Archive of Our Own ^beta

We could leave the Christmas lights up 'til January

And this is our place, we make the rules

The thing is, Christmas was nine days ago. 

Christmas was nine days ago, and New Year’s was two days ago, and the holiday season is truly and well over, and Patrick still hasn’t taken down his decorations. 

Which, beyond any shadow of a doubt, is incorrect, thankyouverymuch. 

His tiny apartment, cramped as it already is, is covered in tinsel garlands and glittery snowflakes and a godawful 4-foot tree by the mantle, covered in ridiculously atrocious rainbow-coloured lights. Like, actually rainbow-coloured. ROYGBIV coloured, in that sequence. It is tacky. 

Patrick, however, seems not to care, and has not expressed even the slightest indication that he wants to take it down any time soon. 

David can leave him for this, right? This is a legitimate crime against all common sense. It’s got to be. 

Except, leaving Patrick would be terrible, and painful, and absolutely stupid. The business would totally suffer, Stevie would have to pick a side in the divorce, and Alexis? Alexis would rip him to shreds for getting rid of her cost-free business consultant. Seriously, he’s afraid she might literally do it. 

And, well, it would hurt, because David is stupid in love with him. That might have something to do with it, too. 

So he doesn’t leave him, doesn’t even entertain it at all. Instead, he’s got his hands wrapped around one of Patrick’s dumb little green mugs, basking in the steam wafting off of the hot chocolate he’s made, seated on the couch and staring at the atrocity Patrick had somehow deemed festive enough to expose David to since the first weekend of November. 

He examines the tree from top to bottom, in the same way he’s had to do for weeks now — totally against his will, thank you — eyes flitting over the ornaments Patrick had hung up (after paying for them, as he’d repeatedly rubbed in David’s face) nearly two months ago. His eyes rake the little snowman from Margo’s craft shop, the glittery ornaments that Ben the glassblower had gifted them despite David’s gentle refuting, and tiny, vaguely religious figurines littered every here and then, and then on —

What the fuck?

He sets the mug down and crawls closer to the unfamiliar ornament he swears wasn’t there yesterday morning, which means that Patrick put it up today, like some kind of heathen. He carefully reaches towards it, hesitant of what he’ll find, knowing Patrick’s decorating tendencies, and is taken aback once he takes it in. It’s beautiful, a snowflake shaped locket, carved in wood and painted white. Sure enough, David finds a tiny latch at the bottom of the shape and pulls it open, watching the ornament unfold, and his breath catches once he sees the carefully stuck handwritten little note inside.

Happy Holidays, Patrick! 

I promise I got this with my own money. 

                                                    Alexis R. 

He wants to hate it. Patrick didn’t tell him about this. Alexis didn’t tell him about this. No one thought to clue him in to the fact that his sister was buying his boyfriend an ornament that he’d decide to put up nine days after Christmas? The entire situation is… it’s wrong, is what it is. It’s vile. It’s terrible.

He feels like he could scream.  

Patrick chooses that instant to walk in, a tray of drinks from the cafe in one hand while a brown bag hangs off the other, grunting as he struggles to toe his shoes off at the door. 

“Hey, I got us lunch,” he greets when David stomps over to him, oblivious of the dirty thing he’s done. 

“Why is there a new ornament on our tree in January?” 

Patrick freezes. “Uh.”

“You can’t keep decorating after the holidays, Patrick!” 

“Okay,” Patrick agrees with a nod, “but Alexis was very excited about the ornament she got me, and it got in late, so I wanted to give it its moment on the tree before I took it all down.” 

And David really wants to say something in retaliation to that, he really does.

He really, really wants to. 

Instead, he grabs the coffee tray from his boyfriend’s hand, holds it away by sticking his arm out by his side, and uses the other hand to pull him in for a kiss. 

“We can leave it up for another week at most,” he breathes when he pulls away, “not a day longer than that.”

“You make the rules, David,” Patrick says with a smile. 

“And just the tree. I want the tinsel gone.”

“Tinsel gone; got it,” his boyfriend murmurs, and when he pulls him in again by the free hand for a second kiss, David doesn’t quite mind the tinsel and glitter around them as much anymore. 

Maybe there’s still some holiday magic left in the air, after all. 

(The garlands and fake snow go down an hour later. Kissing can only distract him for so long.)

And there's a dazzling haze, a mysterious way about you dear

Have I known you 20 seconds or 20 years?

He still can’t believe this is his life, on most days.

They’ve just stepped out of the cafe, bidding Twyla farewell and apologizing for delaying her closing duties. Patrick leaves out the front door with David’s hand in his, light on his steps and full of relief and love and something more, all-consuming and buzzing through his entire being as he looks at the love of his life at his side. 

He can’t stop smiling, already preparing the rest of his night as they get to the parking lot, his warm bubble of joy only bursting once David pulls his hand out of his at the car and peels himself away from his side. For a second, Patrick almost lets him go, too — David deserves his time after all he’s done, tonight. His heart falls slightly and his steps are more weighed as he watches David take a few steps away.

He deserves it, he guesses, after hiding his parent’s blissful ignorance of their relationship for two years and avoiding the conversation all day, sending David into the fire to deal with his family because he was too afraid to do it himself. He watches David walk, almost to the end of the parking lot, now. He thinks, for maybe the thousandth time, that there’s no way in hell he could have ever done enough to deserve David Rose’s heart, and yet here it is, delicately placed atop his open palm by the most beautiful, most loving man Patrick’s ever known. 

“Do you want to come home with me, David?” Patrick asks David’s turned figure. He hopes he doesn’t sound too desperate. David turns around, facing him, and his heart nearly breaks at the hesitation on his boyfriend’s face when he replies. Patrick walks over to him.

“You should be alone,” David says, nodding, probably mostly to himself, “Tonight was a lot. For you. I can give you space if you need it.” 

“What?”

“What do you mean, ‘what?’ You just came out to your parents!”

“David, they already knew,” Patrick argues.

“Yeah, but you just confirmed it for them! That’s a lot! I don’t want to… overwhelm you, or whatever.” 

