Archive of Our Own

 ❄✨ December 22nd ✨❄

“... Drive safely, sweetheart, and please let us know you’ve made it. You know we worry.” 

Patrick sighs as he grips the steering wheel, SUV bouncing over the uneven back roads as the voicemail on speaker phone fades into silence on his lap. The thing is, he does know they worry. And if he told them exactly why he was avoiding Christmas at home, he’s not entirely sure they wouldn’t hop in the car and meet him at the cabin by sundown, oncoming storm be damned. 

Coming here, isolating himself, was supposed to prevent the people he loves from getting hurt, but it seems like the people he loves can never stop becoming collateral damage for his continued mistakes. 

The song on the radio changes, and Judy Garland’s voice slowly fills the car: 

“Have yourself a Merry little Christmas, let your heart be - ”

Patrick promptly switches it off with a sharp and succinct, “Nope,” as he guides the car along the road, trying to spot the entrance to their driveway in the worsening weather - oh. 

Their.

Well. It is, isn’t it. Theirs. Says so on the deed and everything. 

Scrubbing a gloved hand over his face because the car’s heater is on the fritz, he finally spots the tree they agreed looked like a Tim Burton set piece and slowly turns into the driveway, promptly slamming on his brakes and skidding on an ice patch when he realizes his car isn’t the only one there. 

“What the…” 

Then he recognizes the make. And the plates. And the small Rose Apothecary logo etched into the bottom right corner of the rear window. 

No.

Swallowing thickly, he pulls his toque onto his head and numbly fumbles for the door handle, grabbing one of his bags from the backseat, barely feeling the cold as he slowly heads towards the cabin. 

There’s no way. 

But there is, apparently. 

“Oh,” he breathes, because up until the moment he watches his ex-husband walk out of their kitchen, he honestly didn’t believe he’d actually find David here when he opened the front door. 

David freezes at the sound of his voice, and the ceramic mug he’s holding slips from his grip, shattering on the coffee table. It must be making a mess, but Patrick can’t tear his gaze away from those dark eyes, even as they stare back at him in unwelcome shock. 

“What are you doing here?” David blurts, and Patrick tries not to wince. He checked the calendar, he knows he did. 

“Um…” he licks his lips and tries again, “it’s my weekend.” David starts to shake his head, but Patrick plows on, because he checked the calendar. "I get Christmas. You get New Year's. I thought..." oh God, "I thought that's what we agreed. It’s in the calendar.” 

“No, I would have remembered if I had New Year's,” David says with a haughty sniff that Patrick doesn’t believe for a second. “I would have made plans.” 

Needing to look anywhere but at the desperate expression on David’s still-stunning face, Patrick glances at the table and the liquid about to reach the wood’s edge. “Right, I’ll just - ” He gestures to the mess, dropping his bag on the mat and removing his gloves before grabbing the roll of paper towels he stashed in the chest by the coat rack for situations such as these. Not exactly like these, though, because Patrick’s wildest dreams and worst nightmares couldn’t have tossed the two of them back together like this.

He unravels a couple of sheets and heads over to the coffee table, feeling a pang of… something; familiarity maybe, at always being the one to clean up David’s messes. He never minded, and he still doesn’t. Not really. It was a privilege then. It’s a privilege now. 

And what would his therapist have to say about that? 

“Oh my God,” David breathes. “Oh my God.” 

“It’s really fine, David. I got it before it reached the rug.” When he’s met with nothing but silence, he glances up to find David clutching his phone and biting into his lip hard enough to break skin. “What? What’s wrong?” 

“It’s, um,” David’s voice shakes and his eyes swim, and Patrick could barely handle that expression even when they were married let alone now that they’re divorced, “it’s your weekend.” 

Patrick finds himself almost smiling, even though nothing about this is funny. He wants to tease him, but David looks like he might break if he tried. Patrick certainly would. 

“I’m so sorry,” David says.  

“It’s okay,” he replies, and he finds himself meaning it. “What were you doing here anyway?” 

“What?” David still looks dazed, like he took a blow to the head, and Patrick can sympathize. It’s just instinct when in his company.  

“I said, ‘what were you doing here anyway.” 

“Oh, well.” He fidgets, clearly uncomfortable. Defensive. “Mandy has the store.” 

“I know,” Patrick says, and he leans into the natural need to needle. “I saw the calendar.” David’s resulting eye roll is exactly the kind of reaction Patrick had been hoping for. Nice to know he still has it. “No, I meant - what were you doing here, instead of…” he shrugs, the words harder to say than he thought they’d be after all of this time, “New York or LA.” 

“Oh.” And for a moment, David seems to understand the weight of the question, but he shakes it off with a flick of his wrist. “Alexis is with Ted and Mom’s on location for another Crows film, so…” 

“Right,” he nods and clenches his jaw, dropping the paper towels so he can shove his hands into his coat pockets. Why is he still wearing his coat? Sweat beads on the back of his neck. 

“Well,” David visibly swallows and claps his hands, “I’ll just get out of your hair then.” 

And it takes every ounce of Patrick’s willpower not to scream a knee jerk No at him. He’s watched David walk away too many times; he’s let him walk away too many times. Now, he just - he needs him to stay. Even if it hurts. 

“Why don’t you stay?” And Jesus it hurts. 

But David just stands there, staring. Sharing a cabin with his ex-husband is probably not how he envisioned spending his Christmas, but then again, this wasn’t exactly on Patrick’s bucket list either. The box of pity booze in the backseat of his car can attest to that. He shifts uncomfortably as every silent second stretches, finally taking off his toque and running a hand through his hair. 

“I mean - you’re here, and it’s already coming down pretty hard.” 

David shakes his head vehemently. “No, I can’t do that,” he grinds out.

“Of course you can.” Like this is easy, but then David kneecaps him with two simple words: 

“Where’s Ryan?” 

“Oh.” The question physically winds him, and he steps back, finally pushing the door shut with a trembling hand, shaking for a reason that has nothing to do with the cold. He didn’t even realize David knew Ryan’s name. “Um, we broke up.” 

“Oh,” David murmurs, enigmatic in a way he never was before. Patrick could always tell what David was feeling, but now… 

He shoves his hands in his pockets again and gives a pathetic little shrug. “Yeah. Few weeks ago.” He knows he doesn’t feel as upset about it as he should, and that’s the whole point, isn’t it?  

Being here?

“Um, I’m sorry,” David manages, sounding shockingly genuine, but Patrick doesn’t really want to talk about Ryan. 

“David, please stay,” he softly urges. “I know how well that car drives in the snow.” God, the thought of David on those roads now… Patrick will bar the door and lock the windows if he has to. “Just stay.” Does he sound as desperate as he feels? He counterbalances with nonchalance. “How about you think it over while I get my things from the car,” he says with a smile that almost feels real. 

David nods as Patrick shoves the toque back on his head and opens the door once more, inhaling a rattling breath as soon as it shuts behind him, before bending down and placing trembling hands on wobbly knees. 

Fuck.

He stumbles his way over to his car again, reaching in the front seat to grab his phone from the cup holder, dialing the number he has saved in his Favorites, just beneath his parents and Stevie and Rachel and, yes, David. Still. 

“Dr. Bakshani’s office, this is Amanda.” 

“Hey, Amanda, it’s Patrick Brewer. I know I cancelled this week, but is there any chance my slot’s still open for a remote session?” 

“It should be, but let me check.” 

He holds his breath as he hears her tapping away on the keyboard for a moment.

“Yep. I can pencil you back in and we’ll send you a link in the morning, if that’s all right.” 

“That’s perfect. Thank you,” he says, sounding more relieved than he means to. 

“All right, you’re all set. Dr. Bakshani will see you tomorrow at 1pm. Hang in there, Patrick.” 

“Thanks, Amanda.” He hangs up the phone and tells himself he did the right thing as he grabs another duffle from the backseat as well as the box of bottles. Seeking help is not admitting to failure. It’s one of the many things he knows now. 

Trudging back up the snow-covered walk, he shoulders open the door to find David still standing basically where Patrick left him, an expression on his face that, frankly, Patrick never wants to see again. But it’s there and then it’s gone as David shakes himself and hurries over.  

“Do you need help?” he asks, already reaching out and taking the box from his hands. 

“No, David. I’m crashing your holiday - ”

“Pretty sure I’m crashing yours,” he mutters, looking down at the contents he’s carrying. Patrick tries not to flush with embarrassment. “Expecting a party?” 

“No, just…” But what’s the point in lying? “Well, maybe of the pity variety.” He drops his duffle and blows hotly into his gloveless hands. “Let me get the tree and then I’ll move all of this out of the way.” 

“I’m sorry, what?” David blurts. “The tree?” 

“Yeah, David,” he says with a wry smile as he turns toward the door. “Even a sad Christmas deserves a tree.” He leaves before he can see those words land. He doesn’t need David’s sympathy when this is a situation of his own making. He heads to the passenger side of the car, attempting to unhook the bungee cord as heavy tread on the stairs draws his gaze to the door once more. 

“What can I do?” 

“Oh, uh…” Patrick is genuinely surprised to see him. David Rose and ‘outdoor activities’ aren’t usually used in the same sentence. “Can you unhook the bungee from that side? I can take it from there, if you wouldn’t mind getting the door.” 

“Sure.” David heads to the driver’s side of the car they used to share and pulls on the handle to release the hook. “Okay, all set.” 

“Thanks,” Patrick replies, tugging at the slack and catching the bungee as it slides off the roof, before tossing it in the backseat of the car. Then he grabs hold of the small tree and hauls it over his shoulder. When he rounds the hood of the car, he’s impressed to find David already waiting at the front door in (he glances down) the boots Patrick gifted him to save his Rick Owens from the snow. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs again as he passes, still trying to wrap his brain around that one. David hated those boots even when they were married. Why on earth keep them now that they’re divorced? Necessity? It sure as hell isn’t because of sentiment. David’s exact words when he opened the box were, “Oh my God, why?”

Patrick leans the tree against the wall and rummages through the hall closet for the stand his father gave him. Them, really. It had been a gift after they bought the cabin and told his parents they’d miss Christmas with them so they could spend it together, just themselves. That had been the beginning of the end in retrospect - acknowledging that there was something serious to work on. 

David disappears to the kitchen with the box, and Patrick can hear him sliding wine in the custom rack and opening the refrigerator. He takes his bags upstairs, bypassing the main room, their room, and stopping dead in the doorway of the guest room. David’s suitcase rests on the leather bench, and his bottles are spread out on the dresser. Patrick backs out with a frown and heads into the main room instead, dropping his bags on the floor and tossing his coat on the bed. He can’t look at it for long, though. Such is the nature of heartbreak. 

Below, he hears David step back in the living room, and his curiosity is too much to keep the words at bay. 

“You didn’t take the main room,” he calls down from the loft. It’s not accusatory, but there is a question underneath.

David takes a moment to answer, then another. “I never take the main room,” he says quietly.  

And what does that mean? Patrick dares to lean over the railing, staring at David standing in the middle of the living room. David looks up, their eyes catch, and Patrick can see it - the agony he, too, is trying so hard to hide. 

“I’m fine in the guest room,” he says. Pleads. “Really.” 

Patrick nods and starts down the stairs once more, socked feet nearly slipping on the hardwood.  

