#wsltstty

[wild-aloof-rebel]

waited so long to say this to you

Five times they say “I do” (and one they don’t).

- part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - +1

He’s coming. 

Patrick shoots a thank you text back to Stevie and digs his heels harder into the floor, stomping down the nervous urge to pace. David is on his way. He’s left the motel and is making his way here, where they’ll get to spend a few minutes alone together before the ceremony. Before they get married.

Holy fuck, they’re actually getting married.

There have been days in the months since Patrick proposed that it felt like they’d never get here. There have been days that it felt like maybe they should just elope and be done with it. But they’d found their way through, and now David is on his way here for their wedding.

The bell on the door of Rose Apothecary rings, and voices spill in from the street outside, a cacophony of words and laughter that Patrick would recognize anywhere as the Roses, even without David’s voice yelling over them to just go to Town Hall already. At the sound of it, the nerves that have been buzzing in Patrick’s belly all day reach a feverish pitch. This is it, he tells himself. This is what you’ve been waiting for.

His fingers clutch at the door frame as the front door snaps closed, bringing eager silence with it, and he forces himself to count to five, taking a slow, deep breath, before he steps out of the back room to find David already smiling at him, broad and bright as the afternoon sun.

For a long moment, all either of them can do is look. Patrick has seen pictures of David in suits, dressed up for long ago parties and premieres, so he’d thought he knew what to expect from this. But the reality of it is so much more. The David in those photos had been devastatingly gorgeous but aloof and untouchable. The David standing here, bathed in light by the wide windows of the store they own together, is a little softer, a little warmer, a little more open to the world around him. This David is happy. Comfortable. Well-loved. And he is the most unbearably beautiful thing Patrick has ever seen in his life.

“Hi,” David says finally, soft like a secret.

“Hi.”

And then they’re moving toward each other across the distance, pulling each other in with hands on waists, arms across shoulders, lips against lips. Patrick is careful not to bunch his hands into the fabric of David’s jacket the way he wants to, but it’s a near thing. And when he finally pulls back, it feels like the first full breath he’s taken today. 

“David, you look…”

“Me? Look at you.” He steps in a wide circle around Patrick, clearly admiring the view, and Patrick can’t help but laugh at the way his eyes sparkle like he’s already imagining stripping him out of it. Patrick imagines he must look much the same.

“How was your sleepover with Alexis and Stevie?” he asks to distract himself of any further thoughts about plucking apart all the buttons on David’s shirt, letting his fingers find David’s and twine them together instead lest they try to betray the temptation.

“I missed you,” David says plainly, brushing his thumb across the back of Patrick’s hand. “But you were right--it was…” He grimaces and swallows like the words are painful to get out. “...nice. To spend time with them.” He shakes his head. “What about you? Your cousins didn’t try to get you drunk, did they?”

“No, I kicked them all out by nine. Told them you would murder them if I showed up to our wedding looking hungover and sleep-deprived. Didn’t think an actual crime would be the best way to start a marriage.” 

In truth, Patrick had kicked them all out because he hadn’t wanted to draw the night out any longer than necessary. He’d felt like a kid on Christmas Eve, knowing that the sooner he went to sleep, the sooner he could wake up and open presents. And so he’d sent them all back to the motel to drink without him, pulled on one of David’s sweaters out of the laundry, and climbed into bed far too early. Of course, that meant he’d been awake far too early this morning, but he’d gone for a run and then met his parents for a quick breakfast before all the chaos of the day could come spilling in.

“Mmm, no,” David says, “And I don’t think my wedding night look would be as good in prison orange.”

Patrick’s eyebrows rocket up toward his hairline, his voice dropping low in contrast. “You, uh, you have a wedding night look?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” 

David’s smile goes all crooked and enigmatic, and Patrick thanks the universe for what certainly won’t be the last time today for bringing this man into his life. He drags him in to kiss him again, licking teasingly into David’s mouth to show him exactly how much he’s looking forward to it.

When David starts to pull away, Patrick chases him down again, not quite ready to give up kissing his fiancé just yet, leaving David laughing against his lips, the happy sound of it bubbling in Patrick’s belly like champagne until he feels drunk on it. Finally, with one last kiss to the corner of David’s lips, he leans back, taking in all the warmth in David’s eyes and the joy on his lips, still marveling that he gets to be the one to make him look like that for the rest of their lives.

“I guess we should… go,” David says, nodding toward the front doors, though he doesn’t move any closer to them.

“Actually, um, I-- I have something for you first.”

“Oh.”

Patrick swallows and pulls the small box from his pocket.

“And here I thought you were just happy to see me,” David teases, but his face falls serious as Patrick hands him the gift. He flips the top of the box up on its hinges and plucks out the key, the uncut edge of it glimmering in the sunlight. “What’s this for?”

“Nothing yet,” Patrick says with a nervous little shrug. “It’s a-- a promise. I know that with all the wedding planning we haven’t had a chance to really look for a new place, and even though you’ve been staying with me, you keep having to go back to the motel for things, and most of the stuff you have brought to the apartment is still in boxes, and I just…” He can feel that he’s rambling and takes a deep breath to try to rein it in. The wild beating of his heart calms just a little. “I want you to have a home. A real one. So this is a promise. We can start looking tomorrow if you want. But after everything that you’ve given me, I just-- I want to give you the home that you deserve.”

“Button.” It sounds like a sob, choked and wet, and David’s lips tremble as he leans in closer. “Patrick. You are my home,” he whispers before kissing Patrick so, so softly. Patrick clutches the counter behind him to ground himself, to keep from floating away when David pulls back, just far enough for Patrick to see the honesty shining in his eyes like gold. “You’re my home,” he says again. “You have been for a long time. And it doesn’t matter where we live, that will still be true. The rest is just… decor.”