Patrick’s going to marry him so hard. 

“Hey,” he answers, walking even closer to where his boyfriend had retreated and putting his hands on his shoulders, “I might be overwhelmed, but it’s all in a good way. In the best way, David. And if you didn’t mind, I’d really like to end my birthday in bed with my partner.” 

David’s eyebrows raise in the way they do but he always denies, when he’s caught delighted off-guard, and he smiles the bashful little thing Patrick constantly has the urge to kiss at the corner of his mouth. 

“Well,” he says softly, twisting his head a little in joy, “I mean, if you want me there…”

“I always want you there,” Patrick says easily, and then he slaps David’s butt lightly, turning around once more to walk over to the driver’s side of his car, watching David make his way to the other.

They get in promptly, and Patrick keeps glancing at David the entire time as he pulls into the street, road safety rules be damned, examining the way he looks under the soft glow of the street lights that line the road. 

This man walked into a room with his parents for him, even when he thought they wouldn’t be accepting of him. He’d marched in there, sample products in a basket and his giant freaking heart right out on his sleeve, for Patrick. 

Because David Rose just loves like that, entirely and selflessly and devotedly, and Patrick, by some stroke of luck, gets to be one of the people he loves. 

Life without David seems unfathomable, suddenly, like any moment before he’d walked into Ray’s office was a foggy conjured up image that Patrick had never actually lived through. Like somehow, it was only when he’d shook Patrick’s hand and stood there, in all of his glorious, dazzling haze and his alarmingly charming mysterious ways, that Patrick had learned how to truly live. Sometimes, Patrick can’t believe he’s only known this man only for two years. Sometimes, it feels like he's known him two decades. Two centuries. A thousand lifetimes.

And if Patrick’s lucky enough , he thinks, he’ll get to know him for a thousand more.  

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

And ah, take me out, and take me home

You're my, my, my, my lover

In all fairness, David reasons, this is the longest they’ve gone without spending the night together since the Rachel incident. 

Patrick had gone to some god awful conference for the first few days, and then David had had to spend a few nights at the motel to help his dad work out the new configurations for the Rose Apothecary supplies they’d need if they were looking to expand, and Stevie only gets so many days off that they can use to drive down to Elmdale and book one of the scarce decent hotel rooms around the area. 

David isn’t complaining. God knows he could never complain about the complimentary breakfast The Elmwood Inn seems to offer every time, but it has been six nights too many, and all David wants to do tonight is go to bed in his boyfriend’s arms. He wants to hear Patrick’s little incorrect socked waddle across the apartment as he readies for bed. He wants to hear the faint hums he emits from the back of his throat when he’s reading that he swears David is making up. He especially wants to slap his ass while Patrick brushes his teeth just to hear the garbled “David!” that his boyfriend will try to form around his stupid blue toothbrush. 

Needless to say, following this train of thought, that David was not thrilled when Jocelyn had galloped into their store, baby draped over her shoulder, smiling at Patrick expectantly as she asked if he’d be able to go over and watch her little spawn overnight. 

Patrick is listening intently as she goes on and on about something Roland needs help with regarding something, and how she wants to be able to drive him to somewhere, and how they really need someone? Frankly, David isn’t listening. He doesn’t want to, if it’ll end with Jocelyn forcing him apart from Patrick for another night. 

“Patrick has plans, actually,” he blurts, pointedly ignoring the way his boyfriend’s head snaps to look at him. “Big plans. Important work.” 

“And are we sure we can’t get that work done with precious little Rollie sound asleep in his little crib, boys?” Jocelyn tries, grimacing. 

“Not unless little Rollie wants to join us on a late night drive through some farmlands, I’m afraid,” he gripes. From the corner of his eye, he sees the way Patrick crosses his arms and stands up taller, ready to call David on his bluff (a drive through some farmlands? Really? ), and David pointedly chooses not to look in his direction. “Patrick will be glad to look after the little guy any other day, though,” he adds, and then, after a second: “Preferably when I’m not around.” 

Jocelyn leaves, nodding dejectedly with a frown deep enough that David almost wants to reconsider his lies ( almost), leaving David with no choice but to face Patrick’s unimpressed raised eyebrow as the glass door closes behind her. 

“So you probably are going to want…”

“...an explanation for that, yes, David,” Patrick says matter-of-factly. He looks unimpressed, shocked, and maybe confused, David notes, as Patrick’s eyes never leave his face, but not upset. Not yet. 

“I didn’t want you to spend the night at the Schitt house with the kid,” David says, quietly.

“I gathered that much.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay,” Patrick repeats, and then, just as unimpressed: “May I ask why? She wasn’t even asking for you to join, David, she just wanted a little help. I would have come back home, and then I would have called you, and—”

“I didn’t want you to call me!”

Patrick stops his rant in its tracks, eyes wide. For a second, there’s silence, and then: 

“What?” 

“I…” David swallows. “I didn’t want you to call me, because I wanted to be with you, tonight.” He pauses. “That sounds terrible. Why would I say that? You know what, just call Jocelyn back.” 

“What do you want, David?” Patrick insists. He takes a few steps closer, reaching to put his hands on David’s shoulders. 

“I don’t want you to go,” David breathes. “Or, I don’t want to go, so I don’t want you to go, but if you went, I’d probably end up going too, and I just… don’t want that, okay?”

“And why would you have to go if I went?”

He’s clearly fishing, David can see it in his eyes now, and as much David wants to play along, tease Patrick just to see how long they can last before someone breaks, he’s really fucking missed him, this week.

“I’ve really fucking missed you this week.” 

“We see each other every day,” Patrick rebuts, but there’s a smile on his face that betrays his feigned ignorance. 

David wants to kiss him. 

“I missed you… at night.”

Patrick smirks, and no. No. That’s not what he meant. 

“I miss sleeping with you!” 

Patrick’s stupid downturned smile deepens, like David’s just told a very amusing joke. Which is wrong, and patronizing, and he needs to—

“Shut up. Literally sleep with you! Shove my face in your stupid chest when you turn off your ugly night lamp. Go to bed with you. Be in bed with you. Hear you snore all night and pretend that you don’t in the morning.”

