Chapter Text
Patrick goes straight to Stevie’s apartment first thing in the morning, armed with a jar of Heather’s experimental truffle-marinated goat’s feta as a token of his appreciation. One, because Stevie is the best friend anyone could ever have, and two, because if he didn’t have a very compelling reason to force himself out of bed and away from the sight of the first brush of sunlight caressing David’s sleeping face, he would never leave his bed again.
“Well, someone got lucky last night,” Stevie comments, a grin spreading slowly across her face as she lets him in.
Patrick ducks his head, scrubbing at the back of his neck, unable to stop the smile spilling across his own. “Well, yes, and no,” he admits, “We mostly just talked, actually. Almost the whole night, I’ve hardly gotten any sleep.”
“Really? Because you seem, like, extremely fresh,” Stevie says. “Glowing, actually.”
“Good to know.”
“No, like, Patrick,” she says, a laugh bubbling up, “You’re literally glowing.”
“What?” Patrick asks, and Stevie beckons him over to her bathroom mirror. Sure enough, there’s literal light softly emanating from his skin, sparkling against his cheekbones. “Oh my god,” he says, aghast. “Oh my god, Stevie, I can’t go into work looking like this! Do you have any foundation?”
“Yeah, let me just go get my contour kit,” Stevie retorts, sarcastically. She taps at her chin, considering. “We could sneak into one of the Roses’ rooms at the motel, see if Alexis or Mrs. Rose have any.”
Patrick shakes his head vehemently at that suggestion. The last thing he wants to do after spending the night with David is come face to face with his family, especially with the evidence of what they did last night literally written all over his face. “Too risky,” he replies. “There has to be another way. Shit, I don’t know how I missed it this morning…”
“Your bathroom’s pretty sunny, and mine’s basically a dungeon,” Stevie replies. “So like, maybe it’s not that obvious in the light.”
“Maybe, yeah,” he says, unconvincingly. His ridiculous, shiny-cheeked reflection shares his misgivings. God, Ronnie would probably make some crack at him like you’ve finally gotten so pale, the sun’s trying to tan you from the inside. Something has to be done, or he’ll never hear the end of it. “Okay. Okay, I’ll run down to the café, see if Twyla’s got any on hand.”
“Shine on, Patrick,” Stevie says, giving him a solemn salute. “Shine on.”
He dials David as soon as he’s out the door, and he’s about one tone away from voicemail when David picks up. “Mmmm, what,” he says, voice low and rough from sleep and causing all sorts of warm feelings to simmer in Patrick’s belly. “Ugh, Patrick, it’s like, barely light outside.”
“The sun has been up for nearly three hours,” Patrick informs him, “And, even if it wasn’t, apparently I’m a pretty good substitute, David, because I am glowing. And that’s really not something humans tend to do, so how do I get it to stop?”
David yawns, soft and warm in Patrick’s ear. “No idea. Sounds nice, though. Should come back to bed and show me.”
“Tempting,” Patrick replies, and god, it really is, the hot curl of David’s voice threading low and tugging at him to do exactly that, “But we have to go into work today, and I can’t exactly go around in public looking like a human lightbulb.”
“Seems like you should’ve thought of that before you left, since now I don’t have any way of getting to work this morning.” David yawns, again. “A shame, really.”
Shit. One night with David and Patrick’s brain has apparently just melted into a dumb, glowy pool somewhere around his ankles. “Well, I’m not paying you to stay in bed,” he comments, and then he nearly trips into the storm sewer as the implications of that statement get him right in the kneecaps. He clears his throat, stepping back up onto the sidewalk. “I’ll come by to pick you up.”
“Mm, we’ll see,” David replies, slyly, and hangs up. Patrick just stands there for a moment, grinning like an idiot, before he realizes he’s just staring at his own reflection in the glass front of the Café Tropical. Stevie was right – the glowiness really isn’t that obvious in the light. This is fine.
Fortunately, at this hour, the café is mostly empty. Unfortunately, Alexis is there, chatting to Twyla over a breakfast smoothie. “Patrick!” she calls out, before Patrick can back out of the café and make a run for it. “Well,” she says, chirpily, “I see you got what you wanted.” Her bright smile doesn’t meet her eyes, which bore into him, sharp and steady. She’s not wearing her gloves. Patrick, knowing what he now knows, feels like he’s walked into an ambush.
“Oh, wow, Patrick, your skin looks amazing today,” Twyla adds, cheerful as ever. “It’s almost like you’re glowing! You have to tell me where you bought that highlighter.”
“Well, Twyla, I would be happy to,” Patrick lies, lyingly, “If you could maybe lend me some of your—”
“Twy, wasn’t there that thing in the kitchen you had to do?” Alexis interrupts, eyes still fixed on Patrick, giving Twyla’s hand a little squeeze.
“Oh!” Twyla exclaims. “Yes! Sorry, Patrick, I’ll be right back.”
“Good to see you, Alexis,” Patrick says, guardedly. “You wouldn’t happen to know how I might be able to solve my, uh, cosmetic problem, would you?”
“Isn’t this something you should’ve discussed with David?” she says, coolly. And before Patrick can defend himself, she marches loudly on. “Speaking of my brother, Patrick, he likes you, okay? Like, he’s actually into you. And poor thing’s been burned so many times he’s basically just a little crispy shell, and that’s not a journey I want for him with you. So, if you’re thinking about just, like, going for a ride, that’s not going to work for me.”
Getting shovel-talked is really not how he plans to spend his morning. Especially with a few more people now wandering into the café. “Alexis, I appreciate your concern," he says, hurriedly, "But I really have to get going, so, in the interest of time—” Patrick takes his hand and places it very deliberately on her arm, feeling that familiar Rose family electric tingle under his palm. He has a brief thought of she’s going to think I’m very weird if I’m wrong about this before shoving it to the side and meeting her eyes, letting all of his feelings for David flood to the forefront of his mind.
“Oh,” Alexis says, softly, and then she smiles. “Well. I guess that all seems acceptable.” She blinks, as though something has just occurred to her, and then her smile turns wicked. “Ew, Patrick. In a field? Really? That does not seem practical.”
Patrick snatches his hand back. “Great, uh, great talk,” he stutters, hastily making his escape. “Got to go. Bye!”
“I just don’t think he’d be into it, Patrick,” Alexis calls out after him. “There are so many bugs!”
*
After months of crunching numbers and taking names like a well-oiled machine, David Rose is back to being a somewhat of a nightmare to work with. Though, for an entirely different reason, this time.
“We really should get back to work,” Patrick says, into David’s mouth.
“You said,” David murmurs, interrupting his own train of thought with another kiss, “Ray would be out for another hour, and—” pressed again, to the corner of Patrick’s mouth, “—we’re actually ahead of schedule, so.”