And then Patrick is kissing him again, his fingers against David’s jaw, drawing him in like a ragged breath, hard and desperate. There’s the distant sound of things hitting the floor and then David’s fingers are clutching at his shoulders, grabbing onto him like a lifeline. Patrick could stay here like this forever, would if he could, breathing David in, but suddenly there’s a loud knock against the glass of the store windows. They jump apart guiltily to find Stevie outside, laughing and tapping on her wrist. 

David gives her the finger in response, but the wide smile plastered on his face undercuts the effect a bit. 

Laughing, Patrick bends to pick up the key where David dropped it on the floor in favor of getting his hands on Patrick instead. “I mean it though,” he says earnestly, turning it over in his hands, watching it catch the light. “I know there was some… confusion... when I moved into the apartment.” David quirks an incredulous eyebrow his way, and Patrick shakes his head fondly. “For which I have already apologized profusely. But I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings this time.” 

He considers dropping to one knee just for the way it would make David’s eyes light up, but he also considers the lifetime of grumbling he’ll get if he gets his suit dirty before they take photos. That almost makes it worth it, but instead he simply holds out the key on his open palm.

“David, will you move in with me?”

The wet shine in David’s eyes makes Patrick’s throat tighten painfully. “Yes.” David sniffles, sounding just as overwhelmed as he had the day he’d opened a box to find four gold rings nestled inside. “I will.”

And then David’s kissing him again, wet and inelegant and absolutely overflowing with joy. Patrick kisses him back with everything he’s got, I will playing on repeat with every press of their lips. 

Because after months spent saying I do, it’s those two words instead that will carry them through today: I will. They’d written their vows with that as the response. I will. Not I do. Because a wedding isn’t about the present; it’s about the future. It’s about the start of a life spent together. It’s about looking out toward the years on the distant horizon and saying, whatever may come our way, I will still be here at your side. I will still love you. I will still choose you, every single day. I will. I will. I will.

“Don’t make me drag you two out of here,” interrupts Stevie’s voice, and David’s groan rumbles in Patrick’s chest where they’re pressed together. He peeks at her over David’s shoulder, standing just inside the door, arms crossed sternly across her chest. But her mouth is curved into a small, fond smile, and Patrick can’t help grinning back at her.

David just grumbles, reaching up to smooth down the shoulders of Patrick’s jacket where he’d rumpled the fabric. “It’s our wedding day. You’d think we could have five whole minutes alone to make out without rude people”--he raises his voice as if Stevie might mistakenly think he were talking about anyone but her--”interrupting us.”

Patrick giggles, giddy and light. This is his future, this pouting, ridiculous, sarcastic, beautiful, generous, kindhearted, absolute force of a man. Patrick gets to marry him. He gets to be his husband. He gets to spend an entire lifetime by his side, and nothing could possibly make him happier.

He leans in to kiss David once--twice--more, laughing again when David whines as he pulls away. “Let’s go get married,” he says. “We have the rest of our lives to make out.”

David’s answering smile could power an entire city. 

“We do.”

And with that happy thought buzzing beneath their skin, they step out onto the pavement, into the warm, bright afternoon sunshine, hand-in-hand, with Stevie at their side, and walk down the street toward Town Hall. Toward all their family and friends gathered together to celebrate with them. 

Toward their future, whatever it may hold.

[wild-aloof-rebel]

waited so long to say this to you

Five times they say "I do" (and one they don't).

- part 1 -

They’re in the grocery store the first time it happens.

It’s a Sunday afternoon, and the store is crowded, and David is clearly trying his best not to yell at anyone, which Patrick finds endlessly amusing in a way he probably shouldn’t. There’s something endearing in how predictable it is, he thinks, and yet David still insists on coming with him every time.

Patrick doesn’t mind though because David holds his hand throughout the whole trip on busy days like this, like he’s afraid he’ll lose Patrick to a mid-afternoon horde of grocery bandits. Any excuse to hold David’s hand is a welcome one, doubly so now that it gives Patrick a chance to feel David’s engagement rings pressed between his fingers. It’s only been a week since he put them there, and part of him hopes he never quite gets used to seeing and feeling them on David’s hand, hopes it’s always a little bit of a surprise. A happy rediscovery each and every time. Because David wants to marry him, and the thought of it should always be a delight. David, who could have any person in the entire universe, who’s tried more than a fair share of them, who is gorgeous and funny and not-so-secretly very sweet and--

“Patrick,” David says firmly, making it clear from his tone that it’s not the first time he’s said it.

“Hmm?”

“Where’d you go just then?”

“Nowhere,” he says, though the smile on his face gives him away a bit. Judging by the one David gives him in return and the way he squeezes Patrick’s hand a little tighter, he thinks maybe David knows the answer anyway.

“Well, welcome back from nowhere. I was asking about that hummus I bought last week. Do you like it?”

“I do.”

There’s a moment before it sinks in, when David’s eyes go comically wide, his gasp audible over the ten-year-old pop song playing over the store’s crackly speakers, and Patrick wrinkles his brow in confusion. Then he finally hears it, the words he’s just said, standing here in the middle of the produce aisle with his fiancé’s four golden rings pressing into his skin like a brand, and his mouth cracks into a toothy smile, a happy laugh spilling out from between his lips. 

“I do,” he says again, crowding David back against a display of strawberries and cherries, hands coming up to frame his hips. fingers digging into the soft heft of his sweater as if they could get at the heat of his skin, and Patrick leans in and kisses him soundly, kisses him the way David deserves to be kissed, with conviction and confidence and the promise of more, the promise of a lifetime and forever and beyond, with so much fucking love that anyone who looks at David from now until the end of time will see it there on his lips, purpled and dark like a bruise.

It’s only when a helpless little whine catches in David’s throat that Patrick finally lets him go, pulling back just far enough to look up at the stars that have settled in David’s eyes. He smirks, knowing he’s the cause of them, wanting to be the cause of them for all the days he has left.

And he’s going to get to be.