“I don’t snore,” Patrick frowns. 

“Sure you don’t.” 

They stand there for a moment, both of them smiling in the middle of the store.  David loves it. David loves Patrick, and being with him, and joking with him, and being mercilessly bullied by him, too.

“I miss sleeping with you, too,” Patrick says. 

“Mmkay, are you calling Jocelyn, or should I?”

Patrick laughs and pulls David in for a kiss, right in front of the cash, where anyone could walk in and feel the affection practically wafting off of him, right now, and David doesn’t care. He wants it. He wants the whole town to see how in love he is. 

He wants the world to know that Patrick Brewer is the most amazing person that ever was, and that, making himself a forever home in his boyfriend’s sturdy arms, David Rose is his hopeless lover. 

We could let our friends crash in the living room

This is our place, we make the call

Unsurprisingly, he still feels the steady rise and fall of David’s chest under his open palm as he opens his eyes. His arms are wound around his boyfriend in a spooning position, legs tangled together under the covers, heat radiating off of David despite the biting cold that surrounds them, even indoors. Sunlight filters in through Patrick’s window in all its glory, basking the whole lot of them in a false sense of security, betraying the wind chill Patrick knows he’ll encounter as soon as he leaves the building. 

On the couch, just a few feet away, someone hums in their sleep, soft and content. There’s the sound of springs adjusting as they move around, just for a second, and then the moment settles and it’s quiet once more. David keeps breathing, gently and rhythmically, under Patrick’s hand. Patrick extracts himself slowly from David’s grasp, by now used to the intricate dance that follows a night of falling asleep with his partner in his arms, trying his best but failing as always to press a kiss to the back of David’s head when he whines as Patrick lets go of him. 

The first step off the bed is, as predicted, excruciatingly cold. Still, he manages to hold his position, seated at the edge of his bed with his arms to his side, until the sudden cold gives way to a far gentler, far more forgiving cool buzz. 

He makes his way to the couch, careful not to wake the three other people in the apartment as he moves around the space. The sight before him as he takes the few steps to arrive there is not unusual, but he still can’t quite manage to wrap his head around it.  With her head tucked under the quilt Patrick had brought from his parents’, curled up facing the couch from her makeshift bed on the floor, Patrick watches Stevie’s sleeping form. She’s scarily still, and Patrick would have been half-tempted to kick at the heap of blankets on the ground to make sure she hadn’t left if it weren’t for the way her hair pokes fans out of her makeshift cocoon at his feet. Above her, with the covers half-off, is Alexis, curled in on herself and with a vice-like grip on the cushion David had tucked under her head last night after she’d passed out during The Proposal . 

He leans forward, careful not to step on Stevie as he adjusts the blanket over Alexis’s legs, pulled tight towards her curled up chest, the entirety of her balled up on what can’t be more than half of Patrick’s already tiny couch. He nearly loses balance and falls onto her as he pulls back, but manages to keep on his feet, taking a few slow, calculated steps away from his friends before heading to the washroom. 

They’re all still asleep when he comes out, peaceful under the soft morning light. It’s a beautiful sight, to see the people he loves making themselves at home in his apartment, and the thought of it fills Patrick with such a rush of affection, of joy, of peace, that he’s almost sure he’d bleed domestic bliss if someone were to cut his chest open right now. He pads over to the kettle and boils himself a cup of tea, reveling in the soft sounds of the wind as it grazes his window, the soft, rapid sounds of bubbling water in front of him, the soft grunts his boyfriend lets out every time he shifts in the bed. 

Soon, he’ll have to wake them all up and send them off so that he and David can get to the store. Soon, he’ll have to listen to Stevie groan and whine about having slept on the ground all night, even when Patrick had offered her the bed. Soon, David will wake up and complain about the cold, and Alexis will whine about his whining, and Patrick will have to deal with the argument that will inevitably break out before they’ve all even had the chance to make breakfast. Soon.

For now, however, Patrick makes the call to let this moment last just a second longer. For now, he’ll give his friends the peaceful morning they’ve deserved their entire lives. For now, until they all realize they’ll have this morning a thousand times again.  

And I'm highly suspicious that everyone who sees you wants you

I've loved you three summers now, honey, but I want 'em all

David’s been wanted before. He’s been wanted in bars and beds and cars, in seedy bathroom stalls and in halls. He’s been wanted on nights out and nights in. He’s been wanted alone, away from the eyes of anyone with any palpable sense of self-respect, and in public, as a stunt or a hoax, as a controversy, and even as a joke. 

He’s been needed, too. He’s been needed to flash credit cards and ID. He’s been needed to do the things everyone else had already said no to. He’s been needed to save asses and reputations. He’s been needed over the phone, across national borders by Alexis, or behind sets, open arms, begging for the next set of instructions from his mother. 

But right now, in Patrick’s arms, despite the scorching heat at his back and the lack of cheese in his stomach, David feels like more. He feels wanted, and needed, and loved, and seen. Here, in Patrick’s arms, sneaking glimpses at the way his new rings catch and reflect the mid-afternoon light, David feels whole.

He pulls away from his fiance — his fiance, holy fuck — and grabs Patrick’s face for what must have been the tenth time in the past few minutes, taking in the way his eyes shine somewhere between amber and rust under the sun. He runs a hand down the side of Patrick’s face, then his neck, and down his shoulders again as he presses forward and tucks his face right where his throat meets his collarbone, uncaring of how awkward his height makes the maneuver, letting himself be held and swayed by the love of his entire fucking life at the top of this stupid mountain. 

He closes his eyes and a thousand images flash before him, glaring club lights and muted hotel room lamps, smiles and sneers, police van lights and blurry shadows. He sees Rachel, and Ken, and Jake. He sees Ted. He sees the pizza delivery guy who always smiles just a tad too bright when Patrick’s the one answering the door. He sees Alexis tying a scarf around Patrick’s neck. He inhales, and the scent of Patrick engulfs him as he sees Marilyn from the farm outside of town purposefully dipping low in greeting, her unbuttoned collar deliberately placed in his boyfriend’s field of vision. He sees her face when Patrick perfunctorily shakes her hand and immediately moves to wrap an arm around David’s waist. He sees a crowd watching in awe as Patrick strums at his worn guitar, while his eyes find David’s and David’s only, as if there were no one but them in the room. 

