"I think its best if I drive," David tells him, keys of Patrick's old Volvo already in hand as he rounds the car to the driver's door, "for obvious reasons."

"Uh, sure. Makes sense," Patrick agrees and waits for the whirring click of the door unlocking to duck into the passenger seat.

When he'd followed David down the stairs and out of the apartment building to a small asphalt parking lot, Patrick hadn't expected to see the same car he remembers driving home from work the day-but-not-really before. He's seemingly changed everything else about his life during the chunk of time he's missing; seeing the same old car he's had for years – seeing David behind the wheel - already makes it feel like a relic, strange in its familiarity when everything else he has seen and heard this morning is the opposite of familiar.

Patrick does feel a little better, though — definitely calmer — after talking to both of his parents for the best part of the last hour. David, once dressed, had hovered just far enough away to give at least the illusion of space in the small apartment, tidying up around him, while Patrick tried to compose himself and listen to his parents as they painted a broad brush picture of what had happened after he and Rachel got engaged.

He'd broken things off after just a month — "You just weren't happy with Rachel, honey. We didn't see it for what it was at the time, we thought you were just commitment-shy, but now we know why it didn't work out." — and quit his job, told them he was leaving for a while to clear his head and had never gone back.

He'd stopped off in Schitt's Creek ("Of all places!") after finding some freelance business consulting work, his dad told him, and then they hadn't heard from him much for a while, until he'd let them know he'd decided to stick around for longer than planned, that he'd invested in a retail business and would be staying to help with the day-to-day running of the store.

"You took too long to tell us about David," his mom said, a disapproving tone creeping into her voice, "you let us think he was just your business partner," but she'd reassured him that he had never had anything to worry about. "When we visited, you just seemed so much happier in your new life, with David and the store and your new friends. You seemed like a different person."

It was a lot to hear, but it helped put his past doubts and denials and self delusions into some kind of perspective. It's a relief, he thinks, to know that he'd finally managed to make the kind of change he'd yearned for. It had been a long time coming. He only wishes he could remember how he did it.

His dad had brought their conversation to an eventual close by insisting they should get on the road; that he'd found a route that should get them to Schitt's Creek, traffic willing, in under four hours, and that, until then, David was the best person he could be with. "He's a funky dresser, but he's a really good guy, Pat," his dad had attested. "Me and your mom like him a lot. And so do you."

As an only child, Patrick had been pretty close to his parents growing up, but even so, it felt bewildering and devastating and even strangely liberating to have them know some of the most personal details of his life before he did.

The stuttering engine of the car brings him back to the present and David is talking, running him through the plan for the day.

"Okay, so we'll go to the motel now to make sure there'll be a room ready for your parents this afternoon, and I'll see if Alexis — my sister — can open up the store for us this morning," David says, eyes firmly facing front as he pulls out of the parking lot and onto the road, "I'd leave the store closed, but Saturday is one of our busiest days, so," he adds with a small jerk of his shoulders, as if an explanation is needed, "and I'll have to break the news to my mother that you won't be available for tonight."

"Tonight?" Patrick asks tentatively; David had mentioned something -- an opening? – while Patrick had still been coming down from his earlier panic attack.

"Hmm, you're supposed to be starring in my mother's community theatre production of Cabaret that's premiering tonight."

"Oh, okay. That's—" Patrick isn't sure what he'd been expecting to hear, but it wasn't that. It provokes a nervous burst of laughter that escapes his lips before he can help it "—yeah, that's definitely not going to happen. I'm sorry."

"No, nope. Don't be sorry, Cabaret is the last thing we need to be concerned about right now, but my mom is not the most reasonable person?" He phrases it like a question that Patrick is in no condition to answer. "She was an actress. Is an actress," he explains, "and very much lets her flair for theatrics bleed through into her civilian life and she will not take this news well."

"Should I be even more worried than I already am?"

"Oh, absolutely," David's eyes dart towards him briefly and he shoots him a small, taunting smile. It feels easier to talk to David here, somehow. Maybe because of his parents' reassurance or the distraction of the road and a semblance of a plan in front of them. Maybe just because the Volvo feels like home turf.

"But," David continues, "the sooner she knows, the sooner she can get on with her meltdown and let the rest of the cast know that the show must not go on."

"There's no understudy that can take my place?"