He’s going to get to kiss David senseless at the grocery store and at Rose Apothecary, on road trips to meet with vendors and at the cafe on date nights. He’s going to get to kiss him in their bed and in their kitchen, right out on their front lawn and in the middle of the damn street if he wants to, tonight and tomorrow and next week and five, ten, fifty years down the line.

He’s going to get to kiss David on their wedding day, and it’s the best thing Patrick can possibly imagine. His shoulders shake with giddiness, and he leans in for one more kiss, pausing just before their lips meet. “David Rose,” he breathes, “I cannot fucking wait to marry you.”

[wild-aloof-rebel]

waited so long to say this to you

Five times they say "I do" (and one they don't).

- part 1 - part 2 -

David starts fishing.

Not the kind with a rod and reel, but the kind where he lays out a question like a baited line, his grin nearly predatory, no matter how hard he tries to tuck it behind the tight press of his lips.

But Patrick isn't going to let himself be baited.

It starts when they're discussing the guest list. They've come down on opposite sides of this argument, as Patrick had suspected they might. David would prefer as small a ceremony as possible--just he and Patrick if they could get away with it--while Patrick wold prefer something a little more robust. There's still the budget to consider, of course, so he's not exactly looking to invite every resident of Elm County. But he wants to celebrate with the people they care about, the people who care about them, and that's a longer list than David seems willing to admit.

"You don't really want Bob there, do you?" David asks between mouthfuls of fried rice.

"Somehow I don't think it matters if we want Bob there or not--or Gwen--"

"Who?"

"--because I'm pretty sure they'll find a way in either way."

David tips his head back, groaning at the ceiling. "It's our wedding. We should be able to keep out anyone we don't want there."

Patrick takes advantage of David's distress to steal a shrimp from the container in his lap. "I agree," he says, "but I think that keeping out Bob and Gwen is a losing battle."

After a hefty sigh, David looks at him again, something incongruously mischievous sparkling in his eyes. "Do you?" he asks.

"Yeah. Remember when Twyla 'forgot' to invite them to her last murder mystery party, and somehow they both still ended up as the murderers?"

A frown flickers across David's face, gone as quick as it came. "What about Ray? Do you want Ray there?"

"We wouldn't have met if not for Ray."

“No, I know, but do you want him there?"

A wrinkle settles between Patrick's brows. "Yeah," he says firmly, "Obviously we should invite Ray."

David's frown is more pronounced this time, but it disappears again, morphing into a happier curve of his lips. Patrick starts to feel like there's a game being played here, though he doesn't know the rules.

"Do you want to invite Ted?"

Patrick sticks his chopsticks into his half-eaten container of lo mein and sets it on the coffee table, turning to face David fully. "Why wouldn't we invite Ted?"

"So you do want him there then?" David reaches over to steal a piece of chicken from Patrick's abandoned dinner, chewing it behind a twisty grin.

"Do you not want Ted there?" Patrick asks carefully, but that sparkle in David's eyes only flashes brighter.

"I asked you first. Do you?"

"I--"

Oh.

It all falls into place, what David is trying to do, the trap he's trying to set. Do you? he's asked, again and again. A two-word question looking to be met with a matching two-word response: a hook disguised as a fat, juicy worm with David on the other end, just waiting to reel Patrick in.

"--don't know," he continues because he's figured out the game now. "Maybe we shouldn't invite your sister's boyfriend. I think Alexis would have no problem with that at all."

David twists the ring on his index finger, a sure sign that he knows he's been figured out. And still he asks, "Do you?" The grin that follows it is so full of mischief and laughter, his eyes so beautifully, desperately full of hope, that Patrick almost can't resist taking the bait.

Almost.

"Do I what, David?"

He watches as David's mouth flattens into a tight line then lists to one side like a ship sinking happily into the sea.

"Is there something you want to say?"

"No," David manages to squeeze out before bringing a hand up to press over his mouth, as if that will do a better job of hiding the smile trying to crawl out of it.

"Is there something you want me to say?"

It takes a moment for David to decide, like he isn't sure yet if he's ready to reveal the rules of the game. He reaches across to pluck at the seam of Patrick's jeans where they curve around his knee, and finally he nods.

"Do you want me to say something in particular?" Patrick asks because he can give as good as David can. "Or will just any words do?"

"Patrick."

"Okay, what about... 'tax bracket'? Is that what you want me to say?" At the look David gives him, he tries again, doing a much better job than David had of swallowing down his grin. "How about 'Givenchy fall collection'?"

David rolls his eyes, flapping a hand in Patrick’s direction. He catches it, dropping a kiss into David’s palm.

"Bottomless mimosas?" The next kiss lands on his wrist. "Inventory?" He leans across the sofa to plant a kiss to David's nose. "The Blouse Barn?" David grimaces, and Patrick presses a laughing kiss to his cheek. He lists suggestion after suggestion, kissing David's forehead and ears and jaw and chin between each, until he's writhing to get away, laughter bubbling out of his mouth, happy and warm.

"I hate you," he says, sounding like he couldn't mean it less.

"Is that what you want me to say?" Patrick grins. "I was thinking more like, 'you're gorgeous.'" David blushes at that, so predictably, beautifully pink, and like every day for the past two years, Patrick thinks he couldn’t possibly love him more. "Or how about 'you’re the love of my life’? Or ‘my future husband’? Or 'I don't care if we invite Bob and Gwen or not, as long as I get to marry you.'"

David tries to pull him in for a kiss, fisting his hands in the front of Patrick's sweater, but Patrick turns his head so David only catches his cheek and groans in annoyance. It only makes Patrick smile wider.

When David lets him go, he leans back just far enough to see David's face. There's some readable mix of emotions there that only David could ever seem to pull off--fondness and irritation and shyness and desire all battling it out at once, twisting across his features like words on a scrolling marquee.

"Do you still want me to say it?" Patrick asks.

"Mhmm."

