Patrick shields his eyes from the sun with a flat hand and squints at the pale water tower in the far distance. There are, apparently, very few sights to be seen in Schitt's Creek (population c.600). Still, he'd chosen the longer, more scenic, option from the two walking routes his phone had offered up when he'd searched for directions from his apartment building to Café Tropical, hoping to get a feel for the place that's now his home. And just because there isn't much to see, and what little there is all remains stubbornly unfamiliar, doesn't mean he can't still enjoy the walk; it helps to (temporarily) calm the maelstrom of conflicting thoughts and feelings he'd been having all morning, allows him instead to concentrate on his new surroundings, as quaint and ordinary as they may be.

He focuses on breathing in the fresh, clean air and soaking up the warmth of the early morning sun along with each new (but not actually new) detail along the way; from the dusty front porches and overgrown lawns to the church-style town hall building, the veterinary clinic and the red-brick high school, the ad for (his apparent former employer and landlord) Ray Butani's Real Deal Real Estate on the lone bench by the side of the road and all the well-worn dirt-paths and flowering weeds poking through cracks in the sidewalks along the way.

It's hard to fathom—among the myriad other facts that currently fit into that particular category in Patrick's life—that when he'd finally made the move away from his small rural hometown, he'd settled in an even smaller, more rural town. Not that he'd ever particularly yearned for the bustle of the big city, but he'd envisioned himself, if ever managing to make that leap, at least moving to somewhere that was slightly more…cosmopolitan, maybe. (He'd also envisioned himself married to Rachel, so it's possible he didn't really have a clue what he wanted his future to look like). And anyway, he knows appearances can be deceptive and that this place— however small, however unexpected and seemingly unassuming—appears to have worked for him so far. And if it can also work for someone like David Rose, it must have something going for it.

The twenty-minute walk is pleasant and mostly peaceful, the only other soul he sees is a man with a bad mullet, yelling his name and making a 'call me' gesture at him from a battered pick up after half scaring him to death with an unexpected honk of his horn. Patrick shoots him a cursory smile, waves back at the guy. He seems friendly enough, he'll try to figure out who he might be later.

When he reaches the corner of Main Street, he recognizes it as the area David had stopped at the day before, and when he rounds the corner past the rusty sprawl of Bob's Garage (he wonders idly if it's the same Bob of Cabaret understudy fame), it's right there, not just the café but the store—their store, he mentally amends: his and David's. It's still dark inside and he knows it's too early for David to be there yet but he feels a pull towards it nonetheless, a temptation to press his face against the One of a Kind stenciled glass and peer inside just to see what it's like, to see if any of it rings a bell. He manages to resist that temptation (not unlike another he'd already had that morning), certain in the knowledge that it will be better if he waits for David to be there to guide him through it, so he continues on the other side of the road, towards Café Tropical and his waiting parents instead.

"Do you know that he's the same Johnny Rose that owned Rose Video?" Patrick asks tentatively when his dad tells him David's father was asking after him that morning at the motel. Given how long it took for them to find out about David, he isn't sure how much of the Rose's backstory his parents are, or are not, yet aware of.

"Oh yeah, and he likes to talk about it," Clint says with a knowing chuckle, apparently unruffled by the knowledge of the family's erstwhile celebrity status.

"He's a good guy, Johnny. Very supportive of you two. He co-runs the motel now - with your friend, Stephanie? - can't have been an easy transition," Clint glances at Marcy and they share a look. "Do you, uh, know much about the Rose's yet?"

"David told me a little. I know they wound up here because they lost all their money."

"Yeah, so we know you're definitely not a gold digger!"

"Clint!"

"I'm just joking with him, Marce."

She tsks and turns her attention back to her son. "David's mom was apparently a little upset about having to postpone your play."

"Yeah, I got that impression." He swallows, thinks about the additional unread messages from her on his phone, asks casually, "What's she like, anyway?"

"Very…theatrical. You know she was on Sunrise Bay?" Marcy asks and Patrick nods; he knew it was one of the big soaps. He'll have to look her up online—at some point. He'd promised David he'd get to know him first, before turning to the internet about him or his family, and so he will. He knows he must've seen it all before and nothing had been scandalous enough to scare him away then; he's definitely curious about David, about his tabloid-friendly New York-gallerist past, but right now it's one of the few things he feels like he just doesn't have to be concerned about. (Moira Rose, on the other hand—)

"She's a real character, but mostly fun with it, from what we've seen. And she's very fond of you," Marcy says, eyes growing soft. It's good to hear, but he knows his mom isn't the most reliable source for that kind of information; he's pretty sure she can't imagine anyone not being fond of her one and only son.

