Work Text:
It’s eight o’clock in the evening, and the candles are all appropriately lit, and Marvin Gaye is playing distantly from somewhere inside the apartment, and somehow Jake has managed to find himself in yet another compromising situation.
But this one isn’t entirely his fault.
He wouldn’t have taken his goddamn boxers off if he knew she was bringing her son with her.
So, there he is, in the middle of his doorway, lean muscle and tanned skin gleaming faintly in the nearby hallway light, completely nude.
And, yes, objectively, he should be embarrassed, but dammit, he just can’t help the wry, amused little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“What the fuck are you doing?” The woman is not amused.
Jake leans over to the left and quickly fetches a jacket from the coat rack to cover himself. “You said you were coming over in ten minutes,” he says, his voice low.
“Yeah,” she squints at him, “to pick up the end table.”
“Oh…” he says slowly, realization settling heavily across his face. He clears his throat, straightens up in the doorway, and rests his forearm against the doorframe, pointing a single, steady finger at her. “You’re here for the end table,” he repeats, maddeningly calm, as though he was the one reminding her. As though he didn’t just confuse a pickup with a hookup. As though he wasn’t just standing completely nude in front of her five-year-old son a second ago.
The woman rolls her eyes.
“So” -- Jake nods at the young boy -- “is he here to help, or do you need me to do something?”
…
Two weeks later, the front door is cracked open and there are piles and piles of wood chippings across the floor when Jake hears a sharp knock at the door. He mumbles out a quick, “it’s open” from where he’s hunched over a makeshift workbench in the middle of his apartment.
“Um.”
Jake glances up briefly at the voice.
“David,” he huffs, then looks back down at his work in front of him. “What are you doing here?” His tone is short. He bends down even lower to get a closer look at the piece in his hand.
David is standing cautiously among the mess on the floor, his feet flushed together, careful not to get any wood shavings on his new shoes.
“I’m here for the -- Oh,” David starts and stops. A half-naked man emerges from the bathroom and walks toward the kitchen, kicking up sawdust on his way. “Um… I’m sorry, is this -- is this a bad time?”
Jake places his chisel down and wipes the sweat off his forehead with his arm. “No, no, of course not. Come on in.”
David takes a few hesitant steps toward him.
“Patrick, um, just sent me to pick up the… um… ” He loses his train of thought as his eyes drift over to the workbench and then back across the floor. It’s littered in sawdust and chippings and pieces of discarded wood and unused tools, and as his gaze widens, he quickly realizes the entire apartment is in complete disarray. Except for the bed.
“... I’m sorry, what is happening? Did you have to move your woodshop here?”
Jake sighs loudly and takes a step backward, wiping his hands on his apron and turning to face David.
“You know I don’t like to mix business with pleasure, but yes, I’ve had to start doing some of my woodworking at home.” He twists his back, stretching his muscles. “There’s just not enough time during the day to get everything done.”
“To get everything done?”
Jake sighs and shakes off a layer of sawdust from his apron. “I’m guessing you didn’t see the Buzzfeed article?” He steps carefully over a stack of plywood and walks toward the kitchen.
“Alexis may have texted me something but I thought it was just another one of her --”
“It’s on the fridge,” the shirtless man interrupts, yanking the piece of paper down from under a magnet.
“It’s on the -- Oh, okay.” David takes a half step backward as the man shoves the printout toward his chest. He takes the paper and squints at the headline. 28 Canadian Artisans Who Are Even Hotter Than Their Handiwork. He purses his lips, resisting the urge to laugh.
“Yeah, I was proud of it at the time.” Jake dips his head and pulls his apron off. “But now…” He sighs, tossing the apron haphazardly over a barstool. He opens one of the drawers and pulls out a bottle of painkillers and dry swallows two of them. “Now, it’s just too much. I’ve got so many people lined up, knocking on my door, I’m just drowning in --”
“You really don’t need to finish that sentence.”
“-- Orders, David.”
“Oh, right. Orders.” David nods.
Jake moves toward the sink and pours himself a glass of water. He lifts his glass and gestures to David, who declines. “So, anyway, you’re here for the bench.”
“Yes, the bench.”
Jake’s face suddenly falters. “Shit, David.” He scrubs his hand through his uncombed hair. “That’s actually back at the shop.” He takes a large sip of water. “Yeah, I was going to bring it here, but I got sidetracked with this other project. And I forgot to text you.” He sighs for what appears to be the dozenth time and David seems to notice.
