Still in the passenger seat of the Volvo, the scenery beyond the car no more than a verdant blur in his peripheral vision, Patrick feels a tiny bit less discombobulated than he did earlier. He realises, regardless of how uncertain or unrelenting this day may be, there isn't much he can do but face it head on. He's been passive enough, in the past, so while he waits for the results of the myriad tests and scans that were carried out at the hospital today, while he waits for the possibility of his memories trickling back, he resolves not to waste any more time. He wants to get to grips with who he is now, and try to reclaim, by whatever method he can, the life he's forgotten.

It fits with David's suggestion that they start over, he thinks, so he aims to take charge of that task by approaching David as he would someone he'd just met, someone he wants to get to know better (which he does), insofar as that's possible when the lack of knowledge is all one sided, and hopes that by getting to know David, he'll get to know himself again by extension.

There are already a million questions crowding his mind, some he knows he isn't ready to hear the answers to, so he decides to start by broaching the safest topic he can think of: the store.

It's clear that it's something David takes pride in; his face lights up as he explains his initial idea, the concept at the core of the business, "We procure a carefully curated selection of products from local vendors, harmonize them under the Rose Apothecary brand, and sell them on consignment. It's a one-stop-shop retail environment that benefits both the vendor and the customer."

"That sounds like a solid business model."

"Mmm. You thought so, eventually."

"Oh? I didn't think so right away?"

"I may not have articulated the idea quite that well during our initial meeting. You were working for Ray and you helped me file my business incorporation paperwork when I took out the lease," he hesitates for a moment, then adds a little too casually, "that's actually how we met."

At that hint, Patrick feels intensely curious about what that first meeting must have been like, about how his former first impression of David differs to the one he has now; of waking up panic-stricken beside him in bed. Had David liked him right away? Had he flirted with him? Had he known Patrick would like him? Had he asked him out?

Too many queries present themselves, and not about the business, which is what he's supposed to be focusing on, and Patrick realises he's been silent for too long when David starts talking again, "You were very, um, into the store when you saw it start to come together, and thought I could use some more start-up cash. You knew of ways to help get the extra money so you offered to go into business with me."

It would have been a risk, Patrick thinks, both stunned and a little impressed by his own apparent recklessness. He can't help but wonder if his interest in the store was the only reason he'd wanted to go into business with David. He lets some of his earlier curiosity take over in order to move himself away from that particular train of thought. "What did you do before opening the store?"

"Uh," David hesitates again at that, "I worked at a ladies boutique for a while, but I was a gallerist. Before."

"A gallerist. Huh." He mulls over David's answer for a second. It's not one he had been expecting; he's almost certain he's never encountered a gallerist before, he's not exactly sure what a gallerist even is, but it has certainly been a day for encountering new things.

"I ran modern art galleries, bought and sold individual pieces, worked with artists, curated collections—"

"So that's where your careful curation skills come from?"

"Mmhmm." David hums, lips sucked into an inscrutable line as he watches the road very intently.

Patrick doesn't want to push too hard, too soon, but he reasons that these are questions he'd ask anyone in the getting-to-know-you phase, questions he has (almost) definitely already heard the answers to.

"Are there many galleries in Schitt's Creek?"

"None."

"So…how come that's where you wound up?"

The corners of David's mouth curve downwards into a frown and his fingers flutter on the steering wheel. "My family had some financial trouble? A lot of financial trouble, actually."

"Okay," Patrick draws out the word and thinks maybe he shouldn't push him on this subject after all.

"Before I tell you about this, can I ask you one teeny-tiny favour?" David asks, shooting him a short, doleful glance. "In the interest of starting afresh?"

"Yeah, yes," Patrick stammers, imagining what he might be letting himself in for. He wants to hear it, even if he's not sure how many surprises he can handle in one day.

"Don't google me. Or my family. Not yet."

"What, are you famous?" Patrick asks, doing a terrible job of disguising his incredulity.

"Ummm," David draws the sound out for a little too long, eyes squarely back on the road, "do you remember that you worked at a Rose Video when you were in high school?"

"I remember that," Patrick replies tentatively, partially taken aback by how odd it is for someone he feels like he's just met to know this obscure detail about him, partially wondering why that detail would be relevant to this conversation.