“Well I’ll… get out of the way,” David murmurs, gesturing to the loft that Patrick just came from. 

“You really don’t have to - ” he starts, but in a miraculous burst of agility, David is already halfway up the steps (still wearing his boots) and waving him off. 

“No, really. There’s a sheet mask with my name on it,” he replies, and though the excuse sounds thin even to Patrick’s ears, he does know how seriously his ex-husband takes his skincare. 

It’s one of the things he misses most, their routine: sitting on the closed toilet seat or perched on the counter, watching David rub serum after lotion after serum onto his face, helping when offered the opportunity. He doesn’t remember the last time the offer came, and the missing knowledge hurts more than he ever thought it would. 

The bedroom door clicks shut, and Patrick rubs the back of his neck as he glances around. He hates that he knows David will be mad that he wore his slushy boots upstairs, but it’s just a fact. The sun rises in the east, sets in the west, David Rose likes things neat. 

Patrick leaves the paper towels out for easy access and gets started on building a fire. Luckily, there’s still some dry wood in the log holder next to the hearth and more in a pile under a tarp on the back porch. Years of experience nearly burning his fingers in the Scouts gets the fire roaring in no time, and he finds himself remembering the words he always said to David whenever he complained that it was too hot for flames: “A cabin needs a fire, David. Those are just the facts.” And David would whine and claim that the smoke was seeping into his knits, and yet he’d still curl up in the corner of the couch closest to the hearth with a book like an incredibly content house cat. All Patrick would have to do is run his fingers through his hair just to make him pur. 

He glances down at his left hand, surprised that even after four years, he still expects to see the light glinting off the band of gold. 

It never stops being a disappointment when he remembers that it’s no longer there. 

Pulling out his phone, he opens up his messages, needing to tell someone about the turn this weekend has taken. Deciding that between Stevie and Rachel, the former is most likely to understand how Very Bad This Is (and to probably have had a hand in it), he opens up his thread with her: a running commentary on the latest episode of the Interflix true crime doc they’re binging.

Did you know David was coming here?

Her reply is immediate enough to be suspicious: 

[Stevie]
Coming where?

She knows where!

Stevie! 

She’ll be no help to him, he understands this on a molecular level, and yet he has a sneaking suspicion that David is upstairs no doubt texting her the exact same thing. With a heavy sigh, he moves on to Rachel, because Stevie was David’s friend first and if he needs her right now, then so be it. 

David’s at the cabin.

Her reply is also strangely swift:

[Rachel]
Your cabin? 

Our cabin. 

[Rachel]
But you’re in it, too?

Yes!

[Rachel]
Omg tell me everything. 

He groans, mindful that noise travels easily in the cavernous living room. 

I’m not coming to you for gossip, I’m coming to you for emotional support! This is very bad!

She doesn’t respond immediately, though he can see the ellipses appearing and disappearing enough to worry him about the length of her reply. 

[Rachel]
Patrick, you went there for a reason. 

And she knows it. When he looked at the calendar and his math-happy brain made the connection, he called her in the midst of a panic attack so extreme, she could barely understand the words through his sobs. 

[Rachel]
Maybe David did, too. 

Patrick highly doubts their reasons are the same. 

[Rachel]
Look, are you happy to see him? 

And isn’t that the million dollar question? Is he happy? His emotions have been a complicated cocktail ever since he pulled into the drive and saw the car he taught David to haggle for parked out front. The last time they saw each other was last month when Patrick dropped off a delivery of Heather’s cheese. Conversation was stilted, as it always is, and the meeting was brief. Despite emailing the weekly reports, Patrick hasn’t interacted with him since. 

Looking back at Rachel’s text, he decides to answer as truthfully as he can. 

I don’t know. 

He drops the phone on the coffee table and looks at the tree, small and sad against the wall; fitting for the occasion, really. He sets the stand up in the corner on top of a plastic trash bag so the water doesn’t leak and ruin the floor. Then he lifts the tree and fits it into the stand, holding it by the trunk as he screws in the supports. Turning it so its best side faces the room, he gives a little nod and fills a pitcher with water, filling the stand to the brim. 

Standing with a groan, he strains to hear any movement upstairs, but he gets nothing in return, so he heads into the kitchen and places a pot on one of the burners, pulling out cocoa powder, sugar, milk, a bit of salt, and the Baileys. 

I don’t know. he had said, and he meant it. 

But it doesn’t mean he can’t try to find out. 

As he waits for everything to heat, he heads back into the living room and glances in the bag of decorations once more. After removing the boxes of ornaments, all that’s left are the knit stockings and the menorah he had purchased for David that first December they spent together. He honestly hadn’t intended to put them up; their names knitted together side-by-side was just a sight too painful for his already pained heart. But David is here and David is staying so Patrick pulls them out, hanging the stockings up on the mantle and lining the candles up, nine in a careful row. 

Returning to the kitchen, he pours two mugs of hot cocoa and adds the Baileys, taking a careful sip of his own and nodding at the taste. He heads back into the living room and places his mug on the coffee table, before heading up the stairs and holding his breath outside of David’s door. After a moment, he knocks hesitantly.  

“One second,” David calls, thumping around before pulling the door open, glancing first at Patrick’s face and then at the mug in his hands. 

“Hey,” he murmurs, holding it out like the peace offering he hopes it is. “Hot chocolate with Baileys.” 

David smiles, which is a good start, and then gingerly takes the cup in his hands. “Thank you.” 

It’s the closest they’ve stood together since Patrick arrived, an arm’s length away on either side of a threshold. Patrick takes the opportunity to look at him, to study him, cataloging the changes he’s never allowed himself to see. The months and years he’s missed etched into the new lines on David’s face, marked by the grey streaks in his temples. 

“This doesn’t have to be as awkward as it looks on paper,” he says with a slight smile. 

“Doesn’t it?” David replies abruptly, and Patrick’s smile widens. 

Look, are you happy to see him? 

Yes, it turns out. 

“Not if we don’t let it. Come on. I brought stuff for bolognese. Help me decorate.” Then he turns swiftly, giving David no choice but to follow. 

“You’ve been busy,” David says behind him, and Patrick nods, picking up his own mug from next to the box of ornaments and taking a gulp. 

“Prefer to be, honestly,” he replies. For so many reasons. 

David nods in understanding, though Patrick isn’t quite sure what it is he understands, before his eyes catch on something just over Patrick’s shoulder. He follows David’s gaze to the mantle and blushes. Maybe he shouldn’t have put them up. 

“Ah. I know Hanukkah’s over, but,” he gives a sheepish shrug, “wanted to represent.” 

“Thank you,” David whispers, looking incredibly touched. 

Patrick clears his throat and wipes his suddenly sweaty palms on his jeans. “I’m going to get the lights up on the tree, and I know you have very particular opinions about ornament placement so I’ll let you tackle that while I start dinner?” David nods so Patrick turns towards the tree, but then David’s voice rings out, sounding more scared and uncertain than he’s perhaps allowed himself to be all afternoon: 

“Are we really doing this?” 

For some reason, the insecure tone bolsters Patrick, making him feel confident and like he’s not the only one spinning out of control beneath the surface. It’s a glimpse of their old dynamic; a shadow of it, but a glimpse nevertheless. Patrick snorts and smiles for more than one reason as he points towards the window and the inches of snow already piling up on the sill outside. “Yeah, David. We’re really doing this.” 

Christmas with his ex-husband. 

And to all a good night, indeed.

Patrick turns and wrestles with the lights, white instead of the colored ones he grew up with because David said colored lights were incorrect. Just one of the many things Patrick was more than happy to cave on. It’s methodical work, and he loses himself in it, startling when all of a sudden another set of hands is helping him untangle a stubborn knot in the string. 

David’s face glows gorgeously and for a moment, Patrick can do nothing but stare at him. At the man he was lucky enough to win and stupid enough to lose. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs, clearing his throat and getting to work on wrapping them around the tree. It’s small so it doesn’t take a lot of time, and he watches out of the corner of his eye as David pokes around the boxes of ornaments, evidence of holidays shared. Two years ago, Patrick buried all of the more nostalgic, meaningful ones in the crawlspace; it just hurt too much to look at them. David must not have decorated at all last year, because it really was his turn to have Christmas at the cabin. Surely, he would have noticed.  

“All yours,” he says as he steps back, making sure the lights are evenly spaced. Then he leaves David with a small smile and disappears into the kitchen, hating the awkward silence as he pulls groceries out. “Do you mind if I put on some Christmas music?” he calls. “I promise to keep it on low.” 

“That’s fine,” David replies, and Patrick waits for the stipulations that will inevitably follow, but they never come. Knowing his ex as he does, though, he puts on Celine Dion anyway, watching surreptitiously as a small smile tugs at the corner of David’s lips. But it doesn’t last, and David pauses as he stares at his hand. Whatever thought is in his head is pulling him far away.

Patrick steps forward and leans against the door frame, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hey, you okay?”

David jumps and glances up, looking like he’s been caught stealing wine from the store again. “Yeah, yeah, good,” he replies in a tone about as convincing as if he said he brought a polyester Christmas onesie to wear to bed. “Drank too much too fast, I think,” he says, holding up his mug. “Um, are you okay?” 

Patrick frowns and steps closer. Why wouldn’t he be? David is the one staring at the tree like it’s offended his aesthetic. “With what?” 

“I mean - you and Ryan,” David murmurs, punching Patrick in the chest without ever lifting a fist. And then he goes and says, “Do you… want to talk about it?” He honestly sounds like he doesn’t really want to listen, but the fact that he offered is… 

Well, it’s really nice. 

“No, David. I’m okay.” He squeezes his shoulder, nearly gasping at feeling the warmth beneath his sweater. It’s not lost on Patrick that it’s the first time they’ve touched all night. “But I really appreciate you asking.” And he does. He so does. But he forces himself to let go and return to the kitchen, traitorous lips whistling Celine so they don’t do anything else. 

He goes out about making dinner, chopping carrots, sauteing garlic, and generally moving hands that never quite got used to the missing weight of a ring long gone. By the time the sauce is simmering, Celine has turned over to Kelly, and Patrick wipes his hands on a dish towel, watching from the kitchen island as David places the ornaments on the tree without any of the care he normally does. There are two red balls within five branches of each other and that is usually completely unacceptable. 

Frowning slightly, Patrick stirs the sauce and boils a pot of water for the pasta, thinking back to what David said: 

“Are you okay?”
“With what?” 
“I mean - you and Ryan.” 

It’s like an unspoken rule was forged before the ink had even dried on their divorce papers. Neither spoke about non-store related things in the months and years that followed. Sure, they asked about each other’s families in the passing over of a shipment or during an awkward encounter at the Cafe, but it was as if the privilege of knowing each other’s love lives was revoked when the privilege of loving each other stopped being theirs. 

Sure, he and Stevie talk, but Stevie has very carefully drawn her lines in the sand, and Patrick respects that. He’s honestly been too scared to find out if David is dating anyone; if he met anyone in any of those big cities that Patrick would never belong in.  

The water almost boils over, and he shakes himself out of his thoughts, pouring the pasta in and giving it a stir. Then he heads over to the wine rack, his hand hovering over one of the bottles he’d brought. There’s no way David won’t remember it. And it’s fitting, really, because there’s no one Patrick would share this vintage with than the man in the other room. 

