A/N: Apologies for the delay in posting this chapter - I moved house and had knee surgery and writing just wasn't possible for a while. If you're still reading - thank you! I'd love to know that you're out there and hear what you think of the story so far.

Birthday (Part Three)

It's only just gone seven o'clock when Patrick pulls the Volvo into the little lot behind the Apothecary. He parks in the same spot he'd driven out of not ninety minutes before when they'd closed up the store, and frowns at the blinking display on his dashboard, like it's somehow the clock's fault that he's shown up almost thirty minutes early.

He'd taken the car at David's insistence ("The motel is only a few minutes away and your apartment is all the way on the other side of town," he'd reasoned. "Also, the car needs gas, and having to put on those baggy plastic gloves at the pump makes me feel like a fashion-conscious serial killer, so…"). Driving had shaved a fifteen-minute walk off of his journey in each direction, meaning there hadn't been – even allowing the extra time it took to stop for gas – any need to leave quite as early as he had.

Patrick pulls his phone out of his pocket and checks the time on that, too, just on the off chance that it's somehow different (it isn't). He's never liked being late, but there's early and then there's just plain…eager.

The problem is, not leaving early would've meant staying in the apartment; it would've meant spending another interminable half hour puttering around, checking as-yet unexplored nooks and crannies for the prospect of an elusive birthday gift. It would've meant contemplating getting changed for a third time (he'd decided the blazer he'd initially opted for was a bit much, given the warm night and the destination; and then that the pale blue shirt he'd chosen to wear under it was, on its own, not quite enough) or risk sweating through the midnight blue button-down he'd eventually settled on. It would've meant possibly starting to freak out about the fact that he was eager about the prospect of – maybe, possibly, probably? - going on a date with David, who, in contrast to every other date he can remember going on, is very much a man. A man that likes him; a man that Patrick really is beginning to realise that he likes, too. A lot.

He sighs, wipes his sweaty palms on his jeans and unlocks his phone. Now, he decides, is probably a good time to follow through on his promise to keep his parents in the loop. He sends them a quick text, to which his mom replies immediately, confirming that they'd gotten home safely and that she and his dad are, not at all surprisingly, thrilled to hear about his dinner plans with David.

After stalling for another ten minutes, he heads to the café for his second visit of the day. He slips in past a group of teens making a protracted, noisy exit, fully expecting to have plenty of time to settle into his seat, to make small talk with Twyla, to dry his damp palms (again) and thoroughly examine the extensive menu. What he isn't expecting to find is David already seated in the middle booth. David may have many virtues, but he'd gotten the distinct impression that punctuality wasn't one of them.

Yet...there he is. He's facing away from the front door, but still impossible to miss in these surroundings, with his shock of high, glossy hair and his designer apparel. Seemingly unperturbed by the summer heat, he's wearing another sweater; this one black with white accents and a sweep of sparkling silver that curves neatly over each shoulder. He shines under the watery sconce lighting, a dazzling contrast to the café's once-exotic murals and dull duct-taped vinyl seating.

Patrick pauses for a second and just looks – at his face, just visible in profile, mouth slightly downturned as he gazes at his phone – like he hadn't already seen plenty of him at the store today, like he can't quite look long enough or hard enough for it to sink in that this is who he gets to...be with, now.

A ripple of nervous excitement runs through him and he attempts to shake it out through his fingertips as he makes his way over to the booth, pulling in a steadying breath before he asks, "Is this seat taken?"

It's a terribly corny line, but the way David's face lights up when their eyes meet – the way it beams with that same burst of sunshine Patrick had seen this morning when he'd arrived at the store – seems to indicate that he doesn't mind the corniness too much.

"Um, it is, actually," he plays along, sounding lightheartedly haughty as he slips his phone under the table and into his pocket. His eyes dip to look Patrick over, appraising, before he continues, "But I guess you could keep it warm for a while."

Blushing, Patrick slides into the booth and tries not to think about how oddly apt that little joke is.

