soften the language.
“Remind me again.”
“Absolutely not.” But now Patrick can hear his smile. Funny how that happens.
Anyone who works in the West Wing knows why David might think Patrick had a hand in this. Anyone who has access to cable news or a working internet connection probably has a hunch, too. It even got mentions in both the Post and the Times, much to Patrick’s chagrin and his mother’s delight.
Obviously, it’s entirely Stevie Budd’s fault.
Because sometimes the staffers get together to unwind at the end of a long week with some drinks and some games and, inevitably, some music. Usually it’s just silliness; the kind of delirium that takes hold after one beer on an empty stomach and a sleep average of three hours per night. Get enough vodka in Stevie and she does a lip sync to a Ronny Jordan song that absolutely kills, and sometimes, if she’s in town, Alexis reenacts the title track from her short-lived reality show. One glorious night, the First Lady herself even got in on the action, making David join her to reenact their iconic Christmas number, despite the fact that it was August.
So the current situation is Stevie’s fault because sometimes your coworker-slash-your-boyfriend’s-best-friend decides to troll both of you by surreptitiously taking a video from one of these evenings and leaking it to The Washington Post. Patrick doubts his acoustic butchering of ‘The Best’ is what Woodward and Bernstein had in mind when they wrote the book on journalistic integrity all those years ago, but he certainly made enough headlines.
He went as viral as David’s Inauguration gif, but luckily for both of them, Stevie’s video didn’t pan around the room so no one could tell whom Patrick was serenading. Otherwise, that Patrick was the recipient of David’s mysterious wink all those months ago might have been a hell of a lot easier to guess.
Patrick still hasn’t lived it down. There are apparently online fan groups.
And that two-minute and twenty-three second grainy clip is why David now thinks Patrick apparently called up Kennedy himself and told him to fete Tina Turner just because David got drunk in a Georgetown bar one night and yelled at everyone within earshot to listen to the lyrics.
Which is ridiculous. Patrick didn’t call Kennedy (for obvious reasons).
He called the Treasurer of the Board of Trustees (naturally).
“David, honoree recommendations are accepted from the general public.”
“And last I checked, you were a tax-paying member.”
“Yeah, me and 328.2 million other people. It could have been anyone.”
“Yeah, but it wasn’t.”
Patrick presses his lips together and remains silent. If politics has taught him anything, it’s that nothing is black and white. Most things that occur for the betterment of the world are argued in the grey area. And for the betterment of David’s world, he’ll operate in any color of the spectrum.
He glances at the tea set on top of his cabinet that he rarely uses and the perpetually packed weekender bag on the chair beside it that he doesn’t use nearly as much as he’d like.
“What are you doing tonight?”
If David recognizes the tactical change in topic, he doesn’t call him out on it. Instead, he seems to drop the bit between his teeth for a moment as he groans. “Late night at the office. We think we might be able to open a transgender housing program in Harlem, but the city is wrapping us up in enough red tape to rival Katy Perry’s 2017 Met Gala look.”
Patrick hums and rests his cheek in his hand, pretty sure that anyone walking by his office can read the lovesick stamped onto his forehead. He just saw David over a week ago at the 4th of July celebration. It can’t be normal to ache for him this much and yet - it’s been his normal for almost three years.
“What if I caught the 7pm?”
David laughs, which is not exactly the reaction Patrick was going for. “When have you ever been able to catch the 7pm?”
But Patrick doesn’t say anything and neither does David. The silence on the other end of the line is broken only by the sound of traffic and David’s steady breath.
“Wait - are you serious?”
“Always, David.”
“Don’t you have remarks to prepare for the…”
Patrick leans back in his chair with a smile and waits to see if David gets it right, already prioritizing his tasks so he can get to Union Station on time.
“... White House Hispanic Prosperity Initiative?”
“You mean the Congressional Hispanic Caucus? I can work on them on the train.”
“And a speech to write for the National Humanities Medal?”
“I have five whole days for that.”
It was only just last November that he allowed himself to give voice to his fears; that he acknowledged that there is no middle ground for them at the moment (because midway between New York and DC is Penns Grove, NJ and no one wants that), but they’re still here. They’re still doing this. He knows it’s the only way, at the moment. But it doesn’t mean that it doesn’t chip away at him, every crack widening, every foundation faltering, but David Rose is worth it. David Rose is worth everything.
Everything except serving at the pleasure of the President.
