Patrick doesn't remember how the night ended or how they even got home, but when he wakes up his head feels like it's vibrating on his pillow until and he winces, blinks into the light and realises it's a phone buzzing beside his face, a seven a.m. alarm flashing on the screen when he picks it up and jabs at the illuminated 'stop' on the touchscreen. It's not even his phone; it's bigger, thinner, fancier. He drops it back onto the pillow which, he realises, also isn't his own. It's too big, too soft, too striped, but he lets his head fall into it, smooshes his face into the unfamiliar linen as he remembers last night, Rachel's joyful tears and hugs from their friends at the bar.

The bar, the champagne. The polar bear shots. He remembers feeling sick, second guessing the whole thing, and tries to recall what happened after that and how he's ended up...wherever this is.

There's stirring beside him and he feels a hand on his back, rubbing gently between his shoulders. It doesn't feel like Rachel - too wide, too heavy - and that fact makes his shoulders tense and leaves him too scared to lift his head.

The hand becomes more insistent then moves to his shoulder, shaking him. "Get up so I can go back to sleep," the voice says, soft with a rough edge. Definitely not Rachel's voice.

Definitely not female.

Shit. His stomach dips in a way that makes no sense. He tells himself it's fine. What could he have done on the night if his impromptu engagement party to end up in bed with a strange man?

His gut swoops again at the thought. Holy shit. What had he done?

The hand on his shoulder softens and trails down, fingers curling over his bicep, a little too soft, too warm, too nice.

He lifts his head and in the sliver of light peaking through the drawn curtains all he can see is a shock of messy black hair poking up under the comforter on the pillow beside him. He pulls his arm away from the touch and turns to sit up, taking in his surroundings. He's in a studio apartment he doesn't recognise, all shadows and unfamiliar shapes in the soft light. He hadn't recognised the guy's voice when he'd told him to get up. That fact somehow makes his heart race uncomfortably in his chest. Had he told Rachel he was having second thoughts? Had one of her friends let him crash here to avoid the imminent fallout? Or had he freaked out, taken solace with a stranger and gone home with him on the rebound?

Him.

Fuck.

Patrick throws back the covers and stands, head swimming with sudden what ifs and how the fucks as suppressed doubts float to the surface and he stumbles slightly as he stands; there's a stabbing pain in his right foot that hurts like a motherfucker. He looks down but it's too dark to make out much, but at least he's not bleeding and he's fully dressed, if in unfamiliar pyjamas.

"I, uh, I'm sorry but I don't even remember how I got here last night," he says as calmly as he can manage, injecting faux levity into his voice as his eyes search the shadows in vain for his clothes, his phone: something, anything, to tether him more firmly to last thing he remembers from the night before.

There's a disgruntled sound from the bed and then the covers are lowered reluctantly to reveal the face that belongs to the tousled black hair. Patrick is sure he's never seen this man before but he's handsome, with striking dark brows and thick, dark stubble he can make out even in the early morning gloom. "I didn't think you had that much champagne," he says, casually stifling a yawn while pulling his body up to recline on the stack of pillows at the bed head, running a hand through his hair.

Patrick's throat feels dry. He swallows thickly and stammers, "Well, I think I…apparently, I did." He'd lost count after five– maybe six? – glasses. And there were definitely shots.

He turns away from the bed but feels like he's sinking into wet sand, trapping him where he stands, threatening to submerge him. He looks down at his bare feet again, trying to see the source of the sting that makes him feel stuck, not sure where else he should be looking.

"You know I wouldn't normally make an offer like this, but I'm feeling extra generous and as a special engagement treat, I could open the store this morning if you don't feel up to it?"

There's a fond, soft, sing song-y quality to the mans voice, but Patrick focuses on the 'engagement treat' part that grounds him rather than the rest that makes no sense; okay, he thinks, still engaged. And he hates himself for reflexively feeling more disappointed than relieved by that affirmation.

"Well?" The guy says, and Patrick half turns towards him to see that the trace of impatience in his voice is belied by the fond, lopsided smile on his face.