“Okay, is everything alright? You’re looking rough.” David winces politely. “And not in a good way.”
“Yeah.” Another sigh. “It’s just… I can’t…” He rubs the back of his neck. “I’m having a hard time keeping up with… all of this.” He motions out toward the chaos in front of them.
Suddenly the door behind them clicks lazily shut and the shirtless man is gone just as quickly and as soundlessly as he had appeared in the apartment.
“Ships passing in the night,” Jake says. “That’s how it’s all been recently. Here, and then with work, too.” His mouth is an uncharacteristically tight, narrow line.
“Maybe we can help? Patrick and I.” David offers suddenly, catching even himself by surprise. “He’s great with spreadsheets.”
Jake downs the rest of his water and drops the cup into the sink. “Oh, I bet he is.”
…
It’s ten o’clock in the morning, and it’s hot as hell, and Marvin Gaye is playing softly from the speakers near Jake’s bed, and somehow David has managed to find himself in yet another disagreeable situation.
He’s in Jake's living room cleaning up his workstation.
Patrick is sitting at the kitchen counter buried deep in his laptop.
“Okay, and earlier you mentioned the Wilsons were coming over later for one nightstand?” Patrick shouts to Jake who has yet to emerge from the bathroom. He types a few lines into the worksheet then clicks open Jake’s calendar.
“Um, wait,” David says quickly, walking over to his husband. He peers over his shoulder at the computer screen and drops his voice even lower. “Is that… one nightstand, or… a one-night stand?”
Patrick rolls his eyes. “It’s obviously one nightstand, David.” He nudges him away.
“Okay, why would a couple only need one nightstand, though?”
“They’ll be by later this afternoon.” Jake appears suddenly from around the corner, freshly showered, warm, steamy air quickly filling the already hot and humid apartment. He’s dripping wet with nothing but a bright white towel tied loosely around his waist. His fingers toy with the fabric where the two ends meet, like he's about to either tighten it or shuck it off completely.
“And that piece right there is going to Mrs. Holstein tomorrow morning,” he continues, nodding toward a bespoke lamp base on the table. Drops of water trickle down the side of his neck and cling delicately to the hairs on his chest.
Patrick swallows almost audibly. “Uh, did you know a holstein is a type of cow?”
“Okay,” David laughs nervously, squeezing his husband’s shoulders. “Let’s just focus on the spreadsheet here.”
Patrick continues inputting Jake’s orders from his crude, handwritten “spreadsheet” on the table until he feels his heated presence behind him. Drops of water patter down onto the now mostly clean floor as Jake rests his hand against the back of Patrick’s chair.
“So, how’s it coming along?” he asks, a dark, drowsy cadence to his voice.
“It’s, uh -- it’s... coming,” Patrick answers. The air around them is thick and swampy but his throat appears far too dry. He moves his fingers like he’s about to type something but only manages a single, random “R.” In front of him the cursor blinks steadily on the screen, and behind him, David snorts loudly.
“Great.” Jake pats him once on the back. “And David,” he raves, turning around. “The place looks amazing.” He saunters over to where David is standing with a broom in his hand and a dustpan resting near the tip of his shoe. “You boys are truly a lifesaver. I owe you so much.” He clicks his tongue. “If you two ever want a whiskey, I can clear my schedule --”
“So, uh, Jake,” Patrick interrupts a little too loudly. “I’m just about done with this month’s orders. And then I can sync this spreadsheet with your phone, if you just...” He looks around for Jake’s cellphone.
“Oh, no, that won’t work.” Jake says, stretching his back. “I don’t like all that... electronic stuff. I need a hard copy, you know.” He mimes grabbing at something, his calloused fingers bending dexterously in front of them. “I like to feel the real thing with my hands.”
David sticks his own hand out as if to stop his movements. “Got it. Do you have a printer?”
Jake shakes his head and walks off to find a shirt.
“We have one at the store,” Patrick says.
“Perfect,” he calls out over his shoulder. “I’ll meet you boys there. It’s about time I check that place out.”
...
The store is closed but that doesn’t stop David from straightening out their displays and double checking their inventory while Patrick is in the back printing the spreadsheets.
“Honestly, David,” Jake starts as he watches some passersby outside the store window. “Sometimes I can’t even remember anymore if these people I see on the street are customers or if I know them, you know, more intimately.”
“Right.” David nods. He places a bottle of hand cream on the table. “Well, you’re a busy man,” he says through his best imitation of a smile.