"And boy, does she have some stories." Clint's eyes go comically wide and he snorts.

"Oh, and her wardrobe!" Marcy adds, sounding a little awed. "You think David's stylish—wait until you see Moira." It's encouraging to hear his parents talk about David's apparently very different kind of family with such warmth; he knows from what they've told him that it's something that he had worried about in the time that's missing from his memory, so it's good to know he has one less obstacle in front of him now.

Their chatter is interrupted by the approaching server, who greets them—specifically him —with a huge, beaming smile. "Hey, Patrick," she says and hugs a stack of oversized menus to her chest, "I know you won't remember, but you come here all the time. Chamomile tea and a tuna melt!" She says brightly, pleased to have demonstrated that she knows his regular order, and hands over three of the very large menus.

"Sounds about right," he smiles, a little uneasily, eyes darting towards her name badge - Twyla - and then back to her face as she speaks. He feels like he's never met her before in his life.

"Mrs. Rose told Jocelyn, who told Gwen to fill me in, but I'd already talked to Alexis who told me about you forgetting everyone in Schitt's Creek. It's a real shame," she says, her smile momentarily turning into a frown before she cocks a thumb towards herself, "I was supposed to be in Cabaret too—Kit-Kat Club dancer number four."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I think everyone must be pretty mad at me for holding up the show."

"Oh no, only Mrs. Rose. Everyone else is just glad to have extra rehearsal time. And we all feel terrible for you and David, obviously."

He gives her another small smile, appreciating her homespun honesty. His mom reaches across the table to cover his hand with her own.

"You know, the same thing actually happened to my mom's old boyfriend's cousin a few years ago," she says with a sage nod, bobbing her ponytail, "only that definitely had something to do with his meth addiction, so this is probably a little different."

"We certainly hope so," says Marcy, with a nervous burst of laughter.

Patrick is a little afraid of the answer he might get, but can't stop himself from asking, "Did he get his memories back?"

"Most of them. He said he was happy for some of the bad stuff to stay forgotten," she says, hip leaning against the edge of the table as she looks thoughtful for a second.

He doesn't question the contradiction in that statement, just wonders if there's bad stuff from the last two and change years that he'd rather leave forgotten; the final break up with Rachel, maybe, or some of the time in between quitting his job and going into business with David. Maybe he'll never find out. "Shoot, I'm Twyla, by the way," she stands up straight and gestures to her name badge, "I should've told you that first. Just wave me over when you're all ready to order."

Patrick turns to his parents who are struggling for space to both open the menus on the table in front of them. "She seems…nice?"

"We met her at your birthday party—I think she always has stories like that," Clint says in an exaggerated whisper.

"We think this is partly why you like it here, sweetie. Everyone in this town is just so quirky."

"Yeah," he nods, tackling his own, frankly huge, menu. "I'm starting to figure that out."

As he ate passable eggs, Patrick did his best to ignore the pressing stares of a few as yet unidentifiable diners (but there'd been no pointing and, mercifully, no more amnesia stories) and listened as his parents steadfastly avoided talking about the uncertainty of his immediate future by sticking to telling him about events that were now missing from his recent past. They got through highlights of the multiple seasons worth of baseball and hockey games he'd missed (forgotten), a lot of world news (what the hell was in the political water in 2016?), as well as details of family birthdays and Christmases and vacations from the last two years, before finally settling up and heading over to visit the store.

He feels a twist of nervous excitement in his stomach at the sight of the windows lit up and customer-ready, at the thought of seeing David in what suddenly feels a lot more like the real world. As they cross the street, he can see that crates of dewy fresh fruit and vegetables have been put on display at either side of the store's entrance, little chalk boards labeling them organic and locally grown, and Patrick abruptly realises he'd gotten distracted and hadn't pinned David down on what exactly— other than broadly defined locally sourced artisanal products—they sell at Rose Apothecary. It's not entirely like him to lose focus where business talk is concerned. He wonders if it's just the current situation or if he makes a habit of getting distracted by David.

