Work Text:
Length: 21:02
Download: mp3 (right click to save-as)
David is standing in the middle of the Love Room, hands planted on his hips. He stares despondently into the wardrobe, which is packed wall-to-wall with knitwear. Behind him on the bed, he can sense the looming presence of stacks upon stacks of more sweaters, piled precariously high.
The task of refreshing his wardrobe for the impending winter, by packing away the pieces in his current rotation of knits and replacing them with some of these stored pieces, feels Herculean. Sisyphean, even. He agonized over it for weeks last year. He was hoping that experience would help this time around, but it seems that he’s still accustomed to a walk-in closet that puts every item of clothing he owns at his fingertips and on full display at all times of the year. A cedar chest with a maximum capacity of 12 sweaters doesn’t really compare.
Shaking his head like that might dispel the fog of indecision, he reaches into the wardrobe and grabs two sweaters nearly at random. He lays them out on the bed and starts picking through the piles for pieces to swap out. He’s clutching protectively at one of them, feeling like steam is about to start escaping from his ears (ew), when a knock comes at the door.
It must be Stevie. She refused to provide him with moral support today, but maybe she’s swinging by to mock his struggles. Sighing, David calls out, “Can I help you?”
The door swings open to reveal the last person he wants to see. (Well, technically it’s the first person he wants to see, always — but it’s the last person he wants to see him, right now, in this horrifying room.) “Patrick? Why are you here?!” he yelps. He throws himself in front of the bed, in a forlorn effort to hide the evidence of his clotheshorse tendencies with his body.
“Hi, David,” his boyfriend says. “Stevie told me to come find you here… wherever this is.” He takes in the bright red decor and glittering disco ball, his translucent brows furrowed.
Fucking Stevie! David thinks. Out loud, he says, “This is the Love Room, obviously (Obviously, Patrick mouths), and you’re supposed to be minding our store on my day off!”
“Stevie dropped by and offered to keep an eye on things so I could bring you lunch,” Patrick says. “But if you’re all set, I can go away and leave you in peace.” He lays a threatening hand on the door knob.
“Oh, let’s not be too hasty — where is this lunch?” David’s eyes scan Patrick hungrily, but it’s hard to imagine how his rolled-up sleeves and skintight jeans could be concealing a BLT and fries. He closes the distance between them to do a hands-on check, just in case.
“Is this a hug or a patdown?” Patrick asks, even as he leans up for David’s kiss.
David just raises an eyebrow until Patrick’s teasing smile flips upside-down, and he confesses to dropping off their lunches in David’s room before going in search of the Love Room.
Back at David’s room, they sit at the circular table and eat, while Patrick updates him on the morning’s business. David is horrified to hear that Roland has discovered the boxes of massage oils being stored behind the counter, which are absolutely not to be displayed for sale until Singles Week launches on Monday.
“And after that, you left Stevie in charge?” David asks in disbelief. “You have to know she was trying to fuck with me by sending you over here. An unselfish gesture from Stevie is the world’s biggest red flag.”
Patrick laughs. “I figured. But…” He bites his lip. “I’ve gotta admit, I was curious about what was behind all your secrecy yesterday.”
David hesitates, his pleasure at Patrick’s interest warring with his instinct to keep his fashion decisions to himself. “I am swapping out my spring and summer knits for my fall and winter knits,” he explains. There, that should be enough information to satisfy him.
But instead of moving on, Patrick leans in toward David with an eager look, the second half of his sandwich apparently forgotten. “How do you decide which sweaters are for which seasons?”
“Oh, well… it’s complicated,” David temporizes.
“Really?” Patrick cocks his head like a confused puppy. “I figured it would boil down to thicker sweaters being for winter and thinner sweaters being for summer.”
“Excuse me, nothing about my personal style can be ‘boiled down.’ And the weight of the fibers isn’t irrelevant, but it’s one small factor among many.”
“Like what?” Patrick asks.
“Many intricate and complex factors that would take precious minutes to explain while my french fries are getting cold,” David sniffs. Patrick smiles and dutifully returns to his sandwich, as David applies himself to his fries, though his mind is still on their conversation. He knows Patrick likes the way he dresses; he’s been delightfully vocal in his appreciation. But surely Patrick will be as disinterested in a behind-the-scenes tour of David’s wardrobe as David is in revealing exactly how high-maintenance and indecisive he can be?
Once they’ve both finished eating, David lets himself back into the Love Room. Patrick follows him, but pauses at the door. “I can just leave you to it, if you want,” he offers. “I know you said—”
He cuts himself off abruptly, eyes widening, and dashes past David into the room. David spins around just as one of the precarious stacks of sweaters starts to cascade over the side of the bed. He gasps, recoiling at the thought of his precious knits making contact with the grimy carpet. Instead, it’s Patrick’s knees that hit the floor with a thud as he catches the sweaters against his chest.