“Leave a light on,” he murmurs, and he hears David’s ragged inhale.
“Mkay, but if my dad calls you at 6pm you are to send him immediately to voicemail. I don’t care if he’s the Commander in Chief. You decline that call like he’s your ex calling at 2am.”
“Ew, David,” he says in such a perfect imitation of Alexis, he’s shocked he doesn’t immediately hear the beep of the line going dead.
“I miss you,” David whispers instead, voice soft and vulnerable. The sound of the city behind him has faded away so he must have made it back to his office.
“I miss you, too,” he replies just as Stevie appears in his doorway.
“Oval.”
He nods, holding up a finger. “I gotta run, but David?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re simply the best.”
There’s a second of confusion before -
“Oh you suck.”
“Better than all the rest.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
Patrick laughs as Stevie mimes vomiting onto his floor. “See you tonight.”
David groans, but there’s that smile again:
“You fucking better.”
Now
Patrick’s breath puffs in front of him, the night air nipping at his cheeks as he stares at the words etched in marble on the side of the building. He’s read a lot of speeches in his time from a lot of different leaders, for education and inspiration, and Kennedy’s are the ones he comes back to the most. The words loom larger than life on the massive facade, a speech given at Amherst in 1963, less than a month before he was killed:
"I look forward to an America which will reward achievement in the arts as we reward achievement in business or statecraft. I look forward to an America which will steadily raise the standards of artistic accomplishment and which will steadily enlarge cultural opportunities for all of our citizens. And I look forward to an America which commands respect throughout the world not only for its strength but for its civilization as well."
Stevie steps up next to him and he waits, giving her enough time to finish reading the words as well.
“We’re not doing enough for the arts.”
“You needed the ghost of JFK to tell you that? Sesame Street could have told you that.”
“Well, unfortunately Big Bird’s been dodging my calls.” He finally looks at her with a smile before shrugging off his coat and draping it over her shoulders. “Budd, it’s December. What are you doing?”
“Looking for my wayward speech writer. Why is it so fucking cold?”
“Because it’s damp. This is technically a swamp.” He raises an eyebrow. “Did you really never wonder why it’s called Foggy Bottom?”
“You know, Foggy Bottoms were never high on my list of priorities. It’s bad enough I know where they keep the nuclear codes.”
His already-starched-within-an-inch-of-its-life dress shirt seems to stiffen further in the chill, and he adjusts his suspenders but doesn’t cross his arms over his chest because David would kill him if he rumples himself further than he already has.
Stevie looks out over the Potomac, watching the headlights cross the Roosevelt. “At least it’s not snowing.”
Patrick snorts. “No kidding. One inch and DC ceases to function. I still can’t believe the Mobile Unit survived Michigan.”
She’s allowing him to avoid the elephant on the terrace, and she knows he knows she is. He’s ever so grateful.
“The President’s remarks from the reception are going over well. And so did the Secretary’s last night.” She side-eyes him. “I know you had a hand in that. Bob Currie hasn’t said anything that concise or amusing since the Cold War.”
He shrugs and stuffs his hands in his pockets, trying to regain feeling in his fingers. “I want it to be a good weekend.”
“The Secretary has his own staff. Some of them even write for a living.”
“We sure about that? Because last I checked, things can’t be ‘very unique’ nor can they be ‘extremely historic.”
Stevie laughs but doesn’t argue with him. Sure, she’s better at the podium but he’s better on paper.
“You’re trying awfully hard,” she pushes and he swallows.
“Like I said, I want it to be a good weekend.”
“For whom? For you, the honorees, or the President?”
“Yes.”
“Or for David.”
And, well, you can’t argue with facts. Trust him, he’s certainly tried. But that’s the thing about working with your boyfriend’s best friend: he doesn’t want to put her in the middle and yet inevitably she ends up there anyway; by accident, sure, but more often than not, through her own (very effective) meddling.
He kicks his dress shoe against the pavement and winces when he thinks of what David would say.
“We’re about to ramp up for reelection. Things are going to get crazier than they already are - ”
“He’ll be on the trail.”
“I know, but that’s not… that’s…” the trail. It’s insane and stressful and the stakes are the highest they’ll ever be. They weren’t together during the last campaign, not really. David deserves more than their only opportunity for date night being in a diner in Pennsylvania surrounded by the President, the Secret Service, and the press corps. “We both have our dream jobs, Stevie. They just so happen to be 243 miles apart.”