“I love you,” he hears Patrick say, face pressed into his hair, arms wound tight around his shoulders. “I love you, David.” He pulls back to press a kiss at the side of David’s face.

“I love you,” David answers, moving his head to stand up straight and face his fiance. “I’m going to marry you.”

“Yeah,” Patrick breathes, “you’re going to do that.” His smile is blinding, and David wants to drown in its glow, see nothing beyond the curve of his lips and the flash of teeth he can’t seem to hold back. He’s happy. The thought of marrying David makes him happy. 

David kisses him again. 

“Patrick?” he says, after a few more seconds.

“Yeah?”

“I’m really fuckin’ hungry.” 

Patrick laughs, and David is half-tempted to ignore the food altogether and keep kissing him until neither of them can stand it anymore.

But then Patrick says, “I’m real hungry, too,” and David lets him go. For now. 

He’s got forever to go. 

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

And ah, take me out, and take me home (forever and ever)

You're my, my, my, my lover

David wants to go to New York. 

Patrick hadn’t known it, but he should have expected it, he reasons after the fifth minute at his desk, notebook still flipped open to an empty page. David has bigger dreams than Schitt’s Creek. David deserves bigger than Schitt’s Creek. David deserves unlimited access to fashion shows where someone other than himself will be able to name a suit’s designer based solely on the shape of the lapel. David deserves the late night city lights bathing him in shades of red and blue and gold as he walks down the street, enhancing his beauty, complimenting it. David deserves those bagels he never shuts up about, and that cafe he’d once told Patrick about that he’d sworn by for over three years.

Patrick wants David to have all of that, and everything more. Everything he could possibly ever offer him, and then some. 

The only thing is, Patrick’s never been. Patrick doesn’t really want to go, either. Sure, he’s always wondered what it would feel like to walk down Times Square on Christmas, or to take a bike ride down Central Park. He’s always wanted to see a game at Yankee Stadium, too. He’s seen countless pictures, heard a thousand stories about the magic of New York. Still, he can’t seem to do it. Can’t seem to place himself among the bustling city crowds, can’t picture himself living someplace where people won’t know his name as he walks by, won’t care at all. 

But.

But he can see himself next to David, anywhere, everywhere. He figures that that’s all that matters. 

When David comes in minutes later, all the excitement from yesterday seemingly easing itself out of him as he takes a seat on their bed, Patrick finds his resolve thickening. 

David asks him why he hadn’t told him about the house, why he’s suddenly warming up to the idea of leaving everything he’s ever known behind, why he’d be willing to follow David across the globe at his every beck and call. David looks at Patrick, eyes wide open, heart at the tip of his fingers right where Patrick is able to reach it, just as he always has, and Patrick sees his every word for what it is. 

David is letting him say no. David is allowing Patrick the opportunity to keep him here, in this little town. David is looking at him, telling him that he doesn’t want Patrick going anywhere he’s not excited about. After giving and giving and giving to Patrick for years, he’s allowing him to be selfish one more time. David Rose, willing to give to Patrick until there’s nothing left for him to lose, because that’s just the beautiful person he is. 

Patrick loves him. He loves him so fucking much. He loves him like he loves breathing, like not knowing how would cause him literal agony, because maybe it would. 

So he says the truth. 

“I’m excited to be with you.” 

He says it like he means it, because the larger part of him does, and watches quietly as the words settle over his fiancé. 

David smiles and nods, not as enthusiastically as Patrick had been hoping, but then Patrick’s going on about leaving their beginnings behind and saying goodbye and he just figures that David’s just had too much thrown at him in such a short period of time. He gets off his chair and presses a quick kiss to David’s head, pouring his I love you and let’s make a home in New York and I’ll always go wherever you go into it. David watches the entire time, never saying a word. 

A day later, when David’s holding him on the front lawn of their future home, Patrick kisses him with all that he has and holds him holds him holds him, holds him for forever. It’s all he can do not to burst at the seams. He holds David and lets himself be held, thrumming with glee from head to toe, staring into his future husband’s eyes like there’s nothing else he’d ever rather see.

In all of this, Patrick had forgotten that love isn’t just to give, to please, to follow to the ends of the Earth. 

Sometimes love is letting someone follow you, and you following them, and them following you back until you both eventually find yourselves side by side, headed in the same direction together. 

Ladies and gentlemen, will you please stand?

With every guitar string scar on my hand

I take this magnetic force of a man to be my lover

David and Stevie are on the dance floor, slow dancing to a song that was definitely once meant for lovers, making faces at each other. Patrick, standing near a booth of the cafe, generously offered by Twyla, watches them with fond eyes. God, he loves them both so much. 

Stevie says something in David’s ear, reaching up while David leans forward to meet her halfway, and David immediately moves his head back and shoves her on the shoulder. She laughs, stumbling back only a little, and pulls him back in by the bicep. David rolls his eyes but turns, just a little, throwing that fond glance at Patrick, smiling as he meets his eyes before turning away and saying something to Stevie once more. 

Being married is everything . 

“You don’t have to make gross eyes at him all the time, you know,” Alexis says, coming to stand beside him. She hands him a glass of red and swishes her own drink around as she follows his line of vision. “He already married you. You can like, save some for the rest of forever or something.” 

He smiles at her, not quite able to come with something to retort when his husband is right there, beautiful and perfect and his and forever , laughing at something his best friend’s said like nothing else in the world matters.

“Does he know you’re going to sing for him?” Alexis asks after a silent moment. “He hasn’t complained about it all day, so he’s either like, fundamentally changed as a person, or you’re planning a surprise serenade,” she adds. “Just so you know, surprises make him break out into hives. It’s not a cute look.” 

