Patrick at the Mic

Patrick Brewer never sought a music career, but after a clip of him singing goes viral, a music career finds HIM.
Prompt: Post-canon, Patrick deepens his interest in his music, which he'd kept as an occasional hobby until now.

Notes:

In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the Schitt's Creek Passions and Pastimes Fest collection.

Many thanks to my lovely betas, designatedgrape and samwhambam.
Note: All is revealed! Now I have a confession. I started this fic before the fest was announced, and when I saw the theme, I thought oh wow, that fits perfect with this "accidental music star Patrick Brewer" fic I'm writing. I was sure someone would post a prompt that would fit but nobody did, so I...prompted myself. I REGRET NOTHING.

(See the end of the work for more notes.)

Work Text:

“What are you doing here, anyway?” Stevie finally said, breaking the half hour of silence since David had shown up at the motel, book in hand, and tucked himself into the corner of the surprisingly comfortable new couch in the lobby. “Store’s closed today, don’t you guys do gross coupley stuff today?”

“Sometimes,” David said, turning the page in his book. “Patrick said he wanted to practice the piano and work on some songs, so I thought I’d give him some space.”

“He likes the new piano, huh?”

David preened a little. “He loves it. I scored a lot of husband points with that Christmas present.”

“And so you’re...giving him space.”

“Well, when he’s practicing and writing it’s a lot of stop and start, and sometimes mistakes, and I don’t want him to feel self-conscious about it. I sure don’t show him the half-malformed abominations in my sketchbook.”

“So it has nothing to do with the sound of the random piano exercises and bits of songwriting driving you nuts, huh?”

David sniffed and elevated his chin in a way she knew all too well. “I don’t...I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“But he told you he was going to practice. And play songs. And write songs.”

“I mean...yeah.”

“Like you wouldn’t have figured that out when you started hearing the piano noises coming from the den.”

“I guess? What exactly are you implying?”

“That maybe he...wanted you to hear him playing?”

David frowned. “Wha, why? Why would he want that?”

“Are you really this dense?”

“It should be clear to both of us after all this time that I am. Please, educate me on my husband’s innermost feelings.”

“They’re not that innermost, dude’s practically got a Plexiglass window in his skull.”

“Ew.”

Stevie came around and plopped on the other end of the couch. “Think about when you’ve had a mad crush on someone, and you thought they were just The Coolest, and you wanted nothing more than for them to think you were cool and awesome, so you’d do things to impress them?”

“That may or may not have happened when I was a callow youth.” He blinked. “Are you saying that I am the cool person in this scenario?” David looked blankly down at his book. “But...I don’t…”

She sighed. “David, most of human history consists of dudes doing stuff to impress their women, or other assorted romantic partners.”

“No. That’s not...no, it’s backwards.”

Stevie’s heart hurt a little, because she knew why he thought that. David had never been the one someone else wanted to impress. He’d been the one making himself fit the shape of those around him, to be cool enough, hip enough, rich enough, to be considered worthy of the attention of the useless assholes he’d spent his life around, all of whom Stevie would gratefully murder for the toxic mold they’d left in the dark corners of his brain.

“Backwards?”

“Why would he need to impress me? He’s the one who...I mean, he’s the one people feel sorry for,” he muttered.

“Who the fuck feels sorry for him?”

“I don’t know, everybody!”

“Nobody!”

“They all look at us like ‘oh, poor Patrick, what a saint, he has to put up with David and all of his everything, I don’t know how he does it!’ It should be me impressing him so he remembers why he even sticks around!” He bit back the last few words, looking like he didn’t quite mean to go that far with it.

“First of all, nobody fucking thinks that and you know I’d tell you if they did, and second, If he were here, he’d be really upset to hear you say that,” Stevie said, quietly.

“How did we even get onto this, anyway?”

“David...you are the one whose opinion matters to him. You are the one he wants to think he’s interesting, and smart, and talented. You are the hot girl at the park and he is the one doing crazy bike tricks to impress you.”

“That analogy feels like it has some personal relevance.”

“Hey, whatever works.”

He snorted. “At least I get to be the hot girl at the park for once in my life.”

“And for bike tricks, his music is his best shot. It’s not like you’re going to swoon over his tax preparation or licensing renewals.”

“I mean...I kinda do.”

“The first time he really wanted to make an impression on you, what did he do?”

David sighed, the memory of that open mic night warming his whole chest like it always did. “He sang to me,” he murmured.

“Look, I enjoy dunking on your dorky husband as much as the next person, but he does have some legit skills. Let him show off for you. He wants to puff up and make you go all starry-eyed over him. So like...go be impressed.”