Wine opened, he heads through the doorway carrying two heaping bowls of bolognese to find a fully decorated tree. David gives him a tight, if genuine smile as he passes one over, and Patrick returns to the kitchen for the bottle and two glasses. 

David stares at the label when he comes back, and Patrick clears his throat, blaming the burning of his ears on the fire roaring in the grate. 

“So, my plan was to drown my sorrows in a bottle of wine and old holiday movies. Care to join?” 

David laughs and nods, settling on the couch as Patrick sets up his laptop, mentally scrolling through Interflix, wondering what the hell two ex-husbands can watch that won’t set them off on a spiral of blame and self-recrimination. 

“Um, White Christmas?” Bing Crosby is safe, right? It’s snowing. Makes sense. 

“Sure,” David quietly replies, more reserved in choosing a movie than Patrick has ever seen him before. It was a Battle Royale every Saturday night; a loving battle, though, where the shots were cheap, but the words were soft. 

They share the blanket that David draped over the back of the couch one day in that casually elegant way he has that Patrick’s been trying to replicate ever since. He’s sure that, even without the calendar, David would know when Patrick had been here merely due to his lacking folding technique. 

They laugh at Danny Kaye’s antics and appreciate Rosemary Clooney’s wardrobe, shedding a tear for the General as snow finally begins to fall in Vermont, as only it can in a technicolor happy ending. 

“Here, I’ve got these,” David says as he stands, grabbing their bowls and heading to the kitchen before Patrick can even argue. 

“Thanks.” He stares at the fire, feeling like every time he takes a step forward, something happens that drags him right back. After the divorce, a step forward was just getting out of bed. Then he’d see something of David’s that he forgot to pack and climb right back under the covers. After finally coming to terms with the fact that every tread on the stairs wasn’t David coming home, a step forward was Rachel suggesting he start dating again and him not immediately hanging up on her. When he finally created an account on Bumpkin, a step forward was actively using it - until he came across David’s profile and promptly deleted the app. 

And now he’s here, at the cabin they share, because for all of his steps forward, he hasn’t actually gone anywhere. 

A board creaks, and he glances up to find David standing in the door frame. Patrick clears his throat and hopes his eyes are dry. “Sorry, lost in thought.” 

David shakes his head and steps closer, looking like he might have something to say, something Patrick might want to hear, but he’s in too vulnerable a state for that. 

“I think I’m gonna head up,” he preempts, standing and stretching with a groan.

David nods and murmurs,“Thank you for dinner.” 

Patrick nods, too, because that seems to be the only way they can communicate today. “Thank you for staying.” 

His shoulders slump and his steps feel heavy as he climbs, weighed down by all he’s carrying. Below, David moves around, and Patrick is comforted by the familiar noise as he washes his face and brushes his teeth. 

He doesn’t let himself cry until he hears that sound, though: 

The sound of David’s tread on the stairs, heading for a bed that they no longer share. 

❄✨ December 23rd ✨❄

When he wakes, he experiences a solid thirteen seconds of bliss before he remembers where he is and why. 

The sheets are the same, the walls are the same, but everything’s different, as if someone took his view and shifted it slightly off center. 

He grabs his phone and blinks at the time: 8:09am, before wincing at the string of unanswered texts from his mother that he honestly didn’t think to check last night. In his defense, he didn’t look at his phone at all. He dropped his stuff upstairs and left, too enthralled and terrified by what was still down below. 

[Mom]
Did you make it? 

[Mom]
Sweetheart, please let us know. 

[Mom]
Patrick, I’m starting to worry. 

[Mom]
I’m calling Rachel. 

For a moment, he’s concerned about what Rachel might have said; if she told them about David and the fact that they each stayed, despite everything. He’s honestly not sure what his parents would think about that. Well, he knows what they would think. What they’d say to his face is an entirely different matter. 

[Mom]
Got Rachel. She said she heard from you and that you were dealing with something at the cabin? I hope everything’s all right. Call whenever you can. We have no set plans tomorrow.

He feels terrible. She probably thought he was dead on the side of the road before she got a hold of Rach. 

So sorry, Mom. I’m fine. I’ll FaceTime later in the morning. 

Then he kicks the covers back and swings his legs over the side of the bed, resting his elbows on his knees and sighing heavily against his palms. If someone had told him this is how he’d be spending his Christmas, he would have asked how much spiked eggnog they’d consumed. 

He pulls on a hoodie over his sweatpants and t-shirt, before quietly opening the door and sliding out before the hinge can creak. David sleeps like he’s been tranquilized (or at least he used to), so Patrick doubts the noise would wake him, but he needs some time to wrap his brain around… everything, before facing his ex-husband for the second day in a row. 

He brushes his teeth in the shared bathroom and then heads downstairs to make some coffee, reminding himself that extra scoops are needed since David drinks infinitely more than he does in the mornings. While that brews, he sets about making the fire, because the cabin should always have a fire, no matter what David says. 

Coffee poured and wood burning, he sits in the corner of the couch he’s always thought of as his. It supported him at the perfect angle so David could use him as a chaise, and the leather never stopped molding to his body, even when David stopped curling into his. 

Grabbing his book, he loses himself to a couple of hours of reading, letting the caffeine wake him up and brace him for the day. Eventually a thunk echoes down from upstairs, maybe a phone falling off a bedside table, but nothing else. No footsteps or anything. He glances at the clock on the wall, an antique they found at a fair in Elm Glen and argued over for 37 minutes straight, before putting his book face down on the cushion to get started on breakfast. 11:07 becomes 11:43, however, and David still hasn’t appeared. If he doesn’t soon, Patrick will have to head back upstairs if he wants to have time to touch base with his parents before his 1pm appointment. He really hopes David’s awake by then. The walls aren’t exactly thick. 

Putting the stack of leftover french toast in the oven to keep warm, he begins on the dishes, letting his mind drift as he scrubs and dries until movement out of the corner of his eye distracts him. 

David stands there in his joggers and his Uggs with pillow lines on his face, looking like he slept maybe two hours altogether, and Patrick doesn’t think he’s ever seen anyone more adorable or desirable in his life. 

“Good morning,” he greets, holding out a cup of coffee. David only grunts in reply but accepts it, and it’s fine. Patrick is used to him being nonverbal in the morning. “There’s a plate of french toast warming in the oven.” 

The moan that leaves David’s mouth nearly makes Patrick hard in his sweats, which is not good. They’re grey.  

“Are you sure you didn’t know I was going to be here?” David asks. 

“Trust me, I’m sure,” Patrick replies, turning away to wipe something, anything, on the counter. “I packed my favorite comfort foods. It’s a happy accident that we like the same things.” 

“Or careful grooming on my part,” David says, and Patrick can’t help it, he laughs. 

“Yeah, maybe. Though you’ll have to explain to me then why you brought all of the ingredients for my mom’s turkey chili.” The way David freezes proves Patrick has him. “Maybe it was the other way around,” he continues, winking without meaning to. David chokes on his coffee. “Speaking of my parents, I need to go FaceTime them. I promised I’d do it last night to let them know I made it, but…” he shrugs. “Got distracted.” 

Understatement of the century, right there. 

“Why didn’t you go see them?” David softly asks, and something in his tone makes Patrick wonder if David misses his parents the way his parents miss David. 

“Oh, I just…” He makes another swipe with the sponge, following it with a dry dish towel. “I guess I didn’t want to bring down the mood. Ya know?” 

David hums, like he does, and then says, “Well tell them I said hi,” like he always has. 

Patrick can’t help the way his eyes widen, and something in David’s expression shutters. Shit. 

“Or don’t. Yeah, don’t do that.”

“No, it’s not - ” Patrick nearly strangles the dish towel in his grasp. Fix this. “They’d love to hear from you. They… they miss you.” His throat works as he swallows. “A lot. I just - I don’t want them to get the wrong impression.” He gestures between them as if it needs stating. He gestures between them like it’s not obvious.  

“Yeah. Of course,” David quietly replies, and Patrick gives him a sad smile. 

“Why raise their hopes, right?” Then he tosses the dish towel on the counter and leaves, getting all the way to the fourth step before realizing just what exactly it is that he said. 

Yep, he just told David that. 

“Wonderful,” he mutters, suddenly not looking forward to dodging his parents’ well-meaning, but inevitably grating concern. 

He sits in the middle of the bed, setting his laptop up on a small pile of pillows to get the ideal height and opening up FaceTime. Sliding his headphones in, he hits his mother’s contact and waits for the spotty broadband to lurch its way to a connection.

“Patrick?” God, he can still hear the worry in her tone. He’s the worst son. 

“Hi, Mom. I’m so sorry, can you see me?” 

The pixels come together, and she nods, brow pinched in a way that pangs something in Patrick’s chest. “I can see you. Oh, we were so worried.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

They worry more now. Than they did. Now that he’s on his own. 

Though if he’s honest with himself, they’ve been worrying ever since the divorce because they could tell that even with Ryan, Patrick was still alone.

“As long as you’re okay. And the cabin?” 

“Uh, yeah. Cabin’s good. Still standing,” he says with a slight chuckle. 

“Why are you in the bedroom, sweetie?” 

Yeah, he didn’t think about that. “Oh, it’s just warmer up here.” 

“Isn’t the fireplace downstairs?” she asks with a frown.

“Okay, Columbo. I haven’t gotten that far yet. Leave a man to his lounging.” 

His dad takes that moment to pop into frame, pressing a kiss to his mom’s cheek. “Give the kid a break, Marce.” 

“Oh hush, you,” she says as she swats him, and something in Patrick aches. 

He almost had that. He did have that. But then he gave it all away.

They chat about everything and nothing, each attempting to discuss the holiday while actively sidestepping the reason why they’re not all together for it. Patrick had explained it as best he could - it was a tough time, he needed space, he didn’t want to bring everybody down - but his best could have been better. It could have been the truth. 

But he can barely think it, let alone say it, and so he doesn’t. 

The clock in the corner of the computer inches closer to 1pm, and he clears his throat to say his goodbyes. 

“I have my appointment soon, so I should run.” He’s made no secret to his parents that he’s in therapy. They’re incredibly supportive, and he’s grateful. 

“Oh you do? I thought you canceled it,” his mom says, because she remembers everything.

“Ah, nope. Just doing it remotely.” 

It’s the first lie of many he’ll probably have to tell about this trip.

“Okay, well, we’ll call you on Christmas, if not sooner.” 

“Sounds good. Love you.” 

“Love you, sweet boy.” 

He signs off and has just enough time to run to the bathroom and check his reflection in the mirror. He’s still in his pajamas, but if anyone isn’t going to judge him, it’s his therapist. Sitting back on the bed, he pulls up the email from Amanda with the video conference link and stills before clicking it for a moment to see if he can hear any noise from downstairs. 

Nothing. 

Clearing his throat and settling in, he pops his neck and takes a deep breath, hitting the link and waiting for it to connect. The kind face of his therapist smiles at him a moment later. 

“Hello, Patrick. How are you today?” It’s not a leading question; there’s no tone indicating that he can’t be all that great considering he remade the appointment not 24 hours ago. 

“Hi, Priya.” He chuckles ruefully and rubs at his forehead. “Ya know? I’ve been better, I gotta say.” 

“Oh?” Again, no tone. Just a typical response. 

