Patrick blinks slowly into the pale yellow light after what was, at best, a fitful sleep. Even so, it takes him a minute to adjust to where he is, to remember—or not, as is the case; because all that comes back to him is everything he knew he didn't know when he went to sleep. It was always too much to hope for a twenty-four hour bout of amnesia, he supposes.
He pulls himself up to rest on his elbows. It's brighter than it was when he woke up in the same spot yesterday, he realises, because he failed to draw the curtains on all the windows in the as yet unfamiliar apartment. He can see David asleep on the couch, bathed in weak sunlight; he's even closer than he'd seemed in the dark. The couch, as predicted, does not look at all comfortable. David's long legs are on the floor, a sliver of a tan calf exposed between blanket and sock, and his torso is half upright, sprawled against the cushions, bare arms wrapped around himself, partially obscuring what's written on the white t-shirt he's wearing (but it kind of looks like it says, in large definitive black letters, DON'T which he hopes wasn't worn for his benefit). The Xanax seems to have worked, though, as his neck is bent at what cannot be a comfortable angle (he'll feel the awkwardness of that position for the rest of the day, Patrick thinks, with a pang of guilt) and his hair is messy, his eyes covered by a black, silky looking eye mask and his mouth is soft, lips slightly parted.
I've kissed those lips, Patrick thinks, uninvited, and it makes him realise that he's been staring at David, watching him sleep, for a creepily long time. He should probably stop, but he doesn't, not just yet; there's something too tempting about having the chance to just look, to search the curves and hollows of David's face, the lines of his body, for something familiar, even if he doesn't find it, this time.
Patrick finally tears his eyes away and reaches for his phone, from where he abandoned it on the nightstand the day before, to check the time. The Xanax really must have worked, because David doesn't stir when Patrick clumsily grasps for the phone, fumbles the unfamiliar charging cable and sends it tumbling onto the floor with a clatter. Nor when Patrick steps heavily onto a creaky floorboard to retrieve it.
He'd avoided looking at his phone at all after returning from the hospital the day before. David had assured him that he had let anyone important know to give him space for a few days, that Patrick would reach out when he was ready, so when he'd heard it buzz a few times while his parents where here, he'd ignored it, heeding David's words ("Rachel has already texted you and all the most important people in your life know exactly where to find you; everyone else will just have to wait for your attention.") and he's kind of glad he did; there are two unread messages from David's mom and one from Ronnie (who he thinks David said he plays baseball with?). Not especially keen to deal with another passive aggressive message from his director/prospective mother-in-law or well wishes from an unknown friend, he decides that reading the waiting messages (and emails, all seventeen of them) can wait, for now, maybe until David can help him navigate what he might find within them.
The clock on the corner of the screen tells him it's only five-forty a.m. but he feels wide awake, brain already abuzz. It's too early to get up (and he's not sure where he'd go or what he'd do if he did), too early to risk waking David, so he slides his legs back under the covers, props himself up on the pillows and studies his phone, wondering where to begin.
At a loss, he settles on research. Patrick likes data, appreciates detail. He finds the certainty offered by hard facts and figures and statistical probability reassuring, and he could use some of that right now. So, he opens the internet browser app and searches, in turn: amnesia, memory loss, amnesia causes, amnesia recovery time and, in turn, quickly wishes he hadn't. The certainty he was hoping for is missing; instead there are only possibilities and likelihoods that mention Alzheimer's, head trauma, various neurological conditions, hippocampus damage, stress disorders and the suggestion that, even if it is transient amnesia, it's likely to take six to nine months to recover. He feels his chest tighten, his heart sink. That's not quite the days-to-weeks the ER doctor had suggested the day before, yet among the other possibilities still looks like the best case scenario.
His first thought is whether David would wait that long for him. He wants him to, he thinks, for the sake of his old-new self, but doesn't want him to have to.