Patrick stares at him, trying to force himself to stay calm, to just remember why he's here. There must be a logical explanation for waking up with a hot stranger on the day after his engagement party. Surely?

"Patrick", the strange man whose bed he apparently slept in last night sits up straight now, away from the comfort of the pillows with his shoulders squared, concern creeping into his voice, "is everything alright? You're starting to scare me. Do you..." he trails off, looks down at his hands, takes a breath before his shoulders slump and he looks back at Patrick, asks quietly, "Have you changed your mind? Are you having regrets?"

"No. I—I don't know," Patrick answers, because it's close to the truth and he's not sure exactly how this guy knows Rachel, why he suddenly seems so invested, but the way his face crumples in reaction to Patrick's answer means he clearly cares enough to be upset.

"Oh," the guy responds, eyes visibly widening, sparkling in the dim light, "okay then," his tone has turned clipped, sour.

Patrick can't blame him. It's a shitty thing to say. He feels shitty for admitting it. The mystery man throws the covers back to stand and stalks towards a built in closet, busying himself with moving clothes around, wooden coat hangers clacking against each other, hooks scraping unpleasantly against the the metal rail, extracted garments starting to pile up on a chest at the foot of the bed.

"I should go," Patrick tells him, but he doesn't get an answer. The guy is clearly angry, all but burying himself in the closet to avoid having to look at him. Patrick needs to talk to Rachel before this disappointed acquaintance does. "Where is—" he pauses, sighs deeply, unsure why her name sticks in his throat, "—Rachel?"

The noise in the closet stops sharply and there's a ragged sigh before the man is spinning around to look at him, tears catching the thin beam of light from the window as they line his face. "Rachel? Fucking Rachel?" He looks furious, sounds broken. "Really, Patrick?"

Patrick doesn't know what to say. He's missing crucial information here and he hates feeling so out of control, so unmoored. His head is spinning, chest tight and he doesn't understand anything about this moment - not why he's here, not why he'd slept in this stranger's bed, not why said stranger is so furious, nor why he is now tearing rings off his fingers and throwing them across the bed towards Patrick.

"I just..." Patrick attempts to say, hands raising in reflexive self defence. "I just need to talk to her, explain that I—"

"Don't you think I deserve an explanation first?!" The man's hands gesticulate in front of himself as he speaks, his eyes wide and glassy with disbelief.

"I'm sorry," Patrick sputters out in the most placating tone he can manage in the midst of what increasingly feels like a stroke, "I really am, but I don't really know how I ended up here, and I know you must know Rachel, but please just let me get out of your apartment and talk to her and then you can—"

"What are you even saying?!" The man's voice is high and reedy, hands waving wildly as he looks at Patrick with utter incredulity. "Am I being punk'd? Is that even still a thing? Are you and Stevie messing with me? Because—"

"I don't know who Stevie is but I—I didn't know Rachel invited so many people last night, and—"

"Why the fuck are you still talking about Rachel?"

Patrick tries to breathe, turns away from the very agitated man on the other side of the room and tries again to locate his phone, his jeans, his shoes, anything that will help him make an exit, but what he sees instead is a picture, framed on the dresser beside the bed; him and this man, arms slung around each other, smiling broadly.

Patrick's world shrinks, the wave of panic thats been creeping towards him since he opened his eyes breaks, leaves him under water, all at sea.

"I, I…feel like I can't breathe," he says, eventually, and leans his weight onto the dresser, palms flat against the cool wood that feels like it might not support his weight, might not keep him afloat.

This must be a dream, he thinks, synapses firing, clutching for a rational explanation for what's going on. What if he's dreaming about sleeping with a beautiful man because he still has those doubts, what if forever with Rachel isn't the forever he really wants; what if he can't tell the difference between love and attachment; what if—what if—what if?

He gasps out a breath that sounds more like a sob, "I don't know where I am or if this is really happening."

