Work Text:
"Patu," Richie says impatiently. He raps his knuckles against the bathroom door again, laying his forehead against the wood. "I don't want to keep her waiting."
Muffled, from the other side of the door, "I have to look good. No, I have to look great."
Richie checks his watch again. "Baby, let me do your hair. I'm a professional."
Patrick opens the door in a whoosh. His hair looks the same as always but Richie is no idiot. "Perfect." He hands him his zip-up hoodie and drags him out of the apartment.
They walk out of their brownstone and down towards the train. He still can't get used to their closeup view of the Brooklyn Bridge, especially today with its clear blue sky background. At Cadman Plaza, they descend to the subway.
At first it's standing room only. Tucked together he quietly runs through his checklist: "I vacuumed, I swept, I made the sofa bed. I bought an extra towel. I got her favorite bread. I cleaned the bathroom."
Patrick pinches his cheek as they come to a stop, the conductor yelling their location, lecturing passengers about holding the doors. When they're off again, Patrick tells him to stop worrying. Richie scoffs. "You're telling me to stop worrying? Is the world suddenly upside down?" Patrick laughs into his shoulder. "It's my mom. She hates traveling. I want to make this as nice as possible."
Patrick reaches out, a hand on Richie's waist, and it immediately sends a spark through his body. "You make everything as nice as possible, just by being you."
Richie rolls then averts his eyes. The A train travels through Brooklyn, then Queens, and the crowd thins. They get seats across from each other and Patrick pulls out his phone when they get above ground, their eyes no longer reliant on the wretched fluorescent lighting. The urban-suburban canvas of Queens behind Patrick momentarily distracts him, the only view Richie needs.
He checks his mom's flight status and sees a message pop up:
Patrick
Hey gorgeous
Richie looks across the car, to his boyfriend trying unsuccessfully to look angelic. He opens his app.
Patrick
What do I have to do to get you to relax?
He thinks.
Richie
Not talk about my mom indirectly then talk about dicks
Patrick shudders in a small laugh, then puts his hands up in surrender.
Patrick
fair point. We’ll be more church and state. How about we focus on my neurosis
Richie
so just business as usual
The seat next to Patrick opens and he pats it, eyes loving and soft like the heart-eyes smiling emoji. Richie crosses the gap and sits next to his boyfriend, their arms solid against one another.
They switch to the monorail and Patrick buys a tiny bottle of wine for Richie despite his protests. He knows better than to listen to Richie. He drinks it in three gulps.
It doesn't really help. He checks the flight status again. She's flying business class thanks to Patrick's miles; he insisted. Normally Richie will fight that kind of thing with shoving, but it was for his mom, and anything to help her is welcome. Besides, Patrick is learning to be thoughtful. He wants to practice positive reinforcement, like he's training a puppy.
A Patu-puppy. It makes him smile. Or maybe it's the wine.
At the terminal they follow signs, then traipse back, then find a completely different hallway for arrivals. Richie unfolds the sign from his pocket, black marker on white printer paper: Mama. That's all. He hopes she'll like it.
He's waiting to see the short woman with dark hair and light brown skin, who was so angry with him for leaving California, for leaving her. Who couldn't understand his opportunity to work in a New York shop with the best of the best, with the chance to start fresh with Patrick.
Patrick wraps an arm around his shoulders, squeezing his bicep. "She got on a plane. That means something."
Richie puts his head on Patrick's shoulder. It's a relief to share some weight. He closes his eyes. "You know I'll go back to being the calm one soon."
"I kind of like this," Patrick says, stroking Richie's arm. "I can totally be your rock." He has no doubt of that now.
He feels a slight shift, opening his eyes to Patrick lifting an arm in greeting. His mom is approaching, her bag tucked tightly into her body.
She hugs Patrick first, in a long and surprising embrace. Then looks at Richie. "Hi, mijo. You're too skinny."
He hugs her for what feels like forever.
That night his mom settles into the sofa bed early, taxed from travel. Richie faces Patrick in bed, listening to his boyfriend tell a story, but not really listening. Watching him tell a story, something about his coworker who took credit for an idea and acted like a shithead in a meeting. Things feel back to normal.
"You're pretty," he tells him when he finally stops talking.
"I am?" Patrick asks, shy and flirty. He knows he is.
Richie gets closer, presses their foreheads together. He says, "I wanna fuck you." Said low, hot breath on Patrick's lips.
"But we have the thinnest walls in Brooklyn. And what about church and state?" His words and actions aren't in line, not as he strokes Richie's hip.
Richie tries to think of a scenario in which they'd be quiet, but he knows they can't. He flips, sighing, to his back. He thinks of other things: rats in the subway, kale, blue balls like the ones he has now.
It's hard to look at Patrick and not always feel so undone by him. Turned on by him, mad at him, in love with him, all of it, everything. He crossed a country and it's just them, together. Work and walking around and nights alone. Sharing a life.
Richie sinks lower in bed, just enough to rest his head against Patrick’s sternum. He breathes in his scent, laundry detergent and shampoo, a trace of cologne and a hint of sweat.
Patrick plays with Richie's hair and plans their tomorrow.