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David gives himself a final once over, admiring his costume. It wasn’t easy to find, and he still needed to make some customizations, but the final effect is quite nice. He turns around to check over his shoulder, to make sure the Brewer across his shoulders is straight, giving his reflection a small nod when he sees it. He had wanted to be a young Karl Largerfeld or Herr Drosselmeyer—he looks surprisingly dashing in an eye patch—but his mother refused to allow Mallory or Hippolyta to endure a cross-country flight unaccompanied.
“David, come on,” Patrick calls up the stairs.
“Coming, honey,” David calls back. Twyla is throwing a costume party at the cafe to celebrate her first Halloween as the owner, and apparently Patrick doesn’t want to be late. He gives his baseball hat one final adjustment, pleased with the overall effect. David is curious to see Patrick’s costume, they’d decided to try to surprise each other.
David flips on the light over the stairs to catch the sequins covering his baseball costume and slides on the iconic Elton John frames he found on eBay one night.
Patrick’s mouth falls open when he sees David.
David takes in Patrick’s costume and closes his mouth in a thin line.
“You look—David you look amazing.”
“Yes, I do. What is this?” He gestures at Patrick with both hands. He expected Patrick to put forth some effort into his costume. He might as well have put on cat ears and drawn some whiskers across his uneven stubble.
“I’m a Sriracha bottle.”
“No, you’re a compact Candanian man, who is wearing a sauce t-shirt and a green toque. That’s not a costume.”
“Yes and those things equal a costume in this case.” Patrick steps closer, setting his hands on David’s hips. “This is—wow.” Patrick leans up and kisses him, flipping David’s hat around to move the brim out of the way. David gasps at the surprisingly smooth move, and Patrick slips his tongue into David’s mouth.
Patrick kisses him and kisses him until they’re both breathless and Patrick’s mouth is perfectly pink from David’s stubble.
“Okay, we should go.” Patrick's voice is rough and he sounds reluctant. David feels smug that he was able to unravel his punctual husband with a glittery sports outfit. When he holds out his hand for David, he isn’t sure if Patrick is going to pull him out the door or up the stairs. He’s only mildly disappointed when it’s the door—his costume deserves to be seen by everyone, though no one will appreciate it more than Patrick, based on that kiss.
They pull up to the cafe a few minutes later. Patrick parks easily with one hand on the wheel and one hand resting on David’s thigh—a good sign of just how handsy Patrick will be later after a glass of wine.
When they walk into Twyla’s Cafe Tropical, David is...actually impressed. There are soft white lights favored by Marcus Mumford and couples who get married in barns mixed in with very cute old fashioned jack-o-lantern lights. David knows those are expensive because he tried to convince Patrick to buy something similar for the store when Patrick wanted to decorate the store. In the end, the store went undecorated—save for a few decorative gourds, McSweeney’s style—since Patrick’s budget and David’s vision never aligned.
David spots Stevie over by the counter, which has been transformed into a bar, dotted in galvanized tubs filled with wine and beer and Zhampagne, one of which has an unsettling bowl of raisins next to it. She’s wearing a standard flannel and a witch hat so big it looks like it’s either going to consume her or suddenly declare her a Slytherin.
David pours himself a glass of wine and turns to Patrick. “Do you want—”
“Perfect, thanks.” Patrick nods and takes the glass from him. He leans in close to David’s ear and whispers, “If I knew you had my name on your back before we left the house, we never would have made it here.”
“Oh—okay.” David is less sure now that this costume needed to be seen as he pours himself another glass. He turns to clink his glass against Patrick’s and Stevie’s.
“That’s a very low-key look,” Stevie deadpans.
“Well, at least one of us made an effort, thanks so much. Could we even call this a costume?” David flicks his hand up and down Stevie.
“You’re—that piano guy, right? Billy Joel?”
David rears his head back before he can stop himself. “No, I am Elton John, sporting one of his most iconic looks.”
“Sporting—wow, it’s almost like Ted is here.” Patrick smirks.
“Condiments are best seen and not heard,” David snips.
“And tasted, David.” Patrick’s wink is terrible and cute, as always.
“It’s too early for that. I’m only on my first bottle of wine.” Stevie rolls her eyes.
They’re midway through their second glass of wine when Stevie freezes, a horrifying mischievous glint in her eyes. David turns slowly, and so does Patrick, until he sees the problem. Ronnie is also wearing a red shirt emblazoned with a rooster and a ribbed emerald-colored toque.