Patrick grabs his tea, intending to have a quick sip, and instead winces – it’s now stone cold. The fact that there’s not one iota of warmth left in his previously piping hot mug is a distressing sign of how long they’ve spent making out during business hours. His work ethic and capitalist guilt are currently gagged and bound back-to-back, their collective muffled screaming a distant buzz in the back of his mind, by the basal part of his brain that says I think there might be a strip of David’s skin I haven’t touched yet, but I should map out his entire body just to be sure. “I’m going to need to go warm this up,” he says, regretfully.
“Uh-uh,” David reprimands, and he plucks the mug out of Patrick’s hand. Light plays under his fingers, and, after a moment, steam begins to rise from the mug again. “There you go. One hot tea.”
“Well, I appreciate the compliment,” Patrick teases, taking back the mug, “Also, thank you for reheating my tea.” David rolls his eyes, a smile tugging helplessly at the corner of his mouth. Patrick knows the feeling. His own cheek muscles are honestly starting to cramp from the workout they’ve been getting in the last few weeks, and even if he no longer literally glows, he feels like he’s so filled to bursting with happiness that it should actually be leaking out of his pores at this point. He sips at the tea again – the temperature is perfect, and he closes his eyes for a moment, appreciating it. “Mm. You’re very good at this.”
“Oh, I know,” David says, smugly.
Patrick really does want to drink his tea, but his hand places his mug back on the table of its own volition as he slides back into the bracket of David’s legs. “Well, I happen to be good at a few things, too,” he murmurs, watching David’s eyes drop to his lips.
“Mm, maybe,” David says, pretending to consider it. “Maybe I can think of one or two.”
“Like what?” Patrick asks.
“Tax law,” David whispers, seductively. “Fiscal policy. Microeconomics—” Patrick laughs into the kiss, running his hands up David’s thighs – David makes an appreciative noise, biting down on Patrick’s bottom lip in a way that makes him thankful that he’s got his hands gripped on something solid, or his weak knees might send him right to the floor. Something then buzzes, right under Patrick’s right palm, and David breaks away with a disgruntled noise, patting at his jeans.
“Is that your phone in your pocket, or are you happy to see me?” Patrick deadpans.
“Yes,” David replies, and pulls out his iPhone. “Stevie. She sent it to both of us.”
Patrick usually keeps his personal phone on Do Not Disturb mode during business hours, a habit David might do well to pick up on. Pulling it out of his back pocket, he unlocks it to find Stevie has texted general stores closing down into their group chat, followed by a meme of a stick figure in a pink dress yelling BUY ALL THE THINGS. “Well, can’t say I didn’t see that coming,” Patrick says. “I’m honestly surprised they stayed afloat this long.” He shakes his head, slipping his phone back into his jeans. “Kegs of soup.”
David’s oddly quiet, staring down at his phone. Patrick rummages in his pocket, fishing out a five cent piece, and flicks it at him. It bounces off of his shoulder, and David flails, nearly falling out of the chair. “Oh my god, what was—why would you do that?”
“Nickel for your thoughts,” Patrick replies, impishly. “Usually it’d be a penny, but they’re no longer minted. It’s a common saying, it means I’d like to know what you’re thinking about.”
“Okay, well, you could’ve just asked, instead of pelting me with your weird, tiny coins,” David says peevishly. “Anyway, I don’t know. An idea, maybe. Probably nothing, so let’s just get back to section fifty-seven, it’s pretty dense—”
“No, come on, tell me,” Patrick insists. “What’s your idea?”
“I—it’s just, you work with a lot of small businesses around here,” David says. “And you always talk about how one of the challenges of having a rural business is getting your products into a wider market, especially if you’re too small to supply a big chain. So, I was thinking – a store that sources items from local vendors and sells them on consignment as like, a branded experience, in a one-stop-shop retail environment that benefits both the vendor and the customer.” He clears his throat. “You know, or not,” he finishes.
“David,” Patrick says, slowly, thinking it over, “That’s actually a really good idea. On paper, very sustainable, especially if you can build a strong digital presence that would expand your reach outside of the local area. I can help you draw up the paperwork, and you’ll probably need to get some more money in for the upfront costs, so I’ll get you some small business grant applications running, too.”
David looks at him, carefully. “Are you sure?”
“Oh, I’m going to get the money,” Patrick replies, confidently.
David’s mouth ticks up. “No, I mean – that this is something worth investing in.”
“It’s my job to be sure,” Patrick says, grinning. “And I’m very good at my job.”
“Oh, well, in that case,” David says, smile now at full-mast. “You really think we can do this?”
“‘We’, huh?” Patrick teases. “You want me to come onboard? Well, let’s hear your offer.”
“Business partners,” David affirms. “Sixty-forty. I’ll have creative control and take the lead on curation of the products, and you can handle the numbers side.”
Patrick hmms, considering it. “Up my share to forty-five, and I’ll give you access to my client list.”
“Deal,” David says, bright and excited, and Patrick can’t help pulling him in for another kiss, thinking, if he was like David, the whole room would be aglow with his pride.
“Pleasant afternoon, boys!” Ray says cheerfully, coming in forty-five minutes ahead of schedule, because of course he does. Patrick clears his throat, jumping right back behind his desk. “No work without a little play, mm? You know, Patrick, this feels just like old times.”
“‘Old times’, huh,” David says thoughtfully, steadfastly ignoring Patrick’s eyes burning holes in the back of his head, “Sounds like there’s a story in there, Ray – that I, for one, would love to hear.”
*
“I’ve bought every last snack item from the general store before it ceases to exist,” Stevie announces, by way of greeting, as she slides into David’s side of the booth at the Café Tropical. “Mr. Rose and I are on the last stage of rebuilding the motel, and you’re done with your quarter thing, or whatever, so – birthday weekend is a go.”
David, eyes gleaming, had come to the door when Patrick had dropped by to pick him up for work with two suitcases in tow and said Stevie and my dad are renovating our rooms, so I’m being kicked out, it’s just terrible news, and Patrick had gone, mm, what a tragedy, how ever will you find a place to stay, and then David had added oh yes, with the local housing market in a bubble and all of my assets being currently illiquid and Patrick had given him a thorough appraisal and concluded well, not all of them – and then Stevie had told them very firmly to get a room, which David protested that that’s precisely what he’s trying to do, here, and so on. But waking up to David every morning, to his sleep-rumpled hair and morning breath and sixty-five bottles of various serums that make up his morning routine ever since he fell into a beauty influencer hole on Instagram, has actually been making him want to slow down and, for lack of a better term, smell the roses. Maybe it’s more because he can’t even go into work, now, until David’s ready to leave. But, regardless, a whole weekend of fun, of no responsibilities, with his two favourite people – Patrick can’t deny that it’s a very attractive prospect.
“We’re actually in the middle of the second quarter,” Patrick points out, just for the sake of appearances. “The fiscal year doesn’t include a summer break.”
“You always say the first quarter’s the most important,” Stevie replies. “Because of market confidence, or whatever. That’s why we skipped your actual birthday this year, ‘cause you were crazy busy.”