“All he has to do to impress me is exist,” he said, getting that vulnerable, soft look he sometimes got when he forgot to have his guard up. He looked up at her. “I gotta go.” He jumped up. “Later!”

Stevie watched him go. These fucking idiots.

* * * * * *

David broke a land-speed record getting home, hoping that Patrick wouldn’t have wrapped up his practice session before he could get there. He usually played for at least an hour, so he probably had a good fifteen minutes.

He opened the back door quietly and was relieved to hear the sound of the piano. He slipped his shoes off and tiptoed to the door of the den, a room in the front of the cottage that they’d converted into a kind of office/studio space. Last Christmas, David had hunted up a very good used upright piano for a killer price, and after verifying that yes, it was a good enough piano, he’d bought it and had it moved into the den. Patrick’s face when he’d seen it had made the considerable trouble it had been more than worth it.

He leaned against the doorway and watched Patrick play, his back straight and shoulders level. He didn’t recognize the song, but it was beautiful. He had sheet music in front of him, so this wasn’t anything original, just a piece he was practicing. He misfingered something and a discordant note rang out. “Dang it,” he muttered under his breath, then went back and played the passage again, correctly this time. David smiled.

He wrapped up the piece, giving himself a little “there, that’s done” nod. “That was pretty,” David said.

Patrick whipped around, his eyes going wide. “Oh, I didn’t hear you come in! I’m, uh...I can be done now,” he said, fumbling with the sheet music.

“No, don’t stop,” David said. He walked into the den, kissed Patrick’s temple and settled himself in the squashy chair in the corner, where he could see Patrick’s face. “Play me something.”

Patrick stammered a bit at this, but David didn’t miss the pleased flush and slight crinkle at his eyes. “Wha...what should I play?”

“What have you been working on?”

“Um...just some practice, and I was kind of doodling with a song I’m writing. And some covers.”

“Mmm. I love covers. A cover of what?”

Patrick got a sly smile on his face. He turned back to the keys and started to play. David recognized the intro and curled into the chair, watching as he began to sing.

You are my sweetest downfall
I loved you first...I loved you first
Beneath the sheets of paper lies my truth
I have to go…I have to go
Your hair was long when we first met.

He’d switched up the piano part a bit, it sounded fuller and richer the way he played it. David watched his face, rapt. He’d been surprised to discover that Patrick considered himself a piano player first; it was the instrument he’d first learned to play and the one he felt more confident on. “Pianos don’t travel well,” he’d joked when they’d been packing up his apartment, putting his guitar in its case. David hadn’t heard him play anything but guitar until he’d bought him this piano; frankly, he hadn’t expected him to be this good.

He let his head rest on the chair and indulged himself in a nice, juicy, besotted stare. My husband is so handsome. And talented. And generally great. And somehow loves me. How did I get this lucky?

Huh, Stevie may have been on to something.

Patrick’s playing got a little more emphatic at the song’s climax.

I cut his hair myself one night
A pair of dull scissors in the yellow light
He told me that I’d done all right
And kissed me till the morning light

David sighed, a straight-up teenage-dream sigh, but refused to feel self-conscious about it. Patrick wrapped up the song and looked over at him, a shy little smile lurking at his lips. “That was amazing,” David said. “I love Regina Spektor.”

“One of my favorite songs.” He slid to the end of the piano bench and straddled it so he could face David. “Thanks.”

“For what?”

“Letting me play for you.”

David considered waving it off with one of their usual avoidant quips, but thought better of it. “I had this idea that you wouldn’t want me to hear you practice.”

“I mean, it doesn’t always sound perfect, especially when I’m trying to write or arrange something new. I always worry the noise will bug you.”

“Well, if it does, I have only myself to blame, I’m the one who bought you the damn piano.”

“Good point.”

David sat up. “Patrick.” He looked at him. “I always think you’re amazing. You know that, right?”

Patrick flushed deeper, the corners of his mouth turned down. “I don’t know. I’m just...I’m the one punching above my weight class here.”

David didn’t know what that meant but he got the gist. “That is profoundly not true.”

“You’re this worldly, sophisticated, runway model person and I’m just…” He motioned to himself. “Not that.”

“Okay, if we’re going to spend our entire marriage going around in circles about which one of us isn’t good enough for the other it’s gonna get super fucking old.”

Patrick narrowed his eyes. “Why did you come home early? You knew I’d be practicing.” David shifted guiltily. “Did Stevie give you another come-to-Jesus talk?”

“If you’d been there, you’d have gotten it, too. She said I should let you impress me, which is on its face stupid because you impress me by, like, breathing, so.” He met Patrick’s eyes. “She said you want me to think you’re cool.”