"Can I get you guys started with something to drink?" Twyla smiles her implausibly big smile as she approaches the table and hands them each an implausibly big menu.

"I will have a glass of your finest house red, please. Large," David replies without hesitation.

Patrick glances down at his menu, despite not having even opened it yet. He only wavers for a second before making his decision. "Red wine for me too please, Twyla."

Name-badge notwithstanding, she looks inordinately pleased that he has, again, remembered who she is. "Good choice. I'll be back in a few minutes to get the rest of your order."

Patrick takes a second to wrestle his menu into submission, wrapping the oversized gatefold back on itself to reveal the plentiful options. David's eyes are on him when he glances up, an amused look – if not quite one of his many subtle smiles – settled on his face.

"You were right," Patrick remarks, in the hope of breaking the sudden tension he feels settle over the table in Twyla's wake. "This is quite a selection."

"Isn't it? And all of it locally sourced."

"Really?" Patrick asks, not attempting to hide his incredulity.

"Absolutely," David assures him with an emphatic nod before biting his lip to stifle what is undeniably a smile this time. "It all comes straight from the freezer out back."

"Doesn't get much more local than that," Patrick laughs and feels some of the tightness in his shoulders start to ease. "Seeing as you're a little more au fait with what Café Tropical has to offer than I currently am, what do you recommend?"

"Well, in terms of appetizers, the mozzarella sticks are a firm favourite."

Patrick scans the appetizer list and reads the description, "A platter of golden fried cheese, with a tasty marinara sauce to dip? Consider me sold."

"Entrées, on the other hand, are a little more tricky. Because, as we discussed earlier, there are just so, so many," David folds out his menu to its full table-filling size for effect as he speaks, "enticing, not-at-all questionably island-themed options to choose from."

"Well, at least what this place lacks in authentically tropical cuisine it more than makes up for in tasteful decor," Patrick quips, gesturing at the faded, bird-filled mural on the cracked wall beside them.

"Hmm, I heard that these were painted by an artist once referred to as the Banksy of the Greater Elms."

"Intriguing."

"Isn't it?" David says, his mouth tilting in that lopsided, sardonic way that makes Patrick gaze back at him for a little longer than might be polite.

When David looks away first, Patrick forces his own eyes back down to his menu, latching on to the first thing he sees. "Can't say I'm not also a little intrigued by the Schitt's Creek Surprise-Me Special."

David raises a substantial eyebrow at that. "Haven't you had enough surprises over the past few days?"

The answer should be an instant, emphatic yes, but…it isn't. Because the surprises he's encountered so far (save any pending medical revelations that he's not going to dwell on right now, thank you very much) have almost all been good ones. He's finally out of his hometown, he's out of his nine-to-five rut, out of his doomed-to-fail relationship, he's…out. And that's thanks, at least in part, to David Rose, who has easily been the biggest - and best - surprise of all.

He could tell David as much, he thinks; declare his feelings, his gratitude, his intentions, once and for all.

"Turns out, I kind of like surprises," is what comes out of his mouth instead. He holds David's gaze again, though, and hopes he gets the message.

"Well," David replies, and tucks a satisfyingly pleased smile into his cheek, "that may be the case, but if the Surprise-Me Smoothie is anything to go by, any item on this menu with 'surprise' in the name should be avoided at all costs."

Patrick chuckles. "Duly noted.

When Twyla brings their drinks over, Patrick schools his expression and hopes that she hadn't just overheard them poking fun at the food. "Ready to order?" She asks. "Or do you need a little more time?"

"Just another few minutes," David answers, which is just as well, as, beyond the mozzarella sticks to start, neither of them has actually landed on anything that sounds moderately edible.

Twyla bobs her head and moves to the next occupied table. Patrick turns his attention to the slightly less ambiguous-sounding items on the menu.

"What exactly makes a burger Hawaiian?" Patrick asks, and looks up to find David closely examining the rim of his wine glass.