"Well, my last name is Rose. And my dad is Johnny Rose. As in Rose—"

"—Rose Video? Oh. Oh." Patrick's mind flashes back to a mandatory copy of the owner's 'Fast Forward to Success'book that always sat, undisturbed, in the break room of branch 785; the man pictured on the dust jacket was - is - David's dad? He runs his eyes over David's face again to check for similarities and he can definitely see it; they have the same distinctive eyebrows, dark and thick and full of character.

"Yeah, well. In an unfortunate turn of events that you may have heard about but given no thought to at the time, because why would you, my family lost all of our money thanks to a crooked business manager. We had to move to Schitt's Creek because my dad had bought me the town as a gag gift when I was a kid and it was the only asset we—"

Patrick feels for the umpteenth time today like he might be hallucinating. "Wait, you own the town?"

"That's not important right now," David insists, voice a little higher, louder than before, "What is important is that we were rich and spoiled and, as bad as we were, tabloids are the worst, so there are stories and pictures I'd just prefer that you didn't see until you actually get to know me first. Because I'm a different person now." David finally allows his eyes to leave the road to glance uneasily at Patrick, "And also, I have much better hair."

"Uh, wow. Okay," Patrick lets out a little huff of laughter because what else is there for him to do? He's woken up in a world where he's not only gay, but engaged to the heir of the collapsed Rose Video empire who just happens to own the town they live in. All seems perfectly normal. There's part of him that's starting to wonder if he's really here at all, if this is all an elaborate dream. Maybe he's actually in a coma.

"You can ask, if there's anything you want to know," David offers unconvincingly, shaking his head to indicate that he'd really rather not be talking about this. It can't be easy to lose everything, Patrick thinks, and it dawns on him that this is possibly part of why David had been so understanding about what's happened today; David also knows — even if it isn't exactly the same — what it's like to wake up to a whole different life in Schitt's Creek.

Patrick decides he won't pry too much, but he still takes a minute to run through what he can remember hearing about the Rose's back in the day. "Wasn't your mom in a soap opera?"

"I told you she was an actress," David responds indignantly.

"And she's directing the musical I'm supposed to be in?" Because being directed in Cabaret by his new fiancé's famous soap actress mother? Sure, why not.

"Yep." David says, letting the 'p' sound pop.

"So, your sister did actually date Jared Leto?"

"Dating is not the term I would use, but…" David lets his lips quirk into a sardonic little smile when he glances over at Patrick's still-stunned face. "I did warn you you'd have a lot to process."

"Yeah," Patrick laughs, full-throated, open-mouthed. For as long as he can remember (which, in fairness, is currently not as long as it should be), he'd felt like he wanted his life to change in some new and exciting way. He can't deny it seems like he's managed to achieve that by moving to Schitt's Creek. "I guess I just wasn't expecting you to be so full of surprises."

"Rest assured," David says, a warm glint in his eyes that's probably just the afternoon sun, "you usually find it delightful."

"I bet I do," Patrick replies, and it comes out of his mouth a little more flirty than he'd intended, but David just does that smiling-whilst-trying-to-hide-it thing that Patrick' is starting to recognise, is starting to like, so he doesn't let himself regret it.

When they arrive back at his apartment building a little later, Patrick's parents are waiting by the front entrance like they said they would be when he'd texted them 15 minutes before, equal parts concern and affection written on their faces.

David doesn't leave the car, but he does wave at them, and makes Patrick recite his apartment number and confirm which keys he needs to use to get through his front door before he'll even let him leave the car. It's kind of sweet, if inherently frustrating, Patrick thinks, but he'd probably do the same if their roles were reversed.

"I'll bring your car back later," David says somewhat ambiguously, as Patrick closes the passenger-side door. Patrick wants to ask David when he'll see him again, what happens next, but when he tries, he feels stupid - like it's something more befitting of a first date than this peculiar moment - and then it's too late, he's already half way up the path to the brown brick building and, when he shoots a quick glance over his shoulder, David and the Volvo are gone.

Patrick wraps his arms around both of his parents as soon as he reaches them, relieved to see that they look the same, and he manages to hold it together, emotions less heightened, if no less present, than they were when he'd talked to them that morning.