"There is, technically, but he's a mechanic in his sixties and, honestly, no-one needs to see him in that costume."

Patrick can only remember seeing the movie, years ago, and tries to remember the male roles in it – Michael York's character? The one who doesn't want to sleep with—Oh. Okay, seems a little on the nose, he thinks, but tries to stay focused on the potentially not-much-safer-at-all subject of a scandalous costume.

"What role am I supposed to be playing, exactly?" He can't remember much past Liza's Bob Mackie sequins and some retro suits in the movie. Unless he's playing a nazi—

"The emcee."

"Really?"

"Really. But think more Alan Cumming or Michael C Hall than Joel Gray in terms of costume and you'll understand why Bob just—no."

Patrick has only a haziest idea of those actors, or what they mean for the costume, but still. He can imagine. And...Wow. He had done some musical theatre in college, but he never would have taken on that role back then; it was too flamboyant, he would have felt too self-conscious. It's yet more proof that he's changed, broadened his horizons. It feels both mildly terrifying and more than a little thrilling. He rolls down the window for some air as he wonders in what other ways he might be bolder now.

"Okay, so fair warning," David says, changing the subject as he makes a sharp turn and a sign for the Rosebud Motel comes into view, "I actually live here, at this motel. Please try not to judge me for it, or for being related to whichever members of my family you may encounter while we're here."

I wouldn't, he thinks, but he's sure David knows him well enough to know that already, so he just stays quiet as David parks the car and unbuckles his seatbelt.

"Wait here, okay? You don't need the extra burden of dealing with Moira Rose in full Fosse mode. I'll speak to my dad about a room for your parents and bribe my sister into opening the store." He repeats his plan and takes a breath before adding with forced levity, "And then we can spend the rest of the morning at the ER in Elmdale."

He can see the watery disappointment colouring David's dark eyes. "I'm sorry that this has happened, David," Patrick says, and he thinks of how Rachel had looked after he'd proposed to her – bright-eyed with excitement, even if it had been short-lived — and how David isn't allowed to have that today, how one way or another it's a second engagement that Patrick has managed to mess up.

David's hand inches briefly towards Patrick's thigh before pulling away, landing back on the steering wheel, silver rings on his fingers glinting in the morning light. "Today is not going to go how either of us pictured it, but it's also not your fault, so, stop apologising and just, don't go anywhere."

"Okay," Patrick says, and watches David exit the car, march across a worn patch of grass and unlock a white door before disappearing inside. He's dressed casually, in a soft, oversized black and white sweater and black pants that Patrick truly wouldn't know how to describe, but even so, he looks…polished, Patrick thinks. High end. High maintenance, maybe. He isn't judging David, but he can't help but think that he looks as much like a fish out of water in a place like this as Patrick currently feels; his fancy high tops probably cost more than the car Patrick's sitting in. There must be a story behind him ending up in a roadside motel in rural Ontario. Maybe it's something like Patrick's own story. Maybe that's what brought them together. He's sure he'll find out, one way or another, soon.

Patrick's reverie is interrupted when the man he's been wondering about emerges from the motel alongside a pretty girl tottering on high wedge heels and tossing long blonde hair dramatically over her shoulder.

"This is honestly the last thing I needed to hear today, David. How am I going to be in the show if it has to be postponed? I'll be in the Galapagos next week!"

"I'm sorry that my boyfriend forgetting who I even am is getting in the way of your theatrical debut, Alexis!"

"Well, l guess it isn't really your fault," she says with a heavy sigh heavily as she reaches the car and pulls the back door open, folds herself into the backseat.

An exasperated groan escapes David's throat and he bends to peer at Patrick through the open window. "I am very sorry that you have to deal with my bratty little sister right now. Don't believe anything she says. I'll be back in as few minutes as humanly possible."

"Stop, David!"

Patrick nods and turns towards the back seat to find David's sister looking at him with wide eyes and an exaggerated frown. She's very good-looking, he thinks, though not as good-looking as David. That sudden thought, the certainty of it, pulls him up short; he's been told by multiple people now that he's with David, so it shouldn't surprise him that he finds him attractive, but it does, because while he's sure he's found men objectively attractive before, this isn't that, it's more, and it poses as many questions as it answers.