His second thought is that scaring himself shitless with internet self-diagnosis probably wasn't the best idea after all, so he shuts down all the tabs he'd opened in the browser and goes back to staring at the smartphone in his hand. The phone still feels like it belongs to someone else, like he's keeping it safe until it can be returned to its rightful owner. He doesn't recognise the picture that's saved as the Home Screen. He hadn't paid much attention to it the day before - too many other distractions - but he looks at it now and it does, at least, seem like something he would choose; he always steered clear of photos of people, anything too outwardly personal, preferring more subtle scenery or artwork that meant just as much without the world being able to scrutinise it from over his shoulder. This fits that bill; a lush green vista from a high, rocky vantage point; rolling hills and pastures, a farmhouse in the sprawling distance bathed in a pretty pink-orange sunset. It looks like it could be from a vacation, maybe, or a favourite local beauty spot, somewhere of significance. He'll make sure to find out, one way or another.
He looks at the time and finds he'd managed to pass an hour with his Web MD deep dive, but it's still not even seven yet, and it's a Sunday, and David is still sound asleep, emitting an ever so slight rumbling sound now that is strangely soothing, like a big cat purring. Patrick looks back down at his phone and thinks about what David had said at the hospital—advising him against looking at his pictures, their shared messages, just yet. But here - his apartment, his home - feels like it's a much safer space than the hospital to explore that content. And photos might help, he reasons. What else is a photo but a captured memory? He has a lot of them to recapture, and if it's going to take months then he needs all the help he can get. Maybe a person, a place, an event might ring a bell, might be the key to unlock the shuttered off parts of his brain.
When he opens the photo app, he finds himself using an extra light touch on the icon on the screen, like he's tip-toeing into the past, as if a gentle touch might soften the potential blow of what he'll see. And it is a blow, when he catches sight of the small, square rows of pictures tiled on the screen; he should have known what to expect, should have realised why David had asked him to wait, because the most recent pictures in the timeline are, of course, from the picnic where he had asked David to marry him.
He taps on one of them, lets it fill the display; it shows David, outdoors, fanning the fingers of his left hand under his chin, gold rings - similar to the silver ones he wore yesterday - worn two on his ring finger and one each on his middle and index fingers. His eyes are creased, almost closed, he's smiling so widely, with Patrick close beside him, pressing a kiss to his cheek through a smile of his own.
It's brutal to see. There is picture after picture of them both, beaming brighter than the sun, backlit by cloudy blue sky and framed by the same leafy green foliage that Patrick now recognises from his phone's wallpaper. There's David, looking down at the velvet ring box in his hands; David, smiling again, kneeling on a blanket, a plastic champagne flute in one hand and a cheese topped cracker in the other; David, scowling at the camera with a mouthful of something (possibly said cheese topped cracker); Patrick with David, this time, toasting with their plastic flutes, Patrick's eyes on the camera and David's eyes on Patrick and…that one, especially, unravels something in him. He's instantly struck by the extent of the emotion he can see in it. Patrick wants to be looked at like that; he doesn't think he ever has been. It was fondness he saw in Rachel's eyes, the long-held affection they both had for each other, but this isn't that. It's something else entirely. It's David, lips in a lopsided smile that dimples his cheek, beautifully brown eyes shining, and there's depth in that look; a secret, a promise.
He wants David to look at him like that, he thinks; with love and hunger. He wants to remember it, wants to know how it feels.
His vision blurs, and Patrick closes his eyes, bites his lower lip, tries not to let the welling tears fall, but it's too late; they spill out of him, releasing the sadness and anger he feels at what has been taken away from him, from both of them, in all of this.
When he opens his eyes, he scrolls again, finds it difficult to stop now that he's started. This time, he sees just how he looks at David. It's every bit as devastating as the reverse because it's just as profound and he's never seen himself look like that; he's never seen that expression on his own face. Patrick isn't sure it's one he's ever worn at all, or even experienced, in all the time he can actually remember. It's like looking at an uncanny stranger, a doppelgänger; someone wearing his face who looks utterly smitten with the man he's being photographed with.
It makes him feel voyeuristic, just looking at these pictures, because what he sees are two people so clearly in love, capturing a moment that's just meant for them.
His engagement to Rachel hadn't looked like this, he's sure of that. It had felt performative, when he thinks of it now, as much for other people as for themselves. It makes him feel a stab of jealousy on top of all the other emotions careening through him; he's envious of how happy and at ease with himself this Patrick looks in comparison to how he'd felt days-but-really-years ago when he'd proposed to Rachel.