Inside, as soon as his mom finds out he hasn't eaten, she's turning on the oven in the small kitchen, unpacking the lasagna she'd brought even though it's still too early for dinner. "You have to eat. And this is your favourite," she assures him.

"I know that much, mom," he says with a little harrumph of laughter. "I haven't forgotten everything."

That said, she still insists on taking charge of the small kitchen, citing the fact that Patrick won't know where anything is, anyway.

"And you do?" he challenges, because she's used to him being a smart ass, and she'd mentioned earlier that they'd only visited Schitt's Creek once before, for his birthday.

"Hush, I'll figure it out," she says with a grin and pushes him away from the kitchen towards the small living area.

He lets her fuss for a few long minutes while he and his dad sit opposite each other and make smalltalk about traffic until she finally joins them, sliding in beside Clint on the couch.

"So. What did the doc say?" Clint asks, and Patrick knows they've already texted with David, that he must have given them the gist of it already or they'd never have waited this long to ask. It relieves some of the pressure as he parrots what the doctor had told him, fills them in on what tests and scans were carried out, and that he just has to wait, now (they all do), for the results to come in before they know any more.

"You could always come back home for a while, if you wanted to," Marcy offers.

"Honey, his life is here."

"I know," she tells Clint sternly and turns her attention back to her son, "David could come too, if he wanted I just want you to know you have options sweetie. It's all entirely up to you."

There's a pointedness to his mom's otherwise innocuous statement that makes him think that they must have talked about this, somewhere in the stretch of time he's missing; the fact that he'd felt like he didn't have options before, and that she might feel responsible for playing a part in pushing him into a box he'd felt trapped in.

It's good to know that he does have options, now. That his parents will support him either way. Still, his dad is right, and truth be told, despite the precariousness of his current position, he already knows that his old life isn't one he's eager to get back to. "I appreciate the offer, but the doctor said I should live as normally as possible, that being around things I can't remember might trigger something. So. I'll, uh, stay here." With David, he doesn't say; he gets the impression he doesn't have to.

"That's good. That makes sense," Marcy nods, and some of the tension drops from her face, softens her features. "Just so long as you know it's up to you."

"I do. Thanks, mom."

"Anyway, you have responsibilities here. Your store. It would be a lot for David to deal with on his own. This has gotta be hard for him too."

Patrick flashes back to hearing David on the phone with his parents just that morning, how frantic and broken he'd sounded, and how he hadn't let Patrick see him like that, he'd worn a brave face for his benefit all day. "I know."

"How did you two get along, today?" Marcy asks, her eyes wide, lips curling into a coy smile. "It must feel pretty, um, strange to meet your boyfriend when you haven't even realised that you're—"

"Honey…" Clint interrupt his wife and shoots an apologetic look at Patrick.

"It does. This whole thing is beyond strange, but it's been... David's been..." Patrick falters, shrugs his shoulders and settles for, "He helped, today."

"Oh, that's good. I'm glad," she huffs out a short sigh of what sounds like relief. "He cares about you a lot."

"And he has a good head on his shoulders," Clint says, and that makes Patrick swallow a smile because it's a particular platitude that's always been the benchmark of high praise from a Brewer.

"He's handsome, too," his mom adds with poorly affected nonchalance. Clint chastises her with another look and they both go quiet, expectant, waiting to see how he reacts.

"Well, I'm starving," Patrick all but barks, keen for a swift change of subject as he runs his palms over the thighs of his jeans. He feels his face practically glow with the heat of a burgeoning blush; it's one thing to think David's attractive, another to talk to his parents about it. He can only manage one step out of the closet at a time. "I think I'll check on that lasagna."

"No, let me do it," Marcy says and leaps out of her seat before he can protest.

His dad leans forward, claps him on the shoulder, "She means well, son. We both do, even if we don't always get it right."

While they eat, they spend time catching up on less weighty topics, familial ups and downs and all the daily minutiae missed over the course of two years. He finds out that his mom has joined a local a capella choir — "I was inspired by the one I heard about here, actually," — that his dad has taken up golf — "You get to a certain age and it just starts to make sense."— and that his cousin had eloped with a guy she met on vacation and moved to Saskatchewan (he feels glad to not be the only absconder in the family and makes a mental note to call and congratulate her when he feels more like himself).