"So, I'm Alexis," David's sister tells him and pokes her hand into the space between the front seats, palm down and limp-wristed, like she's expecting him to say enchanté and kiss the back of her hand; he gives it an awkward little shake instead, "David's sister and sometime public relations consultant for Rose Apothecary, but I'm sure he's told you that already."

"Part of it," he says, and attempts a smile.

She purses her lips and sighs again. Her and David may not look much alike, he thinks, but they do pull similar faces. "This is just, like, so random, Patrick."

"Yeah. Tell me about it."

There's a beat of silence that's broken with a distant theatrical wail from beyond the door David had entered. Patrick widens his eyes at Alexis but she's still just looking at him, unperturbed by the sound, her head tilted like she's trying to think of the right thing to say.

"Jared Leto had amnesia once, while we were dating," she blurts, and all Patrick can manage in response is to widen his eyes further still, "well, not really. He was just going totally method for a role, but the funding for the project fell through and he never even got to play the part, the poor thing."

"Yeah, poor him."

"Poor who?"

Patrick heaves a small sigh of relief when he hears David's voice; his body releases tension he hadn't realised he'd been holding onto when David gets back into the driver's seat beside him. He guesses it's because, second only to the car, David is currently the most familiar physical thing in Patrick's life. "Uh, Jared Leto?" Patrick half answers, half asks.

"Oh my god, Alexis," David slams the door shut behind him and rolls his eyes. "Jared Leto's shitty excuse for ghosting you is nothing like what is happening here."

"He did not ghost me! It's called method acting and you're just—."

"Okay," he cuts her off as he starts the engine, "that's quite enough Jared Leto chat."

She huffs out a dissatisfied little whine. "Well, what did mom say?"

"No, not talking about that right now either," David grimaces and drops his voice, turning to Patrick to speak, "Again, please know that I am deeply sorry and truly mortified that you are having to deal with this today."

"Oh my god, David!"

"It's fine," Patrick tries to reassure him, both of them, with a weak smile as David steers them out of the motel parking lot, and he tries to mean it, even if he can't imagine how much further from fine things could be.

The short drive to the store passes in silence. Mostly, Patrick thinks, because every time Alexis opens her mouth, David glares at her via the rear view mirror.

"Here it is, this is our store," David says, practically under his breath, before passing Alexis the keys and asking her faux-politely not to run their business into the ground in the space of a single morning.

Our store. A business he had helped to create, with David. He can see David's influence in it straight away – his name is right there, for a start: Rose Apothecary. He likes it. It's just pretentious enough. The windows are delicately stencilled and tastefully dressed with ferns and painted wooden shelves. It all looks carefully put together; sophisticated but welcoming. He wonders about the business model, what their margins are like; the other parts of the business that have his stamp on them. It's yet another thing he suddenly has a million ungraspable questions about.

"You're welcome," Alexis says sarcastically, and lifts her index finger to boop David roughly on the nose. "Break a leg at the hospital, Patrick!"

David exhales heavily. "Mom has trained her never to say 'good luck' because that would, somehow, be bad luck?"

"Oh, well, good thing she did," Patrick replies, and can't stop himself from feeling strangely charmed by the vexed look on David's face, "I don't think we need any more of that right now."

The journey to the hospital takes about forty minutes and they drive in a semi comfortable (given the situation) silence most of the way. There's not much but fields and farmland to look at, so Patrick tries to steal glances at David, to take in the man he's decided – a version of him, at least – that he wants to spend his life with, but he keeps getting caught when David's eyes flit from the road to check on him.

"I'm not normally this puffy," David says, after the third time their eyes meet, and self consciously raises a fingertip to press at the delicate skin just beneath his eye, "but it has been quite the morning."

He wants to tell him that isn't why he's looking, but the right words won't come and then it seems too late, so Patrick turns his attention back to the sights outside the car instead.

When they arrive at Elmdale General, the emergency room is small and surprisingly full, made up of what looks like minor traumas; DIY mishaps and car dings, a sprain or two, and those whose Friday night revelry had obviously bled — in one case, literally— into Saturday morning. He wonders if he unwittingly falls into any of those categories.