“Wait, we skipped your birthday?” David says, frowning. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Do you even know what a birthday is?” Stevie asks. “Do you even… have one?”
“Yes, I know what a birthday is,” David says, affronted. “And while no, I don’t have one, in the human sense, I do know that it’s basically unforgivable to skip someone’s birthday. We’ve all seen Sixteen Candles. So, Patrick, when was it? Within the last week? Within the last… month?”
“Ah, June,” Patrick says sheepishly, and David’s eyebrows go right up, “But Stevie’s right – we were all really busy, at the time. It was around when we hit the ‘off-shore’ holdings, David.” David makes a face. ‘Off-shore’, in the context of an alien civilization, opened up a whole new dimension of litigation. Literally.
Either way, June feels like decades ago, with how much has changed in Patrick’s life since then. His parents were on a cruise on the actual day of his birthday, and sent him a very exuberant video message wishing him a very happy birthday and talking all about how their neighbours on the boat are this lovely gay couple and they have colour-coordinated bathing suits and invited them to join them at Mimosa Yoga on the top deck, whatever that means, and basically just reiterating, as at every opportunity they can since he came out, that they are very supportive and proud of him. And now Patrick wonders what they’d think of him dating a magical space alien, and his heart ticks up at the thought of introducing David to his parents, to having them—
“Um, anyway,” Patrick says, realizing that he just kind of blanked out for a second and needing to fill in that space, “Birthday weekend. This weekend, sounds great. What do you have in mind?”
“Well, Patrick, if you were listening, I said I bought every snack in the general store,” Stevie says, significantly, and then Patrick understands.
“Oh,” Patrick says, grinning slowly. “So, that’s day one, then.”
“Day two,” Stevie corrects. “And you’re driving. Day one will be my gift to you.”
“Okay, what is going on,” David says, irritably, looking between the two of them. “Can at least one of you stop acting all mysterious and be more forthcoming with the itinerary, here?”
Patrick looks to Stevie, her eyes already sparkling in anticipation. “I think you’re going to really enjoy this weekend, David.”
*
“You said I would enjoy this,” David says, stiffly, on Day One, “And yet, here we are, in a crowded bar full of randoms, where I can barely hear myself think, let alone hold a conversation, in an establishment where its only purpose is to serve drinks that I hate.”
“Incorrect,” Patrick replies, throwing an arm around him as they walk towards the bar. “They serve non-alcoholic drinks here too, which Stevie’s having tonight because she’s our sober driver. You can join her, if you want. But I have something better in—oh, shit,” he stutters, because there’s someone very familiar at the bar who’s spotted Patrick at the same instant Patrick spotted him, and is already moving to greet them.
“Patrick,” Jake says, he of Patrick's disastrous gay awakening - emotional depth of a teacup, ass-that-won't-quit and all - leaning over to give him a friendly, greeting kiss. On the mouth. Patrick clears his throat, stepping back into David, who has suddenly gotten very tense. Jake, oblivious to all of this, carries on. “Hey, you’re looking good. You, me, Stevie, we should catch up, sometime – haven’t seen you since you came to pick up that cedar chest you ordered. How’d that work out for you?”
“Good, uh, very good,” Patrick says, just nailing this whole interaction. Over Jake’s shoulder, he sees Stevie returning with their drinks, taking one look at the situation, and wisely going back to the bar. “Jake, this is, uh, David – he was the one who I commissioned the chest for.”
“Jake, the Jake, huh? Well. It’s nice to meet you, Jake,” David says, very tightly. “It’s hard not to meet someone, in a town this small. We’ve gone so long without ever crossing paths, it almost feels like I shouldn’t be meeting you, right now.”
“Hey, you're right - we should really hang out more, get to know each other,” Jake says, amiably, David’s barb flying right over his head and into one of the dartboards mounted on the wall. “Well, you’re always welcome to swing by the shop. Patrick used to spend a lot of time there, when we were together – he loved checking out my wood.”
Above them, one of the fluorescent bulbs flares for a second and bursts, showering David in little fragments of glass. David seems not to notice. “Must have been faulty, ah, wiring,” Patrick says, giving David’s arm a reassuring squeeze.
“Huh, yeah,” Jake says, thoughtfully. “Well, a bunch of us are just about to head out, go have a few drinks in the woods. So, hey, I’ll catch you later – unless, either of you wants to join?”
“I think we’re good here,” Patrick says, firmly, as David makes an audible, strangled noise, “But, it was great seeing you, Jake. Hope you have a good night.”
“This was your idea of something better?” David hisses, as soon as Jake leaves.
Patrick levels a flat look at him. “No,” he replies, “I didn’t know he was going to be here. What I meant was—”
“Hey, Patrick, David,” Twyla interrupts, in a killer little black dress and a sparkly headpiece Patrick swears he’s seen Alexis wearing before, “Have you seen Jake?”
“Oh, he just left,” Patrick replies, “I think he said he was going—”
“—to the woods!” Ted says, stumbling over to them, swinging an arm around Twyla, “We’re going for drinks! No—more drinks. Alexis, come on, we’re going to miss the drinks!”
“Alexis,” David says, as she walks over, hand in hand with the copiously-bearded Mutt Schitt, “What are you doing.”
“Um, having fun, David,” Alexis says, “You should look up the concept in one of your little textbooks, or something.” She takes Ted’s hand with the one not presently engaged with Mutt’s, pressing a kiss to Twyla’s cheek, and then asks, “Have you seen Jake?”
Patrick just points, wordlessly, to the exit, and all four of them traipse merrily out.
“Are they… are they having an orgy?” Stevie asks, finally venturing out from her hiding spot now that the coast is clear.
“Your words,” Patrick says. He turns to David. “Is Alexis taking advantage of them? With her, uh, abilities?”
“Oh, I doubt it,” David says, darkly. “Not after the talk we both went through after Alexis started hanging out with Twyla. If you cut open this body you would see the words ‘healthy human consent’ tattooed on the inside of my skull.” He shudders.
“Well, in human culture, there’s this thing we do called ‘drinking to forget,’” Stevie says, handing David over the fruity cocktail Patrick ordered for him. “Patrick and I did it the night after Mrs. Rose destroyed my motel. Very effective.”
“Ah,” David says, shiftily, looking down at his drink. “Well. Who can really say as to, ah, who was truly responsible for that tragic accident—”
“Drink up, David,” Patrick interjects, clinking his glass with David’s, and tipping it up to his lips. David mirrors him, gingerly sipping at his Cosmopolitan, and, right on cue—
“Oh,” David sighs, with that familiar dreamy smile of his inner foodie surfacing, “Oh, well this is very nice.”
“Course it is,” Patrick says, fondly, giving him a pat to the shoulder. “You think I’d get you something you’d hate? I know you a little better than that.”