Patrick's bemused look eventually catches David's eye and, burger question ignored, he leans forward and drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I asked Twyla to make me a dirty martini once, and she responded by telling me I didn't have to worry about it being dirty because they clean the glasses after almost every use."

"Wow," Patrick says, and finds himself holding back a grin despite what is, if true, a somewhat horrifying anecdote.

"Yeah."

"And yet, here we are."

"Hmm," David raises his now thoroughly inspected glass of wine and tilts it towards Patrick in a toast. "Here we are."

The mozzarella sticks turn out to have only the slightest hint of freezer burn, which is, David assures Patrick, a rare treat. ("Although, it does add a certain brackish je ne sai quoi once you get used to it."). For entreés, they wind up playing it safe by each ordering a burger; David opts for blue cheese and, interestingly, no onions on his, while Patrick forgoes the Hawaiian option (turns out, a canned pineapple slice is the sole qualifier for the name) and goes for the classic cheeseburger. Also without onions. Just as a precaution, in case David has…an allergy. Or something.

As they eat, Patrick mostly lets David steer the direction of the conversation. He might have a million questions, but he knows it wouldn't be fair to expect them all to be answered at once, and given David's reticence to talk about his (clearly very different) life pre-Schitt's Creek, he doesn't want to stumble into any potentially painful territory. Not tonight. It must be bruising enough for David to have to re-teach Patrick all the things he should already know about him, without the added danger of having invisible wounds prodded, too. Still, he manages to learn a lot; namely, that David doesn't just have strong opinions when it comes to baseball uniforms and visual merchandising. He also has very strong feelings about the Canada Revenue Agency, the proper pronunciation of chorizo, Sandra Bullock's oeuvre and, fittingly, the order in which toppings should be placed on a burger ("Lettuce on top of the burger is not correct; the entire purpose of the lettuce is to protect the bottom of the bun from the burger." – "Why does the bun need to be protected from the burger, exactly?" – "No one likes a soggy bottom, Patrick.").

Patrick feels a blossoming buzz from the wine and, despite maligning the menu (and the construction of the burgers thereon), he is very much enjoying dinner. Although how much of that is down to the quality of the cuisine rather than other factors is a little unclear.

David has moved on from the topic of proper burger construction and is talking about the store. Specifically, the time the store was kind of, sort of, robbed. At gunpoint.

Patrick manages (somewhat valiantly, he thinks) not to choke on a french fry at that revelation.

"Okay, so the guy probably didn't have an actual gun, or any weapon at all. But what he did have was a very aggressive tone. As well as a ski mask and a really unflattering aubergine hoodie."

Patrick's initial dismay recedes when David downgrades the overall seriousness of the offence and recounts the rest of the slightly absurd tale. He learns that the unarmed robber didn't get any money, (turns out past-Patrick was out on a fortuitous bank run at the same time), but he did get wine, several unpasteurised cheeses and what was apparently some very good tapenade ("...and thanks to Stevie's uncharacteristic helpfulness, he also got a bottle of our premium Willow Bark Cleansing milk."). Patrick struggles to contain his grin as he watches David's hands gesticulate wildly while he speaks, his vividly expressive face every bit as entertaining as the story itself as it flits back and forth between indignation and embarrassment; his eyes crinkling, his dimple trying - and failing, to Patrick's delight - to stay hidden as he struggles to maintain the appearance of solemnity.

And…okay. Maybe it's not that unclear that it's the company rather than the food that Patrick is enjoying so much.

"It was all quite scary," David assures him, faux-affronted at the look of poorly disguised mirth on Patrick's face.

"I bet it was," Patrick agrees, because he knows it must have been at least a little frightening at the time, but he also knows that David wouldn't be telling him this particular story - in this playful a tone - if he wasn't over the purported trauma, so Patrick does what he does best, what David makes it so thrillingly easy to do; he teases. "I can only imagine that reports of the Schitt's Creek tapenade thief left the whole neighbourhood a little rattled."

"I was certainly shaken," David says with a smile that completely belies the sentiment before hiding it behind the rim of his wine glass.