When Patrick catches a glimpse of him approaching the door, smiling out through the window at them (at Patrick), he thinks it's probably a little of both.

A bell tinkles to greet them when David pulls the door open and beckons them inside with a broad sweep of his arm. "Welcome to Rose Apothecary, you have extra special VIP access this morning."

"Ooh," Marcy coos, "I almost forgot how pretty it is in here."

Patrick's hands feel a little clammy, and suddenly very empty, as he curses himself for not having the forethought to grab David a coffee or a pastry or both from the café before they left. That opportunity missed, he shoves one hand into his pocket and presses the other to the door that David is holding open as he crosses the threshold behind his dad. "I've heard good things about this place," Patrick says as his eyes meet David's and it earns him that increasingly familiar bitten-back, sweet smile that somehow manages to both soothe his nerves and quicken his pulse.

David has dressed in monochrome again, something of a signature style, it seems. This time, it's a zebra-stripe sweater and tight black jeans with wide, frayed slashes that expose most of his knees. He looks good, Patrick thinks. After the way his body had reacted to just pictures of David earlier, there's absolutely no point in trying to pretend he thinks otherwise, so Patrick allows himself to just…subtly (he hopes) take in the sight of him. David's hair is swept up and away from his face, perfectly styled but still appears touchably soft. His skin looks soft too, even softer than before. Patrick realises he must have shaved; there's still a hint of shadow on David's jaw but not as prominent as before. It makes him wonder if it would feel different than he'd imagined earlier if the shorter stubble would scratch or tickle if pressed against his own smooth skin…

That, however, is a train of thought he absolutely cannot allow himself to board right now so he lets it pass, switches his attention back to where it's supposed to be instead: the store.

His mom wasn't just being polite, the store looks...incredible. He can instantly see David in the décor, sleek and simple yet stylish, exclusive. The whole interior is bathed in the sunlight that floods in through the tall windows, shiny subway tiles and immaculate white shelves are cut through with a classic, dark reclaimed wood island in the middle of the floor, complemented by other eclectic wooden pieces dotted throughout the shop floor (including, fittingly, an antique apothecary cabinet set against one wall). It creates a classic, almost effortless look that clearly must have taken a lot of effort to construct and is obviously meticulously maintained.

Patrick glances around at the variety of products, some of which have seemingly bespoke labels and are laid out with neat precision - equally spaced, label forward - while others are tucked away on shelves in glass jars and rattan baskets and wooden crates, the whole package enveloped in a soundtrack of smooth jazz playing unobtrusively around them. Patrick is grateful for a minute just to soak it all in while David makes small talk with Clint and Marcy about the motel. It's hard to believe that he's a part of all of this; harder still to believe he's somehow forgotten it all.

"We'll just look around if David wants to give you the full tour, dear," Patrick's mom says, placing a gentle hand on his forearm.

"Thanks," Patrick and David say at the same time, which causes Marcy to shoot them both a knowing look before she leads Clint towards the knitwear at the back of the store.

"So," David says slowly, hands hovering in front of his chest, fingers twirling a silver ring on his index finger. He looks about as nervous as Patrick feels. "How did you enjoy breakfast at the hottest - by which I mean only - eatery in Schitt's Creek?"

The food was just okay, but maybe because his parents are still within earshot, or maybe because he doesn't want to somehow disappoint, he says, "Yeah, it was…good."

David's impressive brows shoot up. "Hmm. Seems generous. I think you previously described the food there as moderately edible ."

"Okay, in that case, my previous opinion stands," he breathes out a sound that's part sigh, part laugh, glad that he doesn't have to dissemble. "The server seemed…nice, though."

"That's one word for her," David deadpans.

"She told me about her mother's boyfriend's—"

"—cousin? Who also lost his memory?"

Patrick laughs properly this time, "Yeah. But that was because of meth, apparently—"

"—of course it was—"

"—and I've been reliably informed that's probably not a factor in my case?"

"Definitely not. Meth wrecks your teeth," David deliberately looks at Patrick's mouth, then back up to his eyes with a languid shrug of one shoulder. Patrick feels a burst of warmth crawl up his neck, "and you have great teeth, so, there's the proof."