Patrick groaned and put his hands on his face. “God, that’s so embarrassing for a grown-ass man.”

“She’s right, though, isn’t she?”

“Isn’t she always?”

“So, you want me to think you’re cool, I want you to think I’m smart, we’re both doing the crazy bike tricks and we’re both the hot girl at the park and that’s either perfect or insane.”

Patrick blinked. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I actually tracked all that.” He met David’s eyes. “I do think you’re smart. You are smart.”

“And I think you’re cool. Because you’re cool in this effortless, not-even-trying way that is so rare, I can’t even tell you.”

“Hot girl at the park?”

“Just go with it.” David relaxed back into the squashy chair. “Play me something else. Something you wrote.”

Patrick’s eyebrows lifted. “Yeah?”

“Please.”

He nodded. “Okay.” He slid back to the center of the bench, thought for a moment, then started playing a quiet intro, followed by the first verse.

Well it’s hard to hear yourself think above the noise on our street
And it’s hard to cool down when your body just generates heat…

David listened, spellbound. It was a more vocally demanding song than anything he’d heard Patrick sing before, apart from “Cabaret,” and the sustained high notes on the bridge sent chills down David’s body and made his arms break out into goosebumps.

The song ended, and David just stared. Patrick looked over at him, a rueful “well there you go” kind of look on his face.

“Patrick.”

“David.”

“That was really, really good.”

“Yeah?”

“No. Seriously. That was amazing.”

“Thanks.” Now he looked pleased and blushy. “I’m glad you liked it.”

“I don’t get how you do that. How do you just make up new notes like that?”

“I’m not actually making up new notes. Notes just exist. All I’m doing is putting them in a new and different order.”

“I don’t get how you do that.”

“Practice?”

“Don’t sell yourself short. You’re talented.”

“There’s no such thing as talent. Like our friend Bob Ross says, you can master anything you’re willing to practice.”

“Hey, I went to art school, I’ve heard all that bullshit, and it’s not wrong, but there’s something else. There’s a spark, a little extra...magic.”

Patrick grinned and put his hands on the keys, noodling a little melody that David immediately recognized as “Magic” by The Cars.

“Smartass.”

Patrick got up and held out a hand to pull David out of the squashy chair. “C’mon, I’m hungry, let’s heat up those Thai leftovers.”

Leftovers heated, wine poured, they sat at their kitchen table with their feet and ankles intertwined. “When did you start learning piano?” David asked, curious.

“Um...I think I was like...six? My mom’s best friend was a piano teacher. She was actually a really accomplished concert pianist, I was lucky to have her. She taught me for free. I didn’t appreciate that until I was grown up.”

“What about the guitar?”

“I picked that up in high school, like everyone does. I will give myself the credit for sticking with it past the four chords most guys learn, plus the opening riff to “Stairway to Heaven.””

“Did you ever want to do it as a career?”

“What, music?” Patrick looked surprised by the question. “No, I guess I didn’t. That wasn’t…” He hesitated. “Huh. I don’t know why I didn’t. It was something I did for fun. As a hobby. I mean, I don’t have the chops for that.”

“The fuck you don’t,” David said, with a scoff.

“You’re biased.”

David lowered his eyes and fixed him with a serious look. “Honey, have you ever known me to hold back on my opinion to spare your feelings, or anyone’s?”

“Umm...definitely not.”

“You know why I do that? So that when I tell you what I think, you can believe me. I have been around a lot of musicians. I have, like, zero musical talent, but I know what I hear, and I know that you are really good.”

Patrick looked heartbreakingly touched by this. “That’s the most important opinion, then.”

“I’m serious.”

“Me, too. A music career doesn’t really appeal to me. It’s so demanding, it’s so...draining. You lose your whole life to it. I love being able to play for you, and our friends, and doing Jocelyn’s shows, but that sort of goes with the kind of life I want. Here, with you, and our store and our friends. It’s something I can share with the people in my life. Not in a studio or something. Does that make sense?”

David nodded. “It makes a lot of sense.” He leaned in and kissed him. “At least you know there’s always an appreciative audience of one right here.”

Patrick kissed back, his tongue flicking against David’s lips. “The best audience.” They smiled at each other, then went back to their food.

David glanced up at the wall, where the framed poster from their first open mic night hung. They’d had a second one a couple of months after the first, and then they had sort of lost the plot. Other events that were more merchandise-focused had taken priority, the store had gotten busier and taken up more of their time, then the online store opened and that had really taken up more of their time, then Patrick was constantly rehearsing for “Cabaret,” then wedding planning happened, and somehow almost two years had gone by and they’d never had another one.