He hums. “Yeah, I - uh… I came to the cabin…”

She nods, because that’s why he’d canceled the appointment to begin with. He’d told her he was coming here to work some things out for himself. 

“And, um, when I got here, well. David was inside.” 

If she’s surprised by this, she doesn’t show it. Professional decorum has her barely lifting a brow. “To be clear, you mean David, your ex-husband,” she says. 

“Yep, that’s the one,” he clips.  

She takes her glasses off, and he hears the thunk of them as they hit the desk. 

“Right. Let’s start with that then, shall we?” 

❄✨❄

By the time he closes his computer, he feels hollowed out, but better. More at ease with the situation, if not exactly accepting of it. At least he doesn’t think he’ll burst into tears the next time he lays eyes on David’s bare ring fingers, which is a monumental achievement, make no mistake. Patrick remembers the first time he walked into the store and saw David without them; not just his wedding ring, but also the four gold bands Patrick had grown so used to tracing with his thumb. He went home, got in bed, and didn’t get out again until Stevie banged down his door almost 48 hours later. 

He carefully opens the door and slips out before the creak of the hinge can give him away again, peeking over the top of the railing to find David sitting on the couch, typing away on his phone with a frown. Patrick watches him for a moment, smiling as he huffs at whatever response he’s just gotten before typing out what is no doubt a fiery retort of his own. Only two people can inspire that kind of textual indignation in him. Patrick used to joke that he’d crack his screen with how hard he was slamming his thumbs against it. 

Then his face morphs into an expression that gives Patrick an answer as to which of the women in his life David is talking to before he tosses the phone on the coffee table and sits back with a sigh. 

“Hey,” Patrick murmurs, delighting at the way he’s still able to startle David. “Alexis?” he asks, pointing at the phone. 

David rolls his eyes. “How could you tell?”  

“Your face does a thing,” he says as he starts down the steps. 

“I’m sorry - my face does a thing? Care to elaborate?” 

“Mm, nah,” he replies, just to rile David up. “I can just always tell when it’s Alexis on the other end of the phone.” 

David pouts and burrows further into the couch like a disgruntled cat. Patrick almost expects him to start pawing at the cushions, which is such an amusing vision that he barks out a laugh. Whatever edges David had seem to soften at the sound, and eventually, he smiles too. Begrudgingly, but Patrick will take it. 

“How are they?” David asks, nodding at Patrick’s own phone hanging limply in his grip, and it takes him a second to understand, because he didn’t actually use the phone to talk to his parents. 

“Good. Yeah, they’re… they’re good.” 

Another lie. Another mark on the tally. 

“Missing you, I’m sure,” David says as he fiddles with a page of his book. 

Patrick clenches his jaw because missing him is the least of what they feel. Their worry was palpable through the screen. “Yeah.” 

“You know, we can exist in the same space. You don’t have to,” David waves towards the loft, “hide up there if I’m down here. We did just fine last night.” 

“No, I know,” he says, nodding. “I just… needed some time.” He contemplates telling him about therapy - David wouldn’t judge; David would be proud - but he doesn’t. Not yet. 

They face each other with nothing but the ticking clock from Elm Glen for company. “So how early is too early to start drinking when you’re trapped in a cabin with your ex?” David asks, and Patrick grins, replying, “What do you think was in my coffee this morning?” 

David stands, and Patrick sees him shiver as he wraps the blanket around himself, so he heads over to the fire and throws a few more logs on the dwindling blaze he wasn’t there to stoke, trying not to see it for the metaphor it could be. 

“If we’re going to stay in pajamas all day, this is going to need to be bigger,” he says, grateful that he’s not the only one who didn’t bother to change. “You get the booze, I’ll get the wood.” 

There’s a joke there, but he doesn’t touch it.

“I am… very good with that," David says, dropping the blanket on the couch and heading for the kitchen. 

Patrick slides his boots on and grabs the empty log carrier from its spot beside the hearth. He doesn’t bother putting his coat on, a decision he regrets immensely when he opens the door and gets suckerpunched by the wind. 

He groans as he piles the logs on as quickly as possible, returning to the warmth of the cabin just as David pokes his head out of the kitchen. 

“Hey, I thought I might make the chili tonight.” 

“Mom’s chili?” Patrick teases after he drops the logs, and David rolls his eyes. 

“Yes, Marcy’s chili, you want it or not?” 

“I do, David, thank you,” he says softly, dropping the banter.

“Mkay.” David turns and marches back into the kitchen, Patrick following shortly after with a few small logs to start up the wood-burning stove in the corner. The kitchen is the draftiest part of the house, its windows bearing the full brunt of the brutal wind off the lake, and he knows David will be cold, no matter how many burners he lights. 

Job done, he hovers awkwardly, not wanting to seem like he’s lurking but also not wanting to walk away just yet. They’ve already spent half the day apart. 

“How’s the store?” he asks and David pauses mid-onion slice, turning over his shoulder to raise an eyebrow at him. 

“That’s worrisome. Shouldn’t you know? You’re still the numbers guy.” 

“Looking at a sales report isn’t exactly getting the full picture, from an aesthetic perspective,” he says, taking David’s conversational engagement as permission to perch at the butcher’s block.  

David goes back to slicing, his voice even but not hard as he says, “You can come in, you know. You’re not, like, banned from entry.”  

Patrick wants to argue that their last fight certainly made it seem like he was, but then David is turning and heaving out a gust of breath that seems to carry the weight of the world on it. 

“She’s still half yours.”  

Patrick shrugs, unwilling to show just how much that means to him. Just how much those four words have made this Christmas worth it, even if they’re the only four he gets. “Sometimes it’s easier to look from afar.” 

“Yeah,” he croaks, looking like he sympathizes only all too well before turning back to the counter. “I get that.” 

Patrick clears his throat and slaps his hands on his thighs because if they’re going to do this, he needs alcoholic fortification. “So about that booze…” 

David laughs and gestures towards a cabinet with his elbow. “I was thinking wine. There’s a good pinot noir in there, I think. I figured a lighter red for our day-drinking.” 

Patrick chuckles and pulls it out, studying the label as he heads back to the island to sit once more. “This is a nice wine, David. You sure you want to share?”

“What’s mine is yours,” he replies, and for all the work he’s done on himself, Patrick still has a long way to go, because that’s the only explanation for what next leaves his lips: 

“Well, we both know that’s not true.” 

Patrick watches David’s back go rigid and the knife in his hand go still; he watches the hurt wash over him like water over a rock. Regret burns thick in his throat and why hasn’t time travel been invented yet because he’d love to go back just five seconds if he could. 

Five years, if they’re offering. 

“Jesus, David, I’m sorry.” He stands so fast, the stool nearly goes out from under him. “That - I don’t know where that came from.” 

David unfreezes long enough to drizzle some olive oil into a pan and toss the onions in. He hasn’t said anything, and Patrick doesn’t blame him. Then he lights the burner, wipes his hands on a towel, and finally turns around, his words as damning as they are sad: “Sure you do.” 

“No,” Patrick shakes his head, “that was a dig that wasn’t justified at all. You don’t - I mean, look at all we share,” he gestures around them, his desperation rising. “You just said the store was still half mine. I’m sorry.” He breathes. He focuses. He prays. “You didn’t deserve that.” 

David nods, but whether in agreement or forgiveness, Patrick isn’t sure. Maybe both. The onions start sizzling, and David shows him his back once more. Maybe it makes it easier for him to say: 

“As divorces go, I suppose ours was pretty amicable.” 

Silence falls again. They both know neither would use that word to describe what it actually felt like. 

It felt like Patrick was dying, but what should have been a fatal blow wasn’t enough to actually kill him. The half-life he’s been living since isn’t actually a life at all, no matter how many breaths he takes. 

“You’re getting better at that by the way,” David murmurs after a moment.  

“What, putting my foot in my mouth?” he mutters, picking up the wine opener and twisting it in his hands. 

“No. Talking through things.” 

Patrick nods because he is; David’s not wrong. He should tell him, he knows he should. He’d want to know. “So my therapist tells me,” he says, immediately feeling like a burden’s been taken from his shoulders.  

David puts the spoon down, giving Patrick his full attention. “You’ve been in therapy?” 

He nods again. “For the past four years.” He doesn’t think it’s lost on David that that’s how long they’ve been divorced. “That’s actually where I was, after I called my parents. I was having a remote session.” 

David looks like he’s wondering if that was set before or after Patrick walked in to find him in the living room because he knows Patrick too well - 

“Don’t worry, David. It was always on the calendar,” he says with a small smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. Another lie. Another tally. This one isn’t as heavy, though, because Patrick knows the truth would be more painful for David to hear. “Though I can’t deny the timing was…” he clears his throat, “fortuitous.” 

There. That wasn’t so hard. 

“Well, if we’re… sharing or whatever,” David starts, biting his lip, “I had to get into meditation after I spent the two days after I signed the papers in the throes of a panic attack so bad, Stevie took me to the hospital.” 

“What?” Patrick stops himself from going to him, from checking him over head-to-toe to make sure he’s still intact, but barely. Because the world needs David Rose, even if Patrick Brewer will always think he needs him a little more. 

“Yeah, so.” 

Yeah, so. Like he didn’t just upend Patrick’s world. 

David turns to the stove and continues to cook, leaving Patrick to watch his back and wonder what else he’s missed since his back became the most he usually saw of him. He finally opens the bottle of wine because he should at least contribute something to this meal since he’s not contributing much to the conversation, but his brain won’t leave it. 

It never does when it comes to David.

“Are you okay?” he finally asks. 

“Are you?” David volleys back. 

“Are we?” He holds his breath, feeling like so much more than just the course of this evening, of this weekend, rests on the answer. 

“Yeah,” David murmurs, taking a sip of the glass Patrick hands him. “We’re okay.” 

And isn’t that a Christmas miracle? 

“Good.” 

It warms him in a way that has nothing to do with the first glass of wine he sips, sitting at the island and watching David cook with a confidence Patrick’s not sure he ever had before. It keeps warming him through the second glass as they make cautious but no longer awkward small talk,  and through the third when David divvies up the chili, remembering just how much cheese Patrick likes to top it with. 

They move into the living room, closer to the fire, and Patrick takes the chair instead of the couch because the wine is making his head think thoughts he hasn’t allowed himself in quite some time. He’s still warm; warm and full and happy, which is the first time he’s been able to say that in entirely too long. He’s even warm when he goes outside for more firewood and promptly slips on the ice, yelping in hazy pain as David laughs at him from the doorway. 

“You’re so mean! Help me up!” 

“And fall right down next to you? Absolutely not.” 

But Patrick wouldn’t mind. 

When he comes back inside, he takes the couch instead of the chair for reasons he doesn’t examine, and he shifts uncomfortably, wondering how bad the bruise will be in the morning. David still won’t stop giggling. 

“Shut up,” he grumbles, but he’s smiling. “That really hurt.” 

“Your ass can take it,” David replies, and a bolt of want zings up Patrick’s spine like lightning, making him shift for different reasons. 

His glass is empty, the lights are low, and David’s toes are tucked beneath his thigh, just like then. Just like always. 

“What do you wanna do?” David asks, poking him slightly, words slur-softened and lazy. “We could be predictable and watch It’s a Wonderful Life or something.” 

Patrick hums but shakes his head. “It’s not Christmas Eve.” They always saved that for Christmas Eve. 