Given his lack of exposure to alcohol, it doesn’t take long to get David drunk. Patrick had banked on his magical metabolism giving him maybe an extra few drinks of leeway, but in reality he’s tipsy after drink one and swaying about pretty heavily by drink three, which is when Stevie and Patrick make a joint decision to cut him off.
“Mm, no, wan’ another Cosmo,” he complains, once Patrick shows up with another beer for himself and water for David. “How come you get more drinks? S’not fair.”
“Because you’re new to this, and I’m a lot better at handling it than you are,” Patrick says, somewhat tipsy but entirely sensible. “Trust me, you’ll be thanking me in the morning.” David leans back against the wall, sighing, the long line of his neck edged in neon – Patrick thinks about putting his mouth to it, as per usual, and realizes, with a thrill, that he can, now. The alcoholic haze in his brain, which doesn’t give a damn about silly little things like public indecency and the good reputation he’s built in this town, says, oh, fuck yes. He swallows, heavily, and takes a long pull of his beer, if only to give his mouth something else to do.
“Feeling tired?” Patrick asks, after a little while. “Want to get out of here?” David hmms, body swaying gently to its own beat, and cants his head lazily to one side. He watches, curiously, as David's expression changes when Patrick goes to take another drink – his mouth falling slack, eyelids dropping low, dark pupils drawn wide. Patrick realizes, with a dark, simmering delight, that David is tracking his mouth, stretched across the rim of his beer bottle.
David, by his own admission, has been pulling his powers in, reining them more under control. He rarely slips, nowadays. But Patrick feels the warm air of the bar start to get even sultrier, sticky caramel sweet, that familiar heat sliding across his skin. Keeping his eyes locked on David’s, Patrick puts on a little show – tonguing the rim of the bottle, then pressing the neck a little deeper into his mouth than necessary and draining the rest of his beer, slow, without pausing to breathe – David lets out a shaky breath as Patrick sets the empty bottle aside, leaning in, and Patrick allows him to get close enough that his fruity breath drifts over his lips before grinning and turning away, pulling his phone out of his pocket instead. David whines, frustrated, dropping his head onto the crook of Patrick’s shoulder and wrapping his arms loosely around Patrick’s waist.
Ready to go? Patrick texts Stevie. five mins, in line for the bathroom, she replies, and Patrick shoots her one back, saying, Cool cool meet you at the cat, ahem, *car. “Hey,” he murmurs to David, pressing his lips to his forehead – hot, shimmering electric. “Let’s go.”
“Okay,” David says, suddenly energized, and practically drags Patrick out of the bar.
They end up taking the scenic route. David pins him up against the wall outside and proceeds to kiss him very thoroughly, in full view of some smokers, who give them a few wolf whistles and a couple of get it, Patrick’s before Patrick takes his hand and pulls him a bit further down the road, where David promptly stumbles and falls into a bush, pulling Patrick down on top of him. And then, since they’re already down there, Patrick slots his thigh between David’s legs and his mouth at David’s throat and they spend a little while really enjoying all that nature has to offer before it starts raining, as though nature herself indulged their antics for a time but is now telling them, in no uncertain terms, to cool off. Patrick pulls David up, laughing, and they half-run, half stumble through the misty rain towards Stevie’s car, parked under the halo of a streetlight.
“I really, I really like you,” David says, the alcohol making him breathlessly, brilliantly honest, “I’ve never known anyone like you.”
“I know,” Patrick says, grinning, and David kisses him right there under the streetlight, until Patrick can’t see anything beyond the sheets of golden rain.
*
David sleeps right through the morning, and doesn’t even get out of bed until the afternoon, which is a new record even for him, but, that’s okay – Day Two is meant to be lazy. Patrick, sticking to his word that this is the Birthday Weekend and he’s not allowed to do any work, keeps his laptop firmly shut and instead tools around with his guitar, quietly working through an arrangement based on a song that was playing at the bar last night, which David enthusiastically sang along to. “I call you, when I need you, my heart’s on fire,” he sings, softly, watching the rise and fall of David’s chest, and feels so fiercely fond he can barely stand it.
Still, even in his romantic stupor, Patrick remains, at his core, practical to a fault. Which is why he packed three blankets alongside their heavily-stocked picnic basket for Day Two. One is still laid out on the field by Patrick’s car, collecting dew and strewn with the aftermath of their picnic, Patrick’s guitar and case being separately used to pin down multiple empty potato chip packets lest they get carried off in the breeze. The second is inside the car, Stevie snuggled into it, sleeping off her high. The third blanket they’ve laid atop the car, across the hood, where David and Patrick are lying together, staring up at the stars. Patrick did not partake this evening, because today’s his turn to drive – but that’s okay, because it’s an honour and a privilege just to get to witness a deeply stoned David Rose pontificate on the great mysteries of our time, like whether Avril Lavigne was really replaced by a doppelganger, or if she just had her personality rewired by aliens. David thinks that theory is very plausible. He knows a guy.
“Which one’s yours?” Patrick asks, motioning at the glittering canvas of the night sky.
“Dunno,” David replies, vaguely. “Too far away. They all look the same. I’m not a, uh, I’m not a space scientist, Patrick.” For some reason, he finds this very funny, muffling giggles into the sleeve of Patrick’s sweater.
“Fair enough,” Patrick replies, smiling.
“I think I like it,” David says, out of nowhere. The silence drags, and Patrick thinks maybe that’s the end of it, but then he continues. “Being human. Especially the food. The food is great.” David had absolutely obliterated all of their weed snacks. There was a big fight with Stevie over the last bag of chips. “Pizza…mm. Pretzels. Nutella scrolls. Ice cream sandwiches… alcohol is fun. Not the morning after, ugh. This, the uh, the weed. Love this. Feels very floaty. Like I could take this body off and go up there, somewhere. Figure out where my star is.”
“Nothing else?” Patrick prompts.
“Hmmm,” David considers. “TV, music, like a lot of those. Mariah. Beyoncé. Oprah. Cashmere – very soft.”
Patrick tries to school his expression into something approximating hurt, before realizing David probably can’t even see it in the dark. “So I don’t even rate above cashmere, huh.”
David, incredibly high, the buckles on his armour left open, falls right into his trap anyway. “Noooo,” he says, forlornly. “Patrick. You are the best. The best.” He starts into a familiar, off-key tune. “Better than aaaall the rest—” and Patrick laughs, trying to shush him, because Stevie can get real cranky after a weed nap, and eventually just grabs him by the jawline until there’s no more Tina Turner echoing across the field – just David’s lips, moving against his, sweet and slow like a summer night.
“You could be anywhere,” David asks, later. “I’m stuck in this town, but you can go anywhere, like, what’s the saying—the world is your oyster. Why do people say that, anyway? Grey, slimy planet.” He giggles, and then sighs, looking out to the stars. “Why here?”
“Well,” Patrick begins, “Oysters weren’t involved, but, there was a girl.”