“I think he’ll survive,” Patrick whispers back. And then: “Wait — how did you know?”

Alexis flips a strand of hair and takes a sip out of her glass, doing some sort of shimmy that Patrick has to admit only looks cute coming from David. She smiles. “You’re predictable.” 

He suspects that’s not entirely true; it’s more than likely Stevie just told her, but he doesn’t care enough to question him. Across the room, on the makeshift dancing space they’ve created in the middle of the cafe, Stevie’s eyes meet him from behind David’s back and she raises her eyebrows. She jerks her head towards the mic stand they’d set up for her speech earlier. He shrugs her off.

Stevie huffs, a performative eye roll in tow, and slowly backs away from David’s chest. She says something to him and he nods, eyes following her as she retreats to the edge of the floor and extends a hand over to Mr. Rose. 

David turns, and his gaze lands on Patrick immediately. His smile brightens, which Patrick hadn’t quite thought possible. It takes four, five long strides on both their ends and they’re meeting, smack on the center of the dance floor. David’s hands immediately fly up to frame Patrick’s face. Patrick’s land on the small of his back. David brings his face closer, impossibly closer, and speaks. 

“Hello there, husband.” 

Patrick kisses him. 

David hums from the back of his throat like he does when he’s containing a laugh, and Patrick feels it everywhere and all at once. He brings his right hand up to cradle the back of David’s head, holding him close as he dives in for another kiss, and another.

Somewhere behind them, someone wolf-whistles. 

David groans and pulls away, but still keeps his face impossibly close, making no move to address the offender beyond throwing a finger up in the air. He closes his eyes and tips forwards just slightly, resting his forehead against Patrick’s.

“So you’re not regretting this yet, I take it.”

It’s meant to be a joke; Patrick can see it in the smile that hasn’t left David’s face since the ceremony, in the twinkle in his eye, in the way he exhales a little bout of breath against Patrick’s lips in an approximation of a laugh. 

Patrick’s answer, however, could not be less humourous.

“You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me, David.” 

David’s smile falters, and he closes his eyes, pulling Patrick in by the shoulders and making the stupid, beautiful sound Stevie hates at the back of his throat that means he’s containing a cry. 

“Um,” he whispers, dropping his head onto Patrick’s shoulder, “you too. Mhmm.”

Before Patrick can answer, a heavy punch lands to the back of his shoulder. He pulls away from David to see Stevie, face schooled into a stern expression, staring right at him. 

“Um,” she starts, and clears her throat. “Twyla was asking if you wanted to go ahead and help her in the kitchen for that thing you’d said you’d help her with, Patrick?” 

“Why the fuck would he be helping Twyla in the kitchen on his wedding day?” David asks, and then, “Why the fuck would he ever be helping Twyla in the kitchen?”

 Stevie pointedly ignores him. “I think now’s a good time for you to go help her, don’t you? Before people start leaving?” 

Patrick nods, much to David’s confusion, and extracts himself from his husband’s grip before retreating to behind the counter. He finds Twyla on the way, hair let down from earlier, dancing with Alexis. She sees him and holds an excited finger up in a gesture to let him know to wait up, saying something to Alexis before she practically jogs up to him. She grins as they arrive, and he meets her smile as she goes to retrieve and hands him his guitar. He thanks her, smiling at the cartoonish thumbs up she throws his way before making her way back into the crowd, and takes the short few steps to where the mic stand had been set up. Mrs. Rose is the first to spot him, and he revels in the dramatic gasp that escapes her, loud enough to draw attention. 

He sees the exact moment David clues into what’s happening. His eyes widen and Patrick can see the way his shoulders tighten as he stalks over to him.

“What the fuck is this?” he asks, but his jaw is clenched and his eyes are shining and Patrick knows he’s more emotional than upset. 

“I’m singing my husband a song, David.”

“You didn’t tell your husband this was happening.”

“I didn’t think he’d mind,” Patrick replies easily, watching David’s shoulder’s relax. “Unless he does?”

“If it’s just one song,” David says, “and you really, really wanted to sing for your husband… I guess I wouldn’t stop you.” 

“I love you.” 

“Just sing your stupid song,” David replies, but he’s finally smiling again and Patrick wants to kiss him and hold him and sing to him and fucking fly. 

He turns the mic switch on. “Uh,” he starts, “I’d like to dedicate this song to a very special someone in my life.” He pauses, watching David roll his eyes. The rest of the crowd hollers and cheers. “Just in case you weren’t sure, it’s the person I just married,” he adds, and Stevie whistles. “David Rose.”

He starts strumming the guitar, the familiar chords surrounding him, basking in this perfect, fleeting moment for just a second before he starts singing.

“We can leave the Christmas lights up til’ January…”

My heart's been borrowed and yours has been blue

All's well that ends well to end up with you

David likes to think he’s a very mature and gracious husband. 

He’s not perfect by any means. He’s quite the nagger if he does say so himself, he finishes off leftovers Patrick had apparently planned to use as the following day’s lunch, and he forgets to throw out the trash at least once every three weeks. He wakes up late and sleeps even later. He cannot understand the hype behind a Toronto-Montreal hockey game. He thinks all Skittles taste the same. 

Regardless, he does his best. He feeds Patrick when he’s been working on a document for hours straight. He goes out and buys the ridiculous sugar-free brands of cereal he likes even when it’s not grocery day. He perfects a skin and hair care routine fit for his husband, painstakingly explaining every product, step and detail as he gently applies them onto him. He learned how to make soup when Patrick had caught that cold, and had put socks on his feet while he slept and the blanket kept slipping off of him all winter. 

David may not be the kindest person, or a talented athlete, or the most gifted cook, but he is a damn good husband. He and Patrick can both attest to that. 

Right now, however, stood outside his bathroom while the love of his life freaks out about a text from some former sports teammate who’s suddenly decided to catch up with him, David wants to be the freaky, ragey husband who goes about and slaps anyone who’s ever hurt Patrick right across the face. 