When he'd lain awake for part of the night, he'd thought about what David said – that Patrick hadn't realised he could switch from 'white wine' to 'red wine' partway through the meal. It sounds so simple like that, so obvious, and it's true—every time he wondered why it wasn't working with Rachel or when he began to question that latent part of himself, he rationalised it away with the fact, as he'd seen it, that it was too late to change course; that he surely would have known before now if his preference wasn't for 'white wine' at all. And he feels so stupid, now, so regretful and guilty for wasting so much of Rachel's time as well as his own.
He scrolls and scrolls through the photo folder, even though he knows he should stop, through the sea of photos on the screen, back through time, through so many pictures – there are people and places he doesn't recognise, pictures of food, what he guesses are displays at the store, obligatory selfies, but mostly, there are pictures of David.
He doesn't think, in all of the years he spent with Rachel, he ever took this many pictures of her, and that's another realisation that makes him feel dismal for what it means. Rachel had always been beautiful; when he'd told her that it had never been a lie, he'd always appreciated how pretty she was, made an effort to tell her so, but…now, he's beginning to realise that there's a difference between appreciation and attraction.
He continues to thumb through the folder; the repetitive motion and the content compelling. There's a photo of him and David kissing - eyes closed and lips open - Patrick's own arm holding the camera askew as his attention is focused elsewhere; both of them in climbing gear, David dressed in a baseball uniform, David sipping on a fancy cocktail, David with his sister, David eating pizza—in the Volvo—in sunglasses—in a tuque—with a pretzel; David in various spots in this apartment, David in this bed—
(And maybe David was right. Maybe it is weird for Patrick to be looking at these pictures right now.)
—but his eye catches, his thumb stops swiping, on one picture of David in particular; strong arms outstretched, obviously holding the phone he's using to take the selfie above his head. His hair is messy, sleep rumpled and a little bit curly, and his eyes are soft, heavy lidded, creased in a smile that's just barely visible on his lips. Patrick's eyes trail down the image, over broad freckled shoulders and thick, dark hair fanning over his chest, down his torso, beneath his belly button where the picture cuts off just before—
Patrick closes his eyes and imagines the soft scrape of that body hair against his lips; the feel of it tickling his nose as he kisses down David's chest; the thought comes so suddenly, so viscerally, that he wonders if it might be a memory rather than just his imagination. Fuck—he hopes it is.
When he opens his eyes he jabs his thumb onto the home button of the phone to remove any further temptation to keep scrolling, to keep looking, and he lets himself sink back into the pillows and his eyes close again, trying to calm his laboured breath, his racing pulse.
He is undeniably aroused, despite his underlying dismay, and it's making him feel more of that combination of regret and guilt; a little shame thrown into the mix this time too, because this picture isn't meant for his eyes - none of them are - not really, but what it rouses in him is something that feels new and natural and entirely unmistakable and he's not ready to let it go, just yet.
The twinge of guilt remains, though, colouring everything new that's stirring in him, because it feels, in some way, too soon (even if it's actually so much later than it should've been). He feels like he and Rachel have just broken up, or more accurately - because he has no memory of them even doing that for what would be the very last time - like they haven't broken up at all yet and despite all of their many ups and downs, their regular break ups, Patrick had never cheated on her. And while he knows he isn't - couldn't – now, that he's only looking at a picture of a hot guy (who happens to be his new fiancé), not acting on these new impulses, these feelings for David that are awake in him now feel a little like cheating, even if logic, as well as everything tangible around him, indicates that isn't the case. Just the fact that his body seems to be firmly in the present (reacting to the knowledge that he is - very much, it seems - with David) while his mind remains stuck in the past is not proving helpful at all.
Well, maybe in one way. It's getting him closer to confirming that he is, in fact, gay.