Patrick is starting to tell David how sincerely glad he is that he made it through the ordeal when he's momentarily distracted by something - someone - in his peripheral vision. His eyes leave David for what might be the first time since Twyla took their order and venture out past the other previously unseen diners to find Stevie standing by the counter, her eyes fixed fast on him, her face teetering on the edge of what might be amusement.

He raises his hand in a small wave to acknowledge he's noticed her. She doesn't flinch at being caught, just shoots him a beatific smile.

"What is it?" David asks, twisting to follow Patrick's gaze. "Is someone….?"

"Uh, yeah. It's Stevie…" Patrick hears his own voice catch a little, and feels an odd wave of something like disappointment wash over him. Not because he hadn't liked Stevie when he'd met her this morning; he truly had. But maybe because he had misread the situation and what he's in the middle of enjoying is nothing more than a friends-and-business partners kind of dinner after all. "Is she, uh, joining us?"

"No. Definitely not." David drops his fork loudly on his plate. "She's spying on us, is what she's doing."

Patrick feels that sudden wave of disappointment washed away by a flood of relief.

David narrows his eyes. "How long has she been here?"

"I don't know, I was—" Too busy looking at you, he doesn't say, "I think she just got here?"

David cranes his neck to look behind him again, which only causes Stevie's expression to morph into wide-eyed innocence before she waves - somehow sarcastically - at him and mouths the words 'take out' while pointing a finger at the plastic bag Twyla has just set in front of her on the counter.

There's a fading scowl on David's face when he snaps back towards Patrick, the abrupt movement causing something in his neck to pop loudly in protest. He winces before catching the fresh look of concern Patrick levels at him and waves it away with a hand. "I'm just feeling a little stiff."

The image that pops inconveniently into Patrick's mind at that assertion isn't helped at all by the sight of David stretching his neck slowly back and rolling his head from side to side. His pulse stutters. Stevie is all but forgotten as Patrick focuses on the sight of David's eyes fluttering shut, by the sound of the barely audible hmph that escapes his lips.

His mouth feels dry as he's struck by an urgent desire to taste that sound, to swallow it. He grabs his wine to wash that entirely unhelpful, if not at all unpleasant, thought away and glances back to the counter, to Stevie, to find her already gone.

After a long drink of wine, Patrick tries to force his features into something that signals sympathy rather than what he's mainly feeling which is a little…stirred up.

"That, ah, didn't sound too good," he comments, which to be fair, isn't a lie; the pop of cartilage hadn't sounded good. It was the other part he'd (really) liked the sound of.

"It's nothing a little more wine won't fix," David assures him, normal posture resumed as he settles his elbow on the table and raises his glass to his lips for a drink.

"Uh," Patrick says, eloquently, as he watches the way David's tongue briefly chases the taste of the wine on his lips; the way his Adam's apple bobs as he swallows. The sight makes Patrick feel literally hot under the collar. He rubs the back of his neck and takes another quick sip of his wine before trying to speak again. "Well. At least you'll get to sleep in your own bed tonight. That should help."

He cringes as soon as the words tumble out of his treacherous mouth. Talking about sleeping arrangements might not be the best road to steer the conversation onto right now.

"Oh. Yeah. I, um, want that, obviously," David says without too much conviction, "but I don't have to, if you don't want to be…I mean, my bed is barely more comfortable than the couch, so if you'd rather I—"

"I'll be fine, David," Patrick insists, hoping that he injects a little more conviction of his own into the statement than he feels. He will be fine, though, and it isn't fair to ask David to sleep on that tiny couch again. Truthfully, if David was to come back to the apartment with him tonight, Patrick isn't sure that's where he would ask him to sleep, and that thought is…something he probably shouldn't be thinking at all right now. "But thank you."

"You're sure you'll be okay on your own?" David sucks his lips in and his eyes dart away from Patrick as he tacks on with a mirthless attempt at a laugh, "I mean, you won't, like, run away in the night or anything?"