"Do you?" He leans in again, brushing his lips across David's, not kissing him, just tempting him, pulling back every time David tries to chase him down. "Do you, David?" he asks once more and just barely flicks his tongue against the corner of his mouth.

David whines--a desperate, full-bodied sound--and the words finally pop from his mouth like a firecracker. "I do! I do. I want you to say it."

"Good," Patrick replies. "Because I love saying it to you."

"Do you?" David asks, wrapping his arms around Patrick's shoulders, his smile full and bright as he casts his line once more.

This time, Patrick lets himself be caught.

"I do."

[wild-aloof-rebel]

waited so long to say this to you

Five times they say “I do” (and one they don’t).

- part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 - part 5 - 

He finds David on a bench outside the restaurant, a striking silhouette in the autumn moonlight.

“Needed some air?” Patrick asks, sliding his hands into his pockets and pausing just outside the little bubble of silence David has created for himself out here. He doesn’t want to intrude if his fiancé needs a little time and space to himself: with their families and friends in full celebration mode, it’s been a busy, loud, chaotic evening, and Patrick can’t blame him if he needs to escape for a bit.

But the slight curl of David’s lips as he meets Patrick’s eye is an invitation, as is the way he squeezes a little closer to the arm to give him space to sit. “If I have to hear Alexis tell one more story about the Galapagos, I’m going to strangle her with her own hair. I‌ swear she’s worse than mom was after Bosnia.”

“Well, I don’t think a jail cell wedding is exactly the aesthetic we were going for, so it’s probably best if neither groom-to-be gets arrested tonight.” 

A smile spreads bright and happy across David’s face, carving dimples deep into his cheeks. 

“What?”

He shakes his head as he answers, like an old habit he hasn’t yet unlearned, borne of a time when he didn’t share his thoughts and feelings with others. Not the way he shares them with Patrick. It’s the kind of growth and trust he never takes for granted. “Groom-to-be,” David says, still grinning around the words.

“You like that one?” Patrick lights up at the delight evident on David’s face. “Then I‌ have a feeling you’re going to like what comes tomorrow even more.”

“Groom?”

“Husband.”

That brilliant smile goes soft around the edges, twisting into something shier, something just for Patrick. “I can’t wait,” he admits. “Though I did like being your fiancé.”

Patrick knows exactly what he means. These last few months have been some of the best of his life. There’s been this ever-present joy bubbling in his veins, soft and golden like champagne. In some ways it reminds him of those first few months after they’d started dating, when everything had felt like possibility, but there’s something deeper and steadier about it this time around. Something certain and settled and unshakable. He can only imagine how much those feelings will grow after tomorrow, but as excited as he is to take the next step, there’s also a peculiar sorrow in having to leave this version of themselves behind.

“I liked being your fiancé, too.” He traces David’s dimple with the pad of his thumb and leans over to press a long, lingering kiss to his lips, letting him feel just how much he means it. David melts into it, honeyed and sweet, taking a few extra seconds after Patrick pulls away to open his eyes. He looks like he’s trying to memorize the moment, and Patrick bites down on a smile at the thought.

Finally he looks at Patrick again, open and adoring, with reflections of streetlights swimming in his dark eyes like stars. “Thank you.”

It’s reminiscent of a kiss on a night long ago. They’d sat beside each other much like this, though they’d been in his car after their first date instead of on a bench outside their rehearsal dinner, and Patrick had been the one with thanks on his mind back then.

“For what?” he asks, and the warmth in David’s laugh tells Patrick he recognizes the callback, too.

“For… everything,” he says with a happy little shrug. “Thank you for loving me.”

The simple honesty of it clenches tight around Patrick’s heart. “Thank you for letting me.”

It’s David who leans in this time, kissing him with such tenderness that Patrick can feel it tingling in his fingertips and his toes. Can feel the light of it shimmering like sparks in his belly, trembling and bright. Not for the first time, he wishes he could stop time somehow, wishes he could stay here with his fiancé’s fingers against the line of his jaw, with his breath warm and familiar on his lips, with the whole of their lives together stretched out before them like rolling fields reaching for the horizon. 

But all too soon there’s a door opening behind them, laughter and music spilling out into the night serving as a pin to burst their cozy bubble, and David’s brushing one last kiss across his mouth and sitting back again. 

“I have something for you,” he says, twisting the ring on his middle finger. “It was supposed to be for tomorrow, but… I thought maybe you should have it tonight.” A small black notebook appears out of seemingly nowhere, and David presses it into Patrick’s hands. He’s seen it before, or perhaps just others like it—David carries one almost everywhere he goes, scribbling away, hunched over the counter on slow days at the store or tucked into the corner of the sofa on quiet nights at home. Patrick’s never asked him about it before, never stolen a peek; he’s been more than comfortable in letting David keep it for himself. 

But here is David inviting him in, meeting Patrick’s questioning glance with a confident nod, so he opens the cover and lets himself look. 

The first page is a list, mostly of their vendors, though there are a few names he doesn’t recognize that have been crossed out. The next is a series of drawings, all of them roses, each successive one morphing into something that looks more and more like a logo he knows as well as his own reflection. Product ideas, sketches of displays, suggestions for names—it’s their store, birthed in ink.

That alone would be gift enough, but barely four pages in he finds his own name, written in the middle of a mess of other notes, crisp and black in David’s precise hand. It’s underlined and punctuated with a question mark, and Patrick traces the shape of it with his fingers. His name, there, amongst David’s thoughts and plans for the store. He wonders how long ago this had been written, how long after they’d met. 

Higher on the page, he finds his answer: appointment at Ray’s, 10:30 AM, incorporation papers. David had written this that first day, had been just as struck by their meeting as Patrick himself had been. He’s known that—they’ve talked about it—but to see it in ink makes it real in a way he couldn’t have expected. Patrick had gone on a long hike to try to sort out what that first flush of feeling had meant, what he’d been willing to allow it to mean; David apparently had taken to paper to do the same.