David whips his head to look at Patrick, who is sulkily slamming back the rest of his wine. He holds his glass out for a refill, his lower lip dangerously close to full pout. David leans forward and kisses him, right on his jutted out lower lip and then fills his glass back up. He shoots Stevie a look that’s half can you believe this amusement and half don’t fucking make this worse warning. She smirks and holds out her empty glass for more wine too, so David tops her off as well. He skips himself so he can drive if need be.
For a few minutes, David thinks it might be okay. Patrick and Stevie are bickering over which Neil is better, Young or Diamond respectively, one of their favorite pastimes. David knows Stevie actually agrees with Patrick but she loves singing so good, so good, so good just to rile Patrick up. It’s actually a surprisingly good distraction from the matter at hand, and David is grateful.
And then, Ray comes over, dressed as an elaborate claw machine and all the prizes are promos for his business. David thinks he spies a mug with his and Patrick’s engagement photo on it, which is not what this night needs.
“Matching costumes!” He nudges Patrick with his elbow twice. “This is the kind of thing I would have expected from Bob and Gwen, not you and Ronnie!”
“We—uh. This wasn’t planned,” Patrick manages to grit out.
Ronnie appears then, next to David. “Obviously not planned.” She pointedly rolls her eyes at Patrick and then turns to David with a smirk. “A gin and tonic please.”
“I’m not sure when I became the bartender here,” David laughs. He slides over to where Twyla has the liquor set up, and fills a plastic cup with skeletons printed on it with ice. Ronnie follows him, and David catches her giving Patrick a glare. He watches Patrick’s face fall the second Ronnie turns away from him, pulling his hat down a little further, his shoulders falling in line, drooping with disappointment. David blows him a kiss, a futile attempt at salvaging the night.
“Did you look at the O’Brien bid?” Ronnie asks.
David eyeballs a generous pour of gin into the glass. “You want to talk about work?” David gives a half-shrug as he reaches for the tonic. “Your appliance allowance is too low and the tile budget is criminally unrealistic. We both know they want a statement backsplash and we both know how much Lydia’s hand-painted tiles cost.”
He squeezes some lime over the top and hands Ronnie the drink with a flourish.
“That stale danish of a husband is rubbing off on you—you’re getting good at these estimates.”
David shakes his head and smiles. “He is. Remember the first project we did and I wanted to get that travertine tile.”
Ronnie throws her head back and laughs. “Okay, maybe it’s not a bad thing.” She takes a sip of her drink. “Perfect.”
“Twyla really went all out on this, just this bar set up alone is no joke.”
Ronnie shrugs and grabs a Jalapeño Popper made to look like mummy from the tray Twyla is paying Darlene’s son to pass around—David shudders that he knows this town so well and helps himself to one as well to numb the pain.
“These are good,” Ronnie says. “George really upped his game.”
David tries one and nods emphatically. “These are really good.” Before David can ask how they can get George to make things this delicious all the time, Roland appears at his side, dressed either as a mullet-ed Luke Skywalker or a very bad Karate teacher.
“Dave, can’t believe you let this happen,” Roland says, slapping him on the shoulder.
“Well, I didn’t let anything happen.” David waves his hand in a vague explanation and wiggles out of Roland’s reach.
“I’m surprised Ronnie didn’t make you take ol’ Pat home to change.”
Ronnie looks at David. “Well, the night is still young,” she says, arching an eyebrow.
David laughs. “You know I stay out of whatever it is with you two. It’s best for all of us.”
“Especially you,” Roland says with a mouthful of food, jabbing a finger at him.
“Okay well. This has been lovely but I think I hear Stevie calling my name.” David turns and walks away before Roland can show him any more half-chewed food.
David slides up next to Patrick and wraps an arm around his shoulders.
“Is she making me leave the party early?” Patrick asks sullenly.
David presses a kiss to the top of Patrick’s head as he stifles a laugh at Patrick’s dramatics. “No, we were talking about that new job out in Elmdale.”
“Oh, right. Your other work.”
David shoots Stevie a pleading look and she just grabs a bowl of popcorn off the counter. “I thought we were past all that?”
“We are,” Patrick mumbles sadly. “It’s not that.”