(Rationally, he knows they weren’t at fault for Patrick’s lifetime of angst. But he can’t help it. They were there when David wasn’t, and they saw Patrick in pain, and they didn’t immediately scour the ends of the Earth for a solution, anything, anything that would have saved the world’s most wonderful fucking man so many years of goddamn struggle. That, David thinks, is a heinous crime unto itself.)

“Patrick?” he asks, pressed against the bathroom door. “Can I come in?”

Patrick groans on the other end, an indistinguishable thing, and David takes it as a “yes” and twists the doorknob gently. The door falls open, just slightly, and David presses further against it. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” 

He peers in to see Patrick seated on the edge of their tub, head slung down and between both arms, both thumbs nervously picking at each other at their perch by his knees. His heart plummets when he sees Patrick nod and look up, eyes rimmed with red blown wide and looking up at him in fear. 

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says after a second of blank staring, as if awakening from a trance. “Let’s uh, let’s go talk in the room.” 

David shakes his head and steps into the space, shutting the door behind him. He takes the few steps to join Patrick, nudging him gently so he can join him by the tub edge. (He is not going to use the toilet as a seat for this conversation. God, no. Fuck.) A hand wraps around Patrick’s broad shoulder, the other reaching towards his conjoined hands to untangle them and lace his own fingers with Patrick’s instead. 

“Tell me,” he says. 

Patrick sighs and rubs his eyes with the ball of his hands — David will be having words with him about that habit of his — and straightens his posture. David’s arm remains around him, firm and tight. 

“I don’t know why I freaked out,” he says with a humourless laugh. “I mean, I’m sure he knows. They all probably know. Not like I’ve told any of my family to hide our marriage or anything.” He looks up at David when he says that, eyes boring into his, willing him to understand. Patrick hadn’t hidden him. Patrick hadn’t done anything at all. 

They’ve gotten better at communicating, David knows. They’ve gotten better at slicing their souls open and letting the contents fall out between them, holding every memory, every thought and feeling in their conjoined hands like something to be cherished. Still, there are moments where the old instinct kicks in and they find themselves holding things in, held together by the thinnest of barriers, hoping and waiting for the other to come prod the wound open. 

Right now, however, Patrick is looking at David with something so open and vulnerable, something so large and all encompassing, and David knows there’s no wound to poke and prod. This wasn’t something Patrick had held close. 

This is something that he hadn’t ever known he had. 

David holds him a little closer. “Feelings don’t always make sense,” he says into Patrick’s hair. “Trust me, I know.” 

Patrick laughs a little and nods. He leans his head down further, allowing David to kiss the back of his close-cropped hair, and sighs. “I don’t care what they think, David,” he says, closing his eyes. “They’ll see how much I love you, and that’s that. Right?” 

David says nothing. He takes in the scent of Patrick so close, bathroom be damned, and burrows in closer. He thinks of every time he’s been left at bars, in beds, on sidewalks, without so much as a word of apology. He thinks of connections used and money stolen and his own heart, spent and beaten and used to the last drop. He thinks of Patrick’s firm hand, for the first time offering something to David, not asking. He thinks of Patrick’s steady fingers on his heart, his warm touch filling his heart up to the brim and welding him back together in a way David had thought impossible. He thinks of wedding rings and guitar strings and forever.

They’ll see how much David loves Patrick, how fierce and sharp his adoration for his husband is, brighter and clearer than any memory they might have ever shared with him, and that’s that. 

Nothing else could ever matter at all.

Swear to be overdramatic and true to my lover

Is there a way to get a divorce but still remain husbands? Nothing dramatic, just something to say “I love you more than anything, and I always will, but why the fuck did you think this was okay?”

This isn’t something that Patrick’s known to do. At least, not since David had turned him onto a better life path years ago. He’d painstakingly took the time to go through every product Patrick had owned, explaining the shortcomings of each in excruciating detail before replacing this then-boyfriend’s frankly abysmal routine with one containing the most carefully considered steps. At the time, Patrick had seemed to be listening intently, like David’s opinion on his face-care routine was important to him. He’d smiled, and only minimally complained as he watched David toss his bottles into the garbage bin, replacing them with products from their own store. He had listened, watched, nodded along, and then kissed David breathless once they had been through. 

Why then, pray tell, did David just watch his husband wash his face with a fucking bar of soap?

“Um, what the fuck?” he exclaims as Patrick leaves the washroom, stomping out behind him.

“What, David?” Patrick asks, like he hasn’t a clue what he’s just done. Like it doesn’t matter at all.

David’s either going to kill him or kiss him or make him sleep on the couch. He’s undecided for now.

“Why the fuck did you just do that?” he follows up. Patrick just turns towards him and blinks, cocking his head slightly. “You don’t get it?”

“Get what?” 

“Get that you just put abrasive hand soap on your face, Patrick! Is nothing I’ve ever said about taking care of yourself of any value to you?” 

He watches Patrick’s eyes widen, taken aback by his outburst, but the idiot doesn’t like the least bit ashamed.

“I didn’t think it’d be that big of a deal, David,” he says, fully facing him now. “I won’t do it again, okay? Just didn’t think that one through.”

David stares back, unable to quite compute the audacity he’s being faced with right now, and Patrick seems to take his silence for forgiveness, because he shrugs his shoulders in that stupid way that would be adorable any other time and turns back towards their vanity. 

He’s acting all blase about the thing, like his face, his body isn’t something he’s supposed to care about in the way David does, and it’s infuriating. David is infuriated. Today it’s soap bars on his face, tomorrow it’ll be deodorant instead of daily showers, and who’s to tell about the day after? Is Patrick going to start reusing unwashed underwear? Will he stop washing his hair? Stop ironing his shirts? 

“I don’t think you get it,” David says, and steps closer. He grabs Patrick’s shoulders, urging his husband to turn around, and watches his eyes land on David’s. For a second, he’s caught aback by the sheer force of them, still incapacitating after several months of marriage, but he catches himself quick. There are bigger issues at hand. 

“I don’t,” Patrick replies matter-of-factly. “I just wanted to get to bed, and I couldn’t be bothered to find the bottles you got for me, and I didn’t see the harm. It was just once.” 