He scrubs his hands over his damp face, tries not to look over at David, still lightly snoring, on the couch. He has to call Rachel, he decides. All of this – how he feels when he looks at David, how he feels when he even sees himselflooking at David, and the rest of his new life – all help to make sense of things that hadn't felt right for a long, long time. But Rachel is - was - a big part of his life and he feels like he has to hear things from her perspective before he can think about what it means to really start moving on.
Patrick climbs out of bed and hastily grabs some clothes from the shelving unit beside the bed and the drawer underneath it. He pads as quietly as he can manage across the apartment to the bathroom to take a shower. He must be a mess, blotchy faced and semi-hard in his pyjama pants, and he really doesn't want to risk waking David (doesn't want to have to explain…this, doesn't think he could even try, right now), but he also needs to get away from the inclination to keep looking at his phone and the only other available alternative is staring at David while he sleeps. So, he'll take his chances, he thinks.
Once in the shower, Patrick tries to clear his head of the busy, messy thoughts racing through it, but when he notices the Rose Apothecary label on the shower gel, it brings his mind back to David and the store, and as he washes, his fingers keep finding their way to the bruise at his collar, passing over it more times than is strictly necessary for the purpose of getting clean, which makes his mind turn to how it got there; how David's lips must've felt when he put it there. Patrick has had hickeys before – albeit not for a long time – but this would feel different, he thinks, not at all helpfully, because David has stubble defining his jaw and Patrick can't help but wonder how the prickly hair would feel against the sensitive skin of his collarbone, how the roughness might contrast with the soft, smooth press of David's lips, the wet lap of his tongue—
Arousal washes over him like the running water, making him burn from head to toe, making him dizzy. He has to steady himself with his hands against the tile in the small enclosed shower. He's hard, almost painfully so, and just the pounding spray of the hot water is too much, feels like it might be enough sensation to finish him off, so he twists the dial on the shower towards the uninviting blue dots and lets the the icy spray shock the heat from his body.
He stands there for a long moment, shivering slightly, forehead pressed against the cold, wet tile. He feels ridiculous. As far as he's concerned he only met David yesterday, only found out he was gay yesterday, so how can he feel this way about David already? Maybe his body does remember more about their relationship than his brain.
Nevertheless, knowing that he's already been with David who knows how many times already doesn't actually change the fact that he can't remember any of them, which means the idea of acting on his attraction, his arousal, now - even just in his imagination - would change something, would mean something, and that's still a little bit terrifying.
When Patrick has shaved and brushed his teeth and regained some semblance of composure, he emerges from the bathroom, hair wet but fully dressed, to find David awake, sitting with his legs crossed at the little kitchen table, dark hair only slightly tamed, and peering over a mug of something hot, steaming. His eyes rake quickly up and down Patrick's body. It doesn't seem intentional, more of a subconscious habit, but it makes Patrick very glad he remembered to take clothes in with him, to get dressed before he left the bathroom. No matter how many locker rooms he's been in, half naked, in the past, after the thoughts he's just been having, he isn't sure he could physically cope with David seeing him in nothing but a towel. Just the idea is enough to make him blush, which he hopes he can pass off as residual heat from the shower.
David lowers his mug and smiles, soft and warm and ever so slightly shy. "Good morning," he says and gestures to the other mug on the counter, "I made you some tea."
Patrick glances between David and the drink, feeling a little thrown off by the gesture; he tries to project an air of calm, of normalcy, in sharp contrast to how he actually feels, but his thoughts are still whirring and he undermines himself immediately by getting a little tongue-tied. "Hey, hi—that's, uh, thanks," he manages.
David watches him as he sips his own drink, brows drawn together in consideration. "So," he begins, and opens his mouth to continue but closes it again, flattens his lips, schools his expression into something more casual before finishing, "Any progress re memories?"
"None, unfortunately," Patrick says with a sigh and leans back against the kitchen counter, grabbing the mug of tea and cradling it in front of his chest, as though it might serve as an emotional shield "But I think I've managed not to forget anything else. So, I guess that's something?"
"Hmm. Well. It's certainly not nothing."
Patrick feels himself tempted to apologise again, but thinks better of it. Instead, he asks, "Did I wake you?"
"No," David shakes his head, then his lips quirk. "It was the sound of the shower that woke me."