Patrick's heated skin grows suddenly cold. "Is that why you wanted to stay with me, before?"

"Not the only reason. But it is kind of something you've done before? That's how you ended up in Schitt's Creek. And I know that this feels like before, for you, so…"

He feels that same guilt as he had earlier, sitting in almost the exact spot when his dad had expressed a similar concern.

"Trust me, David, it already feels very different to before."

"Also," David continues, squaring his shoulder and injecting a spurious levity into his voice, "you wouldn't be the first person I—I knew that just upped and vanished on me in the middle of the night, so."

Patrick's heart clenches painfully at that, David's hurt is clear and crushing underneath the facade. "Well, I'm not going anywhere, this time," he tries his best to reassure him, just as he'd done with his parents earlier. He only hates that he has to.

"Okay, well,'' David replies on a soft exhale and shrugs his shoulders, as if silently adding 'You can't blame me for asking'.

And he can't, he doesn't. "I promise, David."

"You know, I actually could use a decent night's sleep. And it's not just my neck, my proper skincare routine has really suffered in the midst of all of this."

"Well, thank you, David," Patrick smiles, grateful to him for lightening the mood again, "for putting me ahead of your skincare routine."

"Hmm, you're welcome. But don't expect it to happen again."

Patrick nods. He really, really hopes that nothing like this will ever happen again.

"From Stevie. She told me it was to say warmest birthday wishes, David," Twyla declares as she deposits a thick wedge of raspberry cheesecake - decorated with a single, precariously placed birthday candle - onto the table between them, accompanied by two forks.

They'd shared a moment, before, but the mood had quickly lightened again as David detailed the importance of each of the nine essential steps in his nightly skincare regimen and Patrick had been on the tip of his tongue to ask David if he wanted dessert, more wine or a coffee, maybe a walk - anything to signal that, even though they'd agreed to part ways, he wasn't quite ready to let the night end just yet - when Twyla, or rather, Stevie by proxy, beat him to it.

David gapes as Twyla produces a kitchen lighter from her apron pocket, making several loud clicks as she attempts to light the tiny candle.

When successful, she clears her throat, and begins to sing tunefully, "Happy Birthday to you, ha—"

"Okay, that's quite enough of that," David says in the same polite-but-dismissive tone Patrick has seen him use on overeager customers, "thank you for the singing and the wishes."

"You are very welcome," Twyla replies, shooting finger guns at the birthday boy before spinning on her heel and heading towards the other occupied table on the far side of the café.

Patrick grins at a pouting David. "That was nice of Stevie."

"It was," David states, eyeing the dessert with suspicion.

"Don't look so worried. Even with everything you've told me about her so far, I don't think poisoning food is her style."

"No," David agrees, eyes lifting back to meet Patrick's with an added twinkle from the candlelight. "You're right. If she wanted to kill me, concealed poisoning would be far too subtle. She'd want to do it in person to witness the full effect."

"Naturally," Patrick replies with a smile that David returns while holding his gaze. Seeing that tiny flame reflected in his molten brown eyes only makes Patrick curious about what David would look like in real, unambiguously romantic candlelight.

When the wax is in danger of dripping onto a fresh raspberry, David blows out the candle with a little more fervour than a single birthday candle requires. Patrick thinks David likely does everything with just a little more fervour than might strictly be required. The thought makes him swallow another grin. It's a good quality, he thinks.

"Happy birthday, David. Did you make a wish?"

"I did," David confirms with a rueful smile before turning his attention back to dessert and plucking the nub of the extinguished candle out of the fruity layer on top. "But if I tell you what it is, it won't come true."

"Well, we wouldn't want that." Patrick knows what his own wish would be. He thinks it goes without saying that David's wish might be pretty similar. "How many candles should this thing have, anyway?"

David's response comes by way of a dark, unamused glare as he silently picks up his fork and spears the edge of the makeshift birthday cake. His shoulders do a small, seemingly involuntary wiggle as his lips close around his first bite and Patrick decides, for the moment, not to press David on the topic of age.