He's handed a patient registration form pinned to a flimsy clipboard and feels instantly helpless when David has to help him fill it out because he doesn't actually know his address or his phone number or who to list as his emergency contact or various other basic pieces of information about himself. It's galling, obviously, but doubly so, because paperwork is kind of one of Patrick's specialities, and his lack of ability to complete this simple detail oriented task makes it hit home how much his life has altered, how much crucial information about himself he's missing. When he hesitates, just for a fraction of a second, at the 'date of birth' box, David even prompts him on that. "No, i know that much, I just," he pauses, huffs out a little laugh at himself for the thought he's about to share, "I just realised that I'm thirty-two. I missed my thirtieth birthday. It had felt like such a big milestone and now…" he lets the thought trail off and shakes his head.

"If it's any consolation, I heard it wasn't the best birthday you've ever had."

"Huh. So I didn't get my surprise party?"

"You did not." David says, but there's something hidden in his expression, it isn't sad; it's soft and fond but Patrick doesn't know how to question it without the possibility of unearthing something he might not be ready to hear so he goes back to filling out the few sections of the form he can manage on his own before handing it off to David to complete.

The wait is long, but he gets along with people, generally, and it turns out he finds David particularly easy to get along with. Patrick likes the way David jumps between seriousness and snark, it puts him at ease, because it's a technique he uses, too.

"Fun fact. My family were actually right here yesterday, while we were in the wilderness, because they thought my dad had had a heart attack," David tells him, seemingly inspired by the entrance of a man loudly declaring his state of cardiac arrest.

"That's terrible, is he okay?"

"He's fine. It was just heartburn," David shakes his head and pulls a questioning face, "Any chance that's all that's wrong with you?"

Patrick huffs out a breath of resigned laughter, "Unfortunately, I don't think so."

"Worth a shot," David shrugs and stands, stretching his long limbs as he stifles a yawn. "Want some tea?"

"Thanks," Patrick smiles up at him."That would be good."

It shouldn't really come as a surprise, but David brings Patrick tea made just the way he likes it. He also offers to share a vending machine pastry with him, (Patrick declines, his appetite just about as absent as his memories at this point), then reveals that he'd brought Patrick's phone along, just in case anyone tries to get in touch.

"It might be better if you don't look at your photos just yet, or our messages," David suggests, and waves a hand loosely between them to make it clear who he's talking about.

"Right," Patrick says, and can't deny it's making his pulse quicken a little, his mind race, to think about what David might be asking him not to look at, "okay."

It must show on his face.

"It's not because there's anything weird on there," David says in a single rush of breath; he blushes just enough for it to show high on his cheeks, tilts his head back in the same exasperated way he had earlier, "at least, not that I'm aware of? It's just…there's couple stuff, that you might find weird. Right now."

"Okay. I won't look." Not yet, Patrick thinks, and swallows thickly, not here.

Instead, David suggests talking Patrick through some of the new contacts in his phone, which is illuminating, ("Ray Butani? Let's call him a local 'entrepreneur'. You used to live with him." – "Were we…?" – "Oh, god no, you just rented his spare room. And worked for him for, like, five minutes. You actually haven't really, um, dated anyone else. But me. I suppose there was Ken, but he doesn't really count, and that is very much a conversation for another time, so let's move onto Ronnie…") and, when a text arrives from Moira – who is, according to the name he has her saved under, David's mom, he insists that they ignore it.

Moira (David's Mom):

Darling Pat. If this unanticipated fit of "amnesia' is a manifestation of pre-show jitters, rest assured that I will forgive and forget as long as you promptly attend dress rehearsal this afternoon. RSVP ASAP. M.

"At least she called me darling?"

"She also called you Pat, which I have told her repeatedly is incorrect."

Later, when descriptors for the strangers in his contacts have been depleted and they're back to watching other patients come and go, Patrick gets another text. His heart sinks when he sees who it's from, until he reads it:

Rachel:

Hey, I heard about what happened. Sounds rough. Didn't want to call as you're probably pretty overwhelmed by now, but I'm here whenever you want to talk. There are no hard feelings between us. We've both moved on. We're good. xxx

In his peripheral vision, Patrick can see David looking at him while pretending not to.

"Rachel texted, so…" he explains, feeling strangely guilty, like he might be cheating on one – or both – of them by talking to the other.

"Good, that's good. I hope you don't mind, but I asked Marcy to let her know, so."

"You did?"