"Okay," the same man says, a little calmer now, if laboured. "Okay. You're having a panic attack. Let's sit you down. People never realise until they're personally affected, but panic attacks are actually very real," he's rambling a little as he rounds the bed and grips Patrick's arm, guides him backwards onto the rumpled sheets. He sits down heavily beside Patrick, places a hand softly on the centre of his back, rubbing in gentle circles between his shoulders, "You have to breathe, Patrick. Deeply in—and out."

Patrick does as he's told and feels his vision eventually start to clear, which helps, but also it doesn't, because it makes things feel less dream like, and if he's not dreaming then—

"Okay, keep going. That's it, that's good," the man encourages. In spite of himself, in spite of everything, Patrick likes the way that praise, as well as the gentle touch, makes him feel.

They both take another few slow, deliberate, synchronised breaths before the hand on Patrick's back stills. The man's voice is soft, now, little more than a whisper. "What's going on, Patrick?"

"I don't know," he says, sounding small and needy to his own ears as he repeats, "I don't know."

"Do you know who I am?"

Patrick shakes his head sadly and the way this man looks at him, the way his face visibly sags, is devastating.

"Okay," he says, voice thick, and pauses, eyes closing briefly before they return to search Patrick's face. "Do you know who you are?"

He nods, he at least thinks he knows that, if only on the surface. "Patrick…Brewer?", he says, more shakily than intended.

"Good, that's good." The man let's out a little breath of relief. "Do you know where you are?"

"No."

"What's the date?"

"February 27th."

The guy winces, shakes him head. "Um, no. What year?"

Patrick feels much less certain now. "Uh, 2016?"

The man blinks rapidly and sucks his lips in before scrunching his eyes shut and tilting his head back for a what feels like minutes, hours, before he speaks again.

"You're in your apartment, in a town called Schitt's Creek and —before you say anything about that, I know— it's June 30th 2018. I'm David Rose. We run a business together. We're also," he pauses, wets his lips and swallows, blinks, as if steeling himself and says, more quietly, "together, together. We have been for almost two year. We got engaged yesterday."

Patrick feels his stomach flip and the world around him tilt. "But I…" he can't bring himself to say Rachel's name again, not after seeing the reaction it provoked last time. Because this guy he has woken up with – David — apparently his new fiancé.

This can't be happening.

He huffs out a desperate little whine, part sob half hysterical laugh.

"It's a lot to process, I know. Keep taking deep breaths hon—Patrick," he amends and his hand resumes rubbing small soothing circles into the middle of his back. "Did you hit your head? Are you in pain?"

"I—I'm not sure," he says, because he isn't. He isn't sure of a single goddamned thing anymore. He tries to locate any distinct, physical source of pain or discomfort, but all he can feel is his churning stomach, his racing heart and a light throb in his foot. He doesn't even feel hungover, he realises. "I don't think so. My foot hurts, so I might've fallen? Or had—"

"No, you didn't fall, you stepped on a particularly pointy branch. What's the last thing you remember?'

"Rachel and I had just got engaged. We went out with a bunch of friends to tell them, we drank champagne and I felt," he pauses, unsure of what he was going to say, and attempts to grasp at the last tendrils of anything else that happened, stares at his hands clasped on his lap like they might be hiding some answers, "then I don't know, I woke up here."

There's a heavy sigh. "Right, well, you're literally missing a billion things that have happened between then and now and I don't know where to begin. Or if I even should." He gives Patrick's back a little pat before pulling away, getting to his feet and stalking across the room, "I have to call a doctor. Or your parents. Or both."

Patrick freezes at that, his muscles tense involuntarily, "I could call them. My parents, I mean, if that would be easier." His mouth feels too dry, his chest too tight.

David frowns at him, something like hurt washing over his face. "They know about us, that you're gay, and they accept you and love you." He comes back around the bed to sit beside Patrick and rests a reassuring arm across his shoulders.

With that, Patrick feels tears well, start to blur his vision. David leaves his arm in place, a comforting weight, and lets him sob for a minute. He isn't sure what he's crying for; the sudden loss of his relationship, or the sudden knowledge of a new, different one; that everything has changed and he feels disconcerted, discombobulated, but not necessarily upset; the strange sense of relief he feels to hear that his parents still love him; how grateful he is in this moment for for this man's - David's - soothing touch and reassuring words, or just the sheer absurdity of the situation he's found himself in. Maybe all of the above.