David is running out of ways to salvage this, and none of it is his fault. David turns Patrick toward him, so he can see him properly. Patrick’s shoulders are slumped and his eyes are huge and sad, like a cow in a children’s book. “I should have let you pick out my costume like you wanted.”
“There’s not even a contest—it’s not that big of a deal,” David says, aiming for soothing, which has about a 50 percent success rate.
“David.” Patrick looks sad and annoyed now.
“Okay, well then.” David leans down and kisses Patrick’s soft and chaste, lingering on the second kiss. David isn’t going to be able to fix this—at least not here, with their pants on, so he turns his attention to Stevie and hopes Patrick can pull himself out of his spiral.
“How’re the renovations coming along?”
“The love room is now the room of indifference.”
David throws his head back and laughs. “Ah, yes, exactly what all mediocre motels need. Who’s doing your branding?”
“I’d say Alexis, but we all know she’d have a much more elaborate name for it.”
“Plus we all know you brought on Alexis as a paid consultant last year,” Patrick adds, his poutiness making him pedantic, a role normally reserved for David in their marriage.
Stevie turns to Patrick. “What a spicy take,” she deadpans.
Patrick huffs and looks at David for moral support. David holds his arm up for Patrick to slide under and shoots Stevie a glare, mouthing don’t.
“I still can’t believe you waited years to renovate your flagship location.” David tries, in an attempt to keep Stevie from snarking at Patrick again. David is the one that has to go home with him.
“Well, we figured if it was good enough for Sunrise Bay’s Vivian Blake—our very own Moira Rose—it was good enough for the masses.” Stevie’s voice takes on a syrupy fruit wine quality that makes David want to bare his teeth.
“How is our Moira doing?” Jocelyn jumps in, pouring herself a glass of wine.
“She’s doing well, as long as you don’t ask about the ghost of her step-daughter’s evil twin who is haunting her.”
Jocelyn looks at him expectantly, so he continues, “Other than finding craft services to be underwhelming, they love LA.” David says. They do love LA, which is funny because in the before, his mother said if you weren’t in Napa, what was the point of the west coast. “I see you’re Princess Leia?” David adds, changing the subject, gesturing at the literal motel cinnamon buns attached to her head.
“Yeah, Rollie’s always had a bit of a thing for Carrie Fisher—and well, he has an epic food kink, so you know, two buns, one stone,” Jocelyn explains. David swallows a grimace.
“Well. How nice.” David stands there, willing something, anything to release him from this disgusting and horrifying moment.
“And you!” Jocelyn directs her buns at Patrick. “Dressed just like Ronnie. It’s always sweet when kids at the school dress like their favorite teacher.” Jocelyn shakes her head. “So sweet,” she adds again, before wandering off.
“Is that what people think? That I’m copying Ronnie? What the f—”
David runs his hand up and down Patrick’s back. “I think we don’t need to care about the opinion of someone who’s going to let Roland eat carbs off her person.” David shudders to think of the crumbs.
Stevie jumps off her stool. “We need refills to erase that visual.”
“David.” Patrick’s voice drops into full mope now. “I didn’t know Ronnie was going to be a Sriracha bottle, I would not have worn this. This is basically my nightmare. We’re going to have to sell the store and maybe even the town.”
“But we can keep the cottage?” David teases.
“Yes, as an investment property. We can’t live there, we’re going to have to move. Maybe LA by your parents, or we can move by mine, or what’s that game Alexis used to play? Do we have a globe?”
“Okay, that game really doesn’t work without access to a private jet, two embassy contacts and several fake passports.”
Patrick’s pout temporarily disappears as he processes what David said.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds, just you know, you have to be practical,” David reassures him, which based on Patrick’s very concerned face doesn’t quite work.
Stevie interrupts and waves a bottle of wine around. “Who needs a refill and who’s driving me home?”
“I can drive.” David offers—anything to keep Patrick from getting any crankier.
“I’ll drive. You look very cute in this.” Patrick says at the same time, lightly dragging his fingers across the Brewer on David’s back. Maybe tonight is salvageable after all.
Stevie rolls her eyes and fills her glass to the brim. “You two are disgusting.”
David shimmies his shoulders and takes Stevie’s glass and takes a sip. “Wouldn’t want you to spill.”
“Ronnie! Love your costume,” Stevie yells across the room.
“You really are a witch,” David whisper-yells at her as Patrick tenses up next to him.