"I thought, since your memory of her is more…fresh, it might be helpful to reconnect."

He's not sure what to make of that. It's a kind gesture, and Rachel had said they're good, but he can't blame David for still looking less than comfortable – Patrick had woken up thinking he was still engaged to her.

"Thank you, David," he says, and he gives him a small smile before typing out a reply:

:Patrick

Thanks Rach. At the hospital now. Just trying to get to grips with everything. A lot has changed. For what it's worth, I'm sorry. But I'm sure you know that already. It would be good to talk soon. I'll text you. X

Eventually, he gets to see a doctor. David goes with him without discussion; they both know Patrick won't be able to answer the many inevitable questions on his own. Patrick tells the doctor how he'd woken up this morning apparently missing more than two years of his life and David fleshes out some of the finer details of the last 24 hours — that they'd gotten engaged the day before, that Patrick hadn't hit his head or anything like that, but had injured his foot, that they'd eaten cheese that had possibly been out of the fridge for too long, ("Just in case that's somehow related to all of this?") — and then Patrick is having his cognitive function tested with a series of seemingly arbitrary questions and short-term memory exercises, then a light is shone into his eyes, his reflexes are checked and several vials of blood are drawn.

"So far, Mr. Brewer, your vitals and comprehension seem fine; there are no obvious signs of physical or cognitive impairment. You have a sense of who you are — up to a defined point in time, at least — and seem to have no difficulty retaining information," the doctor tells him and looks up from the chart she's holding, her expression giving little away. "Next, I'll run through a different series of questions to rule out some other possible triggers. It'll likely need input from both of you."

Patrick and David glance at one another and nod.

"Any migraines or other regular headaches?"

"I get migraines sometimes, yeah," Patrick answers. "when I'm stressed, usually."

"How often?"

"Maybe every month or so? But I obviously don't know about recently."

Both Patrick and the doctor look to David for more. "I'm not aware of any headaches at all, you haven't mentioned anything."

"Okay," the doctor scribbles something down before continuing. "Any recent head trauma, even incidents that didn't seem serious at the time?"

"I want to say no? No. I would know." David looks at Patrick with slightly narrowed eyes; he can only shrug in return. "Although he was having dance lessons recently, and last I saw, they were practicing some kind of cartwheel manoeuvre, so it's possible?" David offers, and adds, "He's also in a baseball troupe, and I know from personal experience playing that sport can be very dangerous."

The doctor writes more on her clipboard and continues to ask questions. As they keep coming, Patrick can only shake his head, shrug his shoulders, and look pleadingly to David, who dutifully answers them all as best he can.

"Any use of Benzodiazepines?"

"I wish. But, um, no. Never."

"Any other history of drug abuse?"

David seems affronted on Patrick's behalf, "Look at him. No."

"Alcohol abuse?"

"He had about a third of a bottle of mid-price champagne yesterday, which was extravagant. For him."

"Any recent medical procedures?"

"None."

"Sudden submersion into extreme cold water?"

"I know this is Canada, but it's June, so, no."

"Any unusually strenuous physical activity?"

"We did go on a hike, but that's not too out of the ordinary for Patrick, and I actually carried him for part of the way because of the foot thing, so it was really more strenuous for me."

"Okay, good," she says with a small smile, "you'll be glad to hear we're almost done. Have there been any recent instances of particularly intense sexual activity?"

David has the good grace to look abashed at the question and his hand rises to the hollow of his throat, rubbing absently. "I mean, I don't want to flatter myself, but we did get engaged yesterday, so there was definitely…activity. Of a sexual nature."

Of course he and David have… slept together. But hearing David say it, even in his clumsily delicate way, makes the notion suddenly very real. It makes Patrick's skin prickle with warmth. He can feel a blush start to bloom on his cheeks.

"I understand that this can be," she says, sitting slightly forward and looking at each of them in turn, "difficult to discuss, especially in this situation, so please excuse me, but it is important that I ask. There was nothing more unconventional? No other activities that might induce an altered state?"

Turns out, Patrick only thought he'd been blushing before. He finds himself holding his breath and trying to clear his mind of all the mental images that are suddenly jostling for his attention. David clears his throat before answering. "Um. No. Nothing that unconventional."