“But I thought you said you didn’t—” David makes a weird hand movement that Patrick can’t quite make out, but is probably meant to approximate sex, “—with girls. Stevie explained it to me. With wine. It’s like—she only drinks red wine. And some humans drink white wine. And some drink, like, all the wines. And she said you only drank red. But then you also dated her? So I guess I don’t know.”
Patrick mulls this over in his head. “Well, I guess sometimes you think you like one wine, because it’s the only thing you’ve ever drank. And then you try something different, and realize you never really enjoyed that type of wine in the first place – you were only really drinking it because everyone else was.”
“Ugh,” David groans, arching his whole body into it. “Human sexuality is confusing.”
“Yeah, you’re telling me,” Patrick replies, with feeling. “Anyway, I was with this girl for a long time. We were engaged, actually. But it never felt—I felt like I was living someone else’s life. Going through the motions. And one day I just couldn’t do it anymore, so—I left. Just picked a direction and drove. And I ended up here.” He stretches out against the windscreen, feeling David resettle himself against his chest. “As to why I stayed… I came here with a question I didn’t even know I was asking, and I guess I got my answer, so… I don’t know. Maybe I was waiting for something.” He smiles down at David. “Maybe I was waiting for you.”
David’s quiet for a moment. “That’s, um. That’s maybe the most romantic thing anyone’s ever said, to me." A beat, and then he amends it with, "Since that other thing, you told me before."
“As I said,” Patrick says, as golden sparks drift in lazy circles around them, David’s own personal flock of fireflies blinking bright against the night, “Right where I’m supposed to be.”
*
It’s hard to get back into the swing of work after that weekend. Not just because Patrick is vaguely exhausted from back-to-back late nights, but also because it feels like something has shifted, over these past few days – like none of what they’re doing here really matters, anymore. David and Stevie are probably right – there’s nothing in the Rose files that can exonerate them. Their old manager screwed them good and hard, and got away with it, and sometimes that shit just happens. Patrick’s dragging his feet because he feels like he’s ready to move on – David has already basically dropped all pretenses and spends most of his time putting together a product catalog for what he’s calling the Rose Apothecary. Even though Patrick knows this is bad business practice, that Johnny Rose is a client, that he’s paying for this job to be done and so it needs to be done, to the best of his ability and regardless of his feelings on the matter, he’s finding it more and more difficult to keep himself in check.
“David,” he repeats, for maybe the third time this morning, “Are you finished with the—”
“Yes, mhmm, yes, check your Dropbox,” David says, vaguely, tapping away at his own laptop, and the little blue wheel pops up in the corner of Patrick’s screen as David’s file syncs across. “Do you think potpourri could come back in? I feel like it has the right aesthetic for the brand, but I don’t know if enough time has passed for it be like, quirky and retro, instead of just, tacky and dated, you know?”
Patrick flicks quickly through the document, eyes catching on a crucial line, and sighs, quashing his mild irritation – in his distracted state, David’s made a pretty major typo. “David, I think this line is wrong. Can you look through it again? Page 4, line 37.”
“Ugh,” David groans, making no attempt to hide his own irritation, and pulls the relevant document out of the paper stack, eyes flicking back and forth between it and the digital transcript he’s compiled. “No, this is correct,” he says, dismissively. “You’re probably confused because those two words look similar in our language, but mean completely different things in yours, so. Don’t feel bad about it. We all make mistakes.”
“You’re right,” Patrick says, slowly. “It’s a mistake. David… this is it.” Patrick watches, as if from outside of his own body, as he rereads the sentence again, willing his discovery to be wrong. But it’s not. It’s undeniable. The litigious thermal exhaust port to the Rose files’ Death Star.
It takes a moment, and then – David takes a sharp, almost choked-off breath, as though the implications of this have hit him square in the chest. Patrick can relate. “It’s fine,” David says, hurriedly, “Patrick, just delete it. No one will know, we don’t have to tell them—”
“Tell us what?” Johnny Rose says, appearing at the door, and Moira’s head pops over right after, with a cheery knock, knock! Patrick’s heart just sinks deep into a quiet, dark place somewhere south of his ribcage. He looks to David, to David’s vaguely stricken expression, knowing what he now has to do. I’m sorry, David, he tells him, silently, I wish we had more time.
“Nothing!” David says, full of false cheer. “Everything is great. How are you, Dad, Mom? Lovely weather we’re having. You should really be outside, enjoying it. Thanks so much for stopping by.”
“Well, we’ll be brief,” Johnny says, “We just wanted to personally deliver your official invitations to the grand reopening of the Budd Motel this coming Friday. It includes a plus one, but I have a feeling you boys won’t need it.” He affects a wink.
“Well, Patrick and I would be honoured to attend,” David says, placing one hand on each of his parents’ shoulders and attempting to hustle them out of the office. “Just leave them on the desk, and you can be on your way—”
“David,” Patrick says, quietly.
“Be right with you,” David says, high and tight, “I’m just going to escort my very thoughtful and intrusive parents out of our place of work—”
“Mr. Rose,” Patrick calls out. “Just one moment of your time. I need you to confirm something for me.” As Johnny comes around behind the desk, Patrick lines up the pertinent document with the highlighted line on the digital version. “Can you verify that this is the correct translation, here?”
Johnny’s bushy brows draw tight, and then shoot up. “Patrick,” he exclaims, “This is big, this could—it would void the entire contract.”
“It won’t bring everything back—” Patrick begins, but, “—Enough to make a case, give us a fighting chance at the rest,” Johnny finishes, clapping him on the back, “Moira, we’re going home!”
“Mr. Brewer, our shining light at the end of the tunnel, I always had faith you would see us through,” Moira gushes, pushing past David to grab Patrick’s face with both hands and press a tingly Rose-kiss onto his cheek, “Oh, and David, I’m sure you helped, in your small way – come, we must begin preparations immediately! Of course, I’ll need a day to make sure my favourite girl is ready for the journey ahead…”
“Yes, Alexis will need some forewarning to sort out her, ah, complicated interpersonal relationships with the people in this town.”
“Oh, I’m sure Alexis will have plenty of time to get her affairs in order,” Moira says airily, “No, I’m more concerned about Caroline, darling, she’s a most delicate traveller.”
“That settles it, then,” Johnny decides, clapping his hands together, “We can leave after the motel reopening party, this Friday. Moira, that should give you enough time to get your wigs, ah, the girls, suitably squared away, and any other matters that need to be attended to. Patrick, is there anything else you’ll be needing on your end?”
Johnny and Moira look to him, expectantly, as if Patrick hasn’t been sitting here numbly, for the past few minutes, dealing with the fact that his entire life has just been blown apart. David, sinking back into his chair, just stares at the pair of invitations Johnny pressed into his hands. “Um,” Patrick says, clearing his throat roughly, “David and I can deal with recompiling the files. I’ll put together a final report for you by Friday.”
“Thank you, Patrick,” Johnny says, with a warm, joyous smile. He holds out a hand. “You have done us a great service. One we will never forget.” Patrick nods, not trusting his voice not to give him away. He shakes Johnny’s hand, somehow managing to arrange his mouth into something resembling a smile.