His name appears on the next page and then again three pages later. He flips quickly through the remainder of the journal, not wanting to get too caught up in reading here, not wanting to share David’s gift with anyone who might stumble out looking to find them. His name occurs more and more frequently as he thumbs toward the end, until it feels like every page is about him somehow.

“It’s— It’s my feelings,” David says when he reaches the back cover. “About you. Well… about a lot of things. But mostly about you.”

Patrick shakes his head because it’s too much and tries to breathe through the messy knot of emotion tangled around his lungs. “David, you don’t—”

“I do.” The strength of his voice is a surprise, and Patrick can feel his eyes go wide at the conviction of it. “I do.”

Those two little words have come to mean so much to them both over the past few months. Hope and laughter. Comfort and encouragement. Trust and understanding and never-ending love. They’re a promise, a reminder that they’re in this together. 

“I do,” he says once more, whisper soft, before he kisses it into the corner of Patrick’s mouth, just one gentle, reassuring touch of his lips.

It does nothing for the sting in the corners of Patrick’s eyes or the tremble in his fingers, but David’s hands cover his where they’re holding his gift in his lap, and he feels a little less like he might shake apart right here on the pavement.

“I know this might be hard to believe,” David says with a self-deprecating laugh, “but I’ve never let anyone read my journals before. I mean, Alexis probably has because she’s the worst, but I’ve never let anyone do it. I‌ don’t— I didn’t trust anyone that way. But I‌ trust you.” The breath he takes is shaky, but his hands are warm and steady where they’re wrapped around Patrick’s, his thumbs sweeping small, soothing circles into his skin, though which one of them he’s soothing, Patrick isn’t sure. “I trust you because you make me feel safe, and I‌ don’t think I’ve ever... felt that way before? Like I‌ can just… be me. Like I can— Like I‌ can be happy.” He shrugs, nonchalant, like that isn’t simultaneously the most heartbreaking and the most touching thing he’s ever said. “But you. You make me feel... that. You make me feel like I‌ deserve that.”

“You do,” Patrick says, fingers twitching with the need to reach for more of him, to hold him here until there’s no doubt left in David’s mind. “David, you deserve that more than anything.”

It’s something that he’s long known, though they’ve always talked about it in less specific terms, and still it fills him with a stifling mixture of anger and sorrow to know that his big-hearted, well-intentioned, endlessly loving and lovable fiancé had been treated so carelessly by so many. David has made Patrick feel safe from the start; from the moment he’d confessed that he’d never done this before, David had taken such diligent care of him, letting him take his time, giving him the space he needed to figure himself out, and Patrick had decided long, long ago that he would spend the rest of his life ensuring that David feels just as safe and secure and wholly, unconditionally loved. 

“I know,” David whispers, like if he says it any louder he might frighten the belief right back out of himself. “I do.” He drags one of his hands free of Patrick’s grasp to scrub it across the tears beginning to roll down his cheeks. “And I‌ know that this isn’t a— a traditional wedding gift, but… I mean, I’m not exactly made of money these days.” 

His lips twitch back toward a smile, and Patrick can’t help but breathe out a chuckle at the sight of it, glad that David’s reached the point where he can joke about it a little, where the bruise is no longer so fresh and he can poke and prod at the pain of it just a bit. 

“It’s just that… my feelings are pretty much all I have anymore. So I’m giving them to you. I want you to have them—all of them, the good and the bad. They’re all in there, and I’m giving them to you because… I know that you’ll keep them safe. That— That you’ll keep me safe.”

Patrick drags him in for a kiss, tears pooling in his palms where they’re cradling David’s jaw, his own slipping down his neck and into the collar of his shirt. It’s messy and inelegant and one of the most perfect kisses of his life, and everything he’s feeling, all of his thanks and all of his happiness, all of his protection and all of his vulnerability, every single ounce of his love and affection for this beautiful, incredible man he has the privilege of marrying tomorrow, he tries to press it all between the seam of David’s lips, to breathe it into his lungs until he’s filled up with it.

David pulls away laughing, a wet, gasping thing. “I can’t believe you made me cry at our rehearsal dinner.”

“Me?” Patrick asks, voice still thick with emotion behind his incredulity. “It’s your gift! You’re the one who had to— to… say all that.”

“Yeah, and it was supposed to make you cry, not me!” The look he gives Patrick is clearly meant to be stern, but there’s too much good humor behind it for David to pull it off, and Patrick’s reply curls itself around a fond smile.

“Oh, so it’s fine for you to make me cry at our rehearsal dinner, but not the other way around.”

“Obviously.” David rolls his eyes and kisses him again, quick but happy.

They both take a moment to wipe their faces and make themselves look a bit less like they’ve been crying together in the middle of what’s supposed to be a celebratory night. And when he feels like he’s finally put himself back together enough, Patrick stands, clasping his gift tightly, and offers his hand to his fiancé. “Shall we?”

David’s hand finds his, warm and soft, and he lets Patrick pull him up to his feet and straight into his arms.

“Thank you, best,” Patrick says, kissing the words into the curve of David’s neck and holding him tight. He doesn’t only mean for the gift and thinks maybe he should say so, but when he pulls back, the soft smile on David’s face says that he already knows.

So Patrick takes his hand and leads him back into the restaurant, back into this beautiful, happy life they’ve built for themselves, and they spend the rest of the night laughing and talking and dancing, surrounded by the people they love and the people who love them, safe at each other’s side.

[wild-aloof-rebel]

waited so long to say this to you

Five times they say "I do" (and one they don't).

- part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - 

“We’re not hiring Ray as our wedding photographer,” David says again as he emerges from the storage room with a case of wine, setting it on the counter with more force than is strictly necessary. Patrick cringes, but there’s no sound of breaking glass, no liquid visibly seeping through the cardboard, so he carries on watering the succulents on display in the front window.