"Good?" he asks instead, although it could just as well be a statement as a question, because...yeah, this is good.

"Surprisingly decent," David replies, lips curling to the side as he scoops up another piece. "Aren't you having any?"

"See, I would. But I heard that you don't share baked goods."

"Hmm. I usually don't? And certainly not with Stevie. But," he uses his own fork to gesture towards Patrick's where it's still lying on the table, untouched. "I have been known, under special circumstances, to make an exception to that rule."

"Oh, well, if you think the circumstances are special enough," Patrick teases and retrieves his fork, keeping his eyes on David as he scoops up a larger than polite piece of the desert and shoves it into his mouth. As he chews, it crosses his mind that David was - is - special enough to be something of an exception to his usual rule, too.

When the cheesecake is gone and David has excused himself to visit the restroom, Patrick can't help but smile to himself. Sure, his whole world has changed in the space of what feels like just a few days; he's in a regrettably named town, hundreds of miles away from everyone he's ever known, on what may or may not qualify as a date with his very charming, male business partner in a café with decaying decor and so-so food, but he wouldn't change a thing. Because today has been a good day, and if he is on a date right now, it might just be the best date he's ever been on.

In fact, even if it turns out not to be a date, it might be the best not-date he's ever been on, too.

"Good night?" Twyla asks when she comes to clear the table.

"Yeah," he says, blushing a little at the realisation she can likely see how good he thinks it's been written all over his face.

"I'm glad you guys got to keep up the tradition," she says as she slides their empty wine glasses to one side to wipe away a few stray crumbs.

"Our tradition," Patrick repeats, doing his best to sound like he's confirming rather than questioning. "For David's birthday."

"And your anniversary, of course," she adds casually, empty glasses clinking together as she picks them up in one hand. "Ready for the check?"

"Um, he didn't—" a dismayed-looking David starts to say as he gets within earshot of the table.

"Yes, thank you, Twyla," Patrick cuts in.

David slides back into his seat, discharging invisible daggers in Twyla's direction as she retreats behind the counter, seemingly unaware of her faux-pas.

"So," he says, eyes turning warily to Patrick. "That's a…thing. That Twyla just told you."

"What?" Patrick asks, affecting wide-eyed innocence. That curious +2 in his calendar alongside the entry for David's birthday does make a little more sense now, but the revelation doesn't rattle him; it just makes him feel sad that it's another celebration, another milestone, that David is having to miss out on because of what's happened. And it's obvious that, however well he's trying to hide it, David is a little sad about that fact, too. So Patrick does the only thing he can think of to ease that sadness; he offers him an out. "That it's time for the check?"

"Hmm, yeah, that," David's lips curve into a smile that quickly sags into a grimace. "And also? That other thing she said."

"Oh, that."

"I didn't want to mention it. Yet. It's a lot to process and you—"

"David," Patrick interrupts as an edge of panic starts to creep into David's voice. "I completely get why you didn't want to mention it, but for the record, I'm glad that Twyla did."

"You are?" David asks, his thumb rubbing feverishly back and forth across the two rings stacked on his forefinger as he continues to look at Patrick like he's trying to gauge whether he's actually glad or just placating him.

Patrick aches to reassure him that it's the former. "Of course I am. I want to know everything."

David purses his lips, cocks a brow. "Everything?"

"Everything."

Seemingly satisfied by this affirmation, David's face softens and he breathes a quiet, "Okay."

"So," Patrick glances down at his own hands, clasped on the table, feeling a flutter of nerves at the words he's about to say, "we, uh, had our first date here? On your birthday?"

"Hmm, yes, we did," he confirms.

Patrick raises both eyebrows in query when David doesn't immediately volunteer any more details.

"And even though I did invite Stevie to come along, she only stayed for a few minutes," David adds sheepishly.

"Okay, that…" is a statement that poses far, far more questions than it answers, but before he can grapple with any of them, Twyla is back at their table with the check.