“What, did you google that?”
“Yes, I did.” He licks his chapped lips and looks down again. “I just want him to know I’m in this.”
“Patrick, it’s been three years.” She slaps his arm, managing to make it both comforting and chastising. “He knows.”
He nods, but he’ll never stop telling David that; through his words or his gestures or his insane ideas, like tonight. David Rose needs to know that Patrick would wait forever for him if he had to.
So what’s five more years?
“You gonna stay out here all night?” she asks, sliding his jacket off her shoulders and handing it back.
“Nah.” He nods over towards the door where Ronnie stands glowering. “Any longer and she’ll take me out herself.”
“Good,” Stevie clips. “They’re about to do Nicholson, and you know what they say?”
Patrick slides his jacket back on with a smile. “No, what do they say?”
“All work and no play makes Pat a dull boy.”
Three Months Ago
“Ray! Do you have that number - ”
“Knock, knock!” Ray is standing a foot away from Patrick, nowhere near a door to knock on, and shoving a bright pink Post-It under his nose.
“Jesus, Ray.” His eyes cross as he tries to read the note on the paper. It’s a name followed by a phone number with a New York area code. “Thanks, I want to get him before the weekend.”
“Well, it’s 5:07pm on a Friday. Most people’s weekends have already started,” he replies cheerfully.
“Helpful as always, Ray.”
Patrick can only hope that television producers have just as unhealthy work habits as political operatives. He goes to his desk and sits, picking up his office phone before pausing and glancing at his cell. If he’s going to call in a favor, his inner Boy Scout would really rather not go through the White House switchboard.
Clearing his throat, he dials the number on his personal phone, listening to it ring and bouncing his knee beneath his desk.
“Hello?”
“Glenn, it’s Patrick Brewer from the White House. We met back at the 4th of July celebration.”
“Yes, of course, Patrick, how are you?” There’s surprise in his tone, which Patrick really can’t fault him for. How often does the President’s speechwriter call you out of the blue?
“I’m good,” he says as he shifts. He’s so much better at writing about deals than he is at making them. “Um, sorry to call so unexpectedly…” he clears his throat again, “especially about something that is absolutely none of my business.”
Luckily, Glenn laughs. “I’m intrigued.”
“Yeah, see, I was hoping to talk about the tribute to Tina Turner for the Kennedy Center.”
There’s a moment of silence that finds Patrick’s heart in his throat before Glenn laughs again. “You’re really a fan, huh?”
Patrick drops his head in his free hand and barely bites back a groan. He could kill Stevie for leaking that video. Like, actually murder her dead.
“The President is,” he replies, cringing a little at the white lie. Given whom he’s doing all this for, though, he has a feeling the President will forgive him.
“I mean, if you wanted a slot, I’m sure we can make that happen,” Glenn says with entirely too much glee.
“Oh my God. That is… definitely not why I’m calling.” His phone beeps in his ear with an incoming call and he pulls it away to find David’s name on the screen. He declines him with a wince. “At least not really.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah, I just had a quick thought I wanted to put in your brain - ” His office phone rings now and Patrick narrows his eyes because it’s from an outside line and only three people know his direct number: his mom, his dad, and David. “Sorry, one sec.” He presses his cell to his chest so he can yell out to Ray through the open door. “Can you get that? Tell David I’ll call him back!”
“I’ll do my best!”
“That would be great, Ray!” he grits out before returning to the call. “Sorry about that.”
“All good. So what was your thought for Tina?”
“It was really just - ”
Ray appears in his doorway and Patrick tries not to crack his phone in his grip. “He’s very insistent.”
Patrick puts his palm over the receiver. “Unless he’s bleeding profusely, he can wait five minutes.”
“Bleeding profusely, got it.” Ray disappears once more.
“Right, where was I?” But then Ray’s back. Patrick holds up a hand. “If he is bleeding profusely, tell him to hang up and call 911.” And Ray’s gone. “Glenn, I swear it’s not normally like this.”
“Oh I’m finding it all very informative.”
“Believe me when I say the West Wing operates with more functionality than my office at the moment.”
“Please, you should see the dress rehearsal for the Tony Awards when you have to wrangle at least five full Broadway casts plus God knows how many presenters at the crack of dawn on a Sunday when they were performing or partying or both entirely too late the night before, knowing you have to get them all out in time to do a matinee that afternoon only to bring them all back and do it again that evening.”
“Jesus. Sounds worse than the DNC.”