“But he offered to do it for free as a wedding gift,” he counters, thinking of their budget. It’s the third time they’ve had this argument, and it comes back around to the money every time. Patrick doesn’t want to make choices just because they’re cheap, of course, but the photographer David wants to hire would set them back a full two thousand dollars. Her photos are gorgeous, but they’re small business owners, not video rental empire magnates, and they just can’t afford to spend that kind of money on a photographer—not unless David wants to cut out dinner and only serve hors d'oeuvres, but somehow Patrick doesn’t think that that’s going to happen. So this is where he has to draw his line in the sand.

“He just wants to get out of buying us an actual gift.”

That’s probably true, but it’s unfair either way. “So what? He’s offering up his time and energy to do something nice for us.”

David gives an indignant snort. “Yeah, nice. It’ll be really nice when we don’t have any pictures of our first dance because Ray’s too busy handing out cards for one of his fifteen other businesses.”

“Ray’s a professional. I’m sure he knows what he’s doing.”

“Just like you were ‘sure’ he wouldn’t barge in that time when I—”

“You’re never gonna let that go, are you?”

“No, I’m not. And honestly have you ever actually seen Ray’s photos?”

“Yeah. They’re fine, David.”

“Fine?” It seems that’s some kind of breaking point, David’s voice tipping hastily from merely annoyed over into hysterical. “So that’s all you want for our wedding then: just fine. And here I’ve been trying to plan something beautiful and amazing and worthy of our story…” It’s a line he’d read in some wedding magazine that he’s been trotting out as an excuse any time he wants to push their budget constraints, like when he’d insisted on swapping the dahlias the florist had recommended for the centerpieces with peonies at nearly double the cost. “...when apparently you’re just fine with scraping the bottom of the barrel.”

“Okay, I didn’t say—”

“Should we cancel our tux fittings while we’re at it? Maybe Roland can lend us a couple of stained flannels to wear instead.”

Patrick rolls his eyes, which he knows isn’t exactly helping, but he can’t stop himself either. “I just meant—”

“Maybe Bob could officiate. Would that be fine? We could have the ceremony on the railroad tracks. How about that? Would that be fine, too? Have ourselves a fine reception in the motel lobby. Twyla can whip up a batch of whatever fine smoothies she wants and we can all spend the evening puking in the bushes.”

A little voice buried somewhere deep in his gut tries to tell Patrick this is just an inevitable result of the stress of planning, that David is feeling overwhelmed and exhausted, but he can’t hear it over the roar in his ears. He’s spent nearly every day since his proposal helping David plan their wedding, and now suddenly David is acting as if Patrick doesn’t care, as if he wouldn’t give David the entire god damn world if he could. But he can’t. He can’t do that—he hates that he can’t do that—and for David to insinuate that this is somehow because Patrick doesn’t care enough about him or about the wedding sets fire to every ounce of indignation that has piled up in his chest like kindling. 

“Should I just give back my engagement rings while I’m at it? I could wear a mismatched set of twist-ties or maybe carve the middle out of a bottle cap or—”

Patrick slams the watering can down on the shelf, hard enough to make the little ceramic planters jump. “Damn it, David. Stop being ridiculous, this isn’t about—”

“Ridiculous?” David squawks, his tone now approaching something only dogs can hear, and Patrick throws his hands in the air. “Oh, now I’m being ridiculous. Well, I’m sorry that it’s ridiculous to want to have a nice wedding. I’m sorry that it’s ridiculous to want to hire people who take pride in their work instead of just anyone who offers to do it at the lowest possible price. I’m sorry that it’s ridiculous to want everything to be perfect for you. For us. That it’s ridiculous to want to celebrate our marriage and the start of the rest of our lives together or to want pictures to look back on and remember the happiest day of my life when this all comes crashing down—”

“What?” 

Every visible inch of David’s skin flashes red and hot as he realizes what he’s said. “I didn’t— I don’t—”

“Let me get this straight.” Somehow Patrick’s words manage to come out steady even though it feels like a tornado is ripping through him, leaving a messy, jumbled trail of disaster in its wake. As he picks through the pieces, he isn’t sure if what he’s left holding on to is a mangled remnant of anger or hurt or sorrow. “You want to hire a photographer, who’s way over our budget, because you think that someday that’s all you’re going to have left of this. Of us.”

The silence that follows is all the answer he needs, and it takes all of his strength to keep standing. He’d asked David to marry him. He’d called him the love of his life, and when David had still asked if he was sure, he’d told him it was the easiest decision he’d ever made. And he’d meant it. He’d meant it with every single microscopic atom in his body, and still somehow it isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, and it feels like guilt. Like utter fucking heartbreak.

“David, I don’t know how else to tell you or— or to show you that this is it for me. That I love you and I’m not going anywhere.” 

“No, I know.” David breathes the words into the air like a secret, tiny and trembling, and Patrick steps closer to hear them better. “I— I know that. I do. It’s just...” 

His eyes are wet, just tinged red around the rims, and Patrick finds himself close enough to brush his thumbs across the thin, delicate skin there. To cradle his fingers around the curve of David’s jaw and wait, counting out the beats of his pulse against his fingertips. 

“I lost everything. Once before.” 

This isn’t something they talk about, and Patrick holds his breath. They’ve had plenty of conversations about David’s life Before and David’s life After, but they don’t talk about that demarcation line. They don’t talk about the day the CRA had shown up at the door and pulled the Roses’ entire plush, elegant, Persian rug of a life out from beneath their feet. 

“One day I was happy, or at least I— I thought I was. And the next I had nothing.” He breathes out a heavy, shaking breath, and Patrick traces his hands down to David’s arms, steadying him. “Clothes and pictures. That’s all. That’s all I could hold on to. As a reminder. That’s all I had left.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Patrick says again, but David shakes his head.

“You don’t know that.”

“I—”

“You don’t,” David insists, steely and sharp. “This isn’t about…” He claws at the air between them, like he’s trying to grab hold of the right words. “...you getting tired of me or— or deciding to leave or something.” 