Patrick pulls out his wallet to pay and bats away David's (frankly unconvincing) protest. "Birthday treat," he tells him.

"Ready to get out of here?" David asks once Twyla has bid them both goodnight and not-so-subtly alluded to the fact that she's about to close up for the night.

Patrick nods in contradiction to how he feels and they both slip out of their seats and head across the now empty café. He doesn't want to say goodbye just yet, though, so he offers instead, "Can I give you a ride home?"

David's hand stills on the door. "Should you be driving in your condition?"

"Well, I drove here tonight, which you know, because you insisted on it. So yes, I think I can manage it. Although you'll probably have to give me directions."

"I actually meant because of the wine," David gibes and holds the door open, waving Patrick out into the dusk.

"It was one glass!"

"I mean, you are a lightweight," David rebuts before yielding with a put-upon sigh, "but, I guess, if you're sure."

Patrick feels sure as the skin on his bare forearms prickles pleasantly in the chill of night air and surer still when he feels the contrasting warmth of David's hand on the small of his back, just for one heart-stopping second, as they step out onto the sidewalk.

"Where did you park? David asks, and he half spins as he looks for the car. It makes his sweater sparkle under the silvery light, lighting him up like a beacon.

Patrick falters for a moment at the sight, overcome by the thought that David would shine, here, even without the sequins.

"Oh," David's eyes cloud with concern. "Can you not…remember?"

"Uh, no, I can," Patrick assures him with an abashed smile, taking a step into the empty road. "It's just behind the store. I made sure to stick to somewhere familiar, just in case."

"Wise," David agrees and follows him across the street.

Once in the car, Patrick tries to leave his many, many distracting thoughts aside in order to focus on the road. With David's (semi-helpful) directions, it only takes a few minutes until they're pulling into the near-empty lot in front of the Rosebud Motel.

"That's my room right there, lucky number seven," David points towards the same unassuming door Patrick had watched him disappear into the last time he was here. Beside it, there's a small square window that's illuminated by a sliver of yellow light poking through the not-quite-closed curtains. "And before you ask, yes, it is every bit as luxurious on the inside as it looks on the outside."

"Oh, it can't be that bad," Patrick teases.

"Can't it?"

Patrick huffs out a small laugh, the barely-there sound making his chest feel tight.

This is it, he thinks. His last chance to establish whether or not David thinks this is a date or…just a slightly bizarre birthday dinner with his erstwhile fiancé.

He clears his throat and peels his hands away from their death-grip on the steering wheel. "Don't you at least get special perks by being friends with the owner?"

Well, asking outright 'are we on a date right now?' feels like it might be a little…direct. He's sure he can find a way to bring the conversation back to the topic more naturally.

"Oh, I get the opposite of perks by being friends with Stevie. Anti-perks. Drawbacks, if anything."

"She did send you some birthday cheesecake, though."

He rolls his eyes. "That she did."

"Speaking of Stevie," Patrick reaches, hoping he's found that way of guiding their conversation back onto the path it was headed down before they left the café. "Can I ask you something?"

"I'm not sure, can you?"

"Ha ha," Patrick replies dryly and levels a short glance at David to indicate that he is, in fact, trying to be serious.

"Yes, you can. Just not about my age or my old nose."

"Wouldn't dream of it." Patrick laughs for real this time and tucks away that extra little David-detail. "Okay. Why did you invite Stevie on our…uh, our first date."

"Ah," David says, like he's been waiting for this very question. "Well, you found out that my entire family had forgotten it was my birthday and asked me if I wanted to get dinner. I didn't think it was—that you were even—" David lets his dancing hands fall into his lap, "I wasn't sure. I thought you were just being nice. Which is why I asked Stevie to come along, too."

"Okay…"

"But as soon as she got there she picked up on some cues that I might've missed and helped clarify the whole," he gestures in a circular motion between them, "situation."

"Right, right," Patrick mutters as it dawns on him that David might currently be just as unsure about the status of things as he is. And if they're both seeking clarification then he might, in the absence of Stevie, just have to go for a more direct approach after all. "So, in that same spirit of clearing things up, are we—is this, tonight, a…date?"