“Close enough.” 

Nuh uh, no. “George Bailey can't suffer until December 24th,” he announces, tempted to stick a finger in the air like a proclamation, before he gets an idea. "We could play a game.” 

“Two is not enough - ”

“For optimal gameplay, I know,” Patrick finishes, because David’s changed, but not that much. “I mean - not like a board game. Like a - like a word game. A game with words.” 

David frowns. “Like Scrabble?” 

Patrick swats (and misses) at his thigh. “That has a board. No, like 20 Questions. Or Truth or Dare.” And he knows, he knows the second the words leave his mouth, what a monumentally stupid idea that is, but the words are out and that’s a problem for Future Patrick to deal with. Daring to turn his head to see how his suggestion has landed, Patrick is startled to find that David looks intrigued. He pokes Patrick with his toes again. 

“Fine, you start. Question, truth, both, whatever.” 

And oh, Future Patrick dropped the ball because he didn’t think this far ahead. “Crap.” Then he tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling, searching for a question, surprised when he finds it in the whorls of the wood. He should tell him. It’s time. “Did you know this was supposed to be a house?”

David snorts. “It is a house.” 

“No, I mean…” He shakes his head but doesn’t stop staring at the ceiling. He can’t look at David as he says this. He feels himself sobering with every word that leaves his lips. “I told you that the store had had a couple of particularly good quarters. That’s why we were able to afford the down payment for this place.” 

“Yeahhh…?” 

Patrick huffs out a laugh, but there’s nothing funny about it. “Truth was, I’d already had the money tucked away. Almost put an offer in on a house, that little cottage you liked so much. You know, the one that you said reminded you of Kate’s Winslet’s cottage in The Holi - ” 

“But - ” David interrupts, sounding somewhat breathless, “that was before we were even married.” 

“Yep.” He still can’t stop looking at the ceiling. 

“So why didn’t you?” 

He gives a little shrug, because there’s really only one reason why. “You went to New York.” 

“And you stayed here,” David murmurs. 

“And I stayed here,” he quietly replies. “Stevie said I was an idiot, but then again, she always says that.” 

“Stevie knew?!”

He nods. “I swore her to secrecy. I know she was your friend first but she was my friend, too.” Then he pats David’s ankle and leaves his hand there because he needs to. “Please don’t hold it against her.”

“But she never said anything. Even after...” 

He sees David gesture between the two of them out of the corner of his eye and smiles sadly. “Yeah, I asked her not to,” he murmurs, rubbing his thumb back and forth over David’s ankle bone. Of all the truths to start out with, that one was a whopper, but David needed to know. 

“It wasn’t all bad, was it?” David whispers, and Patrick finally turns his head to look at him. 

Jesus, no. He can’t think that, can he? “Hardly any of it was bad, David.” 

“And yet,” he croaks. 

Patrick sighs. “And yet.” He squeezes David’s ankle again, because here they are: drunk and sad but somehow not alone. One out of three ain’t bad. It’s better odds than he’s used to. “What about you?” 

“What about me?” David asks, sounding distracted. Patrick doesn’t blame him, and yet - 

“I just went,” he states. “It’s your turn.” Because that’s how the game goes. 

David hums, looking like he, too, doesn’t know whether or not to say whatever it is he’s about to say; but he does: “Did you know I stalked him once?” 

Patrick frowns. “Who?” 

“Your boyfriend.” 

That phrase leaving David’s lips is wrong on multiple levels, but Patrick snorts and sits forward, just shy of clapping his hands together at this revelation. “Really?” 

“Yeah.” David can’t look at him. “I blame Stevie.” 

“Naturally.”

“She found him on social media. So I knew what he looked like. I was coming out of Brebner's and he was going in. I may have… hidden behind a few displays. It wasn’t my proudest moment.”  

Patrick grins. “And what did he do?”  

“He bought a bouquet of flowers,” David snaps, and the smile slides from Patrick’s face. “Presumably they were for you. I stopped following him after that.” 

Patrick shifts, because they were for him. Unless Ryan was cheating, but Patrick knows him well enough to know that though he wasn’t a gestures guy, he wasn’t a cheater either. It was probably their first fight - the first and only time Ryan came home with a bouquet behind his back. He didn’t cause hurt on purpose. 

Not like Patrick once did.

“I have a confession to make,” he murmurs, and David groans, knocking back what’s left of his wine before reaching for the bottle for a refill. 

“I assume I need this?” 

“Yeah, probably,” he says, hanging his head in shame. “I, uh, I once purposefully put Date Night on the cabin calendar instead of my own. I made sure to leave it on there long enough for you to see it.”

“I remember,” David quietly replies, and Patrick can hear the pain in his voice; can see the white of his knuckles as he clutches the bottle of wine to his chest.

“I think I wanted to hurt you the way you had hurt me.” And now he’s done it twice. His breath hitches and he blinks, tears burning the corners of his eyes. “I think I ended up hurting myself more in the end.” He gestures to the bottle, which he knows is the last thing either of them needs, but if this is going to continue, “May I?” 

David hands it over, and their fingers brush. “Did you love him?”

He should have. A year is a long time. Plenty of opportunities to allow himself to fall. 

He pours the wine in the glass and watches it swirl. “I wanted to. I tried to.” He nods and licks his lips, his voice breathless and broken when he admits, “I really tried.”  

“Hey,” David murmurs, reaching out and placing a hand on Patrick’s forearm, showing far more kindness than Patrick deserves. “I know you love to self-flagellate, but… if you didn’t love him, and you didn’t think you’d ever be able to love him, then you did the right thing.” 

Patrick huffs out a laugh because of course his ex-husband is saying the thing he needs to hear, even if it’s in regards to his ex-boyfriend. “Thank you, David.” 

David squeezes Patrick’s arm in return, and Patrick looks down, staring, briefly running his thumb over a path he traced long ago. 

“You don’t wear your rings anymore,” he murmurs without really meaning to, but there’s no going back now.  

David flexes his fingers but doesn’t move his hand. “Of course I don’t.” 

“No, I mean any of them. Not even the silver ones.” It’s just… wrong for David’s fingers to not have any sort of adornment. Even if it’s not something Patrick personally put there. 

“Is there a question in there?” David breathes. 

“Not if you don’t want to give an answer.” He returns his hand to David’s ankle, just in time for David to finally admit:  

“I didn’t fight for you.” His eyes fill as Patrick’s heart cracks, rending itself along fault lines he thought had finally started to heal.  

“Did you want to?” 

“Should I have?” David asks, voice breaking. 

Patrick puts his glass down and then does the same with David’s, so he can take both of his hands in his own, holding tight. “It wasn’t a test, David. I wasn't trying to - to see if you loved me enough. I would never do that to you.”

When he’d said, “David, this isn’t working,” he meant it. It wasn’t. And David knew it, too. 

“No, I know. But…” David shakes his head and clutches Patrick’s hands right back, “if I had bothered to fight for you - would you have let me?” 

Patrick exhales like he’s been punched. “David, I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but I’d let you do just about anything.” 

“Anything?” His tone is tinged with promise as his eyes flick down to Patrick’s lips. 

The tug of want in his gut grows insistent. The lightning down his back crackles. “Anything,” he whispers, getting a hand around David’s neck and crashing their mouths together. 

It feels like the first proper breath Patrick’s taken in four years, and like a dying man, he goes back for more, greedily inhaling all David’s willing to offer. His hands slide from his ankles to his calves, past his thighs and to his hips, holding tight, but then David kneels, and Patrick scrambles to join him, slipping his hands beneath his sweater to trace the warm, delicate skin of his back. 

“David,” he moans, nipping at his lower lip and sucking it between his teeth. 

“God, Patrick,” he gasps, pushing him back and straddling his lap, grinding them together. 

Patrick nearly sobs as he gets his hands on David’s ass and hauls him closer. “Missed this,” he manages between moans, feeling David nod an agreement against his cheek.

“So much.” 

God, it’s like coming home.

David tugs Patrick’s sweatshirt over his head, and he shivers in the cold, but then David’s threading his fingers through his curls, warming him with every gentle tug. 

“Missed you,” Patrick clarifies and now it’s David’s turn to let out a sob against his shoulder. Patrick turns his grinding to rocking in an aroused effort to comfort him. But David’s having none of it. 

“Upstairs,” he orders, divesting Patrick of his t-shirt and immediately diving down to suck at his nipples which peak in the cold. “You’re gorgeous,” he whispers, low enough that Patrick isn’t sure he was meant to hear. “Time hasn’t changed that.” 

“Hasn’t changed you either,” he murmurs, cupping David’s face in his hands and bringing him back to his lips, before grabbing hold of his thighs and lifting him as he stands. 

“Fuck, I love it when you do that,” David gasps, pulling him in for another kiss as he wraps his legs around Patrick’s waist. 

Patrick grunts into David’s mouth as his knee collides with the coffee table, and he slowly lowers David’s feet to the ground so he doesn’t accidentally kill him before they even get started. He turns to lead them up the stairs, tripping slightly when he feels David press a kiss between his shoulder blades. It’s so soft, his breath hitches. 

They get to the loft, and he starts to lead them towards the bedroom, but then David’s strong hands are grabbing hold of his waist and tugging him back against the hard line of him. Patrick groans and slaps a hand against the wall to keep himself upright as David sinks his teeth into his shoulder and slides a hand down the front of his pants, squeezing him over his briefs.

"God, David," he whispers, head falling back on his shoulder as David bypasses the underwear and grips him firmly, stroking slowly but steadily, the touch of him achingly familiar. It’s almost too much. 

It is too much. 

He turns quickly in David’s arms, dislodging his hand and pushing him up against the wall, slipping his tongue in his mouth as David responds in kind. It’s too rough, but it’s what Patrick needs; anything to quiet to voices in his head telling him they were idiots to ever stop doing this. 

But David doesn’t deserve rough. David only deserves love. 

He gentles his kiss, getting his arms around David’s waist and carefully pulling him from the wall, rubbing his hand over his back where he might have collided with the door frame. David whimpers against his lips as Patrick walks him backwards, reaching down to cup David through his pants, grinding the heel of his hand against him in a way that’s second nature. He’s halfway through untying his joggers when David pulls up short, a noise escaping his lips that Patrick tries to kiss away. But David is tugging him towards the guest room - no, his room - and Patrick whines because that’s further away, but if he’s learned anything in this life, it’s that he’ll follow David anywhere. 

Just maybe not New York, a vicious voice reminds. 

He blocks it out by stripping David of the rest of his clothes, methodically and carefully, like always; the movements muscle memory from years of caring for David’s knits the same way he cared for his body. Wholly and completely. 

Then he grabs him about the waist and tosses him on the bed, falling on him a moment later, and catching himself on his hands. David’s eyes blow wide and then darken. Patrick knows he could drown in them if he let himself.

“Is this a mistake?” he breathes, and he can still taste the wine on his tongue as he stares at David’s purple-stained lips. 

“Probably,” David replies, pulling Patrick down on top of him anyway and grinding their hips together. Their limbs move like they always did in a dance that’s overwhelming and mind blowing and perfect.  

Even if they weren’t.

