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“Patrick—” Jake stops him on his way down the aisle.
“Hey, man.”
“You’re not gonna do this.”
“Do the briefing?”
“Not a good idea, man.”
“I talk to reporters all the time.” It’s the same thing he told Stevie when she tried to stop him a minute earlier.
“Take my advice”—Jake steps in close, closer than really makes sense for the middle of the press room. Patrick can smell his breath. Minty.—“you really don’t want to do this.”
Why did no one think he was capable of handling one single briefing? Stevie certainly wasn’t capable today. She couldn’t even say the words press briefing, let alone lead one. And who else was going to do it? Roland hasn’t been allowed in that room since the Easter Egg Roll Incident. Gwen was… better served via text. Patrick isn’t great at plenty of things—moderation, dropping an argument, pairing shoes and a belt, according to his boyfriend. But words and policy, communication of said words and policy? He’s at the top of his game.
“Jake,”—This time, Patrick is the one to step in close.—“I think of you as a friend. A great reporter, fair, personable. But Stevie’s too nice to you. And I’m not your girlfriend. Well, neither is she—don’t mean to imply anything unprofessional is—what I mean to say—” He straightens up. “I’m a graduate of Princeton and Harvard. I wrote for the inauguration, the last State of the Union. I think I can find the words necessary to battle the rhetorical forces of the White House press corps.”
Jake backs away. “Whatever you say, dude.”
Patrick takes the stand.
He hadn’t planned on being up here today. (Not his job, as so many people reminded him on the walk over.) No, he planned to spend the morning writing, followed by an office lunch date with David, a prep meeting with the minority whip, sitting in on the roundtable on college tuition funding, dinner at the residence, taking David home after that. Spending fifteen minutes briefing didn’t mess with his most important plans for the day, excepting a slight interruption to the lunch plans. He had left David alone with their pastramis, the live feed on C-SPAN, and no assumption that both sandwiches would be there by the time he got back.
“Good afternoon, everybody. Would you take your seats? Stevie had an emergency dental procedure so I’ll be handling the briefing. Question a piece.” He scans the gaggle for his first victim. “Yeah, Artie?”
“Why did the president fly to New York to see the First Lady for dinner this weekend?”
Patrick smirks. “Are you sure you want your one question to be that stupid?”
Artie raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond. Jake does.
“It’s not a stupid question, Patrick. If the President is going to be so adamantly pro-Green New Deal, why is it unreasonable to ask how he might be contributing to the effects on the environment?”
“Jake, I think we know how much you of all people see the value in a nice romantic evening.”
A few scattered laughs pass around the room.
“I do indeed.” Jake smiles, flirty and sparkling. Patrick’s seen it before. Everyone has. “But airplanes are a leading contributor of greenhouse gasses. The President’s travel footprint far exceeds that of any other world leader, and a recent estimate puts his total carbon impact at over two thousand times the amount an average American household contributes.”
“We bundled that trip with a day’s worth of official activities. I’ll refer you back to the weekend schedule for that, or—oh, that’s right, you were on that trip with us.” Does he let too much self satisfaction slip through? Maybe. Does it matter? Stevie will surely let him know. “But, hey. I’ll circle back on if we’ve officially offset the carbon. Look,” he leans forward casually on the lectern, “even the President has to pick his battles. Maybe I can take the train up for a date with David, but as leader of the free world, I’m not sure his father has the same kinda time.”
Klair shoots a hand up from her seat in the last row but doesn’t wait to be called. “Sorry, did you just say—‘date with David.’ David Rose, like, the first son?”
Did he just?
The thing is. Fuck. They haven’t—and David is in his office with Stevie right now. Watching live. Oh god. Is there a heat-lamp on over the podium, or are those just the regular TV lights? Maybe he can slip off stage, go ask David what he thinks. Is it time to go public? Then he can come back in here and straighten things out. After he’s had a second to breathe. Announcements like this aren’t supposed to be made in the moment. They are considered, tested, and planned. They’ve put off any real discussion of it because of that. Press strategy, optics, polling. Patrick just wanted one thing in his life to be separate, not under constant, political scrutiny. One thing. But of course he had to fall for David, the least separate option in the country.
It’s not like no one knows. Everyone important does. They’ve just been waiting for the right moment, the right news cycle. Heck, Jake even knows. Jake! Jake got him into this mess, but Jake’s a friend. Jake was the Post reporter with them on the trail. Patrick’s known him as long as he’s known David. He never takes advantage of his relationship with Stevie or any of the other staff; he can hang and have a whiskey—yes, just a whiskey—without looking for a quote. Jake got him into this mess, but he’ll get him out. Right?
Patrick ignores Klair and focuses back on the second row, third in. “Jake, do you have a question of your own or you just gonna keep riding Artie’s wave?”
Jake’s leaning back in his seat, laptop half shut and balanced lazily on his legs. He doesn’t have a suit jacket on today, just a crisp white Oxford with one too many buttons undone that may or may not be remedied by the time he gets on camera later. Jake’s chest has a twitter account. Stevie keeps sending Patrick the link.
“Patrick,” Jake says, “are you dating David Rose?”
Patrick blanches. He can see himself reflected in the grainy monitor. Pale. And out of his depth.
Jake holds his eye contact. “Hey, for what it’s worth, I think you’d make a beautiful couple.”
Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice—panic for an hour and release a written statement.
