Chapter Text
Patrick
This was, theoretically, where Patrick was supposed to be. But, fuck, was he lost. The faded fold of an old postcard bowed between his fingers. He smoothed out the web of creases cutting through the address and tucked it back into the pocket of his guitar bag.
New York was a far cry from Schitt's Creek. And paper made a poor worry stone.
“Patrick,” unsurprisingly, Stevie spotted him first, calling out across the crowded gallery.
He hardly recognized her, hair swept into a smooth ponytail, draped in a sweater that looked like it’d been fished out of the five dollar bargain bin, but was probably closer to five hundred.
“Stevie,” he was struck with the urge to run to her, crash into her arms the way they hadn't since they were kids. He couldn't seem to make himself move, except to heft his duffle more securely in his fist. He’d gotten good at whittling down everything worth keeping into only what he could carry. The weight of it rooted him to the floor.
"Hey, Brewer."
"Hi," Patrick buried his face in Stevie’s hair as she pulled him into a hug, enveloped by a wave of soft floral. It was nice. He missed the flyaways and ragged flannel.
“You look like shit.”
Patrick laughed. It came out rusty, relief flaring in his chest. She swiped his cheeks with the corner of her sleeve. He hadn’t been sleeping. His eyes burned.
“I left Rachel."
"I know," Stevie backed away, face twisted with sympathy. Deja vu curdled his stomach. It had driven a block of jagged distance between them, every time he woke up in Rachel's bed, insisting he’d been wrong. After he’d followed Rach to Montreal, repairing whatever survived had felt unsurmountable.
His parents would’ve welcomed him home. Patrick had trenched the grooves of a relentless cycle, spent weeks that grew into months camped out in the flat above the store until he felt like he could breathe again, stayed away just long enough to convince himself he could make it work.
But his grandmother's ring sat heavy in his jacket pocket. This time, there was no going back.
"Come on,” Stevie said, nodding to the storefront, “Alexis had them pull a car around.”
A woman in an embroidered suit lounged in the back seat, hair piled artfully on her head, acrylics tapping her phone case. She looked him up and down with a critical eye as Patrick slid onto the opposite bench.
“Alexis Rose of Alexis Rose Communications,” she said, presenting the back of her hand.
He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with that.
“Patrick,” he ended up lightly grasping her knuckles. Alexis beamed, fingers wiggling beneath his until they were effectively holding hands. Her eyes were startlingly blue. He felt like he was being pried open, examined and sorted as she held his gaze. He wasn’t sure what she saw reflected there, but she let go with a small squeeze.
Patrick crossed his arms, chest humming with the residual glow of a fading spotlight as she turned that all encompassing attention on Stevie.
“Oh my god, babe,” she grinned, “you did not tell me he was such a button face. David’s going to eat him alive.”
Patrick grit his jaw. He’d come up often in Stevie’s stilted, habitual updates. David, the pretentious man who’d shown up out of the blue claiming to own their hometown, heir to the Rose Video empire, her best friend. The last declaration hadn’t come long before yet another bout of radio silence. The thought tore at a poorly scabbed wound. That used to be him. And for most of their childhood, he’d taken it for granted that it always would.
Stevie shrugged, shooting him a tentative smile, “he’s tougher than he looks.”
“Mmm,” Alexis let out a distracted hum as her phone chirped with a series of notifications. She draped her free hand over on Stevie’s thigh, drawing her in to slouch against her side. Patrick met Stevie’s eyes with a small smile before succumbing to his jetlag. His skull rattled against the window, city blurring by.
.
Patrick dropped his duffle on a soft leather armchair and leaned his guitar against the dresser. While the living area was all sharp lines and clean white stretches, the guest room felt more lived in.
“You’re still totally welcome to stay with Stevie and I,” Alexis offered, looking almost guilty, “David’s not handling things super well. It’s not too late to back out.”
"I appreciate it, Alexis," Patrick said, "but I think we'll be alright."
“Mm, well, if things go south, we have a very cute spare room.”
He didn’t think things would. Patrick had enough experience with things falling apart to last a lifetime. He had a good feeling about this. At the very least, he wanted to see it through. He’d given Stevie his word. He owed her that much.
“M’kay, I’ll leave you to unpack,” Alexis said. She clapped her hands on Stevie’s shoulders, shimmying with a wholly unsubtle nudge in his direction, “let you two catch up.” Her wink was atrociously endearing.
“Thanks, Alexis,” Patrick called. His laughter died on his tongue, their easy banter flowing after her.
Stevie leaned against the door jam, crossing and uncrossing her arms as she studied the strokes in the paint.
Patrick took the out, occupied himself with unpacking the contents of his duffle bag. It fit into a single drawer. His fingers curled around his store key. Cold and jagged, guilt spilled in his chest over the unanswered messages piling up in his inbox.
“How is she?” he asked, “Mom.”
Stevie shrugged.
“The asbestos fest booth did alright, sales are up at the store,” her sigh was heavy, “she misses you, Patrick. They both do.”
Shame gnawed at his stomach. “I know.”
“Patrick,” Stevie answered with a sad smile, “I’m glad you’re here.”