Patrick reaches between them and gets a hand around them both for a moment, before sliding down the bed, looking at one of his favorite views, and taking David into his mouth. He hasn’t forgotten what David likes, not in all the years they’ve been apart. And what worked on David didn’t always work on Ryan, yet Patrick still found himself sliding into old habits as his mind wandered to a partner that was not the one beneath him. He curls his tongue and presses a palm against David’s belly because he knows he needs to be grounded. He knows David needs that anchor. Then his thumb brushes against his hole, and David’s whole back bows. 

“Now, now, up here, please,” he babbles, and Patrick moans as David tugs on his curls but it only makes him double down. David tugs more insistently, and Patrick finally releases him, pressing one last kiss for good measure, because he still can’t quite get enough. David hooks his arms beneath his shoulders and hauls him up with a strength Patrick is honestly impressed by, before spreading his legs and letting Patrick settle in between them. 

They stare at each other for a second that stretches, Patrick trying to stay in the moment even as the haze of wine and a naked David Rose pulls his focus elsewhere. He takes his time getting a hand around them again, whimpering against David’s temple as David mouths at his ear. 

“Patrick,” he whispers, breath hitching with every stroke Patrick makes. 

“I have you, baby,” he replies, his voice as wrecked as his heart. “I always have you.”

A tear falls from his eye to his cheek, slipping down before dropping from his chin. It lands on David’s shoulder, and Patrick stares at it for a second before burying his face in David’s neck. 

It’s a mess, it’s all a mess, but for now they have this moment. And Patrick holds on tight, just in case they never get it again. 

❄✨ December 24th ✨❄

When he wakes, he experiences a solid seven seconds of bliss before he remembers where he is and why.

His head pounds and his mouth is dry, but none of that matters because there’s an arm thrown across his stomach whose freckles he’d recognize even in the dark. Unfortunately, said arm is pressing on his bladder, and if Patrick doesn’t take care of that soon, he’s gonna wish David never made him get rid of the plastic sheets. 

Gently taking hold of his wrist, he lifts David’s arm and slides out sideways, careful not to jostle the mattress as he pushes himself up to sit on the edge. His head swims, and he closes his eyes against the sunlight streaming through the window, hissing as his bare foot collides with the now cold but still damp washcloth on the floor.  

Evidence of what they did.   

He turns back and stares at the achingly familiar sight of David’s dark hair, stark against white cotton. It was always Patrick’s favorite time to catch him, soft and sleepy and completely unawares. He relishes the moment, taking a picture in his mind, cataloguing the changes since the last time he got a quiet look like this. 

His bladder protests some more, saving him from himself, and he winces as he bends down to grab the washcloth, the pressure behind his eyes making his head throb. He pads into the hall bathroom and tosses the cloth in the hamper, relieving himself before washing his hands and grabbing some ibuprofen from the medicine cabinet, making do with a cupped palm full of water. 

He stands once more and stares at himself in the mirror. The reflection leaves much to be desired, he’s not gonna lie. His eyes are red and his hair is a disaster, but there are scratch marks on his shoulder, and he can’t regret that. Not at all. 

Even if sleeping with David Rose also means sleeping with his ex-husband.

He brushes his teeth and then tiptoes back into his bedroom, pulling on fresh briefs, a pair of jeans, and a henley, the clean clothes already making him feel better. He’s about to head downstairs to get the fire started and the coffee brewed, but something roots him in the hallway, staring back at David’s closed door. 

It’s not the first time he and David have slept apart in the cabin; things weren’t great at the end. But it is the first time since everything went down that he’s had to physically force himself to walk away. 

He’s never been good at it, though, which is why he heads back over to the guest room and carefully lets himself in, tiptoeing across the floor again to stand by David’s bedside. 

God, he’s gorgeous. 

Against his better judgment, he leans down and presses a kiss to David’s head, breathing him in. A good morning and maybe a goodbye, if this all goes the way it usually does. 

He does leave them, but only because he knows he’ll be right back up with a glass of water and some pain meds to leave on the table. Walking away the second time is harder, but it’s nothing he hasn’t done before. 

While the coffee brews, he grabs his phone from the coffee table and unlocks it to find two texts waiting for him, one from last night from Rachel and another from his mom sent about an hour ago. She always was an early riser. 

He opens Rachel’s first…

[Rachel]
Damage report.

… and thoroughly regrets it. He knows she’s trying to inject some levity into the proceedings, but he just can’t. Not after last night. Not when the word ‘damage’ hits so close to home. Not until he knows how this is all going to go. 

Moving on to his mom’s, he smiles as he reads her words. 

[Mom]
Merry Christmas Eve, Sweet Boy.

Merry Christmas Eve, Mom.

Then he checks his email, despite the fact his inbox is full of nothing but last minute holiday promotional deals. After all, his business partner is asleep upstairs, and last Patrick checked, he hasn’t had time to send any emails. 

The coffee maker beeps, informing him it’s done, and he slides his phone in his pocket and pours a mug, staring out at the snow still coming down outside. He should really get a start on shoveling it if they ever want to get out of here. He hopes nobody will feel the need to leave soon, but - well. 

He stopped hoping a long time ago. 

Knowing David probably won’t be up for hours yet, he drinks enough coffee to keep the headache at bay and bundles up in an old hoodie, shoving the toque back on his head as he opens the front door and braces himself against the cold. The shovel rests against the side of the house, and the movements are rhythmic enough to let his mind drift but strenuous enough to keep it from drifting too far. 

He’s not sure how long he stays out there; long enough to get both cars semi-uncovered and to carve a path down the drive wide enough for at least one of them to fit through. He opens the front door and returns the shovel to its place just beside it, stomping out his shoes and stepping inside the warmth. He pulls off his toque and shuts the door again, bending down to unlace his boots - 

“Oh, hi.” He can blame the flush of his face on the cold and not on the sight of David the morning after Patrick took him apart. He stands back up and gestures needlessly to the driveway just to give his hands something to do that’s not reaching for David. “I saw it was still coming down when I woke up, so I wanted to make some headway.”

“In case you needed to make a quick getaway?” he blurts, and Patrick narrows his eyes, because he thought David knew him better than that by now. 

Then he smiles wryly, the ghost of “Regrets?” echoing in his ears. 

“Just a habit to ask?” he replies, not completely able to hide his hurt but finding comfort in the familiar words anyway.. 

“Something like that,” David murmurs, looking more unsure than he did at Jocelyn’s baby shower, but instead of a pinata, his phone is clutched tightly in his grasp.  

Patrick starts to step forward before realizing he’s still in his boots, and so he remains on the mat. He wants to fix this. He can fix it. “David, I - ” 

But the FaceTime ring of David’s phone pierces the silence, and they both look down at it, murderous and mutinous in equal measure. 

“It’s Alexis,” he says, and Patrick hates that he can still tell. 

He bends down and makes quick work of his boots, moving past him in his socks, the thousands of things he wants to say tucked behind his lips. “Answer the phone, David. Say hi to your sister.” Then he turns, not quite able to school his face the way he wants to. “She won’t know I’m here,” he promises softly, before disappearing into the kitchen. Sadly, there’s no door to shut, so obviously, Patrick has no choice but to listen in: 

“What do you want?” he hears David snap. 

“Rude, David. It’s Christmas Eve.” 

“And?” 

“Ugh if I had known you were going to be such a Scrooge, I would have left you to wander around in your nightgown alone.” 

“Alexis, what do you want?” His sigh is heavy. His tone resigned. 

She huffs out a breath, but when she speaks, her voice is so soft, Patrick almost can’t hear. “I just wanted to say that if you change your mind about New Year's, there are still flights available for the 30th. I checked.”

“You know I can’t do that.” 

“I just feel so bad, David, thinking of you up in that cabin all alone. In the place you and Patrick shared. It’s just - very masochistic and not a good look for you.” 

So clearly David hasn’t told his family either. Patrick isn’t sure if that’s a relief or not. 

“Okay,” David says overly loudly. “Is there a point to this?” 

“You mean other than trying to get you out of your four year funk? No, David. There’s no point. Choke on a candy cane.” 

“Drink expired eggnog!” 

Patrick can’t imagine the call lasting beyond that, so he inches his way back to the door frame, watching in sad amusement as David paces back and forth from the stairs to the couch. On his third pass, he looks up, catches sight of Patrick, and stops dead. 

“Why aren’t you there, David?” he asks softly after a moment. 

“Why are you here?” he quickly rebuts. “If you aren’t torn up about Ryan, then why aren’t you with your parents right now?” 

And there it is. The question he’s been waiting for ever since he showed up at his cabin to find his ex-husband in the living room. He’s been quiet for too long, but this takes time; it needs courage. It deserves a moment. David looks like he’s about to give up on him, and it wouldn’t be the first time, so with a sigh, he speaks: 

“I’m not there because I realized that this December means that we’ve been divorced longer than we were married. And I just - I couldn’t handle that.” He nods and stares at the floor, unable to meet David’s gaze. “And I didn’t want to put my parents through what was sure to be a rather depressing holiday. So.” 

David must not have done the math, because even though Patrick can’t see him, he can certainly hear him. His breath is uneven and shallow, and though Patrick knows he probably shouldn’t be, he’s comforted by the fact that he’s not the only one to be brought to his knees by the realization.  

“Why didn’t you take the main room?” he asks, finally looking up at David once more to find him far too pale. “And why did you not want to go in there last night? I know you think I didn't notice that, but I did.” 

But David just shakes his head and then gives a shrug of his own. “Because I can’t be in a bed knowing you’ve shared it with someone else.” 

Surely there would be a record scratch somewhere if Patrick’s ears weren’t ringing. He frowns and shifts closer. “What?” 

David rolls his eyes. “Ryan,” he snaps.  

And it takes Patrick a second, but he gets there, understanding giving way to utter heartbreak. “David, Ryan has never set foot in this cabin.” 

Has he really thought…? All this time?

David looks like his brain just rebooted, but when he finally finds his words, he explodes with, “What?! Why the hell not?!”

And the answer is obvious to anyone but apparently the man in front of him. 

“David, we bought this place together. It’s my space and it’s yours. Ours,” he states, because it was only ever supposed to be them. “Have you ever brought anyone here?”

“Of course not, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then why is it so ridiculous to think I wouldn’t either?”

“Because you’re the one who walked away!” he yells, and though Patrick feels the words like a slap to the face, his voice is calm and clear when he replies: 

“But, David, who opened the door?”

Silence. Heavy and thick and fraught. 

He wants to regret the words, but he knows he’s not wrong. David was gone long before Patrick ever asked for his key. 

David blindly reaches a hand out, grabbing hold of the railing to keep himself upright. Patrick wants to go to him, to hold him, but there’s something else he needs to say first. There’s something else David needs to know. 

“Look, David, the fact of the matter is… Ryan had one insurmountable flaw.” 

David shakes his head, but he needs to know.

“He wasn’t you.” He lets those words land and then inhales, gathering every bit of his courage in his arsenal. “I tried really, really hard, but… turns out it’s impossible to love a person when you’re still irrevocably in love with someone else. And I will forever and always be in love with you, David Rose.” He gives another little shrug because it’s just a fact, like water is wet. “So no, he’s never been here. And to be perfectly honest, I don’t think anyone else will be either.” 

“Patrick…” David looks like he’s having trouble breathing, and yes, that was a big bomb to drop, but after last night, is it really that much of a surprise? 

And of all the ways he imagined this going, of all of the scenarios he pictured, David turning, grabbing his coat and the nearest pair of boots, and running out the door never quite factored into any of them. 