“Yep. So trust me, you’re good.”
“Right. So, the point of my call - ”
“Would it kill you pick up a fucking phone?” David’s voice says and Patrick’s neck snaps up hard enough to let him know he’ll need to see a chiropractor at some point in the very near future.
His boyfriend is standing in his doorway. His boyfriend who lives in New York has traveled 243 miles 24 hours early.
Ray appears over David’s shoulder, perpetual smile firmly in place. “He is not bleeding but he is here.”
“You’re here!” Patrick blurts as he stands, sending the ergonometric chair David bought him skittering back against the wall.
“Sorry?” Glenn asks.
“Dammit. Glenn, one more second.” He hurries around his desk so quickly, he bangs his knee on the corner, cursing under his breath as he trips toward the man he loves who isn’t supposed to be here until tomorrow and plants a hasty kiss on his lips.
“Hi, I love you so much, but hold on.” Then he slams the door shut, ignoring David’s indignant squawk (he’ll pay for that later), and leans against it, breathing heavily as he finally brings his cell to his ear once more.
“Glenn, it was just one quick suggestion…”
Now
“Agent Lee.”
Ronnie is somehow able to contort the muscles of her face to both raise a brow and roll her eyes at the exact same time. “Brewer.” It’s impressive.
He gestures towards the warm lobby beyond. “Shall we?”
“About damn time.” She raises her hand to her ear. “Thumbelina is on the move.”
Patrick sighs deeply but stays quiet, ignoring her chortle as she spins on her heel and leads him up the stairs to the First Tier. Red velvet ropes cordon off an area just ahead and Secret Service agents mill about. Ronnie walks him past the rope to the door it’s guarding where Gary stands outside the antechamber. The large Presidential Seal hangs above the double doors, giving Patrick that never-fading thrill that he actually gets to do this for a living. He nods at Gary and moves to step inside when Ronnie’s hand catches hold of his arm. He looks at her, startled, and she winces, as if pained by the words about to come out of her mouth.
“He’s gonna love it.”
Ronnie hates him for reasons which are beyond the scope of his not inconsiderable intellect, but she loves David. And David loves Patrick. So naturally, that means Ronnie must tolerate him, too. She makes it quite clear on a daily basis, though, that she does it against both her will and her better judgment.
She clears her throat and fixes him with a look of begrudging respect. “You did good.”
And because he recognizes her dislike of him, he’ll never tell her that those are the exact words he needed to hear in this moment; perhaps even more meaningful because they came from her.
“I hope so.”
“But don’t let it go to your head. Can barely fit you through the door as is.”
He rubs his clammy palms on his tux pants the second she lets go of him. “A pleasure as always, Agent Lee.”
Gary opens the door, letting Patrick glance around. It’s certainly not the first time he’s been inside the antechamber of the President’s Box; he’s been in the box itself on a couple of occasions when the opportunity arose.
Four chairs upholstered in a rich, patterned red sit in a circle in the center of the room, and behind them, Ivan mans the door to the box itself, standing tall and foreboding, hands clasped behind his back, radio firmly planted in his ear. Another Presidential Seal hangs on the wall beside the door, and Patrick inhales a shaky breath as he steps forward, giving Ivan a nod.
There’s a seat for him in the orchestra with the rest of the staff but he’s thrumming with too much energy to sit still. He paces from one end of the room to the other, listening to James Taylor honor Yo-Yo Ma, trying to let the music calm him. He’s getting a free concert from absolute legends; he should feel slightly less off-kilter, but if he’s honest with himself, he’s been this way ever since Glenn sent him a text with nothing but a 👍.
A swell of applause interrupts his musings, sustained, which means Yo-Yo Ma’s segment is probably finished. Sure enough, the announcer’s voice booms through the opera house a moment later, saying a name he’s been waiting for; the name of a woman everyone knows, there to introduce the segment for the final honoree of the evening:
“Ladies and Gentlemen, Oprah Winfrey.”
Glenn gave him the full rundown, even for the surprise guests not released to the press, so he’d know when to slip in. When to watch. When to hold his breath.
He continues his pacing, one end of the room to the other. He’s not going to get in trouble for this; he even ran it by the Ethics Committee, but still. It’s a grand gesture to be sure, and everyone will know whom it’s for. His heart has been on sleeve ever since that press briefing; before it, even. People just never bothered to look.
“Ready?”
Patrick blinks at Ivan. “What?”