“That I am.” He turns as Patrick walks up to them, two sheets of paper in his hand.
“So here’s this month’s spreadsheet, Jake.” He motions back toward the printer. “I just have to print your calendar, and then we’re good to go.”
“Thanks, man.” He watches as Patrick slips past David, touching his waist easily. A small smile spreads across David’s face and Jake can’t help but smile himself.
He bumps David’s shoulder. “You two are really great together, you know?”
David stops and freezes like he’s been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to be doing. Smiling, perhaps. He blinks hard at the rows of hand cream in front of him.
Jake laughs and leans back against the register. “You can admit it, David.”
“Well that’s..." David stammers after a moment, and he’s blushing now, which is Patrick’s M.O., so he looks up and out the window instead. “That’s a… very nice thing for you to say.”
They both watch as an elderly couple strolls down the sidewalk outside, hand-in-hand, and disappears around the corner.
“Yeah, you know, I was thinking,” Jake rolls up his sleeves as he talks, “what you guys did for me today is great and it’s definitely going to help make things so much easier. But I think…” He pauses and looks back out the window, squinting into the afternoon light. He rubs the sole of his shoe against the floor and then looks back at David.
“I think I just really want what you and Patrick have.” There’s a tiny, imperceptible hitch in his voice where he usually manages to conceal his emotions.
“Oh,” David breathes after a second. “Um, well that’s -- that’s an, um. That’s an even nicer thing to say.”
Jake shrugs. “I’ve seen you both together. Working together at my place. Here at the store. You know, you guys just make it all look so easy.” He picks up a tube of lip balm off the cash and rolls it around absently in his hand. "And I've never seen you like... this before. So at ease. You've really hit your stride." He tosses the lip balm in the air. "I think it would do me some good, too."
David is looking down at the floor, up at the ceiling, at the cars passing by outside, anywhere and everywhere but actually at Jake. “I, um -- Thank you. I don't -- I didn’t even think you thought about that kind of thing.”
“I have been, for a while now. Since all this Buzzfeed stuff blew up. Really makes you put things into perspective.” He places the lip balm back on the counter and rubs his hands down the front of his jeans. “Think it might be time for me to settle down.” He gives his own thigh a loud, congratulatory pat.
David opens his mouth to speak but says nothing.
“But I don’t even know where to start, you know?” Jake continues just as Patrick walks out from the back. “I’m not really familiar with that kind of thing. I’ve always been more of a one-man operation.”
“Right.” David purses his lips. Patrick sidles up next to him, his head quirked to the side incredulously.
“You know, if we're all finished here, why don't we head back to my place?” Jake looks back and forth between David and Patrick. “Maybe you boys can show me the ropes a little.”
…
“Marriage?” Jake frowns.
It’s four o’clock in the afternoon, and the Wilsons have just left with their one nightstand, and the whiskey’s out on the table, and somehow David, Patrick, and Jake have managed to find themselves on the brink of yet another misunderstanding.
"Yeah." David looks to his left at Patrick. "I mean, obviously it doesn't happen over night. Especially for me." He swallows around the last few words and Patrick slips his hand quietly under the table and onto his husband's knee.
"Marriage," Jake repeats slowly. He leans back in his chair, his long, lean fingers circling the rim of his rocks glass, an unreadable, subtle grin on his face.
“Yes?” David answers nervously. “You said you wanted what Patrick and I have." He says it slowly, cautiously, his voice teetering on the edge of confusion and approaching embarrassment.
Jake laughs quietly to himself. “I was talking about your store, David.” His tone is low and smooth.
David sits up straighter, the legs of his chair squeaking roughly against the floor. “Okay, you said you wanted to settle down.” He gestures defensively with his hands, his elbow nudging a stack of Jake’s notepads and binders on the table, narrowly missing his drink.
“Yeah, my woodshop, David. You know, get an actual storefront. A brick-and-mortar. Some regular clientele. Like you guys.” Jake reaches for his portfolio and opens to the first page. He abandons his glass of whiskey for a ballpoint pen. “I thought you boys were going to give me some advice. Tell me about how to apply for that grant money you were talking about...” he trails off.
Patrick throws David a long sideways glance. The clock on the wall behind them ticks loudly, tauntingly.
Jake eyes them back and forth then studies the paper in front of him, deep in thought. He slowly shuts his portfolio and taps twice on the outside with his pen.
“Hmm," he says pointedly. "I think maybe I… misread the situation here.”