“O, happy day!” Moira crows, taking Johnny’s arm, "Come, we must celebrate! Johnny, dear, do you think we might spare the time to put together that parade—" Their cheerful conversation fades out as they leave the office, leaving David and Patrick to sit, silent, in the smoking crater of the bomb they’ve just detonated.
“We’re going to talk about this,” Patrick says, after a beat, to the far wall. “But I just, I need a minute. If that’s okay.”
“Okay,” David replies, softly.
“Okay,” Patrick repeats, taking a deep breath, and looking around. He needs to—he needs to do something practical, something to set the tangled mess in his mind into a straight line, to carry him forward. “The sooner we start getting all the files back together, the sooner it’ll be done, so – can you start with the boxes in the corner?”
“Of course,” David says, impossibly gentle. “So long as I don’t have to carry any of them back to the motel.”
Patrick laughs, watery, finally meeting his eyes. David smiles at him, that crooked, entirely-David smile, and Patrick wonders how he got so lucky to have him in his life – for all the time that they have left. “I might have an alternative mode of transport,” Patrick replies. “I’ll see what I can do.”
*
They go through all of the options.
Option A: David goes home with the Roses. They try out long-distance. They probably break the record for the longest distance relationship ever – at least, in the history of the Earth. If the Guinness World Record adjudicator survives ratifying the Budd Motel records to confirm that claim, of course.
Option B, which David is the most enthused about: Patrick comes with them – and Patrick can’t deny that the thought of travelling to an entirely different part of the universe, to see things no other human has witnessed, is pretty fucking awesome. But two issues immediately present themselves: first, Patrick made a promise to Stevie that he’s not going to break, no matter where in the universe he ends up; and two, Alexis, walking into the motel room, says in no uncertain terms that Patrick couldn’t survive on their world – humans need to eat, David, like all the time, or they die, didn’t you read the book, and then, almost as an afterthought, oh, and like, I don’t think he can take off that body, so he’d probably explode. I just don’t love that journey for you, Patrick.
Option C: David stays on Earth. He, presumably, spends the rest of his life in Schitt’s Creek. For however long that life is – but Patrick flat out refuses to add mortality into the mix, because remembering Johnny Rose was around in 1922 is a whole other bag of worms that he just can’t deal with right now, so, one problem at a time.
Unfortunately, that’s exactly the point at which Moira steps through the adjoining door and into the debate.
“David, stop pacing in circles, like a magnetically-muddled pigeon,” she admonishes. “Entertaining thoughts of shackling yourself to this town – you’ve certainly indulged too heavily in Stevie’s funny plants.” Ignoring David’s protests, Moira turns to Patrick, holding out her arm and drawing two fingers across the inside of her wrist – her skin flashes, for a moment, and an intricate set of golden runes appear. “A price paid, for a safe haven,” she explains. “So long as we are in this realm, we are bound to this place. Really, it’s a stroke of rare fortune that we were able to reside here, at all, given we are in the midst of a conservation area.”
“Earth,” Patrick exclaims, slightly pitchy, as it hits him. “Earth is a conservation area.”
“Well, of course it is,” Moira says, indulgently. “You’re a protected species, dear.”
“Right,” Patrick says, faintly. “I think I need to—I’m going to sit down.”
“There is a kindness, perhaps,” Moira demurs, walking over and placing a hand on Alexis’ arm. Alexis looks to her sharply, and then over to Patrick, unsettled. “I suspected, with the amount of time you’ve spent in each other’s company, that there may be need for an adjustment period. There is a way that we, that is to say, Alexis and I, could ease the weight of this transition, for you.”
Patrick’s brow creases a little as he tries to figure out what Moira is offering, here, but David suddenly steps forwards, placing himself in front of Patrick. The room temperature seems to plummet about ten degrees. “No, absolutely not,” he nearly snarls, and it gives Patrick a bit of a jolt – David can be cutting, sure, but he’s never been vicious, and especially not to his own family. “Don’t you touch him.”
“David?” Patrick asks uncertainly, starting to shiver a little.
“They want to destroy your memories of me,” David cuts in, and the shard of icy dread that spears through Patrick’s chest is far darker and colder than the room they’re now standing in. “They want to cut me out of your mind.”
“No,” Patrick says, quick and harsh, and then brings his voice back to ground level. “No, uh, thank you, Mrs. Rose, for the offer, but that’s a hard pass from me. David, can we talk for a moment?”
He takes David outside the motel, into the cool evening air, the first sign that summer’s finally deciding to break. “They should never, that they could even consider,” David mutters, angrily, face cast in deep shadow.
“They just want what’s best, for you,” Patrick replies. “And yes, in a way I strongly disagree with, that very much compromises my bodily autonomy, but, all relationships have baggage.”
“I suppose that’s true,” David allows. “I once dated the physical manifestation of universal entropy, so, you can imagine how that turned out.”
“I really, honestly can’t,” Patrick says, giving him a small smile. He’s quiet for a moment. “David, if you leave—”
“—I am not going to—”
“I’ll be okay,” Patrick interrupts, gently. “Maybe not for a long time, but – we can both find a way to move forward. David, you have a life out there—”
“I have a life here,” David cuts in, “I have friends, I’ve got my new business, which – okay, I saw that you got my licence framed, I know it was meant to a surprise, and it really is a lovely gesture, but the frame is a bit too corporate for my brand, so, don’t be mad, but I got it switched out – and,” David continues in a rush, as though he really does think the frame of all things is what’s important to Patrick, here, “Further to my point, I have a very stubborn human boyfriend in this town, who I’d really appreciate if he stopped his apparent crusade to kick me off the planet.” He comes up for air, suddenly uncertain. “Unless – is that what you want?”
“It’s not,” Patrick says, honestly and immediately, “Of course it’s not. But it’s the best—”
“Good,” David says, fiercely, “Then I’m staying.”
*
Friday dawns, and then dusks – grey twilight slips into the deep blue of night as Patrick arrives at Alexis and David’s motel room, refusing to acknowledge the suitcases piled up outside and instead rapping firmly on the door. Except Moira is the one who answers, a vision in a dark dress with a giant, glittering frog broach pinned at her chest. “Ah, there you are,” she says, beckoning to Patrick, “And about time, too. You know it’s awfully rude to keep a lady waiting.”
Patrick blinks, stumbling half a step back. “Evening, Mrs. Rose. You look lovely. I’m, ah, actually here to pick up David.”
“Oh, he’ll be along,” Moira says, dismissively. Patrick clears his throat, trying to peer around her into the room behind. “Well, don’t just stand there, gawking like one of those novelty talking fish upon the wall, dear,” she continues. “The night is not growing any younger!”
Patrick sighs, deflating. “Of course, Mrs. Rose,” he says, offering her his arm. “May I have the honour of escorting you to the party?”