“My god!” David exclaims, and hurries over to Patrick. He smooths his hands over Patrick’s shoulders and down his arms as Patrick clambers to his feet and deposits the sweaters back on the bed.
“That was a close call,” Patrick says. He sounds a little breathless; David can relate after witnessing that display of heroics.
“Good thing my boyfriend is so athletic,” David purrs, brushing a kiss to Patrick’s flushed cheek.
Patrick’s flush darkens adorably. David isn’t sure if it’s caused by the “boyfriend” or the cheek-kiss. But either way, it makes his chest tighten to think that he still has this kind of power over Patrick, months into their relationship. “I’m glad I could protect your sweaters,” Patrick says, “even if I don’t understand enough about fashion to help you organize them.” His tone is lightly self-deprecating, but the twist of his mouth is rueful. For whatever godforsaken reason, Patrick has clearly decided that he wants to be involved in this process.
David heaves a sigh. “Well, since you’re in the room now… I suppose you might as well stay.”
Instantly, Patrick’s face lights up. “Thanks, David. That’s very generous of you,” he teases, his eyes dancing.
“We established long ago that I’m a very generous person.” David walks over to the wardrobe as Patrick takes a seat at the foot of the bed.
Patrick claps his hands together. “So where should we start? Maybe with this one?” He reaches for the sweater on top of the pile next to him, then hesitates. “Is it okay if I touch them?”
“You just touched several of them, intimately,” David points out.
“Yes, but that was an emergency. I was relying on some kind of Good Samaritan law to protect me.”
David rolls his eyes, stifling a grin. “Hmm, I appreciate your consideration. You may continue to touch my sweaters.”
Patrick holds up the sweater by its shoulders and looks to David for his judgment. It’s a black Neil Barrett patterned with abstract geometric shapes. David considers it, then purses his lips and says, “No.”
“No?” Patrick parrots.
“The energy is all wrong.” David steps forward and plucks the sweater from Patrick’s grasp, hanging it up in the wardrobe.
“Oh I see, so energy is one of your intricate factors?”
“I did mention yesterday that this was a one-person job,” David reminds him, already regretting his decision to stray from that plan.
But Patrick seems undaunted. “How about we try one of the sweaters in your wardrobe?”
David plucks out the first sweater on the far left. He gives it — a black Amiri cardigan adorned with white palm leaves — a once-over and declares, “Yes.”
Patrick reaches to take it, his head tilted skeptically. “Are you sure this one has the right... energy... for a winter knit? It looks kind of beachy to me.”
“I thought you were supposed to be helping me, not questioning my expertise,” David huffs. Patrick just looks at him, bright-eyed and eager to learn how very wrong he is.
It’s so gratifying that David can’t resist sharing more details than he did before. “In terms of the pattern, the appeal is in the seasonal juxtaposition. I also never wore it last year, so it will feel like a fresh look. And… it’s cozy,” he concludes.
“Coziness is a factor?” Patrick looks delighted at this admission.
“Occasionally,” David hedges, the self-consciousness creeping back in. He never used to select his outfits for their comfort. They were more like armor, shielding him from others’ mockery and judgment. But coziness feels much more necessary than armor lately — like when he and Patrick are snuggled down on the couch or under the covers, Patrick nuzzling into his shoulder and stroking along his back with a happy little murmur of “So soft.”
Patrick apparently assumes they’re going to keep taking turns selecting sweaters for consideration, because he starts to pick through the piles. It’s clear he has some kind of goal in mind this time; David can’t help but be intrigued. But his intrigue turns to horror when Patrick triumphantly holds up the Givenchy baby’s breath sweater that David wore to perform at Asbestos Fest.
“Absolutely not!” David exclaims, lunging to confiscate it.
Patrick scoots to the opposite side of the bed, protesting, “But the seasonal juxtaposition!” with a mischievous grin.
David shakes his head and makes grabby hands until Patrick hands over the sweater. “This sweater,” he intones, “is burned into the memory of every townsperson who attended that fucking event. Even if I never wear it again, it will be too soon.” He tucks it into the depths of the wardrobe, where it can’t accidentally catch his eye and bring back the trauma.
The next sweater from the wardrobe is a crew-neck in multiple fibers of gray, with a fringe detailing along the side seams, shoulders, and sleeves. David hasn’t worn it in ages, and he’s eager to revisit it. Patrick pouts over the pointy-looking embroidery, until he gets the sweater in his hands and feels how soft it actually is.
“So,” Patrick says, with a thoughtful look. “It seems like the more recently and publicly you last wore the sweater, the more likely it is to be packed away?”
“That’s accurate,” David agrees, pleased with how quickly Patrick is learning. “I like to give the old memories some time to disperse.” He circles his hands to mime memories dissipating into the air.