“What?” Patrick said, noticing David staring off into space.

“We should have another open mic night.”

He blinked. “Is this one of those things where you say something that David would never say so I know you’re an impostor or you’re being threatened or something?”

“Har har. I’m serious. You deserve...a creative outlet, I guess.”

“So do you.”

“Honey, the store is my creative outlet. And my creativity is solitary, yours is something you love to share. After the conversation we just had, I feel bad that we sort of let that go.”

“That’s on me as much as anyone. I could have made it a priority. Just...things kept happening. And then the show happened and that sort of...scratched the itch for a while.”

“The show closed nine months ago, aren’t you feeling itchy again?” He made a face. “Ew, that sounded gross.”

Patrick chuckled. “Maybe a little, uh, itchy. It would be fun to have another one. You sure you’re up for that? I didn’t play at the second one and I recall you having a lot of feelings about me performing in public that first time.”

“That was when I thought you were going to be terrible, which you intentionally led me to believe,” David said, pursing his lips. Patrick gave him his mischievous little “tee hee hee” grin. “I spent the whole day having pre-emptive anxiety that everyone was going to make fun of you and wondering how I’d ever fake being enthusiastic.”

Patrick sobered. “You were worried people were going to make fun of me?”

“Of course I was! You wandered around the store all day strumming bad chords and faking being tone-deaf! Everyone in town thinks of you as, you know, a person who is good at things and I felt kind of sick picturing you making a fool of yourself in front of everyone.”

Patrick put down his fork, his eyes going all sad. “I didn’t know you felt that way,” he said, quietly. “I’m sorry, David. I did kind of pretend to be bad, but I just thought it would be...like a prank. To fake you out. I didn’t think about it giving you that kind of anxiety.”

“That’s because you knew how it would turn out. You knew you were actually good at it.” David frowned. “Honey, I’m not mad at you about this.” Patrick relaxed a little. “I mean, it was a good prank. And it’s not like I don’t know that our primary love language is trolling.”

“I can’t exactly deny that, can I?”

“And with the way it turned out…” David sighed a little at the memory. “Mostly what I think about now is watching you up there, and listening to you sing to me, and thinking goddammit, I am wildly in love with this asshole.”

Patrick grinned, but there was emotion lurking around his eyes. “Well, good, because that’s what I was thinking while I sang.” His expression went soft. “C’mere,” he murmured. David leaned in and Patrick kissed him, slow and lingering. “I love you, David,” he whispered against David’s lips.

“I love you, too,” David said. They basked for a moment, then went back to eating.

“Are you serious, though?” Patrick asked, after a few moments.

“About what?”

“Having another open mic night.”

“Oh! Um...sure, why not?”

“Because I’d love to do that. It just hasn’t been a big priority for us.”

“I mean, it can be one, if you want it to be.”

Patrick smiled. “Okay. Deal.”

* * * * * *

“I’m so glad you’re having another one of these,” Twyla gushed, grasping David’s forearm.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here, as one of the few locals besides Patrick who has any musical ability,” he said.

“Stevie’s pretty good!”

“Stevie would rather be drawn and quartered than perform at an open mic night.”

“She’s not above throwing rotten fruit from the back row, though,” the woman in question said, refilling her wine glass.

“What’s that, four refills for you, now?”

“I’m keeping my own count.”

“Tell me you didn’t actually bring rotten fruit.”

“I’ll let you wonder about that.”

“If I end up scrubbing pomegranate stains out of my husband’s shirt I will trawl you like a lobster pot.”

She waggled her eyebrows. “David, that sounded kind of dirty, I didn’t think it was like that between us anymore.”

“Ugggh,” he groaned, retreating behind the cash desk to ring up someone’s soy candles. He was going solo on actual sales tonight seeing as his business partner was busy chatting up all the attendees, of which there were, frankly, many more than he’d been expecting. People kept coming by and making comments, too.

“I was afraid there’d never be another one!”

“We’ve been hoping to hear Patrick sing again!”

“I was so glad to see the poster up!”

It was enough to assuage his general irritation at the entire proceeding and thaw his cold, dead heart a little to hear that people were excited to come to their store and participate in an event they were hosting. It always melted him a bit when people valued and appreciated their store, not to mention when people valued and appreciated Patrick, who was obviously the most valuable person in the world.