David withdraws his arm and breathes deeply before saying, "And just as importantly, Marcy and Clint love and accept me so I'm going to call them now, because you're usually the calm, sensible, rationale one in this relationship and without you performing that role I am going to need some external help figuring out what to do next, and you probably want to talk to someone you actually remember, so."

"Okay," is all Patrick says but he still has a million questions that David seems to read on his face when he looks up from the phone in his hand.

"Maybe you could go get dressed while I try to explain everything? You should be able to tell which clothes are yours and the bathroom is…" he waves a hand loosely in the direction of a door on the other side of the room. "Oh, and they don't know about yesterday. The engagement, I mean. To me," he amends and closes his eyes, runs a hand roughly through his messy hair, "we were going to wait and tell everyone this weekend, after the opening," he stills and draws a hand dramatically to his mouth, "oh my fucking god, the opening—" he shakes his head at Patrick's unspoken question at that, "one thing at a time. Maybe just don't mention the engagement, ours I mean, to your mom or dad?"

Patrick nods, feeling dumbstruck. As if he even could.

David holds his phone against his chest and pointedly waits for Patrick to gather clothes — there's an open shelved dresser on the other side of the bed, so he grabs a white t-shirt, a blue sweater and some jeans that look like the kind he usually wears – obviously wanting to speak to Marcy and Clint with Patrick out of earshot.

He shuffles across the small living space into the bathroom and leans heavily against the door when it's closed, clutching his clothes tight to his chest. He's facing the mirror and the time he's missing instantly feels more real when he sees how different he looks. His hair is shorter, face a little leaner, he thinks, and he doesn't look so tired, his skin seems clearer, brighter despite the slight blotchy-redness from his freshly shed tears.

He bends to checks his hurt foot. There's a cut on the tender part of the arch, but it's small and looks clean. Maybe the wound does have something to do with this whole thing, he thinks; maybe David just missed something, the thing that's responsible for whatever this is.

When Patrick pulls off his t-shirt the mirror reflects an impressive hickey just above his collarbone, where shoulder meets neck, and he absently finds himself pressing his fingertips against it. It feels fresh, still painful, pink and tender, and the image of David's mouth on him makes him feel…something. Self-conscious, dizzy, overwhelmed.

He can hear David talking now, hushed unintelligible words growing louder, an edge of hysteria creeping into his voice – "I know, and I'm trying to stay calm Marcy, but….yes, okay. You're right, he does. Hmm-mmh. Thanks. That would be good. Yes. Is Clint okay? Sure. He's just getting dressed. I think he'll feel better when you talk to him but…he's not himself. He thinks he's still with Rachel and I can't…I know, I know he does, I'm trying but-" — Patrick hears a sob and turns on the faucet, letting the water drown out the rest the conversation as he washes his face and brushes his teeth with what he assumes his his toothbrush (in part because it's the brand he always buys, and in part because the other is a sleek black, expensive looking electric brush that looks more suited to David) and dresses quickly, efficiently, before it all becomes too much.

When he exits the bathroom Patrick waves his hand in a futile little greeting at David whose still on the phone. He wipes damp eyes with the stretched cuff of his sleeve and says, "He's here, Marcy. I'll put him on," and gently puts one hand on Patrick's bicep, handing him the phone with the other, before pulling his hand abruptly away. "Talk to your your mom while I get ready."

"Hi mom," he says incongruously bright against the current set of circumstances . "I don't know what's happening."

"Oh, my sweet boy."

And at that Patrick's voice breaks, another sob wracks through him, and he watches David - fuck, his new fiancé - disappear into the bathroom, red-eyed, while his mom tell him, "Shh, sweetie. It's okay. We're on our way now and David will take care of you. It'll all be okay." Her voice is soothing, familiar, and he really wants her to be right.