"Sorry," slips out at that, and Patrick bites his lip. David rolls his eyes, more fond than annoyed.
"It's fine," David tells him and lifts the mug to his lips without taking a drink. Patrick tries not to notice the way his bare forearms flex with the movement, the dark dusting of hair that reaches just past his wrist, "Regardless of what else you may have forgotten, personal hygiene is a good thing to remember."
"Yeah, well I haven't quite regressed to a feral state," he says with a nervous laugh, not sure he's entirely convinced of that this morning.
"No, you still seem mostly civilised," David says, with that small lopsided start-of-a-smile that Patrick could really get used to seeing, before moving the conversation along to, appropriately, more civilised small talk. "Have you been up long?"
"Since a little before six," Patrick admits, his mouth feels dry so he pauses to taste the tea David made him (chamomile with just the right amount of honey, bag left in); he feels a little jittery, abuzz with a new nervous energy, like he's just had a double espresso instead of a sip of herbal tea. "I couldn't get back to sleep because of, you know, everything, I guess."
"Understandable." David purses his lips, "I'd say you should've woken me up but, honestly, that probably wouldn't have gone well for either of us."
"Not a morning person?"
"I am so not a morning person that I'm barely even a person in the morning."
"Huh. You look like a person from where I'm standing," Patrick says, and sounds like he's flirting, badly. He half-smiles, half-winces into his mug and rocks forward a little so he's not looking directly at David. He's still not sure how to behave, what he should or shouldn't say, and what he's seen this morning makes it (him) all the more awkward; it was bound to be, anyway. This situation is anything but normal, for either of them.
"Oh, I'm putting on a spectacular act for your benefit right now."
"In that case, I'm honoured."
"You should be," David says with another small smirk and leans forward, mug abandoned, resting an elbow on the table, "So what have you been doing with yourself all morning?"
Patrick feels himself blink slowly back at David, faltering when he tries to reply. The question is innocent enough, he's almost sure of it, but there's still a hint of suggestion too, even if unintended, that makes him think of what he could have done, almost did, with himself in the shower. He decides to deflect from that thought with half the truth, "Oh, I was just googling all the things that are possibly wrong with me, subsequently freaking out a little," he shrugs his shoulders and manages a tight smile.
David breathes a short, exasperated huff of breath. "Patrick, you—"
"I know, I know. It wasn't my best idea. Did you sleep okay?" He quickly swerves the conversation. "You did not look at all comfortable on the couch."
"I've slept in worse places," David quips and angles his neck enough for it to emit a small cracking sound, causing him to grimace, "but waking up when I did was probably best for my overall spinal health." He sees Patrick open his mouth to apologise and cuts him off. "Plus, being up this early means I have time to go back to the motel and freshen up before opening the store. We don't open til eleven on a Sunday, so."
"You can do that here, you know. If that's what you'd normally do," Patrick tries to reassure him. He's caused David so much inconvenience (to put it mildly) already, he doesn't want to put him out any more than he has to.
"It's fine," David waves the suggestion away with a flick of his wrist, "You could probably use some time alone. The past twenty-four hours might have been a little intense?"
Patrick laughs and tilts his head from side to side in a mockery of deliberation. "Maybe just a tiny bit."
"When are you going to the café with your parents?"
"Nine. I said I'd meet them there, but you can take the car, if you want. I, uh, I think I'll walk."
"But you don't know the way," David protests, a tiny hint of concern in his voice.
"But google maps will. And it'll probably do me good to get a feel for the town."
"Well, aren't you making the most of the many services big tech has to offer this morning?" David teases. Patrick likes it when he teases him, it feels strangely comfortable—comforting. "Just remember news travels fast and people already know, about you," he waves a hand up and down, "about all of this, so expect them to stare. And possibly point."
"Sounds like fun," Patrick says sardonically. He's not exactly looking forward to it, but he's at least glad for people to know in advance; the idea of having to explain to everyone who knows him that he doesn't even recognise them (like he'd had to with David) is excruciating.
"Oh, I'm sure it will be," David deadpans. "Who wouldn't love a chance to be a small town spectacle for at least 48 hours?"