Clearly it should have. 

Patrick stares at the spot he was just standing in, his ex-husband, his love, his David. 

He always heard that some things are too broken to be fixed. He just never thought that they’d be one of them. Even after all evidence to the contrary. 

It starts out as a hitch in his breath, a slight bump, like missing a step. It grows, expanding in his chest, a pressure far too strong for one person to bear as it squeezes his lungs and wraps around his heart. The hitch becomes a hiccup and the breath becomes a choke, a noise sounding suspiciously like a sob clawing its way out of his throat, because how the hell did he get here? 

When he stood on that fucking mountain and said, “This just felt like the perfect place to ask you to marry me,” how the hell did they get here. How did those two people break each other so badly? 

He sinks to the floor, back against the wall, and drops his head between his knees, trying to remember how to breathe. 

Five minutes. 

He’ll give himself five minutes, like Priya taught him. 

Five minutes to live in the feeling. Five minutes to honor the pain. 

It takes ten, but he doubts Priya will fault him for it. Ten and another five to gather himself; just to pick himself up off the floor. 

Grabbing his phone, he starts the slow, careful climb up the stairs, grabbing his bag from the foot of the bed and opening the first drawer he gets his hands on. There’s something so final about watching his clothes pile up, as if he knows that when that bag is full, it’s time to go. And when it’s time to go, he’s not sure he’ll be back.

He hears noise downstairs and he stiffens, but he shouldn’t be surprised. It’s not like David could have gone far without his own shoes or his car keys. He hears that sound, that careful tread on the stairs, and he takes his time folding the sweater in front of him, bucking against the instinct to shove it inside and run. A moment later, he feels David’s presence in the door, because his body will never stop knowing when the person it loves is near. 

“Hey,” David greets, and Patrick glances briefly over his shoulder before turning back to place another shirt on the pile. 

“Hey.” 

“What - what are you doing?” It sounds anxious, but Patrick tries not to read into David’s tone, because he knows he’ll use any excuse to stay. 

He packs his Dopp kit and quickly zips the bag closed, his trembling hands nearly getting it caught twice. “I’m gonna head out. Get out of your way. I think my car can handle the roads.”

“Please don’t go,” David whispers, but Patrick only offers a tight smile as he passes him, not quite meeting his eyes. 

“It’s fine, David,” he says as he heads down the stairs. “You take the cabin. In fact…” He stops by the door and drops his chin to his chest, shoulders slumping. 

When that bag is full, it’s time to go. And when it’s time to go, he’s not sure he’ll be back.

“Maybe, after the holidays, we can draw up paperwork to amend the deed.” He finally turns and looks at David, wondering if the haunted look in his eyes mirrors his own. “It’s yours. If you want it.”

David steps forward, looking like he wants to reach for him. “You told me last night you’d have let me fight for you. I’m - I’m doing that now. Let me do that now. Patrick, please!” he pleads. “I just - I just needed a minute.” He gestures to the door that Patrick had to watch David run through. “Just… give me a chance. One more chance…”

Oh God, he’s panicking.  

“David.” Patrick drops his bag and holds his hands out, unsure if his touch would be welcome. “David, listen to me.” 

But he can’t listen when he’s hyperventilating, and that’s exactly what’s happening right now. 

Patrick steps forward and takes hold of his arms, trying to catch his eye. “It’s okay, David. I’m right here. I won’t let you fall. David - ” He gets his arms around his waist just as David’s legs give out, and he gently lowers them to the floor, cradling him between his knees. “Shhh, I’ve got you. Breathe. That’s it, in and out.” He tucks their cheeks together, feeling David’s clammy skin against his own. He’s not sure if David’s fully conscious, but he continues to talk, fighting to keep his own panic at bay. “Breathe with me, baby,” he whispers, palm pressed to David’s chest in an attempt to calm him. To ground him. “That’s it, David,” he encourages when each rattling breath he takes is that much deeper, that much longer. “Just breathe. Breathe, baby." 

“Patrick?” His voice is sluggish but it’s still the most beautiful thing Patrick has ever heard. 

“I’m here,” he murmurs, lips ghosting across the shell of his ear. And he’s so concerned about David’s rate of breath that he almost misses the monumental thing he says next: 

“I love you.” 

Patrick stills. David breathes. 

“I've always loved you." 

Patrick breathes. David stills. 

“I love you, too, David,” he whispers wetly as he buries his face in the crook of his neck. “So much.” 

“Don’t leave me,” David pleads, and Patrick knows that he has no intention of ever walking out that door. Not unless David is with him. 

“Never.” 

They stay there long enough for Patrick’s back to ache, but he doesn’t dare move; not now that he finally has David in his arms. David’s breathing is back to normal, but his body still trembles, his internal system taking longer to rebound after the shock it had. It’s getting cold, though, and David’s collar’s damp, though if that’s from the snow or the sweat, Patrick isn’t sure. He starts to shift, but his heart lurches when David lets out a whine. 

“Easy, easy,” he says against his ear. “I’m just gonna build a fire. Gettin’ cold.”

David grunts but doesn’t fight, except to adorably grab for Patrick’s jeans whenever he passes by. Fire lit and stoked, Patrick returns and holds his hands out, gently hauling David to unsteady feet and walking him over to the couch. He lowers him down before turning on the lights on the tree and stoking the fire once more, before slotting himself behind David’s back and pulling him to his chest once more, still not quite believing his luck. 

“You really didn’t know I was going to be here?” he asks, because though he knows the answer, he has to know. 

David blinks his eyes open and cranes his neck, fixing him with a look of utter incredulity. “I most certainly did not. Was the fact that I broke my favorite mug not evidence enough?” 

Patrick chuckles and holds him tighter. “Yeah, that seemed like too much commitment to the role.” 

David hums. “We can’t all be Moira Rose.” 

“Thank God for that.”  

“Unclear on Stevie, though,” he says thoughtfully, and Patrick nuzzles the spot just over David’s pulse point, delighting in the way it makes him squirm. 

“Hm?” 

“Stevie. I assume you told her you were coming, right?” 

Patrick hums again. “I did.” Then he goes still, a dark thought popping up unbidden. “Does it bother you that Stevie and I still talk?” 

“No,” David replies, quickly but truthfully. “Honestly, it was… kind of nice knowing that I still sort of had a connection to you through her. Not that she ever told me anything.” He gestures around them. “Exhibit fucking A.” 

Patrick tries to sit up, but David’s weight pins him down. “Wait, she knew you were coming here?” 

“Yes!” 

“That little…” but he trails off, vowing to revoke her permanent Friends and Family discount. Certainly David will be on his side; David, who is grabbing his phone from the table, pulling up his thread with Stevie, and typing out a very blunt: 

Did you know? 

Over his shoulder, Patrick can see the ellipses appear, but when her text comes in, he doesn’t quite understand. 

[Stevie]
I still like this for you. 

You’re the worst , David types back, but Patrick can hear him sniffle. Clearly the phrase means something he’s not privy to, and that’s okay. 

[Stevie]
Tell him I said hi. Merry Christmas, ya filthy animal. 

David laughs and Patrick grins as he reads, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, followed by his neck, delighting in the fact that he’s allowed to do this now. Again. Forever.  

Merry Christmas.

David lifts his phone and snaps a picture of the tree, and Patrick can see he’s made sure to capture both of their socked feet in the frame. 

Patrick closes his eyes and sighs, making a mental note to ask David to send that photo to him, but it’s too perfect a moment to interrupt now.  

It’s interrupted anyway, though, when David’s stomach gives a traitorous growl, loud enough to have Patrick laughing into his nape and sliding his hands up David’s sweater to rub circles on his belly.

“We haven’t eaten much today, have we.” 

David’s stomach gives his answer for him, drawing another laugh from Patrick that rumbles against David’s back. 

“Stay here. I’ll go heat up some chili.” He slides out and pads to the kitchen, but not before pressing a kiss to David’s head as he goes, a habit he forced himself to break, and one he’s more than happy to take up again. 

He putters about grabbing bowls and dishing out leftovers, all while humming ‘Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home)’ under his breath. This is not where he thought the weekend was going as he pulls two spoons out of the drawer, but he can’t argue. Not with the best Christmas it’s already shaping up to be. Chili microwaved and cheese topped, he heads back into the living room to find David hovering awkwardly in the middle, so Patrick wanders over and presses a kiss to his cheek because he can now.

“Did you go outside?” he asks. “You’re cold.” 

“Had to get a charger from the car,” he explains, though Patrick doesn’t see a charger hanging from his hand. Or his phone, for that matter. It doesn’t matter, though, because he’s here.  

“I have extras.” 

“Of course you do.”

“Well, you never remembered yours. It was a habit I could never seem to break.” He pecks David on the lips and murmurs, “Not that I really tried.” Then he hands him his bowl and pulls out his phone, clicking shuffle on a Christmas playlist that starts from the bluetooth speaker on the side table. 

Coincidentally, Darlene Love’s ‘Christmas (Baby, Please Come Home)’ is first up, and Patrick sees it for the sign it is as he sits back down next to his ex-husband and nudges him with his feet. 

When David came into the store that day and said, “We would be moving with them!” , Patrick didn’t think it would end in divorce. The word never factored into his careful planning. Then again, it never does, does it? It never did, until he said four words that broke his spirit when they left his lips: 

“David, this isn’t working.”  

His empty bowl is removed from his hands, and he glances up in time to watch David give him a soft smile, like he knows what Patrick was thinking about. Then he disappears to the kitchen, and Patrick hears the water run, just before Frank Sinatra’s voice drowns out the sound: 

“Have yourself a Merry little Christmas, let your heart be light…” 

Of course. 

He tilts his head back against the couch and just listens, feeling the warmth from the fire on his cheeks and the phantom press of David’s kiss on his lips. 

Is it normal for one song to make you feel such hope and heartbreak? With every minute that ticks by, hope is winning out. And that’s something that Patrick gave up on a long time ago. 

He turns his head to find David listening from the door frame. Maybe he’s thinking the same thing. 

“I love this version,” Patrick murmurs, and David glances up, looking the kind of happy/sad that accompanies so many at the holidays. “You should call your sister.” 

“Oh, we, uh, we spoke earlier,” he says, looking somewhat sheepish. “When I was outside.” 

“Ah.” Then Patrick holds out his hand and beckons him closer. David obliges. “And how is my dear sister-in-law?” he asks as he tugs him down to the couch. 

“Missing you,” David murmurs as he picks up his phone again and settles back against Patrick’s chest, pulling up his thread with Alexis. 

Don’t think I’m gonna make that flight. he types out. 

Her response is a silly picture of people Patrick’s missed so much.

[Alexis]
No room for you anyway. ❤️

He snorts as he reads her message over David’s shoulder before gently taking the phone from his hand and pressing his face close to David’s to snap a photo. 

Next year. he types, showing it to David for approval. 

David swallows and nods. “Next year,” he whispers. 

Patrick presses a kiss to his temple and hits Send. The phone buzzes a moment later. 

[Alexis]
BUTTON. Yay, David, Yay!!!!!

“Man, I miss her,” he laughs, and David yawns.   

“Well, she always did prefer you to me, so trust that the feeling is mutual.” 

“Tired?” 

David shrugs. “A little.” 