“I get that,” David says, stepping back, “but that’s… it’s… it’s not right, Patrick. It’s wrong. It’s bad for your face! You’ve got this miraculously perfect skin now, but what happens when you start taking it for granted? And then you just… become this person who doesn’t take care of himself and I can’t be around that! I can’t. I can’t. I’m gonna be the devilishly stunning husband of someone who couldn’t be bothered to brush his teeth every morning, and then you’ll feel miserable, and I’ll be dying inside because I can’t stand the sight of you being miserable, and then what? Then what? ”

“Okay, I don’t think I’ll be giving up on brushing my teeth,” Patrick says, but he’s smiling now, a small, teasing thing, “but I do appreciate your concern for me for when I’m a tired bum and you’re still as handsome as ever. Really touching, David.” 

“I just don’t think you should be so careless with yourself.” 

“That’s what I have you for, no?” 

David exhales, and closes his eyes, and pulls Patrick in by wrapping an arm around his neck. He feels Patrick’s hands come around his waist and tucks his head down, right to the side of Patrick’s neck. 

“I just want you to, like, at least pretend to care about yourself when I’m around,” he says, and sighs, “I’m not good at taking care of people, but it felt good, that first time you used shampoo that was actually good for your hair. Or when I taught you what toner was. Kind of like I had been able to show you I care about you and you had listened.” He feels Patrick’s arms tighten around him. “It’s just that, I think.”

Patrick nods slowly, swaying them both ever so slowly, in their bedroom in the bedside lamp’s faded yellow light. David still doesn’t think he gets it; He can’t quite explain to Patrick why it’s important to him, but he knows he’ll try. Patrick always tries. 

They get into bed slowly, quietly, comfortably, Patrick kisses him soft and slow as they slide under the covers, the same way he had all that time ago at Ray’s, and David holds him gently as he pushes back against him. 

“You’re the best at taking care of people, by the way,” Patrick whispers against his lips when he pulls back, “even when you’re dramatic about it.” David rolls his eyes and pushes against his lips one more time, and then they shuffle around so that his head is lying against Patrick’s chest, Patrick’s hands tracing soft patterns against his t-shirt clad back. 

He falls asleep to the feel of the rhythmic thumping of Patrick’s heart under his palm.

And you'll save all your dirtiest jokes for me

It’s not that he had forgotten about the happy ending dig during David’s wedding vows as much as it is that he hadn’t thought he’d be choking on his popcorn when he heard them again, surrounded by family, in his parents’ living room. 

Next to him, David stifles a laugh, the hand that had been absently rubbing Patrick’s back leaving so that his traitorous husband could fake a cough. 

“Oh dear,” his mom says, standing up immediately, “David, honey, do you need some water?”

And well, Patrick was the one who had choked first, but okay. 

“Oh no, Mrs. Brewer, thank you,” David says sweetly, “I’ll be fine.” He looks down at Patrick, smiling innocently, and Patrick hopes what he gives in return can pass off as a glare.  He knows he’s failed, though, when David smiles wider and ducks down to kiss Patrick’s shoulder. 

The rest of the wedding film plays on without incident. Patrick is enamoured by the love that swells in his chest as he watches the footage Ray’s captured, his friends and family laughing, dancing, eating to their heart’s content. His hand moves off of his own lap at some point, searching for David’s and he breathes out a content sigh when their fingers lace when their palms meet between them, David apparently having had the same idea. Patrick kisses their conjoined hands and leans further into his husband. It’s only when the footage is fading to black, accompanied by the closing notes to some Celine song Patrick only vaguely recognizes, that David clears his throat, lets go of Patrick’s hand, turns to Patrick’s parents, and says: 

“Well that was quite the happy ending, um, for everyone.” 

If looks could kill, Patrick’s well on track for becoming a widower right about now. 

His parents laugh and agree, then excuse themselves by muttering something about dishes and sinks and bedtimes, leaving Patrick and his stupid, terrible, no good husband alone on the couch. He waits for them to be well out of earshot before clambering out of his previous position and placing himself on David’s lap. David looks ridiculously delighted, eyebrows raised as he watches Patrick, hands resting on his either knee. 

“Aren’t you just feeling bold on your parents’ couch right now.”

“You made,” Patrick practically hisses, “a sex joke in front of my parents.” 

“I seem to recall making the same one at our wedding.” 

“I choked on my popcorn! In front of them!” 

“Is this a bad time to make a choking joke, too, or…”

“David, I have no intention of letting my mother in on my sex life, do you understand?” 

David doesn’t answer, just moves his hands so that they’re gripping the sides of Patrick’s thighs and laughs, stifled but bright and beautiful, and Patrick can’t help it, his parents be damned. He leans in and pecks at his lips. 

“Stop it, David.” 

“You’re the one who just kissed me!” 

“That has nothing to do with it!” 

“Doesn’t it? Because you’re telling me not to bring up a joke I made during my wedding vows — the reference to which they do not get, unless you guys share a truly disturbing relationship — but have somehow decided that sitting in my lap and kissing me is more appropriate.” 

Patrick stares at him for one second, then another, and then another just for good measure, and grabs David’s face, bringing their lips together. 

“Just don’t ever say ‘happy ending’ in front of my parents again.” 

“What if we’re watching a movie though—”

“No, David.” 

“And I’m like ‘Wow, dear parents-in-law, I sure am glad that movie had a not-sad, pleasantly acceptable conclusion—’”

“David.” 

“It just seems unnecessarily wordy, Patrick.” 

“You done?” 

David nods, and Patrick brings his fingers to trace at where he sees his husband biting back a smile. He pulls his hand away slowly, decisively, and gets off David’s lap, reaching a hand out as he stands up.

“Care to come upstairs, David?”

“And leave your parents alone?” 

“Unless you want them watching us make out, then yes, preferably we’d be leaving my parents down here.” 

David nods enthusiastically, hopping up to his feet, and Patrick pointedly ignores the way his father waves at him as they pass the kitchen to go up the stairs, David’s hand warm and present in his. 