Patrick finds himself smiling, feels a tiny bit of the tension ease from his shoulders. For what little time he feels like he's spent with David, he somehow puts him at ease. "Just 48 hours?"
That earns him a faux-solemn nod. "People around here like gossip, but they have short attention spans. All it'll take is for Jocelyn to get a haircut and you'll be old news."
"I'll be sure to make the most of it while it lasts, then," Patrick says as he sets down his mug, shoves his hands into his pockets. "Should I know who Jocelyn is, by the way?"
"Local teacher, Mayor's wife, Jazzagal - that's the local ladies a capella singing group, of which my mother is also a member - and assistant director of a recently disrupted production of Cabaret."
"Okay," Patrick nods and lets out a long sigh, "I'll…try to remember all of that."
"You should probably start taking notes, or," David draws out the or and his brows knit in contemplation, "even better—you should create a spreadsheet. It could help you remember details or whatever."
Patrick feels his smile grow at the idea of being teased again, then feels a slight flutter in his chest as he looks at David and realises he's entirely serious. "Oh. You really do know me well."
"Well," he makes a face that seems to say obviously, "We were business partners before anything else—your love of spreadsheets was one of the first things I learned about you."
"And that didn't put you off?"
"No," David replies quickly and blushes slightly, shrugs his shoulders and shakes his head, all at the same time, "It means I don't have to deal with them, so..."
"Hmm, win/win for us both."
"Exactly," David agrees and flashes that fucking smile-but-not-smile and looks at Patrick for a long moment. Patrick realises he suggested there was a win for himself in there somewhere that might be just his fondness for spreadsheets or might be something else. His own uncertainty about that statement combined with David's expression makes him forget what they were even talking about in the first place.
"Speaking of work," David adds, eventually, and pushes his chair out to stand, "I should get going. You could come by the store after the cafe, if you want to?"
"I—yeah, I'd like that." Patrick wants to see the store, learn how it feels to run his own business. Something that had only ever been a pipe dream, before.
"It's right across the street, you can't miss it, and I'll be there from around ten, so, your parents can pick out some more stuff and you can see the place without pesky customers getting in the way."
"Okay, that'd be good. You can show me the ropes," Patrick suggests tentatively, "I'll, uh, have to get back to work soon. This isn't fair on you, having to run everything."
"Well, lets just wait and see what the hospital has to say before we put you to work," David shrugs with one shoulder and stands, stretches his neck again, and Patrick can see that he tries to downplay the second crack that something makes when he angles his head. "I can manage until then."
"Okay." Patrick agrees reluctantly; he likes to work, feels keen to get started on what feels, in his current state, like a new venture, but he can't argue with that.
"Okay, well," David takes a step towards Patrick, hands reaching then clenching in front of him for a second before he stills, attempts to brush away the subconscious movement, and takes a long, purposeful step back, "I'll just go get dressed." He gestures at the closet he's now moving towards, "I have clothes and stuff here."
"I noticed," Patrick tells him with a grin. He can see David's t-shirt in full now, large black letters that simply read DON'T. The increased distance seems to embolden him, he can't resist, "I didn't think that shirt was one of mine."
"Oh, this?" he gently pinches the fabric between thumb and forefinger and glances down at his chest, which only makes Patrick think about exactly what he now knows is underneath. "Definitely not yours. This is actually a custom piece from an artist-slash-designer-slash-typographer based in Bushwick."
"Ah. And here I thought you might be just trying to send me a subtle message."
David shakes his head, half rolls his eyes and does a poor job of concealing his smile as he says. "Only that, under normal circumstances, don't wake me before ten a.m."
Patrick nods, suppressing a smile of his own as he turns away, into the kitchen, with a sigh. He has to stop speaking, give David a minute to get ready and himself a minute to catch his breath.
"Also," David says, from somewhere behind him, "just so you know, I'm not generally well known for my subtlety."
"Noted," Patrick replies, without turning around, and he feels flustered as he thinks about what David had said to him yesterday, about waiting and red wine among so many other things, and he wants to say something else, to let David know—
Don't, he tells himself; there'll be time for that later, so he bites his tongue instead.