“Through the years we all will be together
If the fates allow...”

Patrick wouldn’t mind going to bed. 

“Hang a shining star upon the highest bough…”

Not if it means David is coming with him.

“And have yourself a merry little Christmas now.”

“I have something for you,” David murmurs, and Patrick leans back and stares at him with an amused frown. 

“But you didn’t know I was gonna be here. I didn’t bring anything for you.” 

“Well, technically I didn’t bring this. It’s just - been in my car for a while. It’s not much. It’s not even wrapped,” he rambles, obviously nervous, so Patrick has no choice but to tease him. 

“But it’s not Christmas yet.” 

David lifts his chin and clears his throat. “If I recall, it’s a Brewer family tradition to do stockings on Christmas Eve.” Then he nods his head at the fireplace, and Patrick follows his gaze, quickly realizing that his formerly empty knit stocking is no longer. When did he…? 

He places a kiss to the back of David’s hand as he stands and tugs him to his feet, before padding over to the mantle and gently plucking the stocking off its hook. 

“You really didn’t have to do this, David,” he says with a frown, but David just replies with:  

“No, I really did.” 

Patrick reaches in, and his frown deepens as his fingers brush against the edge of a box. He grabs hold and pulls it out, the shape and color and weight of it at once familiar but foreign. He gasps. 

“David…” 

“You don’t have to wear them. Or, or even keep them. But… you asked why I don’t wear my silver rings.” 

Patrick’s throat works as he carefully opens the box, bringing a trembling hand to his mouth when the light from the fire catches four familiar bands he’s missed seeing on those fingers. 

"Because they aren't mine anymore," David whispers, taking hold of his shoulders and rubbing up and down, holding him together as the weight of their history threatens to shake Patrick apart. “They haven't been for a while. I was going to give them to you that last Christmas - ”

No.

“But then everything fell apart, so I’ve just been…” 

He can’t hear this. He can’t hear how close they were to being okay. 

“... carrying them with me.” 

They’ve both been carrying so much. 

Patrick lets out a wounded noise, and David’s hands immediately move from his shoulders to his face, pressing a fierce kiss to his forehead. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” he finally manages, voice wrecked. 

“I didn’t know how,” David replies. “I just…” he shakes his head, and Patrick watches years of missed opportunities flicker across his beautiful face, “didn’t know how.” 

Patrick looks back down, and only then does he realize the rings have gotten an addition. He  runs his thumb over the engravings, reading the words that were etched on his heart long ago, before looking up at David, letting the tears spill onto his cheeks. “I’m stuck on yours, too.” He shrugs, like it’s a given. And it is. “Always have been.” 

David nods, pressing their foreheads together. “Always will be.” 

And in a role reversal he never thought he’d see, he holds his left hand out and watches as David reverently slides the rings on, one by one by one by one. He thought something so David would look wrong on him, but they look good. They look right. And so he does the only thing that’s left to do: he hooks them around David’s neck and brings him into a kiss that he pours every apology and promise into. That doesn’t erase the last four years because they lived it and they can’t erase it. They need to honor the pain while also making sure it never happens. 

Patrick pulls away and David chases him, so he pecks one last kiss to his lips before taking his hand and wordlessly leading him up the stairs. He starts towards the guest room, but then David stops him and tugs him back, nodding slowly and meaningfully at theirs. 

Patrick stares as he allows himself to be led towards the bed they’ve shared so many times, seeing the act for what it is: a gift of trust David is bestowing on him, and he’s already been far too generous tonight. He kisses him hard, and David’s breath hitches, a sad thing. Patrick doesn’t know where his mind is, but he wants it right here, between them, so he presses his palm against his chest and watches as those dark eyes focus right back. 

“Hey,” he whispers, nudging his nose. 

“Hey,” David replies, voice wobbling. 

“I love you.” Because he needs to know.  

“I love you, too.” And he does. 

He gently removes David’s top, folding it carefully despite the fact that it’s cotton and not cashmere, before getting to work on his joggers. David helps by shimmying them down his thighs, and Patrick can’t help but follow, burying his face in his tented briefs and dragging his nose along David’s hard cock, breathing him in. 

“Patrick…” David tugs gently on his hair, and Patrick groans against him, making him twitch against his lips. He presses a soft kiss to David’s tip, before hooking his fingers in the waistband and dragging his underwear down his legs. David whimpers as he springs free, holding onto Patrick’s shoulders for balance, and Patrick quickly takes him in hand, working him just the way he knows David loves. “Jesus,” he groans, head tilting back towards the ceiling. “You. You next.” 

Patrick is hard in his jeans and he won’t argue with that, but he presses a sloppy kiss to David’s cock first, sucking the head softly for a moment, before standing up and holding his arms out with a grin. David rolls his eyes, but gets to work, divesting him of his henley and his jeans and shoving his briefs down his thighs so roughly, Patrick nearly falls over. 

“How… how…” But David can’t seem to find his words, running his hands reverently up and down Patrick’s legs. 

“You in me,” he responds, pulling David up against him and moaning into his mouth.

“You sure?” 

“David, I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” Then he gently lowers David down onto the bed and crawls on top of him, straddling his lap, grinding down, and swallowing his groan. He leans over to the bedside table and grabs the lube, right where it’s always been. He snags a condom as well, because even though he and David had mostly stopped using condoms before they even got married, he assumes neither of them has been celibate since. He knows he hasn’t. And he’d really rather not think about David, choosing instead to search for the date on the foil packet. 

“Thank God,” he groans, “not expired.” 

David laughs, brightly and briefly, and if Patrick wasn’t so busy wrestling with the cap on the lube bottle, he’d see it fade to something a little more serious as David runs his hands up and down his thighs. 

“Were you careful?” he finally asks. 

Patrick looks up, because that question deserves his undivided attention, and he leans forward, pressing a hard and lingering kiss to David’s lip. “Always,” he whispers against his mouth. 

David swallows hard and nods. “Good.” He swallows again, “Me too.” 

Patrick kisses him more softly this time. “Good.” Then he presses the lube into David’s hand. “Get me ready.” 

It’s been a while since he’s done this; well before the breakup. But as he watches David carefully slick a finger and reach between his legs, he knows he’s in the most capable of hands. He braces himself against the headboard and peppers David’s face with kisses, exhaling as he slides his first finger home. God, it feels good. Two feels even better. He sucks in a breath at three, wincing slightly, but David’s free hand is quick to find his hip, rubbing back and forth until Patrick relaxes around him. 

“I have you, honey,” he whispers, and Patrick nods against his cheek, throat tight, eyes stinging. 

“I know you do.” It feels like home. 

“You ready?” David asks, pressing a kiss to his shoulder, and Patrick leans back, looking down at the rings on his fingers before running them gently across David’s cheek. 

“Ready.” And he means for more than just tonight. 

Grabbing the condom, he rolls it on David, giving him a squeeze, and shifts into position, bracing himself on David’s sturdy shoulders as he lowers himself down. He gasps because it’s been a while, but his whimper gives way to an open-mouth groan as he finally sits fully on David’s lap and slides his fingers from his shoulders to his neck and up through his hair. 

“Fuck, you’re beautiful,” David whispers as he stares.  

“I’ll never leave you again,” he replies, because he has to. David has to know. 

“Good. I barely survived it once. I won’t the next time.” And Patrick can hear the truth in his words, a knowledge born from experience. He starts to move because the need is too great, but David gets his hands on his hips, stilling him once more. “I won’t leave you either,” he says.  

And Patrick didn’t know how badly he needed to hear that until this moment. To hear that those two people on top of that mountain, who stumbled on the way down, found their way back up again. 

“I know,” he breathes.  

And he does. 

❄✨ December 25th ✨❄

When he wakes, he experiences a solid three seconds of bliss that becomes seven and thirteen and forever when he remembers where he is and why.

There’s a heartbeat beneath his ear whose rhythm he knows in the marrow of his bones. Fingers thread through his hair, nearly sending him back to sleep, but then a voice whispers, “Honey,” and he grunts, because when that voice calls, he answers in any way he can. 

“It’s Christmas.” 

“Already have everything I need,” he mumbles, tightening his hold on David with his arms and his legs and burying his face in his chest. 

“That was the worst fucking line I’ve ever heard and I once cameoed in a Hallmark movie,” David replies, but his finger traces the curve of Patrick’s ear as his cold toes run up the length of his calf.  

Patrick feels sore and wrung out in the best way possible, physically and emotionally, and though he wants to start the holiday, he also never wants to leave this bed. Especially not when the light from the window reflects his rings so perfectly. 

“Do you like your present?” David quietly asks, and Patrick shifts so he can see his face. 

“I love it,” he whispers, leaning up on an elbow to press their lips together. “I can’t believe you’re awake right now.” 

David smiles. “You’re a good incentive,” he says, tucking a wayward curl behind Patrick’s ear. 

Patrick takes his hand and presses a kiss to wrist. “Me… or coffee?” he teases. 

“Tie, honestly.” 

Patrick snorts and sits up, immediately pulling a whine from David when he loses the heat Patrick’s body provided. They dress quickly, shivering in the cold, before padding downstairs and starting the coffee. David plugs in the tree as Patrick starts to build the fire, but he only gets two logs in the grate when his phone starts ringing on the coffee table. He stands and tries to wipe his hands, the dirt sticking to his suddenly clammy palms. 

There’s really only one contact who’d be calling him right now. 

“It’s my parents…” he murmurs. 

“Oh,” David says. “Do you want me to…?” He gestures behind him towards the kitchen, but Patrick immediately grabs hold of his arm. 

“Don’t go far.” Then he sits on the couch, glancing at David who stands a little awkwardly in the middle of the room. He wants David next to him, of course he does, but he also knows that if he answers this call with David in sight, his mother might actually have a heart attack. 

Patrick hits Accept and his parents’ smiling faces come into view. 

“Merry Christmas!” they chorus, and he laughs, missing them even more now. Now that he has happiness to share. 

“Merry Christmas.” 

“Are you having a nice time?” his mom asks, worry underscoring her jovial tone despite her best efforts.   

“I’m good, Mom,” he assures with a smile, gaze flicking to David briefly. “Really good.” 

“That tree stand still working out for you?” his dad asks, and Patrick knows that this is it. If he wants to do this (and he does), his father just opened the door, because his mother misses nothing . He switches the phone to his right hand and points to the corner with his left, tilting the phone so they can see. 

“So far, so good - ”

“Sweetheart, what are those?” his mom interrupts. Bingo.

“These?” he asks, glancing down at the rings and flexing his fingers, not even bothering to fight his smile. “These were a gift,” he murmurs, vaguely wondering if they recognize them.  

“Oh?” his dad says as his mom blurts out, “Who from?” 

She may not recognize them, but she clearly knows they’re important. He might be able to give his mother a heart attack anyway. 

Patrick holds his hand out off-camera, wiggling his fingers but never taking his eyes from the screen. “Mom, Dad...” He doesn’t have to look at David to know he’ll come to him. Sure enough, his hand is grasped a moment later, and with a inhale and a tug, David drops down next to him into frame, pressing a kiss to his temple. 

“Did you get everything you wanted for Christmas?” he asks with a smile that’s incandescent. 

His mom screams and his dad yells, but Patrick just gets an arm around David’s shoulders, pulling him in tight. 

“Because I know I sure did.”