He wills his blush not to spread and finds the hand that isn't in his pocket absently reaching towards his mouth, fingertips grazing his chin, his bottom lip as if to try to coax out an appropriate response. (Has anyone ever complimented his teeth before? And why is it making his skin tingle?)

He momentarily considers returning the compliment; David has perfect white teeth, and, really, a very nice mouth all around, but that's a slippery slope to tackle when he already feels so unsteady. Instead, he says, "Well, uh, my parents have already assured me today that I'm neither a meth addict or a gold digger, so I'm really getting a handle on all the things I'm not ."

"It's a start," David says and presses a gentle, fleeting fingertip-touch to Patrick's shoulder, "Come on, I'll give you the grand tour. Let's start with a personal favourite—the perishables," he says and leads the way towards a glass-doored refrigerator filled with wedges of cheese, tubs of tapenade and pâté and bottles of white wine that David, like he had when talking about the business the day before, lights up when he begins to describe to Patrick in exuberant detail.

David continues to walk him through each of the sections on the shop floor from skincare to homewares and handicrafts, to what he describes as necessary evils (e.g. plungers and cleaning products, that must be stored correctly—that is, out of the customers' immediate line of sight in the alcove in the back) and textiles, knitwear, and scarves, to the ferns and other plants, then the products with the highest margins, their bestsellers and those that need an extra push all strategically placed on the prime real estate of the central island or the cash counter.

Patrick had learned the previous day that when David is nervous he talks, quickly and copiously, and as they tour the shelves it's that tell, along with the near-constant twisting of the rings on his fingers, that belies his outward animated confidence. He watches Patrick, too; gauging his reaction to whichever product he's choosing to expound the virtues of at any given moment. It's all very charming, not to mention flattering, and a little bit heartbreaking, because Patrick can't imagine himself ever being anything but impressed by this store and endeared by this man's clear passion for everything from the provenance of the products to their packaging and well-thought-out placement.

He gets it, though. He thinks he does. David had told him they'd met because of the store. And here he is, laying out his vision, presenting the business all over again in the hope that Patrick will be just as compelled by it as he obviously had been the first time around. It's an act inherently fraught with vulnerability, and Patrick gets the impression (not least because David seems to offset every moment of emotional sincerity between them with a joke) that isn't something he easily opens himself up to. It's something Patrick can relate to, so he does his best to stay calm in the face of the ever-expanding reality of what's at stake here, for both of them, and keeps his eyes mainly on the products, picking them up to examine or admire, making sure to replace them with as much care as had gone into laying them out, and tries to be liberal with his praise, eager with his questions, and to convince David that - at least as far as the store is concerned - he has nothing at all to be nervous about.

When they complete their loop of the store and reach the counter, Patrick follows David in behind it, eyes drawn to the framed business license proudly displayed on the tiled wall. "What do you think of the frame?" David asks, just casually enough for it to sound anything but casual, when he sees Patrick looking. It feels a little like a test he hasn't been able to revise for, so he studies it for a second. He isn't convinced the brushed chrome frame entirely fits in with the rest of the store's fixtures and fittings, but he kind of likes it anyway. Before he can attempt to tell David that, however, Marcy (because, oh yeah, his parents are still here in the store) is approaching the counter, fluffy angora cardigan and a selection of scented candles in her arms. "I don't know how you boys do it," she says, with a proud smile, "I just love everything in this place. I could spend a small fortune."

"You know I would ordinarily be against that, but if you're gonna spend, you might as well keep it in the family," Clint says, sniffing the back of his wrist, apparently trying to decide whether he likes the Mennonite cologne or not.

Despite David's protestations that there's no need for them to spend anything, Marcy insists on paying for the bundle of products she's selected and as David walks him through cash register 101, Patrick notices that he rings the products up at a reduced price. "Friends and family discount," he whispers to Patrick, who accepts the explanation and concentrates on the swift motion of David's long fingers as they dance on the keys of the register, deftly fold the knitwear, carefully wrap and bag the breakable items, all in the interest of learning, he assures himself.

"We'll just go put these things in the car and meet you out there," Marcy says, telling, rather than asking, Patrick who nods and stays behind the counter as David moves out to unlock the door and let them out. Marcy hugs David tightly before she leaves, then places a hand on his cheek. The way David looks at her speaks volumes ( "I'm putting on a spectacular act for your benefit right now." ) even if he doesn't say a word. "Thanks for looking after our boy," she tells him, "remember we're here for you too." It's almost a whisper, but not so quiet that Patrick can't hear it, can't feel it.