Ray is there waiting when Gwen finally pulls him out.
“Wow, Patrick. I mean, really wow.”
“I can fix this.” Patrick starts the shameful walk back to his office.
“How?”
He glares sideways. “I can fix this. I can fix this.”
“I don’t think you can—“
“It would be a great time to feel a little support from you.”
“Hey, you have my support. I totally agree with Jake—you and David would make a beautiful couple.“
“Ray—” They round the corner into the comms bullpen. “You—you knew we were dating.”
“How you define your relationship is really none of my business.”
“And yet you make it your business every time you don’t knock before—“
A shout interrupts him.
“Oh my gob!”
Stevie appears in the doorway to his office, with David, who is hiding behind his hands. “Oh my god.”
“I’m so sorry—” Patrick starts.
“Oh my gob!” Stevie’s marching towards him now. “What the hell happened in there?”
“On the plus side, honey, you look very nice on camera.” Correction: hiding a laugh behind his hands.
“You completely impoded!”
“What—?”
“Imploded,” Ray translates. “You completely imploded. Have to say I agree with her assessment on this one.”
“Right, can we take this indoors?” Patrick ushers David and Stevie into the office. Hopefully Ray will stay at his own desk.
“The pwesident picks and chooses his babbles!”
“Oh, so that’s the issue, not outing myself, a senior White House staffer, as dating a member of the First Family?”
David crowds in and kisses him on the cheek. “Worst kept secret in Washington.”
“I don’t give a sit about you and wover boy here.” Stevie swats David on the arm for emphasis.
“Hey, what did I do!”
“You”—she points at David—“fell in wove wif an idiot. And you”—she turns to Patrick—“just reduced our powitical agenda to a dice rowl based on the pwesidents mood. You wanna know what it’s gonna take for me to fix whis?”
“I’m gonna fix whis. This.”
“No you’re not. You are never awowed in my pwess woom again.“
“Ray, find out if Roland was watching,” Patrick calls, just as “Where’s my Pattycake!” echos from down the hall. So that answers that.
Patrick sighs and turns pleading eyes on Stevie. “Please. Support me on this?”
“No!” She starts out of the room, but doubles back. “I support you two idiots. Obwiouswy.”
Things finally slow down for the first time since Patrick stepped onto the podium. Here, looking at Stevie’s novocaine-molded half smile, David’s hand finding his.
“Never a question,” David answers for them. “Now go clean up his mess.”
As she rounds the doorway, Roland storms in.
“Well, you really bungled that.”
“I know. I’m sorry—“
“But you two, we can use this. Rose Jr., let’s talk about how you can help us with the queer lobby. I’m thinking both of you on the cover of TIME, naked, but wrapped in a rainbow flag. The conservatives are gonna shit their pants.” And as fast as he arrived, he’s gone.
Patrick shuffles around his desk and slumps down in his chair, making grabby hands at David to join him. David sits down in a spare swivel and rolls his way over until he’s situated between Patrick’s legs. He lands a warm hand on Patrick’s thigh, rubbing a light circle with his thumb.
“Hey, remember when you agonized over including the word retaliatory for an entire weekend? Where was he today?"
Yeah. Where was he?
Patrick’s made a living out of parsing words for other people, not ones he has to own up to himself. Standing up at that lectern, dropping David’s name, Patrick felt a fear he thought he’d left behind. A fear of misspeaking, being judged, a fear of being found out—something that vanished with David. Not because there weren’t still bigots in the world, but because he had someone to share those fears with, to dilute holding the burden of his identity alone. Alone, that fear compounded in confusion and self hatred and loneliness. He felt like he couldn’t cross his legs or wear a patterned shirt or mention a movie he liked without worrying about if he was giving himself away. Everything, every word, mattered, because someone was always watching, waiting to catch his mistake. Today, when that fear showed up, it took five minutes for his friends to show him just how little it matters. He thinks he likes when it doesn’t matter so much. When it just is. When he just is. When he and David can just be in—
Wait.
Patrick sits up. “Speaking of agonizing words—”
“Yeah?” David leans in for a kiss.
“If I heard Stevie correctly, she said you fell in love with an idiot. Her word or yours?”
“Idiot? All her.”
Patrick places a hand on top of David’s to stop the nervous motion. “Not that word.”
David pulls back, tucking both of his hands into his own lap. “I think what she actually said was that I fell in wove, so…”
“I love you too, David.”
Something tries to crack through David’s expression, but he bites his lips in and looks up at the ceiling. Patrick lives for these cues, dismissal to anyone else, but he sees the emotion behind the restraint. He knows that the less David is willing to show, the more David is feeling.
“That’s—okay, well. Thank you. Sure.”
“Hey,” Patrick breathes. David’s eyes snap down to his, wide and shining. “So should I go back in there? Let that room full of reporters know? Or maybe put out a release—that’s classy.”
“Okay, alright.” David stands, throwing his hands up.
“Something splashier? Maybe Jake will write a feature, since he thinks we make such a beautiful couple.”
David’s already out of the room. “You’ve made your point.”
“I can see the headline already.” Patrick leans back in his chair.
“Byeee!”
“Front page of the Washington Post—” Patrick watches David get smaller and smaller through the frame of the door. He’s nearly reached the lobby now, but since it’s already out there, no point in keeping quiet. Patrick lets it ring down the hallway: “Wove in the White House.”