“Are you ready?”
Oh. It’s time.
“Why not?” He’s done the camera tests; he knows where he’s supposed to stand to not be seen.
Ivan opens the door and the sound that had been muted before fills up the antechamber as the lights from the stage momentarily blind him. Patrick hovers in the entryway to the box, behind the President and the First Lady, at just the right angle to see David’s profile as he watches the stage beside them.
He’s rapt; engrossed, mesmerized, and so goddamn gorgeous that, for a moment, Patrick’s lungs forget how to work.
He presses his cheek into the velvet wall, heedless of the pop star currently singing Proud Mary to an alarmingly good degree and just watches the man he’s going to spend the rest of his life with. Because he is. He will; come hell or high water or a successful reelection campaign.
Patrick Brewer is going to marry David Rose.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the announcer begins and this is it.
The moment he’s been waiting for:
“Mariah Carey.”
He watches David’s jaw drop before he claps a hand over his mouth, suppressing the noise Patrick can hear anyway. He can hear it in his sleep; in his dreams.
The opening beats of ‘The Best’ kick in, his heart lurches in his chest, and the entire opera house loses their collective minds.
He’s taken right back to that moment in the back of the press briefing room, when the beer in his veins gave him just enough courage to sing a song he’d learned the night before. Normally, he’d do over-the-top renditions of Bob Dylan or Leonard Cohen, just to get some laughs, but David was there and David had said listen to the lyrics.
So Patrick did.
“I call you when I need you, my heart’s on fire…”
Mariah’s voice isn’t as low as Tina’s, but she’s sure as hell selling it. The President stands and claps (off beat) and the orchestra rises as well, row by row like a wave, because in this town, when the President stands, nobody sits.
Patrick watches as Tina leans over the small partition separating her box from the President’s and whispers something in David’s ear. He presses his palms to his cheeks and shakes his head just as Mariah launches into the chorus.
“You’re simply the best…. Better than all the rest…”
And David turns towards the door, like he knows Patrick is there; like he can feel him nearby. He turns and looks at him -
And David knows.
“You.”
Six Hours Ago
“It’s not going to choke you.”
Patrick tugs at his bowtie and gags. “It feels like it is.”
“You’ve worn one, like, a hundred times.”
“But why do they have to make them so tight?”
“You’re the one who tied it!”
“David!”
“Patrick! Oh my God, will you please stop fidgeting? I’m going to have to call the steward back with the steamer, and he creeps me out! He looks like Lurch, if Lurch had a cousin who did a stint at Alcatraz. He’s probably been here since Andrew Jackson.”
Patrick groans and tugs at one end -
“No, don’t - ”
But it’s too late. He’s unraveled the mess of fabric, leaving it to hang limply around his neck in a way that is decidedly not the disheveled James Bond look he was going for at the start of the evening.
“What is wrong with you?” David snaps, hands on his hips and Patrick’s mind, full of the most beautiful words ready to throw out to the most powerful people at any given moment, goes blank. He certainly can’t tell him the real reason why he thinks Tom Ford is trying to murder him via black silk.
“David, you know I still don’t feel comfortable doing… personal stuff here.”
“I literally snuck you out of my bedroom a week ago.”
“And I was genuinely worried the snipers on the roof were going to come in through the windows.” Which is not a lie. It took him two years to let David convince him to start changing for events like this in the Residence instead of in his office. And he still feels like he’s sixteen-years-old all over again whenever he has to tiptoe past the Lincoln Bedroom.
“C’mere,” David murmurs, grabbing Patrick by the hips and all but hoisting him onto the bathroom counter, which - does things for him. As it does anytime David reminds him of just how strong he is. David steps in between his legs and noses along his jaw for a moment, pulling the bowtie from beneath his collar so he can smooth it out between his ever-so-capable fingers. “Tell me why they’re massive and rainbow.”
It takes his brain a second to buffer as David’s lips find his pulse point. “What?”
“The medallions. For tonight. Why are they hanging by all of the colors of the wind?”
Patrick hums and tilts his head to the side, giving him more room. He knows what this is. He knows what David’s doing. “Because we’re taking over the world.”
“I mean, obviously, but I know you know the real reason. I saw Ray compiling a google drive of pointless factoids in alphabetical order for you just in case my father asks.” He’s calming him down. Distracting him.