Finally the designated start time was upon them, and Patrick stood up behind the mic. “Hey, how’s everybody doing tonight?” he said in that dopey “open mic host” voice that sounded like a low-rent emcee at a Junior League fashion show. A chorus of “whooo’s” and applause greeted this opening. “Thanks so much for coming out, I know it’s been awhile since we had one of these, the time got away from us a little. I mean, to be fair, since the last one we got married and moved into a house, so. A lot’s been going on.” He picked up his guitar. “I didn’t perform at the last one, but you’re not getting off that easy this time, so.” He plucked at the strings and adjusted two of the pegs. “As some of you know, not too long ago, David and I had a decision to make about where we were going to live. Ultimately, we decided to stay here, where our business is, and where we started our life together. I don’t regret it, and he hasn’t told me that he has, and if he did, you can be sure he wouldn’t keep it to himself,” he said, tossing a wink at David, who just rolled his eyes. A chuckle ran through the onlookers. “So I’d like to dedicate this song to the life we’re building here, in our home.” He launched into a bright strummy chord, and then sang.

Hold on, to me as we go
As we roll down this unfamiliar road
And although this wave is stringing us along
Just know you're not alone
'Cause I'm going to make this place your home

David sighed, leaning back against the cash register. The song was vaguely familiar but he couldn’t place it right away, so he just let it wash over him as if Patrick had written it.

Settle down, it'll all be clear
Don't pay no mind to the demons
They fill you with fear
The trouble it might drag you down
If you get lost, you can always be found
Just know you're not alone
'Cause I'm going to make this place your home

It was a catchy song, rendered sweet and lyrical by Patrick’s typically stripped-down acoustic style. He got a rousing ovation, bringing that adorable flush to Patrick’s ears as he put his guitar down and introduced Twyla with her own guitar. He left the stage as she took his place, coming to join David at the register. David leaned in and kissed his temple, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “That was great, honey,” he whispered. “Is that one of yours?”

“No. Philip Phillips.”

“That’s...a real person’s name?”

He chuckled. “Yep. He didn’t write it, though. He won American Idol, that’s the song they wrote for him when he won.”

“That...somewhat taints the experience. Can we just pretend I never heard that part?”

“Good song, though. I liked the message.” He looked up at David. “That’s all I want, you know? To make you a home.”

David swallowed, an absurdly sentimental response rising in him that he tried, without success, to tamp down. “My home is you.” He immediately cleared his throat and pressed his lips together, mortified to have been caught uttering such a Hallmark sentiment.

Patrick grinned. “Wow. That one must have hurt.”

“You have no idea,” David said, through clenched teeth, but he leaned in and kissed him again.

They clapped for Twyla’s rendition of “Colors of the Wind,” then Patrick introduced one of Jocelyn’s high school students, who read some surprisingly competent poetry, then a pair of college kids from Elmdale who actually juggled. They were pretty good at it, but David spent the entirety of their performance clenching his fists and eyeballing the many, many breakable items on the shelves surrounding them.

“Okay, who gets to try and follow that?” Patrick said, cheerful. Nobody spoke up. “That’s it? Nobody else is brave tonight? That’s gonna make for a short open mic night.”

“Sing something else, Patrick!” someone called from the back of the room. David didn’t recognize the voice. Half a dozen others piped up, echoing the request.

Patrick looked mildly panicked. He laughed nervously. “Aw, c’mon. This is supposed to be open mic, not Patrick Brewer Unplugged.”

“Sing us something else,” Ronnie said, loud and emphatic, and David knew that was the end of the debate. “Something you wrote.” She was giving Patrick her “I dare you” eyes, which Patrick could not possibly resist. Her request was greeted with applause.

Patrick sighed. “All right, I guess I can...do that,” he said, picking up his guitar again. He strummed it, looking a little uncertain. “I don’t know what to sing. David, what should I sing?”

“Sing ‘Apollo,’” he said. It was his personal favorite of Patrick’s original songs.

He nodded. “Okay.” His fingers began plucking out the sparse melody. It was a song about a breakup, and David had often wondered if Patrick had written it for Rachel, to give her a voice. It meandered among the quiet lyrics, until the chorus punched in.

But I don't want to know why you do it
I don't want to know, I don't want to know

He watched Patrick performing one of his own compositions in public, possibly for the first time. He watched as his confidence grew with the audience’s keen attention. He watched them, too, and saw them lean forward, listen, the unspoken language of appreciation. They were into it. And if he’d had any doubt, the enthusiastic applause when he finished was a pretty good indication.

“Encore!” someone yelled.

Patrick laughed. “No, that’s enough of me for one night. Anyway, I’m out of songs.” That was a lie, he had lots of songs, but David wasn’t about to call him out on it right now. “Let me know if there are requests for next time.”

“Freebird!” the smartass in the back yelled again. Everyone laughed.