“Well, it hardly seems necessary," Moira replies, taking Patrick by the elbow, "But, if that is your wish, then I am happy to oblige.”
It’s really only a few minutes to walk from the motel to the staging area of the party, held in the field out back, but Moira takes a right, apparently forgoing the shortest route for something more scenic. And it is – the long line of newly refurbished rooms gleaming with fresh paint, hanging pots of flowers interspaced between them, a cheery doormat placed at reception decorated with the town creed: Everyone is Welcome. Patrick takes a moment to wonder at it all, that Stevie and Johnny Rose could put all of this together - the Budd Motel springing up from the ashes, brighter and bolder than ever before, Stevie's legacy in all its newfound glory.
“And most propitious indeed,” Moira is saying, as he turns his attention back to her, “That we may spend a few moments of time together to discuss matters of some import before my family and I take our leave.”
Patrick stops in his tracks, just as they round the corner. The party’s now visible across the way, guests already milling in groups around the tables, silhouetted against the strung lights. If he squints, that’s probably Stevie and Johnny Rose on the small stage, discussing something with the band. “If this is about David,” he says, carefully, “He made his choice. That’s out of my hands, Mrs. Rose.”
Moira hums in consideration. “And do you believe it to be the wisest course of action?”
“I think…” Patrick begins, and then trails off, because the answer he wants to give her – yes, of course, no doubt in my mind – isn’t the truthful answer. And he owes it to Moira – heck, he owes it to himself – to be honest, so, he picks his words carefully. “I think he can be happy, here—I know he can. And I’ll do everything in my power to make sure of it, but. But I don’t know if it will be enough.” He swallows, heavily, around the lump in his throat. “The reality is… this town is too small for him. David deserves the world. And that’s the one thing I can’t give.”
Moira is silent, for a moment, as they both watch the ebb and flow of people ahead, in their little island of light. “Perhaps you can,” she says, cryptically.
Patrick frowns. “What do you mean?”
“I would like to apologize for a brief error in judgment I may have made,” Moira says, and Patrick nearly breaks his neck with the force that he swings around to look at her. Moira Rose doesn’t apologize, for anything, and yet here she is, gentle on his arm, expression soft and sincere in the distant glow of lights. “You see, I was under the impression that your dalliance with my son was merely a pleasant distraction, for him, to help tide over our stay in this town. But I see, now, the way he looks at you.” She smiles, turning back to regard the party, light dancing in her eyes. “I know that look – I’ll never forget the first time I was graced with it, all those many years ago, from one Johnny Rose. It’s something very rare, and very special – not to be wasted.”
I see the way he looks at you. Even if he knew how to respond, Patrick’s pretty sure he couldn’t, with the way his heart swells up in his chest, pressing his lungs breathless. “Our David keeps so much of himself locked away,” Moira continues, after a moment. “We can help, in our small way, to channel it, but it is up to you to open that door, so that he may allow himself to step through.”
That seems to be all she’s prepared to say, for the moment, but – as deeply validating as it is – Patrick’s very sure he’s not seeing the full picture, here. “Mrs. Rose,” he says, hesitantly, “I’m not entirely sure I understand what you mean.”
“I believe I told you, dear,” Moira says, gently. “As I have said, before, forgetfulness will not serve you well in your endeavours.” She straightens her dress, and resumes their walk to the party. “Well, we shouldn’t hold up the proceedings any longer. There is a limit to how fashionable one’s lateness can be. Ah, Jocelyn!” she calls out, as her acapella ladies wave her over, “Yes, I know, parting is such sweet sorrow…”
Patrick presses forwards into the crowd, passing Alexis and her throng of admirers, until he finds David standing near the back by the buffet. He’s back in the gorgeous suit from the day they first met – that wild, whirlwind of a night – and Patrick takes a moment just to drink him in, to watch the way the lights play over his face, so that he catches the exact moment that David turns, spotting him. And in that sliver of time, before David draws it safely back under his mask, Patrick sees it – something very rare, very special. Something not to be wasted.
“Hey,” Patrick says. “I was looking for you.”
David smiles, tucked into the corner of his mouth. “Well, you found me.”
Patrick opens his mouth, maybe to make some quick quip, to lighten the mood – should’ve brought my pajamas, so we’re both in theme – but before he can say anything, he’s interrupted by Johnny Rose taking the mic. “Thank you all, very much, for coming this evening,” he says, as the murmur of the crowd dies down to accommodate him. “My name is Johnny Rose, and my family and I have had the privilege of residing in this fine town for the past few months. But, as many of you know, tonight will be our last in Schitt’s Creek.” There’s a resounding awww from the crowd, and then Roland butts in with a hope it’s your last on this stage, to scattered laughter and friendly jeering. “Thank you, Roland,” Johnny continues dryly, “It’s been a pleasure getting to know you all. In particular, one very fine young woman, who I won’t take any more time from, tonight.” He swings one arm to sidestage, and says, “Stevie Budd, everyone.”
Patrick watches in disbelief as Stevie, stunning in a dark dress, walks on stage. He looks to David, who’s smiling over at her without a hint of surprise, and figures he doesn’t know – Stevie hates public speaking. But here she is, up there on that stage, fingers white-knuckled at the mic stand, but voice clear and steady. “Uh, hi, everyone, and thank you Mr. Rose for the introduction. I want to welcome you all to the new and improved Budd Motel. I know it’s been a long time coming, but, uh, I think you’ll find it’s worth the wait.” Patrick whoops, clapping alongside the rest of the crowd, and Stevie grins, ducking her head for a moment, before she continues. “I won’t keep you long, I know you’re all waiting to get into the buffet before Bob clears out the chicken wings—” Laughter, and some good-natured protesting from Bob, “—but I want to say – I couldn’t have done all of this, including this party, tonight, without Mr. Johnny Rose.” Johnny, stood to one side, smiles, waving her off - but even from the back of the crowd, the pride he emanates is as tangible as if it were David up on that stage, shining bright. “I think I can speak for all of us when I say Schitt’s Creek won’t be the same without the Roses, so – thank you. Um, I hope, wherever it is you go next, you’ll always have fresh towels.” David laughs, beside him, swallowed by the applause.
My dad builds things, David had said. He can take a seed of something and help it grow. And Patrick, watching Stevie smile into the applause instead of shrinking back, gets it – that building something isn’t about a revived motel, or a growing client list, or a general store with a twist, it’s about the people standing next to you, passing you the bricks. Friendship, love, family, community, all set in mortar - coming together slowly, with care, and made to last. Heart hammering in his chest, he looks at David, and it all clicks into place – Johnny builds. Alexis communicates. Moira destroys. And David, who keeps so much of himself locked away — the world is David’s beating heart, and Patrick needs to make it sing.
“David,” he says, quickly, “Do you trust me?”
“I—yeah, sure,” David says, puzzled. “Why?”
“Okay, wait here. I’ll be back,” Patrick promises, and pushes quickly through the crowd, up onto the side of the stage, just as Stevie’s stepping down.