Ronnie looks over from her conversation with a nun, who David thinks might be Gwen based on the fact that Bob is sulking across the room with Devil horns on his head and more leather than David has seen on one person since 2006. Ronnie narrows her eyes and makes her way across the room. David has a feeling he’s going to need more than six sparkly letters ironed across his shoulders to get laid tonight.
Ronnie looks Patrick up and down. “Can you believe our resident saltine had the audacity to dress up as any condiment but mayo?”
Patrick sharply inhales and David shoves him toward the door. David didn’t spend three weeks carefully sourcing these sunglasses to have Ronnie and Stevie harass Patrick all night, no matter how funny they’re being. This costume deserves to be thoroughly appreciated by his husband.
“Ronnie. Too far,” David admonishes, before turning to follow Patrick. “Best of luck getting home, Stevie,” David calls back over his shoulder to his traitor of a friend.
They end up crashing right into Twyla, who looks shockingly radiant as Glenda the Good Witch. “You’re leaving already? We didn’t even get to the piñata yet.” She gestures over at an actual giant pumpkin hanging from the ceiling. “I made it myself!”
“As fun as that sounds, we’re trying to get home before the bowl of candy we left out is empty,” David lies—it sounds like an epic mess. “This party was very lovely Twyla, I love what you’ve done with the place.” David is surprised to find that he means it.
“Well, Alexis helped, she FaceTimed me a bunch to help me get everything set up.”
“Maybe next year we can get her to come visit,” Patrick says, his voice a little flat but David can tell he’s trying for Twyla’s sake.
“Oooh.” Twyla claps her hands together twice. “Do you think she would?”
David nods, seriously. “I do. She’ll be up for Christmas—you can tell her to clear her schedule then.”
Twyla smiles, in a way that still frightens David with its bright sincerity, before floating off to greet more guests.
David grabs Patrick’s hand and pulls him out of the cafe and into the night, the lone street light making his costume shine like a disco ball. “Let’s go home.”
The ride home is quiet, one of Patrick’s classic rock bands—maybe the one with the letters CCTV or CRM or something—is playing softly in the background.
“Why does Ronnie hate me so much?” Patrick’s voice is small in a way that makes David want to stop the car and pull him into a hug.
“Oh honey, I think it’s more how much fun she has bothering you.”
“I just wanted to have a nice time and then come home and show you how much I liked your costume,” Patrick says forlornly.
David takes one hand off the wheel and traces his finger up Patrick’s inseam. “You can still show me.”
“It’s not the same now. Look at you. And look at me. I’m a human saltine.”
David gives Patrick’s thigh a squeeze. “Well, you’re certainly a little salty.” David peeks over and sees Patrick’s lower lip wobble into a slight smile. “And a total snack,” David adds as he pulls them into the driveway.
Patrick unlocks the front door and throws his toque on the bench under the coat rack. David sets his own hat down next to it and goes to put the car keys in the bowl.
“Do you want—”
Patrick is holding David’s baseball hat in his hands, looking up at him sort of pathetically. “I’m sorry we had to leave, I just—I was kind of proud of this costume and then when Ronnie showed up wearing the same thing…” Patrick gestures vaguely with the hat in his hand.
“It’s okay,” David says, and he means it. He reaches up and runs his hand through Patrick’s hair, tousled from the toque, and presses a kiss to his cheek. “I know.”
“But. You’re wearing a baseball jersey with my name on the back, and I don’t want to think about Ronnie anymore.” Patrick gets an impressive amount of disdain into his voice, but then gives his head a little shake and pops the hat onto David’s head, and tips his chin toward the stairs.
“Oh, two glasses of free wine and you think I’m just ready to go to bed with you?”
Patrick smiles, slow and knowing, as he crowds David against the wall. He ducks his head under the brim and kisses David gently, before nipping his bottom lip very not gently.
He knocks the hat on the floor and slides his hands onto David’s hips, before kissing him again, his lips parted to fit into David’s perfectly, teasing and warm with a little bit of tongue, David’s favorite way to be kissed. He changes the angle, and presses their hips together, all traces of his pouting replaced with want and David feels a surge of affection for their life, the easiness of it all, the way they fit together.
“I do think so. Please?” Patricks steps back and holds out his hand.
David smiles, the smile that’s just for Patrick, the one he can’t stop. “Take me to bed, Brewer.”