David answers with a tight-lipped nod and wide eyes as he opens the door to let them out, Clint patting him on the back as he leaves. "Okay, well...Ciao!" He calls out, a little too brightly, after them before locking the door again, face scrunching up in discomfort as he leans back against it. "While you're in the mood to forget things, could you forget that I just said that? To your parents?"

"Forget you said...what?"

David releases a heavy sigh, "C'mon, let me show you your little happy place, it's right behind you."

He rounds the counter and pulls the curtain back to wave Patrick through into the back room. "This is where the magic happens," he says, and when Patrick raises an eyebrow, David throws his head back, like the ceiling might give him a clue to what he was actually trying to articulate, "the business magic. Where the numbers are crunched and assets are...um..."

"Right," Patrick says, enjoying David's flustered expression a little more than he has any right to under the circumstances.

David clears his throat and starts again, "It's kind of a multifunctional space? We deal with online orders here," he explains and gestures to a basket-lined shelf labeled with names and dates, "and store surplus stock, meet with visiting vendors, take well deserved breaks…but the whole desk situation over there is basically yours," he waves a hand at an old oak desk on the far wall, laptop and printer and letter trays neatly arranged under a shelf that bears box files labeled in his own Sharpie-d script, "since you're the one who deals with the vendor contracts and invoices and taxes and all the other thrilling paperwork while I concentrate on maintaining the aesthetic integrity of the store and ensuring the customer journey is seamless from start to finish."

He watches David's face and there's a slight shift in his demeanor; he seems less on edge (if no less flustered) than just a few minutes before, maybe because they're alone again, or maybe because he feels less pressure in what he considers to be Patrick's little corner of the store. It's enough of a change that Patrick finds himself emboldened to tease a little, secure in the knowledge that his other attempts haven't caused offense so far. Almost the opposite, if anything. It's what they do, he thinks. It feels...right. "So what you're saying is that I do the books while you stack the shelves and serve the customers?"

"That description is overly simplistic," David replies, almost-smile back on his face and his eyes are sparkling, reflecting flecks of blue and red from the panel of stained glass in the high set arch of the window over the desk, "but essentially, yes. Although, that doesn't mean you don't deal with customers, too. We share day-to-day responsibilities, generally, but while you have overall responsibility for spreadsheets etcetera, I have overall responsibility for creating the ambiance our customer base has come to appreciate and expect. I also have the very important task of sourcing our products and liaising with our vendors."

Patrick feels a pang of emotion at the liberal use of our and we in David's statement. He decides it's probably best to deflect from that with more teasing. "Am I not allowed to liaise?" He asks and crosses his arms over his chest, pleased when David's expression shifts from amused indignation to smug self-assurance.

"Sometimes. Your style of negotiation can be a little too corporate for our brand."

"Oh. Can it?"

"Hmm. You drive a very hard bargain when it comes to profit margin, and sometimes a Wiccan who makes candles in her farmhouse kitchen requires a more subtle approach."

Patrick nods in earnest, tries to hide his mirth behind the hand that has somehow found its way back up to his mouth. He's tempted to remind David of what he'd told him just this morning - "I'm not generally well known for my subtlety" - but doesn't want to push his luck so he bites his tongue.

And really, all teasing and extraneous use of buzzwords aside, everything David has said makes sense. He can't argue with what he's seen of David's eye for aesthetic detail so far, and he's clearly smart and charming in a way that Patrick can imagine local artisans and crafters, as well as customers (and possibly business partners) eating up. Patrick, on the other hand, knows he's good at the other kind of detail; dotting i's and crossing t's, checking numbers and fine print, and if they have vendors who prefer a corporate sheen rather than a creative sparkle, then Patrick knows that he can turn on his own kind of charm, too. It's a good marriage of skills, he thinks, before the satisfaction at the thought momentarily takes a backseat for him to feel slightly perturbed by his inner voice's (inappropriate— too appropriate?) choice of word. Images of gold rings and broad, teary-eyes smiles flash in his mind and he quickly tries to push all thoughts of the other kind of marriage far, far away for the time being.

"Anyway," David says, turning on his heel to duck back through the curtain onto the shop floor, holding it open and looking at Patrick over his shoulder, "it's almost eleven. Come on, I'll let you flip the sign on the door when it's time to open."