“What are you doing?” she hisses.
“Amazing speech, you killed it up there, I’ll explain later,” Patrick says in a rush as he vaults the stairs, just as the band is starting to file onto the stage. He grabs the mic before the singer can reach it, much to his disgruntlement. “Uh, hi folks, I’m Patrick Brewer,” he says, trying to keep the nerves out of his voice. “Before we kick things off, there’s something I’d like to share with all of you.” He turns back to the band, who are looking to each other in various states of confusion, and zeroes in on their guitarist. “Hey man,” he asks, sotto voce, “Can I borrow your guitar? Just for a few minutes, I promise.”
“Better make it good,” he grumbles, passing it over. Patrick swings the strap over his head, holding the pick between his thumb and forefinger with a shaky hand.
“I want to dedicate a song to someone very special to me,” Patrick says. “David Rose. There, in the back – you can’t miss him.” Heart pounding in his ears, he takes a deep breath, going through the chord progression he figured out in his head one more time, places his fingers to the strings, and starts to play.
“I call you, when I need you, my heart’s on fire,” he sings, watching David watch him – closed off, uncertain at first. “You come to me, wild and wired…”
It starts slow. Motes of light, like sparks on the breeze from a bonfire just out of sight, drifting over the crowd. And then, suddenly, like a levee breaking, flowers burst into bloom all around them – the table bouquets full to bursting with colour, daisies and buttercups springing up from the grass, petals drifting up into the air, light and sweet. One by one, the fairy lights above him start to pop, light spraying out into the air to mingle with the brightness all around them. There’s a mix of gasps and laughter from the crowd, as though this is all part of the performance, but Patrick, pouring out his heart, is only human. This is all David – Patrick’s just opening the door.
And in the midst of all of this, he sees each of the Roses weave their way towards David. Johnny gets there first, standing to his left, and Moira comes with Alexis in tow, taking his right. Moira nods at Patrick, smiling, and then takes David’s hand. Johnny subtly removes a glove, letting his hand brush David’s on his other side, and Alexis leans on Moira, wrapped around her arm, swaying in time to the music. David doesn’t seem to notice – he looks to Patrick, and the rest of the crowd fades away, until it’s just him and David – the tremulous set of his smile, his eyes so liquid and so, so bright, the clouds behind them burning away into wide, open sky. I know you, Patrick tries to say, without words, know me. I see you – see me.
I love you.
“Oh, you’re the best,” Patrick finishes, letting the last note ring, and the light around them fades as the crowd erupts into applause, until it’s just sparks on the breeze again – Patrick takes only a moment to return his borrowed guitar before he’s off the stage, pushing back through the crowd, towards his luminous alien boyfriend wedged in the middle of a Rose family hug.
“I can’t believe you upstaged my moment,” Stevie says, at his elbow. “You’re really—you’re the worst.”
"I'm sorry," Patrick says, guiltily, and really meaning it. "You crushed it up there. Seriously, I'm so proud of you, and everything you've achieved with the motel, it was, really, it was an alien power circle and a timing thing—"
"It's fine," Stevie replies, with a small smile, so Patrick knows she's only messing with him, "I mean, really, if I was going to blame anyone, it would be David's fault for like, not being able to express his big gay love for you with emojis like the rest of us." And before Patrick can digest that little morsel of information, lodging itself somewhere high and bright in his chest, she adds, "Don't worry, I'll find a way to step on your next big moment. In the meantime, you can make it up to me, first thing tomorrow, by moving those files out of my closet."
"Touché," Patrick says, ruefully. The band has evidently finished their quick safety check of the electrical equipment after Patrick's little display - and he takes a mental note that that's something he also needs to make up for, hopefully without involving more paperwork on his end - and the party kicks off with something jaunty and fun to get people moving. Patrick keeps still, letting Stevie lean against him as people laugh and dance around them, watching the Roses talk to each other in low voices, their little huddle set apart from the crowd - as though Patrick, Stevie and the Roses are twin islands on separate plates, fated to drift apart. “You’re really going to miss him, aren’t you?” Patrick asks, softly.
“Maybe, a little,” Stevie admits. “I said my goodbyes, before, but. I’ll miss all of them, really. Even Moira. They really have a way of like, crawling right into your heart. Chestburster style.”
There’s something, in the tone of her voice – “Are you crying?”
“No,” Stevie lies, sniffling a little, “There’s just a—there’s a lot of pollen, in the air.”
The close circle of Roses begins to break up, and there's a finality to it. “That was beautiful, Patrick,” Alexis says, spotting him first as she slips out towards him. “Take care of my brother, okay?” She pulls him into a surprise hug, and then her voice dances through his thoughts – something to remember us by, with a flash of the winking kissy-face emoji – and then colours-that-aren’t-colours bloom across his eyes as Alexis fills his head with a dreamscape of the Roses’ impossible, incredible home, with four beings placed in frame, formless and resplendent, and one that feels achingly familiar - David, Alexis supplies, amusement warm in his mind, and then his vision clears once more.
“Well, we must be going,” Johnny is saying, as Patrick steps back, dazed, “It’s easier to slip out now, so as to not startle the townsfolk.”
“I’ll come and visit,” David promises. “As often as I can.”
“My darling,” Moira says, fondly, “That’s a nice thought, but I simply don’t think you’ll have the time, what with all the places you’ll be visiting on this charming little rock—” and she takes his hand, pulling up his sleeve, and runs her other hand across his wrist. This time, there’s no flash of light, no rune set bright above the bone – just clean, unbroken skin.
There’s a beat, and then – “Oh my god,” David says, in a half-sob, holding his wrist up to his eyeline, as though he just can’t believe it, “Oh my god, how did you—I didn’t even think it was possible—”
“You did this yourself, dear,” Moira says. “All we provided was a little bit of guidance. Really, it was your butter-voiced beau who gave you the push you needed.”
The band slips into something slow, gentle. Patrick feels Stevie squeeze his arm, and then she’s gone into the crowd, as the Roses, too, slip away into the night – until it’s just David, pushing past the couples that are suddenly dancing in slow circles around them, smiling like he doesn’t know how to stop.
“So, where do you want to go first?” Patrick asks, stepping into the circle of his arms.
“That spa, in Elmdale,” David replies, without a second thought, “After that – Japan. Definitely Japan.”
“Of course, you’ve signed the lease for the general store, so that needs to be your first priority,” Patrick reminds him, trying and failing to hide his grin, “And I’ll need to split my time between being your partner in that venture and going through the motel records for Stevie, which might actually take the rest of our lives—”
David casts his eyes to the heavens and then shuts him up by kissing him soundly, swallowing Patrick’s laugh as he wraps his arms around him – warm, bright, mine – while the music moves with the lights behind his eyelids, spiraling up and up, sparks winking out in time with the stars. They dance like this through the night, until the northern lights flow across the sky, and then for a long time after.