"Okay, thank you for that," she says, and Patrick keeps his eyes on her as she makes another note on her clipboard before turning her attention back to them. "So, big life events like engagements can be very stressful. Did he seem especially stressed?"

Patrick notes that she's at the point of addressing her questions directly to David; given the recent subject matter, Patrick is at the point of being fine with that.

"Actually, yes," David says but hesitates before carrying on, "He got stressy and annoyed on the way to our picnic yesterday, because I was complaining about hiking for what felt like forever — I mean, honestly, the bags were heavy and I didn't know that we were hiking for more than just cheese with a view — so we almost turned back. He told me later that he only got upset because he'd wanted me to be happy, for it to be perfect when he asked me to marry him — and it was, in the end, it was so, so perfect — because the first time he got engaged it wasn't, it was before he came out, and it should never have happened, but even so, for some reason, that engagement is the last thing he remembers now—"

David's is babbling, like he had earlier that morning, a faintly manic, breathless quality to his voice as he reveals these details, casual bits of intimacy and insight, that are just as hard for Patrick to hear as they are for David to say.

Patrick wants to reach out to him, to offer comfort like David had done for him, but the doctor beats him to it.

"Okay, Mr. Rose," she says softly, lays a hand on top of David's to still its frantic movements, "that's all helpful. Now, take a breath."

He does and glances at Patrick as if to check in on him. Something about that makes Patrick's heart clench.

"Can you think of anything else?"

"Um," David starts, voice still a little shaky, "he was also supposed to be starring in a musical, tonight, at the theatre here in Elmdale, but he was only a little nervous about that. It's his co-star who was the flight risk."

The doctor nods without looking up from her notes and they wait in strained silence for what is probably only seconds, but feels like days before she speaks again.

"Okay. So," she says, placing the clipboard face down on the desk with a gentle thud, "this type of memory loss is rare, and I'll need an MRI and some x-rays to see how things look physically, but stress and various associated factors can trigger something called transient global amnesia. It's normally short lived, with no adverse long term effects. If that's what we're dealing with, your memories could start to return gradually in anything from days to weeks."

That sounds relatively positive, but Patrick can't help but linger on the ominous if in her statement. "And if it's not?"

"Then we assess things further and move forward from there."

"What's the worst case scenario?"

"I'd prefer not to speculate until we've run further diagnostics but if there is a physical cause then, of course, we may require further intervention."

"Like what?" David asks before Patrick gets the chance, his voice sharp with worry as he pitches forward in his chair.

"Those options are best discussed if and when required."

Patrick lets out a long, shaky breath and David's hand finds his where it rests in his lap, squeezes hard.

"I know this is scary, Mr. Brewer, especially if your life now is very different from the one you last remember. You may feel like you've time travelled, or woken up in another body, but you haven't. And everything that brought you to this moment is all still in there," she points to his head, "and we'll do everything we can to get it back for you."

David's hand is still covering Patrick's. It's warm and soft and coupled with the doctors words, it helps.

"The best thing you can do while we wait for your test results is try to live as normally as possible. Learning about the parts of your life you can't remember may start to trigger your suppressed memories."

"Okay," he says, because it's all he can say. "Thank you."

With that, the doctor makes a quick phone call and a nurse appears to whisk Patrick away.

"I'll be waiting for you," David tells him, but his face gives away more than his words, making it clear that he doesn't just mean in the fluorescent-lit waiting room outside. David's telling Patrick that he'll be waiting for him, and before Patrick can think of anything to say in response that could possibly convey the jumble of fear and gratitude he feels in that moment, the nurse is urging him into the corridor, promising David she'll have Patrick back to him within the hour.

Three x-rays, two more waiting rooms and one less than pleasant MRI scan later, Patrick finds David waiting for him, as promised.

"The good news is," David tells him as they walk back to the car, "your mom texted me. Your parents have arrived safely at the motel, so you can spend some time with them when we get back and I'll give you some space. I said you'd text them when we're almost there. They'll meet you at your apartment. Your mom's bringing one of her lasagnas."

"Okay, that is good news," Patrick says, and attempts a small smile. "Is there also bad news?"

"Well…" he says and opens his arms and holds his hands palm up to gesture at everything before nudging Patrick's shoulder with his own as he fishes car keys from his pocket.

They sit for a minute, once they're fastened into the car. Reality dawning that they've done all they can, for now, to resolve this strange situation they've found themselves in.

