i have a lot of feelings about David in skirts so if you’re still taking prompts: the first time david feels confident enough to wear a skirt on date night with Patrick
“We’ve been doing this for a while now,” Patrick says. “And I want to celebrate.”
It’s surprising because it’s not surprising. They have been doing this for a while. They still haven’t put a name to it, this thing they’re doing, but it’s been three entire months and Patrick hasn’t shown any signs of wanting to stop being his...Patrick. And David’s been looking.
“You want to celebrate.” David does all he can to keep the want out of his voice. “It’s not even one of those monthly things, because you just gave me that chocolate last week.”
“Aw, you did want me to wine and dine you a little bit for our anniversary.”
David fiddles with the ripped denim around his thigh. It’s not what he wanted to wear today. He’d considered an asymmetrical McQueen skirt and then wrinkled his nose and set it down carefully, going for these jeans instead. They’re an old standby, and he knows Patrick likes the way he looks in them.
But it’s not—that. That’s not why he chose them.
Even though he’s not wearing them for Patrick, his...Patrick still proved him right within seconds when he walked into the store this morning, all wandering hands and red-tinged cheeks when Twyla popped in for some more of that peanut brittle they’re trying out and caught them having a decidedly PG-13 moment.
“I have to go home and change first,” David’s mouth says before his brain can put up a decent fight.
“You’re right.” Patrick nods. David can sense that teasing is coming, and he smiles in anticipation. What is happening to him. “You did carry in all those cases of juice and body milk earlier. And you moved that table all by yourself because I was definitely the one who said I was potentially getting a blister maybe. Oh, wait.”
David grabs Patrick’s wrist before he can dramatically point at himself. “I did other things,” he protests. “My things were less likely to make me all smelly, but still.”
“Are you saying I’m all smelly?”
“I didn’t want you to find out this way,” David says airily.
“Fine. An hour after we close?”
David nods and starts mentally sorting through his sweaters.
After David sweeps up (“David, if you’re about to change, you can get a little dusty.” “First of all, you’re about to change, too.”) and Patrick counts down the till, when he’s back at the motel, David smooths a hand down the black pleats. It’s soft, light. He thinks the skirt might say what he wants to communicate—question and declaration all rolled into one.
Because if—when, god, he’s not a person that can say if about this—when this ends, he knows he’s going to spend too long working through all of their interactions backward.
It’s happened before. He ran up a phone bill that was impressive even for his pre-Creek self texting Alexis internationally about Sebastien, the plot intricacies of Bridget Jones, where the line between an open relationship and cheating is, and, fine, a definitive ranking of all flavored Auntie Anne’s pretzels and their respective dipping sauces that one time.
But if—when, when this ends. He doesn’t think it’ll be about this. And if it is, then. Maybe it’s...good? To know. Because unlike his reticence about open relationships and categorical inability to keep his mouth shut, he would rather know about this. If it’s a hesitation. If Patrick has a hesitation about this.
He slides the fabric over his hips and smooths down the front of his sweater. Patrick will be here any minute.
David slides into the booth after a surprisingly long drive. Patrick’s been exceptionally tight-lipped about where they’re going and what the menu is like and whether the dessert is any good, and David’s trying to toe the line between endearingly interested and nitpicky. It’s a fine line.
Patrick pushes at David’s shoulder. “Scoot.”
David does; it only occurs to him to question the request once Patrick’s side is pressed into his own. “What are you—hi.”
“Hi. Come here often?” Patrick slides a hand up David’s back and presses at one of the many persistent knots at the base of his neck. Thriving professionally does not come without its costs.
“First time, actually.” David’s surprised there’s a half-decent restaurant in the greater Elms that he hasn’t tried. He hopes it’s half-decent, at least. “Where did you find this place?”
“Marie, the woman who does those wines, said she’s letting them carry her product here.” Patrick’s hand is a brand tracing down his spine and around to—his skirt. “And I know you trust her taste.”
“She actually uses the toner we sell. Of course I trust her taste.”
“A convincing argument.” Patrick taps at David’s kneecap, then lets his hand rest against it. The touch is both soothing and electric. David isn’t really sure what to do with it.
“Haven’t seen these in a while,” Patrick says.
“A while?” David leans back to catch Patrick’s eye. “When have you ever seen my knees?”
At Patrick’s slow once-over, starting at his knees and following the lines of his body as they curve and bend up his chest to his neck and then to meet his eyes again, David swallows and amends his question. “When have you ever seen my knees in mixed company?”
“Less often than I’d like,” Patrick says. “You look—”
Different, David fills in. Unexpected. Funky, if he’s misjudged Patrick fundamentally as a person. It’s happened before.
Patrick dips his forehead into David’s neck and burrows in. He does this sometimes, pushing like he would burrow inside David if he could. He mumbles something into David’s skin.
“What’s that?” David asks. Context clues are favorable, but he’s the first to admit that he’s not especially good at reading people. Okay, maybe he’s the second. Alexis jumps at the chance to point out his flaws usually.
“It’s—if I say lovely, are you going to roll your eyes at me?” Patrick actually seems worried that his word choice will do anything but make David melt, which—how?
“That’s…” David blinks. Hard, really hard, like there’s something like a branch or one of those twig pencils in his eye. “I’m not rolling my eyes.”
“You’re not,” Patrick muses. He runs a thumb over David’s eyebrow, which is so unsettlingly intimate in its total innocence and the matter-of-fact way Patrick moves to do it. He makes it look so easy.
“Hi,” their server pops up and prevents them from doing anything else that they really need privacy for. And David’s got more than a few ideas. “Just here to light your candle and take your drink orders.”
David asks for a water and tilts his head as the server holds up a lighter to the already blackened wick. “Really a lot to not even trim the wick,” he says after the server is out of earshot.
“I’ll trim your wick,” Patrick says. Then he winces. “That’s—”
“I didn’t think it through,” Patrick acknowledges. He nudges the tiny red tealight holder closer to David.
The wick is smoking and sputtering, and David doesn’t want to smell like a campfire so he pushes it back.
“Hey,” Patrick protests. “I want—it’s dark in here. And I like to see you.” His hand drifts down again and fiddles with the hem of David’s skirt.
David crosses one knee over the other and hides a smile behind his menu. He won’t be able to twist or push or slip this one out of sight. “Fine,” David says. “But like hell will I let you trim my wick.”