The tension in Patrick’s spine relaxes a little at that, but David only seems to wind himself tighter. 

“It’s— It’s the choices we don’t have. The ones we don’t make. It’s... the things that are— that are taken from us.” His hands clutch at the front of Patrick’s shirt, two tight fists full of fabric, like he can hold Patrick here somehow. Patrick can feel the desperation in it, the fear and the hope and the pleading, and he finally gets it. He gets it.

David hadn’t done anything wrong, and still his entire life had been upended. His family hadn’t done anything wrong, and still everything they had made and earned and loved had been dragged right from their hands, slipping between their grasping fingers like grains of sand.

David isn’t afraid of fucking this up somehow; he’s afraid that even if he does everything right, that even if he and Patrick have the happiest marriage that’s ever existed, some cruel twist of fate is going to come along and draw another thick, black demarcation line right through his life. That no matter what he does, someday, even one far, far down the line, it will all be split into Before and After once again. That all he’ll have left to show for it are photographs to remind him of the joy and the love he’d once held before it too had been torn from his hands.

“Okay,” Patrick says, an apology and a concession in one, and he pulls David into his arms, pressing a kiss against the tender curve of his neck and splaying his hands wide across his back, trying to hold on to as much of him as he possibly can. This isn’t a fear that Patrick can soothe, he realizes—he can’t love it out of David somehow, as much as he might want to. All he can do is make every day of Before the best that it can possibly be and hope that David never actually has to see the After. “If it’s that important to you, we’ll find somewhere else in the budget that we can cut back. I want you to— to have what you need. What makes you feel safe.” He pulls back enough that he can press a gentle kiss to David’s mouth and wipe away the wet tracks along his cheeks. “I love you, best.”

“I know you do.”

“I do,” Patrick says, just to see the way it makes the corners of David’s mouth twitch up even as the rest of it curves down. “I do, I do, I do.” He leans in to kiss him again, sweet and lingering, until he can’t feel a frown hiding there anymore.

David closes his eyes and presses his forehead to Patrick’s. “Thank you, button.”

“Mmm, I wouldn’t thank me just yet. If we’re going to make this work, we might have to revisit that flannel idea.”

David’s laugh is small, but it feels like a piece of them slipping back into place. “I’d rather go naked,” he says.

Patrick grins wide and warm at the thought.��“That might be the best idea you’ve had yet.”

[wild-aloof-rebel]

waited so long to say this to you

Five times they say "I do" (and one they don't).

- part 1 - part 2 - part 3 - part 4 -

“And now the forecast is saying there’s a thirty percent chance of rain! I know that’s not a guarantee, but it was only twenty percent when I looked yesterday, so it’s getting— What— Why are you stopping? What are we doing?”

Patrick pulls the car onto the grassy shoulder and puts it in park, ignoring the protests of his clearly over-stressed fiancé. He reaches behind the seat to dig through the insulated bag he’d managed to sneak into the car while David was ranting about all the ways Alexis has been adding to his to-do list since she got back last week, emerging with two pints of ice cream and two spoons. He hands the cookies and cream to David whose face does a thing where his eyes go big and wide with surprise while his mouth goes small and soft. It’s a study in contradictions, just like David himself, and it’s one of Patrick’s favorite looks; he cherishes every time he can manage to make it appear.

“What’s this?” David asks.

“You’re stressed about the wedding.” David scowls, as if Patrick is pointing out some dark secret. As if the pitch and cadence and length of his ranting over the last hour hadn’t given him away. “So we’re taking a break from the to-do list. Just for a few minutes,” he adds as panic begins to well up in David’s eyes. “We can have some ice cream, relax, and then we’ll go back home and tackle whatever else needs to be done tonight. So dig in before it gets too melty.”

For a moment, it looks like David might protest, but then he sags back against his seat, pulling the lid from the container. “I don’t like it when it’s melty.”

“I know.”

They eat in comfortable silence for a while, Patrick enjoying his maple walnut, feeding David a spoonful every time he takes a break from inhaling his own. Patrick loves how much David loves ice cream, loves the way his eyes close on the first bite, the way he lets it sit on his tongue for a moment before he swallows, relishing it like he’d forgotten just how good it is. Loves the way the rest of the pint disappears in exactly the opposite way, consumed with manic, childlike glee and gone before Patrick can finish a quarter of his own. Loves the way David will complain later, curled up in their bed with a bellyache, and Patrick will rub soothing circles into his skin and kiss him till it’s better.

“Why here?” David asks when he drops the spoon into his empty pint, looking out the window at Town Hall directly across the street.

It’s where they’re getting married next week. Precisely one week from today, they’ll be inside, somewhere in the middle of their ceremony, perhaps reciting their vows or sliding rings onto each other’s fingers. Patrick thinks he’ll probably be crying, whatever they’re doing. The happy tears will probably start the moment he sees David and won’t stop until sometime around their 50th anniversary. Maybe not even then.

He leans across the seat to kiss his fiancé, sticky and sweet, his cold tongue warmed by the heat of David’s, relishing the fizzy laughter he can taste there.

“Tell me about the rain,” he says when they part.

“It’s only a thirty percent chance.” The words are much less frantic this time, like David could be talking about the weather for tomorrow or some other day that isn’t their wedding day. “It’s probably nothing,” he says confidently, turning in his seat to lean back against the door, and Patrick watches the way his eyes slide over to look at Town Hall again, a soft, wistful smile settling across his lips.

“Probably,” Patrick agrees. “But what’s the backup plan if we need it?”

This is what they do. It’s what they’ve done with the store and what they’ve done in their relationship, and now it’s what they’re doing with their wedding. David handles the dreams. Patrick handles reality. It works for them. It works really fucking well.