“I still mean it, you know,” David says seriously once they’ve shut the door behind them and Patrick’s crowded him against it. 

“What?” Patrick hums against his throat.

“You’re my happy ending.”

“Shut up, David,” Patrick says, and kisses him. 

And at every table, I'll save you a seat, lover

Mr. Brewer’s going on about some art installation he saw at some tram station, and while David would usually love to chat about the intricacies of street art in big cities with his father in law, he just can’t bring himself to care. This isn’t to fault the man at all — Clint Brewer is a perfectly pleasant man at all times, thank you very much, but Mrs. Brewer had said before the guests had arrived that they were short on spring rolls, and they just smelled so divine when she’d fried them, and Patrick’s extended family is so big and is already serving themselves at the table.

“You can go grab a seat, son,” Mr. Brewer says, pulling David out of his own mind, “these veggies’ll be just a minute. I’ll bring them over when they’re good.” He’s looking right at David, smiling like he always does, and the small part of David that was ready to take on the offer dies inside him. Patrick would never leave David’s dad alone while he grilled vegetables. Patrick would actually insist David’s dad take a seat and that he grill the vegetables instead. And while David’s not feeling that generous, just yet, the least he can do is give the man in front of him the opportunity to get to know his only child’s husband. 

Besides, the rolls are probably all gone already.

He shakes his head and asks Mr. Brewer another question about the installation, making his best effort not to think of all the first servings of food he’s missing out on as he hears the clanking of utensils and the lively buzz of conversation coming from the dining room. At some point a laugh rings out, immediately followed by some weird mouth trumpet sound, and David watches the way Mr. Brewer’s features soften at the sound. He wonders what it’s like to have a family this big and to love them this fiercely. He wonders if his father could have laughed, back in the day, at the sound of David and Alexis arguing over the dining table, if eating meals together was a thing they’d ever cared enough to do. He figures he should convince his parents to come down for the holidays, at some point. Maybe it could still happen. 

In the dining room, someone loudly bangs two metal dishes together, and David hears the sound of Patrick’s delighted shout as it follows, letting it wash over him. Next to him, Mr. Brewer cuts the heat and reaches into a cupboard for a serving dish. 

They make their way out together, the last two men to join the family for Patrick’s grandfather’s birthday. The first thing he looks for when they get to the table is the spring rolls, obviously, and it speaks to his maturity as a son-in-law and person that he’s only a little bit distraught about the dish being empty. He rakes his gaze over the full table, taking it all in — taking them all in, his new extended family — and only finds himself able to rest when his eyes meet Patrick’s. His husband has a grin on his face, and he raises his little eyebrows at David, jerking his head toward the seat to his right, left bare except for Patrick’s arm thrown around its back. David smiles at him and walks over, making sure to put his hand down on Patrick’s thigh in thanks even as he nods at Patrick’s aunt telling him to serve himself. Patrick leans into David, just slightly, before pulling his hand away from the back of his seat. 

And before David can even reach forward to grab the salad bowl, he watches Patrick drop two of the three spring rolls that were in his own plate  onto David’s, not even looking at him, laughing graciously at something his cousin Casey had just said. 

David’s never been more in love. 

Can I go where you go?

Can we always be this close forever and ever?

And ah, take me out, and take me home (forever and ever)

Darling, you're my, my, my, my lover

“Don’t leave,” David breathes against Patrick’s arm, snuggling closer. “It’s so early.”

“I have to drive down to see Brenda before opening, David, you’ve known this.”

David would open his eyes to shoot him an indignant look, but it’s cold and it’s god knows what hour in the morning and it’s unfair that he has to live in a world where Patrick has to leave this bed right now with David still in it. 

He holds on tighter. “No.”

“David, I’m gonna need you to let go of me now.” 

“I need you more than Brenda does.” 

Patrick laughs a little and sets his weight back down; David smiles at the feeling of the mattress dipping beside him. 

“David,” Patrick whispers, “You’ll see me when you come to the store.” He leans down to kiss at the top of David’s flattened bed hair. “You should sleep a little longer.”

And David should. David could. David wants to, even, but he’s half asleep still and letting go of his husband, even after a whole two years of marriage, just doesn’t sound appealing in this one, specific moment. 

So David opens his eyes. 

“What if I slept in the car?”

Patrick cocks his head slightly, confused, and David would kiss him if he weren’t so comfortable under the covers. “What?”

“What if you gave me a minute, and I got ready, and we drove to Brenda’s together.” 

“You’d sleep the whole way there.”

“Yeah.”

“And you wouldn't talk to anyone.”

“No.”

“And when we get back, I’d inevitably have to drop you back here so you could get ready instead of just opening the store on time, as intended.”

“I frankly don’t get what’s so hard to understand.” 

Patrick runs a hand through David’s hair. “And why exactly would you do that, David?”

He leans down so that his face is across from David’s, big brown eyes staring directly into his, and David’s breath catches in his throat at the sight of this man, his husband, his partner for life, lying in David’s bed, in David’s arms, waiting for his answer. 

It should be illegal to love someone as much as David loves him, he thinks. 

“Why do you wanna tag along?” Patrick asks again, when David doesn’t answer. 

“I don’t know,” David says simply, like that’s that. “Wanna come with you,” he adds, and maybe it’s the desperate edge in his voice that convinces Patrick, or maybe it’s the words themselves, filled with the promise of a lifetime that David had made to him the moment they’d first kissed. Maybe it’s just the knowledge that David doesn’t do anything before 9 o’clock unless he really means it, or maybe it’s Patrick’s own unwillingness to turn away from his husband before the sun’s even had a proper chance to rise. Either way, Patrick just sighs and leans forward, running a hand down David’s face, and then sits up, arm still stuck in David’s vice-like grip. 

“Okay, David,” he says, “you’ve got 15 minutes to get in the car and we’ll stop for coffee.”

It takes David 32 minutes to leave the house.

They stop for coffee anyway. David gets his go-to, and Patrick gets an orange pekoe with two honeys that David gets to kiss off of him just a few minutes later. It tastes like love and forever.