Otherwise, not a whole lot seems to have changed back home. They're still just Clint and Marcy Brewer and Patrick is still just their son and it feels good to spend this time with them, safe in that knowledge.

He's relieved when they don't bring up Rachel. Patrick has already promised himself that he'll speak to her soon, but today he needs the separation between them to start to reflect the time they've actually been apart, because as far as his head is concerned, he was kissing her just yesterday, telling people they planned on spending their lives together and now that's all gone, a distant memory to everyone but him. He's not too upset about the fact that they're not together anymore (and that's revealing in itself), he knows, possibly always did, that the engagement wasn't right, but there is a small, uneasy part of him that had been worried, in spite of everything they had said this morning, that his parents might revert to their old ways and push him back towards Rachel and the habit of going back that he'd finally managed to break.

He remembers, during his last few visits with them in his recent-but-distant-past, it had felt like they'd talked about little else but his relationship with Rachel; the future he could and should have with her. He had felt stifled by it, but instead of telling them that, talking to them, he had let it drive a wedge between them; made him shorten his visits, miss their calls, ignore invitations.

From what little he's heard so far, he thinks he might have let the same happen when he was too scared to tell them about David, and if that's the case he wants to know, to apologise, and he wants to find out about how he did finally tell them, so he does what he couldn't do before; he steels himself, and he asks.

"You'd been distant, ever since you moved away, and you hadn't been back home at all, not even for the holidays," Marcy explains, no resentment in her voice, just a hint of disappointment, "we missed you, but we knew that you were busy with the store, and you never mentioned dating, so we just gave you the space you seemed to want. We obviously knew that David was your business partner, so when he asked us to be the extra surprise at your surprise party we didn't think anything of it—"

"He threw me a surprise party?" Patrick asks, and knows it's silly that, among all the other life-changing details of the day, that's one extra literal surprise that takes him aback. He wonders briefly why David hadn't just mentioned it when he had brought it up in passing at the hospital earlier. He figures some things are just harder than others to talk about with someone who thinks that you're a stranger.

"Well, he tried to," Clint adds, "We just jumped at the chance to visit, but we had no idea that you were even gay— or that you two were more than—"

"But David didn't know that we didn't know, so—"

"It's kind of a funny story, in hindsight,' his dad assures him, and proceeds to regale him with the tale of how David's dad had welcomed them at the motel and put his foot in his mouth by talking about their sons being 'romantically in business together'; how David had ended up having to spoil the surprise, tell Patrick that his parents were in town; how David had visited them before the party ("He was so concerned that we were upset and it might ruin your birthday."), to tell them that Patrick knew that they'd be there and ask them to just play dumb, to let Patrick tell them he was gay in his own words.

"And you did. Even if you realised that we already knew," Marcy says, ruefully.

"You know your mom, she has no poker face."

"Well, the day wound up being a surprise for all of us," his mom adds with a self-conscious chuckle, "But David tried to make it all work. And it did. Because we got to meet David and see how happy you both were and we feel like we got our son back, after that."

Something almost breaks in him, to hear that. He doesn't let his emotions get the better of him, though, this time, because there's something about the odd second-hand nature of learning his own story in the past tense that makes it all easier to hear somehow, less painful, less daunting; like he's being told about someone he knows rather than himself. And despite what might come in the next few days or weeks, in this moment, he allows himself to feel happy for this other Patrick instead of sorry for himself.

He attempts to thank them, tries to apologise for all of that time wasted, for not being honest with them about Rachel (although, how could he have been when he wasn't even honest with himself?) or David. But, of course, it's all road he's already tread.

"We understand, son, it was hard. You were working through a lot," his dad reassures him, "and you've apologised to us already."

"We know you were worried about losing us," his mom adds, eyes soft and sincere. "But you don't have to worry about that anymore. You never did. You know that now, don't you?"

"Yeah, you've made that pretty clear," he tells her with a broad smile, overcome with affection for both of them.

His parents are good people, he thinks; he's glad to have them back, too.