Patrick sighs and lifts his chin as David loops the tie back around his neck, crossing one end over the other. “They were created by Ivan Chermayeff and meant to symbolize a spectrum of many skills within the performing arts.”
“And what classifies a ‘skill?’ Can I get in on this action?”
“Babe, your blow jobs are world class, but I don’t think we can get the Kennedy Center to put out a press release.”
“Worth a shot,” David says, straightening the bowtie and stepping back to admire his work before Patrick pulls him back in.
“You can practice later.”
This could be their normal, in time: getting ready together in the morning; going to bed together at night. They’ll get a townhouse somewhere that David could design and Patrick could wreck with his notes and his briefings and his incorrect shoes scattered about the place.
In time.
“David!” Alexis calls, making her appearance a moment, looking stunning in a floor-length navy gown, “have you seen my hair straightener? Bianca’s is broken.”
“Didn’t you leave it in the bathtub?”
“Oh my God, David, that was one time! The electrical fire wasn’t that bad and Lady Bird had terrible taste in wallpaper anyway. Hi, Patrick.”
“Hi, Alexis.”
David moves across the bathroom and yanks a drawer beneath the vanity open as Alexis gives Patrick an enthusiastically awkward thumbs up, which she’s been doing any time David’s back is turned ever since Stevie ever-so-helpfully divulged Patrick’s little plot. He gives her a tight smile in return as David spins around with the hair straightener in hand.
“Ugh, David!”
“Just saving you and me and Jackie O's dinner plates from yourself.” Then Stevie strides in. “Oh my God, did the reception get relocated? Why are you all here?”
“Hello to you, too. Brewer, the President wants us. He’s got a zinger he wants to run by you.”
“Oh boy.” He hops off the counter and turns, finally taking a look at his bowtie for the first time. It’s perfect.
Naturally.
David holds up his tux jacket and he turns to slide his arms in. “You know it’s going to be terrible.”
“Well, we can’t all be Bob Hope. Don’t worry, I’ve been practicing my face.”
David turns him and smooths his hands over his shoulders. “Honey, you will never lower the volume on those eyes.” Then he looks at Stevie. “Why did my dad send you in? He’s literally across the hall.”
“Oh he was too scared of getting an eyeful. Again. Again again.”
“Oh my God,” Patrick mutters, burying his flaming face in David’s shoulder.
“Okay, duty calls.” David shoves him towards Stevie, and Patrick ignores the way Alexis taps the side of her nose with a terrible wink as he passes.
Whatever sense of calm David had helped him achieve goes right out the lunette window as his heart stutters and his tongue sticks in his mouth. Patrick’s pretty sure his cheeks now match the white of his shirt.
Of course David can tell. “Um, can you give us a minute?”
Alexis and Stevie look at one another.
“Not really.”
“No.”
“Get out, you hellions.”
Patrick barely hears the clack of their heels on the marble floor over the ringing in his ears, and he leans back into David’s chest as David loosely wraps his arms around his waist, careful not to wrinkle his suit.
“Honey, what’s going on? Why are you nervous? My dad’s done hundreds of these. You could practically write the remarks in your sleep.”
“It’s not that.”
“Then what? I know his jokes are bad, but you’ll get him to cut it and even make him think it was his idea. You always do.”
Patrick chuckles and lifts David’s hand, pressing a kiss to one of the silver rings on his finger, wondering what it would be like if they were gold.
Huh.
“The White House portion of the event is almost over,” David murmurs. “One reception and then we party.”
“Right.” Right.
David nips at his ear with a grin and Patrick inhales sharply. “You’re putting me in a box next to Tina Turner.”
“Only if you behave yourself.” He’s given up on trying to claim it wasn’t his doing. It’s the worst kept secret in Washington at this point.
“Not likely,” he growls, and Patrick turns and steps away before they can ruin all of David’s careful work.
“Like you said, duty calls.”
“Yeah, yeah - ”
“If I don’t see you beforehand, I’ll catch up with you at the motorcade.” He leans forward and kisses the pout from David’s face.
“Fine.”
He turns to go, but something calls him back; a pressing need to spend just one more moment with this man, before the love letter he’s been crafting is presented for all the world to see.
“Hey, David?”
“Yeah?”
They’re so close to having this, a place that’s just theirs where the longest journey they’ll have to make to get to the other is from the couch to the kitchen.
“Enjoy yourself.” He knocks once on the door jamb. “I think it’s gonna be a good night.”
Until then, Patrick can’t wait to find out what’s next.