"Are you okay?" David asks, still facing the windshield, not looking at him.

"Honestly? I'm not sure." He feels disappointed. He wants to be patient, to be ok with the answers he got, but everything still feels so uncertain. "I feel okay but also not," he shakes his head, looks at David and decides to be honest for once in his life. "I guess I'm just not sure how I'm supposed to act."

"You don't have to act any way Patrick," David draws in a long breath, tilts his head back, before breathing out slowly and half-turning in the drivers seat to look at him. "You're still the same person. You still like spreadsheets a little too much, you still play baseball and like early mornings and wear ugly shoes. You just happen to live in Schitt's Creek now. And co-own a thriving business. And have a— a boyfriend."

"Yeah. That's—" still pretty different, he wants to say, but doesn't. It doesn't need to be said. "Thanks. It'll just take me a minute to get used to…everything. And I wish you didn't have to deal with that."

"I wish neither of us did. But we do, so we will. I know I may not be the person most would turn to in a crisis, but I actually do have pretty extensive crisis experience, and I know you and I…care about you, so that has to count for something."

"It does, David, but—"

"Patrick, listen to me," David cuts him off, then sighs and blinks his eyes a few too many times and sucks his lips between his teeth for a second before speaking again, his voice lower, softer, "I am in this with you. But I'm not expecting things to be anything like normal between us. And I want you to know that I will be here with you through this, whatever it is, if that's what you want. I just need you to trust me and know that I will never tell you anything that isn't true, even if it makes me look bad, and I will not take advantage of you while you're…like this."

Patrick nods and tries to hold back the prickle of tears he can feel threatening to fall. Again.

"I was sort of damaged when we met. But you helped…I don't know, repair me, or something," David huffs and rolls his eyes self-deprecatingly at his own words, struggling with the vulnerability in the statement, "and so I want to do that for you now, if I can."

"Okay. That's…Thanks, David," Patrick replies and forces himself not to look away from David's face. Maybe it's Patrick's old impulse to please, or maybe there's a part of him that does remember David, a little, because he knows, suddenly and fiercely, that he doesn't want to see this man upset, doesn't want to be the cause of his pain or dejection. "Thank you for doing this with me."

"I would do anything for you," he says and his eyes are glassy and dark with such hard-fought sincerity that Patrick believes him. "I mean," David adds, sniffing and contorting his face into an almost-smile, "within reason, obviously."

David's caveat is enough to break the thick tension and they both smile a little shyly at each other. It feels like they've been through something here today, together; they have been through something.

The pit in Patrick's stomach feels smaller, less cavernous than it had this morning.

"Anyway," David sighs heavily, "I know that was a lot to hear, so…"

"No, I'm glad to hear it. Thank you David."

"Okay, well, you can stop thanking me now."

"Right. Sorry."

"Stop apologising too, there's no need."

He sees an opportunity to lighten the mood a little further so he takes it, because this is who he is and from everything he's just heard, David knows that. Knows him. "Right. Thanks, for that."

David glares sideways at him, as he puts his hands on the steering wheel, but there's a new quirk to his lips that makes Patrick glad he attempted a joke.

"Couldn't you have also forgotten how to be so annoying?"

"Sorry?"

"Okay, we are so not doing this," he says matter of factly, but there's a smile hidden behind his pout.

"Okay, I'll stop,I swear," he says with a smile but it fades back into sincerity, because he really does want David to know that he's grateful, that he knows this is hard for him, too. "But I do appreciate it David. This. I want you to know that."

A beat of silence hangs between them, a little awkward again but not as intense as it felt before.

"Let's just…start over. For now," David says, straightening his shoulders and tilting his head to look at him again. "Think of me as just some rakishly handsome, stylish, new young man in your life that you've gone into business with."

"That also knows more about me than I know about myself?"

"Maybe I'm just incredibly perceptive."

"Okay," Patrick laughs, "that could work." He shifts in the passenger seat, angling his body towards David as he holds out his hand,"Patrick Brewer."

"David Rose," he says, and shakes Patrick's hand. David's skin is soft but his handshake is firm and it lingers a little longer than is strictly businesslike, but Patrick really doesn't mind at all.

"It's really good to meet you, David."

"You too, Patrick."