It's just beginning to get dark when Patrick hears a hollow knock rapping at the front door of the apartment. The sound interrupts them during a conversation that's mostly wild speculation about his non-performance in Cabaret, and startles him from his newly regained self-possession. His shoulders go tense with trepidation, if not necessarily fear; it's a what now? feeling, a what else could this day possibly throw at him feeling.

His parents seem conspicuously unfazed, however, and before the third rap of knuckles against the wood, Marcy has hopped out of her seat to answer it without a word.

"Hi, sweetie," Patrick hears her say, bright and fond into the hallway beyond the door. He feels his stomach swoop at the familiarity of it, at the image of Rachel it causes to flash behind his eyes.

Patrick gets to his feet, braces himself, and sees David sweep inside, duck his head as Marcy tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek. David gives her a loose one-armed hug, his other occupied by a bulging Rose Apothecary branded tote bag.

David lets the door fall closed behind him and looks a little sheepish as Marcy draws him into the room. He's changed his clothes, Patrick notices, busy looking anywhere but at David's face; he's wearing slim white jeans and a sweater that's more fitted than the one he'd worn earlier, but still in monochrome; black with a white rose detail on the left side of the chest, like a soft shield over his heart.

Patrick just stands there on the narrow strip of rug between the chair and the small coffee table, suddenly rooted to the spot. It feels strange just to be sharing this space with David again after a long and confounding day; adding his parents into the mix feels almost like too much. He's lost some of the ease he'd felt when he was alone with David earlier.

Unsure of what he's supposed to do now, Patrick shoves his hands into his pockets, rocks on the balls of his socked feet and winces, glances down when the movement niggles at the forgotten cut on his sole. When he looks up, all eyes are on him. "Hi," he mutters quietly, through a small, cautious smile.

"Hey," David says back, just as softly, just for him, before turning his attention back to Clint and Marcy, "I was bringing the car back and just wanted to see how, uh, everyone's doing."

"We're good, son," Clint says.

It jars Patrick to hear that word roll so casually off his dad's tongue in relation to someone who isn't him; it suddenly occurs to Patrick that, even unbeknownst to them, that's what David almost is, though, Clint and Marcy's son-in-law. What he might still be when (if) Patrick gets his memories back.

"Store still standing?" Clint asks David with a wry smile, cutting off Patrick's spiralling thoughts.

"Barely," David says blithely, rolling his eyes before his gaze flits around the room, finds Patrick's again just for a second, before turning to the cloth tote bag in his hand. He holds it up, waggles it in front of Marcy, "I brought you some of that baobab shower crème you liked, and the body milk that was out of stock last time. There are some other bits and pieces for you both to make your stay at the motel more tolerable."

"Aw, that's sweet of you David, thank you," Marcy says and takes the bag. She grins at him, "I kept you some lasagna."

"Oh, thank god," David says, and follows her when she makes a beeline for the kitchen but stops after a few steps, turns towards Patrick and asks, "Um, is this okay?"

Patrick knows that this has all the hallmarks of a set up. Neither of his parents seem surprised to see David make an appearance and his mom had even saved him dinner. It should rankle more than it does — it would have, before — but Patrick knows this isn't like before, that these circumstances aren't normal, and he's not the only one who woke up this morning to a world turned upside down. "Yeah. Of course it is," Patrick says.

Although David may not live here officially, from what his parents have said and what he's seen, Patrick already thinks he might as well. Even without the chance to look closely yet, he can already see signs of David everywhere. His clothes in the closet, and on the dresser. What he assumes are David's products in the bathroom (because despite all the unforeseen changes to his life, Patrick still isn't convinced that he's started using two different kinds of eye serum in the last year or two). There are cushions and framed prints and knick-knacks that aren't a style Patrick would typically choose; pictures of them together, looking bright eyed and unfathomably happy. With all that today has brought, he won't begrudge David the scant comfort of just being in a space that feels like it belongs more to him than it does to (this version of) Patrick.

David twists his lips into a small, pensive smile and says, "Okay," before grabbing the plate of leftovers Marcy has waiting for him, a fork from the drawer, and leans against the kitchen counter before taking a bite. The whole sight is so achingly domestic that Patrick has to look away.

Marcy looks pointedly at her husband. "We should probably get back to the motel, don't you think?"

"Yeah, it's been a big day," he moves to put a hand on Patrick's back, "you must be exhausted."