Patrick strummed the opening chords from “Freebird,” then stopped. “Nope. Not doing it,” he said, to more laughter. “That’s a nine minute song, you guys. I’d need more coffee.” He chuckled, then put the guitar down. “Thanks everyone for coming out, and we’ll see you next time!”

It took an hour to get everyone out of the store. A gratifying number of attendees bought things, but an even larger number wanted to tell Patrick how much they’d liked his song. Ronnie came by, stood in front of him with that assessing gaze, then just gave him a restrained nod and left with her two new bottles of wine. “Wow,” Patrick deadpanned. “I feel so loved.”

“Coming from her, that was practically a tongue-bath,” Stevie said.

“Ew. Let’s never say that again,” David said, closing up the register.

* * * * * *

[Elmdale Community Board Subforum “Performing Arts”]

GirlieBard: < openmic.mp4 > Recorded this at an open mic in SC the other night.
MrsForester: Where’s this?
GirlieBard: Rose Apothecary
MrsForester: Oh, I’ve driven by that place but never gone in.
GirlieBard: It’s awesome, they sell great stuff. The guy singing is one of the owners.
DamienHearse: I thought that weird guy who used to be rich owned it.
GirlieBard: Yeah, I said ONE OF the owners.
RayButani: The gentleman singing is Patrick Brewer, a dear friend of mine, and he is married to David Rose, the founder of the Rose Apothecary. Isn’t Patrick’s music enjoyable?
GirlieBard: He’s actually really good. Is this a regular thing?
RayButani: They hoped to have regular open mic nights. Things have been hectic for them recently, I think going forward they might be more frequent.
SusieJean: I’m kind of shocked how good he is. When’s the next show? I love that song. Think he’ll do more covers? Or original songs?
GirlieBard: I don’t know, he seemed kind of uncomfortable, like he didn’t want to be taking over the event when it was supposed to be an open mic.
DamienHearse: I’d like to go to the next show.
SusieJean: Yeah me too.
RayButani: I’ll be sure to post the flyer when the next open mic is announced!

* * * * * *

At the next Open Mic Night, there were twice as many people, and only two others stepped up to perform: Twyla, and a quartet of Jazzagals.

At the one after that, they had to keep the doors open and swing open the large casements at the front so people standing outside could hear. Twyla was the only other act, and she insisted on going first, so she could be Patrick’s “opener.”

Patrick sang six songs. Three covers, three originals. David kept a tally of how many people asked him if there were recordings available and ended up with twenty-six. Ray reported that ninety-seven people were there, both crowded into the store and lurking outside. The quiet intersection in the center of town bustled with people for hours after the show, laughing, drinking wine from the store’s stocks or cocktails from Twyla’s. They sold out of soy candles and Heather’s goat brie.

David was finally able to close the registers at almost eleven o’clock. He put the evening’s considerable take into the safe and went outside, finally finding his husband holding court at a table by the cafe with Twyla, Ray and Ronnie. He sat down in the empty chair Patrick had obviously been saving for him and took his hand, leaning forward to speak earnestly. “Honey, I think it’s time we abandon the conceit that this is an open mic night. If you want to do shows, we should just lean into it."

Ronnie snorted. Patrick’s jaw was tight. “It's not that I don't want to, it's just that this isn’t what I meant for this to be.”

“Everyone knows that.”

“Speak for yourself,” Ronnie muttered.

“It was supposed to be community building, and PR for the store.”

“And how is it not both of those things? Look at all this community building,” he said, motioning to the impromptu after-party still going on under the glow of the fairy lights Ray had hung in all the downtown trees. “And we made bank tonight.” He pulled Patrick’s arm until he looked at him. “I can read your mind, you know.”

“That’s a terrifying thought.”

“You’re worried that people will think you somehow arranged all this for self-promotion.”

Patrick looked a little embarrassed. “Yeah, pretty much.”

“Everyone knows that isn’t the case.” He squeezed his shoulders, rubbing them gently. “But doesn’t it feel nice? To have people appreciate your talent? To have them want to come and hear you?”

Patrick fidgeted. “It feels uncomfortably nice. I don't know why I feel so awkward about it."

“That’s your innate Canadian self-effacement talking. Will you please allow people who are not me to appreciate you?”

He took a deep breath. “I’ll try.”

“And next time, let’s just let this open-mic fiction go, huh? Twyla can still open for you. The Jazzagals can sing a few songs if they like. But let’s give the people what they want, and that’s more of all of this,” he said, making a little shimmying gesture up and down Patrick’s everything.

“Oh, Lord.”

“Look, Brewer, the only person who’d even think that you somehow wanted a big stage for yourself is me, and I’m sitting right here watching you agonize about it, so relax,” Ronnie said.