"Are you sure I can handle that kind of responsibility?" Patrick asks as he trails behind David a little reluctantly, out across the sun-soaked hardwood floor to the front door. He knows his parents are waiting, but there's still a lot about Rose Apothecary he wants to explore yet.

"I'll be here to observe and correct your technique as required," David assures him and, okay—Patrick isn't going to attempt a comeback to that.

There are still a few minutes to go until eleven, so David leans against the doorframe and eyes Patrick warily. "So, what's the verdict? On our store?"

Our store.

"I really like it, David."

David breathes out a small sigh of what seems like relief at that, and Patrick feels a smile tug at the corners of his lips when David waits for him to elaborate.

"Aesthetically, it's classic, inviting. The branding is cohesive, there are a good number of SKUs while keeping each of the product lines streamlined and manageable—"

"Well, we don't want to dilute the brand."

"No. Of course not," Patrick agrees, feeling gratified that David looks pleased with his assessment so far, "and the model overall seems very sustainable. It also doesn't hurt that the whole place smells incredible."

"Ah. You see, the trick to that is choosing scents with similar base notes so that, even though they all seem different, they actually compliment each other very well."

"Hmm," Patrick nods, tempers his smile at the thought of how well he's starting to think he and David might compliment each other. "Well. It's all very impressive, David. I'm looking forward to taking a closer look, y'know, behind the curtain."

David nods and seems to bite the inside of his cheek.

Patrick quickly tacks on, for the sake of clarity, "To see where things stand, from a financial perspective."

"Oh. And you're sure you're not a gold digger?"

Patrick winces, realising he may have stuffed his size ten in his mouth.

"David, I hope you know that I didn't mean to imply—" It isn't something he'd given any thought to when he'd made the throwaway comment earlier, about not being a gold digger, that it stemmed from the fact that David was someone who, at one time, had had that kind of money, and might have experience of people trying to take advantage of it. He mentally kicks himself for potentially striking a raw nerve at a tender time.

"No, that's not what—god, trust me, I know. You've seen where I live," David shakes his head and then looks at Patrick thoughtfully, twirling a silver ring around the knuckle of his forefinger before the corners of his lips twitch upwards, "That said, I think you'll still be pleased to hear that the business is thriving. We've been officially profitable since Q4 last year."

With that, Patrick feels that freshly drawn tension recede. He says with a smile, "That's quite an achievement for a small startup in a town like this. Well done."

"Well," David says with a dismissive wave, "it was very much a joint effort."

Patrick feels a little overawed (and not a little delighted) at the idea of being partially responsible for that, for all of it; the store's artisanal products and high-end polish, its government grants and vendor contracts and sustainable SKUs and its route into profitability. Mostly, though, he's awed at the idea of commitment-shy Patrick Brewer having the conviction, so soon after his move to Schitt's Creek, to commit so thoroughly to all of this —to this brick-and-mortar business, to this town, to this man—and the realisation that it was never actually commitment that he'd been afraid of.

It puts a lump in his throat when he swallows, renders him momentarily mute.

"What are your plans for the rest of the day, anyway?"

"Um…" Patrick clears his throat, crosses his arms over his chest, and comes back into the moment, "mainly just being babysat by my parents. But I could always stay here for a while if you—"

"No, your mom and dad came a long way to see you. Make the most of some quality time."

"Well, I don't know about quality time but I have two years worth of Blue Jays games to catch up on—" Patrick takes note of David's mini eye roll at that "—so we're gonna make a start on those after going to Elmdale to grab some groceries. Exciting stuff."

"Mm. So exciting."

"They said they'll drive me around to see some local sights on the way back—"

"Oh, you're in for a real treat."

"Yeah? I kind of thought I might've already seen most of what Schitt's Creek has to offer on my walk into town this morning."

David shakes his head, "You haven't seen the town's main attraction yet."

"Haven't I?" He asks, clearly flirting, clearly unable to stop himself when David's in close proximity.

It's just that….David stirs something inside him, something latent that he's only felt (or acknowledged) once or twice before; something that feels a little wild, a little reckless. He presses his lips firmly together, dips his chin towards his chest to stop himself from saying anything else incriminating. Maybe David will just think he was referring to the store?