"Yeah, getting there."

David stays quiet as he eats and Marcy and Clint gather themselves to leave. There's a small, scared part of Patrick that wants to protest, wants to cling to the approximation of home his parents represent, the comfort it brings, and ask them to stay; but there's a bigger, bolder part of him that resists, because he can't live in the past, even if it still feels like his present; he wants to explore what home means to him here and now.

They hug out their goodbyes, with Patrick promising to call them if anything happens ("If you feel sick or if you remember something or forget anything or even if you just have any questions then call.") and he arranges to meet them for breakfast at the café in the morning, all agreeing that it'll be good for him to get out of the apartment, start to see the town. ("Just be prepared for rubberneckers and disgruntled community theatre goers," David warns.)

When they're gone, David looks serious, a little tense. "I hope you don't mind me coming over. I wanted to…" he looks up, blinks, as if considering what he's about to say, then sighs and continues, "I wanted to see you, obviously, but I wanted to talk to you, too. About something."

Patrick is beset by a sudden sweep of disappointment that David might regret what he'd said earlier about waiting for him; about being in this with him. Maybe this is all too much to deal with.

"I want to apologise."

Patrick feels the tension linger in his shoulders and tries to ease it with what worked earlier. "I thought apologies weren't allowed?"

David's mouth quirks, belies the seriousness in his eyes, "That only applies to you. Can we sit?"

Patrick nods and gestures to the couch. He thinks about keeping what little distance he can between them, about sitting in the chair on the other side of the small living room, but side by side with David in the car worked earlier so he drops onto the small couch beside him instead.

"I feel like I outed you today? And it doesn't feel right," David surprises him by saying solemnly. "I could have dealt with the whole situation this morning a little more delicately."

"David, that's— you were just as shocked by what was going on as I was. You really don't have to apologise."

"It was a lot. To just…hear."

"Yeah, it was a lot, it is a lot, to find out after….whatever has caused this to happen, I'm not gonna lie," Patrick declares, because it was terrifying, but he can't imagine what David might have done differently to make it better. "But we woke up in bed together. There are pictures of us in the apartment. It would've been weirder if you hadn't told me."

David shakes his head, "I could've told you that we were together without defining that part for you, though. You deserve a chance to figure it out on your own, like you did before."

It's remarkable, to think that he had somehow managed to figure it out on his own, when he'd never managed it in all the years before. Had David been the catalyst? He thinks back to the temp at work – Will - and how he'd almost taken the extra exploratory step with him. Maybe he'd just liked David more; enough to take that next, terrifying leap into the unknown to find out.

"I appreciate the sentiment David, but I don't think outing me to myself counts. Not when I know I've already been through the whole coming out to other people thing," Patrick tries to placate him, feels that same acute desire as before to make David feel better, and to repay some of the kindness he'd shown Patrick today. "Maybe you've just saved me some time and a lot of soul searching."

"Hmm. Maybe," David says, pursing his lips, not quite relenting.

Patrick doubts that he's likely to come to a different conclusion now anyway, not with the breadth of perspective he's gained in such a short time, but it's good to know that he isn't being held to a standard, bound by a history he doesn't remember.

"Anyway, my parents told me about how they found out, the first time," Patrick rubs absently at the fresh stubble on his chin, "from what they said, you were pretty instrumental in getting me out there that time around too."

"Oh god," David blanches slightly and quirks a heavy brow,"How much did they tell you? About that?"

"That you threw me a surprise party and invited them," Patrick let's a slow smile spread across his lips, "Thanks for that, by the way."

"Well," David shrugs a shoulder and shakes his head dismissively, "I am full of surprises."

Patrick huffs out a little breath of laughter at that and goes on, "And that they didn't realise you were," – my boyfriend – "more than my business partner. Until they met your dad."

"Ah," David frowns and sucks in a breath through his teeth. "So you see why I'm sensitive, having been involved in outing you once already."

"Nah," Patrick protest, and ducks his chin down towards his chest, "I think that time was my fault, too. I'm pretty sure I should've told them sooner."

"It was then and still is your journey, Patrick," David tells him, and his steady tone pulls Patrick's eyes back to him. David's gaze is sober, pupils wide and dark and reassuring, "Whatever you decide you are, how you decide to label it, and who you decide to tell, should be up to you and no one else."