David lifts his shoulders, shakes his head. "It's whatever you want it to be."

Patrick lets his gaze drop back to the steering wheel in front of him. He feels a shaky smile play on his lips. "I think it's a date." He swallows thickly, makes himself look David in the eye. "I want it to be a date."

"In that case," David says, his eyes glinting in the dim light, both warm and understandably wistful, "thank you, Patrick, for a lovely date."

His gaze flits briefly between Patrick and the motel before he unfastens his seatbelt and starts to twist towards the car door.

"Can I ask you something else, before you go?"

David settles back into the seat and looks at Patrick cautiously. "Of course," he says, notably without the sass this time.

Patrick's breath is coming fast, his nascent nerve wavering, but even if doesn't know much right now, he knows that this isn't how he wants their second first date to end. So he steels himself, and asks, "Is this how our first date ended?"

"If you mean did you drive me home that time too," David's mouth curls adorably to one side. "Then yes, you did."

Patrick nods and tries not to focus on the sound of blood rushing in his ears. "And did I…?"

"You told me that you were really glad you'd invested in my business," David tells him when the rest of that question is left hanging in the air between them. He shifts again so that he's facing fractionally more in Patrick's direction and continues, "Then basically mocked me for not immediately thanking you for helping make it such a success."

Patrick half-laughs, half-winces. "Smooth."

"Hmm, so smooth," David says with that cheek-dimpling, barely-there grin that Patrick wants so, so badly to press his lips against.

"Did I kiss you?" He blurts out, feeling suddenly nervous, nauseous to hear the answer. It's dumb, he knows it is, because whether or not he'd kissed David on their first first date, he knows they've kissed – no doubt hundreds of times; thousands, maybe – since then, just like he knows with a certainty he's seldom felt about anything in his life that he wants to kiss him now. Even so, he wants to know if he'd had the courage then that he's trying to muster tonight.

"No," David says and Patrick's heart sinks a little; if he wasn't brave enough then, when he'd had months to figure out his feelings, then maybe he isn't— "I kissed you," David adds, cutting short Patrick's snowballing self-doubt.

"Oh."

"But you absolutely reciprocated."

They share an awkward laugh at that and the space between them feels like it grows smaller; the air hot and thick with anticipation. David tilts his head and looks at Patrick thoughtfully. The slight movement casts his face in streetlight-shadow, highlighting the high arc of his cheekbone, the lush curve of his mouth. Patrick finds himself licking his own, suddenly dry, lips.

"You told me that you'd wanted to kiss me," David adds carefully, "but you were scared."

Patrick sighs to himself and lets his chin sag towards his chest. He's been scared a lot in his life, he realises; more than he ever let himself believe in the moment. That makes him think, naturally, about Rachel — about how he'd thought, up until what feels like very recently, that he'd probably never kiss anyone but her again. Knowing now that isn't the case, he feels a complicated jumble of relief and regret. She'd told him, though, that this, now, doesn't have to be complicated; that he should lean into whatever feels right.

"That's kind of how I feel now, too," he says.

David's brow creases. "Scared? Or like you want to…?"

"Mainly the latter, but…definitely a little of both," Patrick replies swiftly and lifts his head to shoot David another shaky smile.

David nods and his mouth curves coyly. "That…the latter…you can. Do that. If you want to," he pauses and several emotions flicker across his face at once. "But you shouldn't feel like you have to, I don't want you to feel pressured just because of what—"

"David?" Patrick interrupts. His heart is pounding wildly, the sound of it so loud it might as well be blasting through the stereo speakers, but it's not pounding because of fear. Not this time. David looks back at him with bated breath. "I really want to kiss you," he tells him. The admission alone makes him feel almost giddy with exhilaration.

"Oh–Okay, then," David says softly.

Patrick allows his eyes to drop back to David's slightly parted lips, and…god, does it feel right. So, he takes a breath, and he leans in.