When Patrick risks a glance up at him, David is pursing his lips, shaking his head, the suggestion of a blush colouring his cheeks, so...maybe not.

"The town sign," David says pointedly, steering them back onto the right track, "is an unmissable, must-see, five-star attraction."

"Really?" Patrick asks, unconvinced. David has a mischievous gleam in his eye that suggests he's messing with him and god , Patrick realises he likes that gleam; he wonders what he would do (and what he has done) to make sure he sees it again.

" Really. People travel from all over just to see it. Some even say it's the pride of rural Ontario. I specifically avoided going that route yesterday to save the surprise for a time when you could really appreciate it."

"Well, I'll make sure it's on the list."

There's a pause after that as David checks the time and straightens up from where he was leaning, making the height difference between them more pronounced. Patrick had noticed it, but it hadn't seemed quite so conspicuous before when they were either walking or sitting or just not standing this close to each other, face to face. Patrick isn't sure why something as simple as tilting his head back to look up at David makes his heart flutter harder in his chest.

"Almost time," David whispers as he turns to peer out through the glass panel of the door.

"Will I see you later?" Patrick utters suddenly before he can register exactly what he's asking; he just knows he doesn't want to leave the question unasked like he had the day before.

David's jaw clenches, his eyes fix on Patrick's, "Would that be...okay?"

"I mean you don't have to, but—"

"I'd like to come over again tonight, if you're okay with it."

The fluttering in Patrick's chest ramps up to wild flapping. "I'm okay with—I mean, I'd like it. To see you again. Tonight."

"Okay," David says with forced nonchalance, his fingers reaching up to smooth a strand of his own hair that wasn't remotely out of place. "What time should I…?"

"Um, well, as much as I love my parents there are only so many hours in a day that I can spend with them," David nods emphatically in understanding at this, "so I'll probably suggest they go back to the motel after dinner. And then I think that, uh, I might call Rachel. I need to—" he stalls at that, tries to articulate what it is he feels he needs to do, and what it is he feels he wants to tell David that he needs to do, "—I need closure, I think? Or something like that."

"That's good. You should…do that—get that, if that's what you need to do. I could come over at nine-ish?"

"Okay," and god, he's sure his heart is now definitely trying to find a route out of his ribcage; he feels like they've just arranged a date (even if he can't remember ever feeling like this about an actual date) instead of what is, essentially, David switching roles with his parents for night shift Patrick-sitting duties. (Still, it's because he cares and that is… something .)

They look at each other for a long moment, David's face is so expressive-- Patrick is fast discovering that his micro-expressions are fascinating to watch, to decipher--but right now his face is saying something a little too quietly for Patrick to hear, and then he's glancing down at his phone again with a sigh, "We should've opened four minutes ago."

"That's my fault," Patrick offers, "add it to the rest of the time I've missed. I'll make it up."

"Hmm. Well, time is money. Flip the sign and go get your parents, they'll be wondering what we're doing in here," David's big brown eyes widen slightly and his hands make shapes in the air between them, "Not that, I mean, obviously we're not doing anything—"

Patrick feels his face flash hot as he flips the sign to OPEN and twists the key in the lock, suppressing the smile pulling at the corners of his lips. "I'll let you get back to work, I'm sure the clamouring customers will be here any second."

David huffs, "Remember, it's your own business you're disparaging. Not everyone enjoys getting up at the crack of dawn on a Sunday, so—"

Just as he says that, a silver-haired woman and teenage girl round the corner and approach the door. David stands back to let Patrick out and the customers in, greeting them, expression verging on smug. "I have customers to attend to, so I'll see you later."

Patrick nods, gives a little wave, and turns to walk away. David is still in the doorway when he throws a look back over his shoulder, both of them caught in the act. Patrick blinks at him, smiles, and yells a casual "Ciao, David," before picking up his pace and, as much as he wants to, resists the temptation to look back again.

In Elmdale, after wandering the somewhat more vibrant main thoroughfare of the bigger town, taking in the early afternoon sun along with the stores and amenities the town had to offer—a bank, a salon, a small restaurant; nothing out of the ordinary and certainly nothing, he'd noted with some internal pride, to rival Rose Apothecary—Patrick finds himself in Brebner's market, flanked by slightly clingy parents, pulling the grocery list he'd found stuck to the fridge in the apartment out of his back pocket.