Predictably, Patrick shakes his head with a chuckle. Then he holds up David’s flame-print sweatshirt, and David’s breath catches. “This one should definitely go in the wardrobe, then.”
“Oh — um — well…” David feels like his brain is short-circuiting. “I might want to keep that one close to hand, just in case.”
“Just in case of what?” Patrick prods. His teasing grin is a mile wide.
“Just in case I need a reminder of what a complete troll you can be,” David says pointedly, but he’s sure Patrick can see the smile nudging at the corner of his mouth. The truth is that his heart gives a little leap each time he opens his cedar chest and catches sight of the bright flames flickering amid all the black, and he isn’t ready to give that feeling up just yet.
They find a good rhythm after that. Trolling aside, Patrick does make himself useful in small ways. He prompts David to sort the sweaters in the wardrobe so that it’s clear which ones they still need to look through. And every time David gets stuck on a particular piece, Patrick gently nudges him along. Patrick must have promised Stevie half their wine and cheese inventory to convince her to watch the store all afternoon, David realizes. He decides it’s better not to ask and risk breaking their momentum.
As darkness falls, they finally seem to be getting close. David has selected 11 of his higher-quality sweaters to take pride of place in his cedar chest. His second-tier options will live in the wardrobe for easy access, and he’s relegated dozens of his less-favored and more summery knits to under-bed storage. David is mulling over the options for the final sweater that will take its place in the chest when Patrick stands from the bed and asks, “Can I pick one out?”
He must notice the way David flinches, because he reaches up to squeeze his shoulders, rubbing reassuring circles with his thumbs. David relaxes into the touch despite himself. “I promise not to choose a sweater you’ve already rejected. And anyway, you have full veto power.” He turns pleading eyes on David. “I just want to test out my knowledge and see if I can find one you’ll like.”
David presses a begrudging kiss to Patrick’s temple. “All right, let’s find out what you’ve learned.”
Patrick walks over to the far end of the wardrobe where a section of sweaters hasn’t been reviewed yet. These are pieces that David had judged unsuitable for Schitt’s Creek when he first arrived here. He hasn’t bothered to look through them, figuring that his feelings are unlikely to have changed.
Patrick slides the sweaters apart on the rod, carefully examining each one. Then David sees him pause. He wonders with a wince what he’s found — maybe his Rick Owens “distressed” sweater that’s missing a sleeve? Or could his Helmut Lang fauxhawk hoodie somehow have gotten mixed in with those pieces?
David is braced for teasing. But Patrick turns away from the wardrobe empty-handed. “I — never mind, I don’t think any of these are… quite right.” He rubs the back of his neck, his eyes flicking away from David’s.
David knows that this cagey behavior from Patrick is a ticking time bomb, and he’s not about to let himself be caught unawares when it explodes on him. “OK, out with it,” he says impatiently. “What did you find?”
“Nothing, really!” Patrick protests. So David takes matters into his own hands, striding over and flicking through the options.
He knows immediately when he sees it, and it’s so much worse than he imagined. He lifts it out by the hanger and Patrick’s gaze flies to it as though magnetized.
The sweater is emblazoned with a geometric heart that reads "I Believe in the Power of Love.”
In New York, he’d worn it ironically. Here, he'd cast it aside because he knew that this town wouldn’t be able to appreciate the sarcasm, that wearing it in Schitt’s Creek would feel like a sentimental lie when David was determined to be fully, unapologetically himself. But lately… he’s been starting to think about that word a little more seriously. About feeling it, even if he can’t say it. About Patrick, maybe, someday, saying that word to him. And the shine in Patrick’s eyes makes him brave.
“Well, this sweater — it’s very cozy,” David says. “Heavier weight.” The casual words are ruined by the tightness in his throat that causes them to emerge barely above a whisper.
Patrick gives a cautious nod.
“And,” David continues, “I haven’t worn it in a very, very, very long time. So maybe…” His voice and his courage both give out.
“You could add it to the rotation?” Patrick fills in, sounding hopeful.
“That might be possible.” David rocks his head forward and backward like a bobblehead. He must look ridiculous — and yet Patrick is beaming the softest look at him.
“Seems like the only logical choice, based on all your parameters.” Patrick’s mouth quirks into a tiny smile, almost shy. “I can’t believe I overlooked it. I guess I still have a lot to learn... about sweaters.”
“Well, you have time yet,” David says, blinking to clear his misty eyes. “And you’re already coming along very well.”
He lays the sweater down on the “keep” pile and takes Patrick into his arms, the way he’s been wanting to do all afternoon. “Thank you, David,” Patrick whispers against David’s neck. And David thinks it’s about more than just the compliment on his progress.
David isn’t ready to walk around town with his heart on display anytime soon. But he thinks it might be nice, just seeing it nestled in his cedar chest. And maybe someday, he’ll find a special occasion to wear it.