Patrick nodded, looking a little calmer. “I mean...I do enjoy playing music for people. But that wasn’t my goal with the open mic nights.”

“We should think of a new name for these events,” Ray said, producing a notepad and pen from somewhere inside his jacket. “We shouldn’t call it open mic if it’s just...well…”

“Patrick at the mic?” Ronnie said, sarcastically, with a loud bark of laughter.

Everyone laughed, but Ray had a thoughtful look on his face. “Patrick At The Mic,” he said, making expansive hand gestures, as if presenting the idea to the world.

David looked over at Patrick. “I don’t hate it,” he said.

Patrick nodded. “Yeah. I can live with that.”

* * * * * *

The fated flap of a butterfly wing, David’s mother had once said, could change a life. He found such a thought both comforting and terrifying. Comforting in that it meant that so much of the agonizing and debating everyone did about their lives might not be worth the energy, but terrifying to think that if any of a number of things had gone even slightly differently, he wouldn’t have met Patrick and wouldn’t have the life he had now.

So when he realized that the inaugural “Patrick At The Mic” concert coincided with a visit from Alexis, he was afraid he could hear butterfly wings flapping. “David!” she said, sitting in their kitchen and looking at the poster Ray had made, which was surprisingly tasteful and on-brand. “Why didn’t you tell me? This is kind of my thing, you know! I have to call Ray immediately.” She picked up her phone.

“Alexis, do not…”

She cut him off with shoo-shoo motions, got up and began stalking around the cottage, and then out to the backyard, presumably so she’d have more room to gesture. David looked helplessly over at Patrick, sitting on the couch with a blank look on his face. “We’re in it now, honey. Alexis is involved.”

Patrick shrugged. “The show is in four days, how much can she do?”

David gaped at him. “It’s like you don’t even know my sister! How much can she do? She once arranged for the daughter of a sultan to elope to the Maldives in twelve hours!”

Alexis stomped back inside, looking satisfied. “All right. You two can just relax, because I have everything under control.”

“What does that mean?” David screeched.

She waved a circle in front of his face like she was wiping the fog off a mirror. “Shush. I am in charge now. You just stand there and look pretty.”

“I’ll be doing that regardless!”

They spent the next four days being systematically kept away from any and all concert planning. David even tried to wheedle some intel out of Ray, who clutched his coffee and scurried off. “I’d like to help, David, but your sister is terrifying. Ciao!”

“Honestly, I’m relieved,” Patrick said, as he watched David pace up and down the store’s floorboards. “If Alexis wants to make something of this, that’s fine. If all I have to do is show up and sing, I can do that.”

“You won’t be so Zen about it when we find out she brought in a troupe of acrobats or something.”

“C’mon, you know better. Alexis is actually good at this.”

David sighed and rested his elbows on the checkout counter, letting his face fall into his hands. “I know. I’m just...catastrophizing based on past experience. Can you blame me?”

* * * * * *

When Friday rolled around, David prowled around the store like a restless tiger, watching out the front windows. Alexis had already told them that they could keep the store open as late as they liked, that no part of it would be needed. Patrick had brought his guitar with him from home and was idly strumming it, picking out melodies and humming to himself, seemingly without a care in the world.

Around three, things began to happen.

First, a couple of guys started moving the tables and chairs off Twyla’s porch. Then, a truck pulled up and Ray and a woman David thought looked vaguely familiar began unloading sound equipment. Nothing extravagant, a couple of speakers, a mic on a stand, and the associated wires and devices. The woman went to work setting it up and running extension cords into the cafe. Then, Roland and Bob rolled up hauling Bob’s handmade trailer, stuffed full of folding chairs. Alexis appeared then, as if some silent signal had alerted her, and she began directing them where to put the chairs. A police car from Elmdale showed up with a pickup following behind, and they put up barricades over two of the cross streets, blocking off the majority of the intersection and leaving just enough space for traffic to pass by on the busier cross-street. “How the hell?” David muttered, watching as the intersection was turned into an impromptu outdoor concert venue.

“Wow,” Patrick said, joining him on the front step of the store. “This is...something.”

Ronnie strolled up, holding a coffee. “Ready for your big debut, Brewer?”

“Is that what this is?”

“I dunno, looks like Alexis is setting you up like Queen here. Will you be crowd surfing?” She cackled laughter and strolled back away, inspecting the arrangement of chairs and peering at the AV setup on the patio.

At five, two hours before the concert, two hipster-looking dudes pulled up in a panel van and began quickly and efficiently setting up a tent around the side of the seating area by the garage. They unfurled a banner that said “Spruce Tip Brewing” and started unloading kegs and cups. Ten minutes later a food truck from Thornbridge pulled up next to them. They all exchanged hails and jokes like they were old friends.