He'd noticed it that morning while attempting to busy himself in the kitchen when David was getting ready to leave. It was headed-up Brebner's and listed an array of kitchen staples in his own neat block script with a few exceptions—frozen mall pretzels, the good breadsticks, 85% cacao dark chocolate? (70% will suffice)—in what he assumed must be David's slanting cursive. It was one small thing he could tackle, he thought—his mom had already complained that the fridge was too bare (he reasoned that he'd probably been a little busy lately, what with running a business and rehearsing for a musical and planning a proposal, not that he said any of that to his mom at the time) and might help give his day some semblance of normalcy, of purpose—so he'd shoved it into his pocket and pulled out his phone to google the location of Brebner's.

Shopping with his parents again reminded him of preparing for his first time away from home; when his mom and dad had dragged him around the supermarket before dropping him off at the college campus, just so that he'd have something to put on his designated shelf of the refrigerator in his dorm's communal kitchen; that time, he'd snuck beer into the cart, concealed under packets of ramen and a block of cheese so big it would end up lasting him up until Christmas break. He feels the same kind of nervous energy as he had then; the same uncertainty, like he's on the precipice of something new that's both invigorating and unnerving.

He listens to his mom hum along to the muzak pumping a little too loudly from the tinny speaker system as they roam the aisles and makes a point of getting all the items on the list, including (especially) David's requests (even if has no way of knowing which ones qualify as the good breadsticks—he opts for the most expensive ones) as well as a few additional staples that his mom assures him, won't go amiss.

Before they reach the checkout, Patrick stalls at a display of red wine—a tower of Merlot that he's sure won't be anywhere near as good as the wine they stock at the store—on special at the end of an aisle. It makes him think of David's wine metaphor from the night before. He likes red wine now, he thinks. He's pretty sure of it. And even though he knows it's only a metaphor for what he actually likes, he grabs a bottle and adds it to the cart anyway, just because he can, because he wants to.

Marcy had giggled and refused to tell him what to expect when back in the car Patrick had mentioned David telling him that the Schitt's Creek town sign was worth seeing. "Oh, it's worth seeing, alright," was all his dad would say before making the left turn that would ensure they did just that.

David had not been kidding.

Welcome to Schitt's Creek – Where Everyone Fits In! It claims across an old-timey painting of the creek, in which a man presses indecently close to a woman's behind as she bends over towards the water, bucket in hand. It leaves Patrick a little stunned, wordless with bemusement when Marcy insists they get out of the car for a better look.

"The best part about it," his dad tells him, "– or, actually, the worst part, I suppose – is that the man and woman depicted here were real, and they were brother and sister."

Patrick laughs until it's clear that Clint isn't kidding. "What? How would you even know that?"

"The mayor of the town, Roland, is it?" Clint asks and Marcy nods. "He's very proud of this sign, and of the town. He told us all about it. The man on the sign is his great grandfather, who founded the town when it was just a patch of land beside Elm Creek back in eighteen-something-or-other and, unfortunately, named it after himself. The family has lived here ever since."

Patrick wonders if his parents know that David—or his family, at least—owns the town now (Rose Creek would be a much better name, he thinks idly), but he doesn't know enough yet to field any questions they might have about it, so he asks one of his own instead.

"How did you meet the mayor of the town?"

"Oh, he works at the motel with David's dad," Marcy says, "He's the handyman, I think. A little rough around the edges, terrible hair, but he's always been nice to us."

Patrick can only shake his head in disbelief. Schitt's Creek—the unassuming little town with the strangely incestuous welcome sign, where the mayor and the former millionaire owner of North America's biggest video rental chain work side by side at a roadside motel; where two of the few locals he's met so far have casually shared their own amnesia anecdotes with him like what he's going through is perfectly normal and where he runs a profitable retail business with his formerly tabloid-famous, pansexual fiancé. And to think just a few hours ago he thought this town had nothing to show him.

He unlocks his phone and snaps a quick picture of it for posterity—at least now he'll have one picture in his phone he remembers taking. He finds himself looking at it as they travel back to the apartment. Where Everyone Fits In! the sign says. It's a bold claim. He wonders if it's true, if they all fit it here; if he fits in. God knows he's spent enough time trying to do just that back home.

Maybe, he thinks, the appeal of being here is that he doesn't have to try.