"Okay," Patrick says, barely audible, the word caught in a deep, shuddering breath. As far as labels go, Patrick doesn't really know yet, not deep down, even if the forgotten part of himself seems to have had it all figured out. But from what he's learned so far, second-hand and from what he can remember on his own, he's pretty sure he isn't straight, now that some of the what ifs and worries he's had have been assuaged, and he definitely feels okay with the prospect of being gay. But he's glad he still gets to figure it out, even if it won't be his first time.

"How did you decide you knew? That it was time to tell people, about you?" Patrick isn't sure precisely why he's asking, but a tit-for-tat exchange feels right, and he suddenly wants to know about this part of David in the small hope that it might help him figure out that part of himself, too.

"People had made assumptions about me for a while," he shimmies his shoulders for effect and rolls his eyes, "But I still surprised my family when I came out. I took a couple I'd been seeing home for spring break and just told everyone to deal with it," David tells him matter-of-factly.

"A couple," Patrick repeats. It's yet another revelation that David delivers with practiced ease, "As in two—"

"As in a girl and a guy. I'm actually pansexual, which broadly means I'm more interested in the wine inside than the label on the bottle. If that makes sense?"

"Yeah. I think it does," Patrick nods, and his eyes latch onto David sliding one of the thick silver rings on his fingers back and forth over a knuckle before asking gingerly, "But I'm not— I am interested in the label?"

"Well," David pauses and breathes deeply, furrows his brow, "from what you've told me, it seems that once you'd tried red wine, having previously drunk nothing but white wine, you decided that you'd never actually liked white wine in the first place; you'd just never tried red and weren't sure that switching partway through the meal was an option for you."

"Okay," Patrick nods, feeling heat crawl up his neck at the very clear implication. He's keen to turn this back on David. "So you like, um, red and white?"

"Technically, I like red and white and rosé and various blends and types of sparkling wine, but currently…" David sucks his lips between his teeth and looks away from Patrick, down at his hands, before finishing the thought, "Currently I'm only interested in red. One red, in particular."

"Um," a soft peel of nervous laughter makes its way out of Patrick's throat in lieu of words. His skin feels hot; not just on his neck, his cheeks, his ears, but all over and the heat is coupled with a low thrum of exhilaration at David's admission. Patrick blinks at him until he manages to speak, "Thank you for the metaphor, David. It was very...helpful."

"Hmm. Well. Its worth mentioning that it is just an metaphor, because in reality, the label on wine is actually very informative."

"Well, now I just want a drink," Patrick says, attempting a light aside and only belatedly realising how it might sound.

"What kind of drink?" David queries, then bites his lip and shakes his head, like he realised he shouldn't have said that, either.

"Uh. Honestly?" Patrick asks, though he isn't entirely sure that's what he's about to be, "I'd kinda like a beer, whatever that means."

David makes a small whine of disapproval, Patrick notices his shoulders roll forward, relax a little. "That just means you have poor taste, and anyway, you probably shouldn't drink anything stronger than tea until you get your test results back."

"No, I know."

"I, on the other hand, am under no such restriction and happen to know there's some leftover champagne in your fridge that is only losing bubbles by the minute."

The leftover champagne from the picnic where Patrick had proposed. He gives David a small apologetic smile, "Have at it."

"Yeah, I probably shouldn't," David says with a frown, looking like he wished he hadn't said that, either. He fidgets with another of the silver rings on his right hand. There's no engagement ring on his left, Patrick noticed earlier. That must have been what David had thrown at him this morning. Patrick doesn't want to ask where it is now.

The sudden lull in conversation stretches on for too long, an invisible barrier to the inevitable end of a strange, sad, surprising day.

"Patrick, can I—"

"Thanks again, David—"

They both attempt to break the silence in the same moment, the clash only making it more awkward.

David bites his bottom lip, scrunches his eyes closed and rushes to say, "Can I stay?"

"I, uh.." Patrick struggles for words again, for a coherent thought.

"Not like that, not in your bed," David is quick to amend. "I'll stay here, on the couch. I just…I know that your parents would have offered, but there's obviously no room for them here and I don't think you should be left on your own tonight. After everything."