“Jocelyn is bringing the umbrellas the Jazzagals used for that Singin’ in the Rain medley. They’re fugly and yellow, but people only need them to get to the cafe, where we can move the reception inside if needed, so it’s going to be fine.” David says the last part like he’s practiced it, and in truth, he has. They’ve gone through their plans, their backup plans, the schedule for the day, the catering menu, their song selections, all of it enough that they both have the whole of the day memorized. Patrick feels like there’s nothing they haven’t prepared for, which is just the way he likes it. Sometimes David just needs to be reminded of that.

“And what if the power goes out?”

“The ceremony will be fine because it’s early enough and there are plenty of windows,” David recites. “There’s an extra case of Jennifer’s candles in the stock room at the store if we need them for the reception. Stevie is letting us borrow that ancient”—he swallows thickly, the next word sticking in his throat for a moment before he manages to free it—“boombox from the motel, which we can use as speakers for your phone. The batteries for it and a portable charger for your phone are already in the emergency bag.”

“You develop a sudden rash?”

“Cold compress and tea tree oil. If that doesn’t work, Alexis’s makeup. If that doesn’t work, Mom’s stage makeup. Absolute last resort: Photoshop.”

“We spill something on our tuxes?”

“My backup sweater and pants are already in my bag. You’ll wear the cashmere sweater I got you for your birthday and those grey slacks that make your ass look so good.”

Patrick gives him a knowing smirk. “You always think my ass looks good.”

“What? It’s a good ass!” He laughs, bright and loud, absolutely beautiful in his happiness, before his mouth twists into something sweeter and shier. “I’m gonna marry that ass.”

The smirk on Patrick’s face grows into a grin nearly too big to be contained. “And here I‌ thought you loved me for my sparkling personality.”

“Oh, I love that, too, but your ass is the real draw here.”

He chuckles and drops a happy kiss to David’s knuckles, brushing his thumb across the four rings he’d put there just a few months ago, the four rings that mean at this time next week David will be his husband. “Is this helping?”

David nods. “Yeah, just… can we keep going?”

They have a long, frighteningly extensive list of backup plans for every worst case scenario they could think of, from the mundane to the unlikely and absurd. Patrick is pretty certain they won’t need to use their backup plan for what happens if a member of the wedding party becomes possessed by a demonic entity, but if it makes David feel better to have a plan just in case, Patrick is more than happy to give him one (isolate the possessed person in the bathroom if possible, remove everyone else from the area if not, send another member of the wedding party to the church to get a priest).

He drops his melting container of ice cream into the cup holder and takes David’s hands to run through the rest of the list. “The caterer doesn’t show?”

“We order delivery from Panucci’s.”

“The cake collapses?”

“There are mini cupcakes in the freezer at the store.”

“The heel on one of your mother’s shoes breaks?”

“Dad’s bringing an extra pair in the car.”

“The officiant doesn’t show?”

“Roland—god forbid—conducts the ceremony from the copy of the script saved on Stevie’s phone.”

“An osprey gets loose in Town Hall?”

“We— What the fuck is an osprey?”

Patrick bites back a laugh, swallowing hard to try to keep it from spilling out of his mouth. He doesn’t do a very good job of it. “A big bird. Like a hawk.”

David glares at him, though the corner of his mouth twitches upward in spite of him. “You were in charge of the backup plans, and I don’t think you made one for that. Now if an ostrich—”

“Osprey.”

“—interrupts our vows, it’s going to be all your fault, Patrick Brewer.”

Patrick grins and grins and grins some more, so incredibly in love with this man and the dramatic pout now aimed his way. “Well we wouldn’t want that,” he says, leaning teasingly across the center console, and David drags him the rest of the way in, pulling Patrick over to crash against his mouth, hard and brash as thunder. The heat of it rolls through him, echoing against tendon and bone, leaving them vibrating against one another, David stretching his fingers along the line of Patrick’s jaw, Patrick twisting his hands into David’s hair, dragging him closer, wanting more of him, wanting every good and gorgeous thing he can give him. 

Unfortunately, they’re in the front seat of his car in the middle of the afternoon, parked practically in the center of town. It’s not exactly an ideal place for David to give him anything at all, so Patrick lets all of his buzzing desire settle back down into a gentle hum and reluctantly pulls away.

David watches him go, starry-eyed and slow, like he’s still stuck somewhere in the moment with Patrick’s lips on his, finally coming back to himself with a long blink. “How do you do it?” he asks, a little wrinkle forming on his brow.

“Do what?”

“This.” The rings on his hand flash wildly as he gestures at the ice cream and Town Hall and everything else within view. “How do you always manage to know exactly what I need?”

Patrick shakes his head. “You think I‌ don’t know how to love you?” He reaches across to twine the fingers of their left hands together, one of David’s rings pressing against the place where his own will soon sit, squeezing against the feeling as he tries to find what he wants to say. “Best, I’ve spent the better part of three years thinking about and trying to do little else. I mean, I’m not perfect. And I’m— I’m still gonna get it wrong sometimes.” He looks up into the deep, steady warmth of those familiar brown eyes. “But this—loving you—it’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done. And I’m so glad I’m gonna get to spend the rest of my life doing it.”

Strong hands are dragging him in again before he even finishes his sentence, cradling his face so that David can kiss him long and deep and slow. 

If it’s also a little wet, Patrick pretends not to notice.

“I love you,” David whispers against his lips, and then his cheeks, and then his nose. “Do you know that?” He kisses Patrick’s eyelids and his chin and his forehead. “Do you know how much I love you?”

“I do,” Patrick says, feeling the warmth of David’s smile in the kisses fluttering all over his skin. “I do.” And he reels his fiancé back in so that he can savor the truth of it on his lips.

Far too soon though, David is leaning away again, just a trace of his panic returning as he asks, “Do you really think there might be an osprey?”

Patrick shakes his head but says, “I’ll make a backup plan just in case.” 

Seemingly satisfied, David tilts in to kiss him once more, laughing and joyous and light, and Patrick thinks that next week can’t possibly come soon enough.