"I'll be fine," he says reflexively, "You don't have to."

"I know that, but what if," David pauses, swallows hard and squares his shoulders, as if bracing himself for what he's about to say, "what if you've forgotten everything again - like Drew Barrymore in 50 First Dates - when you wake up and you're all alone and you panic? I couldn't—I won't sleep if I go home. I'm better off here. Unless," He takes a breath, picks at some invisible lint on his sweater, "it'll make you too uncomfortable—"

"No, it's just…" it doesn't, Patrick realises; the situation isn't a comfortable one, but David's presence doesn't make him feel uncomfortable at all. "It's a really small couch. Too small for you to sleep on."

"That's because it's really more of a loveseat."

"You could take the bed and I could stay here." That would work, Patrick thinks. David is doing him a favour, after all. And the bed, the idea of lying in it, remembering the fleeting press of David against him and the barb of fear he felt this morning; that does make him a little uncomfortable.

"You may be a compact little package, Patrick, but you won't fit on this couch, either, and you are the one going through something right now so that is not even an option. Besides, it may not be very big, but this couch is actually not a whole lot smaller than my bed at the motel anyway."

"David," Patrick says with a small exhalation of disapproval as he considers the obvious alternative. David is used to sharing a bed with him. Patrick let's the idea rattle around in his mind. He's shared a bed with guy friends plenty of times in the past. But this wouldn't be like that — chaste though he's sure it would be — and sharing that intimate space feels like it would be too much, too soon. Maybe for both of them.

"You think I'm kidding," David scrunches up his nose in an exaggerated expression of distaste. "but I am sadly not."

"Fine, but—"

"No buts. I'll be fine. Plus," David shrugs and forces a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes, this time, "one of my mother's Xanax accidentally found its way into my possession, so I'll be out like a light wherever I am."

"Okay, David. Seriously, thanks for everything today."

"No, we're still not doing that."

Patrick laughs, grasps at the opportunity to bring a smile all the way back to David's eyes.

"Right. Sorry."

"Okay, no," David slumps down into the couch with a huff and puts his feet on the small coffee table, biting back the eye-crinkling smile Patrick had hoped for as he says, "please go to bed. Its been a big day."

"Okay," Patrick agrees, because it has been a big day, the biggest, and they probably shouldn't add any more to the mountain of new information and newly acknowledged feelings that he has to process.

Patrick goes to change in the bathroom, climbs back into the same pyjamas he'd left in there that morning and tries to spot more visible differences as he looks at himself in the mirror while brushing his teeth. He can't find any. When he exits, David is under a patchwork blanket, knees bent at an uncomfortable angle on the loveseat. Patrick mumbles goodnight as he scoots past him to crawl into a bed that, with its too-soft sheets and the lingering scent of something (someone) unfamiliar, feels foreign. He hears the click of the bathroom door shutting and he considers waiting for David to come back out before turning out the light, but he waits, and waits, and he's in there for a long time so Patrick gives up, turns off the lamp beside the bed and stares up at the shapes in the shadows on the ceiling.

He hears David emerge eventually and his voice floats through the dark towards him like a caress when he whispers, "Patrick?"

It makes him feel a pang of something he can't yet define."Yeah?"

"Promise you'll wake me if you remember anything," David's voice is achingly tender, tinged with hope and sadness.

"I will, David. I promise."

Neither of them speak after that, and Patrick lies there, worn out but wide awake, listening to the subtle shifting, settling sounds David makes, watches the light of his cell phone coming and going, briefly illuminating the space above him, just a few feet away. Patrick tries not to think about what other promises he might have whispered to David in the dark, in this bed.

Instead, his mind buzzes with all the new snippets of information he'd gathered today, an overview of two years crammed into twelve hours. He thinks about his parents and about Rachel, about the Rose family and the faceless contacts in his phone, about hospitals and test results and further interventions, about David and all of his surprises, and about himself, the glimpse of a life he's lived and forgotten. He tries with everything he is to just remember but nothing will resurface and when he finally begins to fall asleep it's because he's tired from trying to fit together the pieces of the puzzle that his life has become, but still, he hopes he'll get the chance to try again tomorrow.