“I’m starting to think you weren’t wrong about the troupe of acrobats,” Patrick said.

“This is like mini-Coachella,” David said. “Extremely mini, and without the looming haze of pot smoke and D-list celebrities angling for a photo op.”

People were starting to wander in. The smell of the tacos from the truck and the presence of beer were a big draw, apparently. This led to people also wandering into the shop, so David and Patrick soon found themselves too busy to monitor the various goings-on outside.

Before they knew it, it was almost seven. “Holy fuck,” David said, going to the window for the first time in an hour. “Patrick, there are like two hundred people out here!” They stood outside and gaped at the crowd, some of them seated, some of them milling around with their beer and tacos. David saw that Twyla and Ivan had a table set up next to the patio and were selling treats and coffee.

“Anytime you’d like to apologize for doubting me, I’m ready to be receptive to that,” Alexis said, materializing out of thin air.

“What is Ray doing?” David said, nodding to where Ray had a tripod set up near the front of the seating area.

“He’s in charge of the recording equipment.”

“We’re recording this?”

“Duh, David! How else will we get content for the YouTube channel?”

“I have a Youtube Channel?” Patrick said, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Of course you do! Don’t you want to be able to show your family and friends your performance? The ones that can’t be here?”

Patrick looked excited by the idea. "Wow, I never even thought about doing that!"

“Here, look,” Alexis said, holding out a tablet. It was a YouTube page for “Patrick Brewer Music.” It didn’t have any videos yet, but the header image and icon were photos of Patrick that someone had apparently taken at the last open mic. “We’ll be uploading the whole performance, and also breaking it down into videos of individual songs so people can listen to what they like.”

“It might have been nice to ask him if he wanted a channel,” David said, privately admiring his sister’s initiative. He’d have said so out loud if his first loyalty wasn’t to his husband’s reluctance to self-promote.

“It’s fine, David,” Patrick said, visibly settling himself. “It’s not like anyone’s going to really see it, except maybe the locals and anyone we give the link to.”

Famous last words, David thought but did not say.

The show started very casually. Twyla just got up on the stage and sat on the stool with her guitar and started quietly playing. People slowly made their way to their seats, got one last beer, tossed their taco trash in the garbage bins Alexis had also arranged to be placed at frequent intervals. Twyla played “Rainbow Connection,” then Ani DiFranco’s “Marrow,” then “When We Were Young.” She got up from the stool and motioned for Patrick to come up, prompting enthusiastic applause and cheers.

Patrick sighed. “Well, I guess...here I go?”

“You’ll be amazing, honey,” David said, bending to kiss him. He watched as Patrick carried his guitar to the stage and sat on the stool. Everyone was cheering.

“Wow, this is...thank you,” he said, into the mic. “This is not what I expected to be doing when I started our little open mic nights.” He idly strummed the guitar, looking a little embarrassed. “First of all I should thank my sister-in-law, Alexis, for arranging this evening. She did an amazing job. And thank all of you for coming, this is quite a turnout.” He fiddled with his tuning pegs for a second. “For those of you who are new, I’m Patrick,” he said, to some friendly chuckles from the audience. “And...I’m going to sing you some songs.” Cheers and applause.

“He’s really a natural at this,” Alexis said, making David jump. How the fuck did she sneak up on him wearing those boots? “He’s like...genuine. People can tell the difference and nobody likes fake sincerity.”

“That’s an oxymoron.”

“My point is, he has charisma.”

“Are you trying to sell me on my own husband? I know he’s amazing. I’m very familiar with him.”

“But I don’t think he knows. So you know...maybe that’s a thing.” She went quiet, and they stood there together to watch.

“This first song was a request,” Patrick began. “I sang it at our very first open mic, and a few friends who missed that event have asked if they could hear it. At the time, I was going through some pretty significant personal stuff, including a new relationship that was becoming important.” He smiled at the memory. “Back then, I dedicated it to a special someone in my life. I was so nervous to sing to him, because I already knew how I felt about him and it was really the first time I’d put it out there like that. I was a little afraid that he’d get spooked and run for the hills. Lucky for me, he didn’t. So tonight I can dedicate this song again to that same special someone, except now he’s my husband, David.” He started the song that was forever engraved on David’s heart, Patrick’s version eclipsing even Tina’s original, as much as David wouldn’t have believed that was possible.

Alexis grabbed David’s hand. She hadn’t been at the first open mic, either, but had heard a lot about it from both David and their mother. “Oh, David,” she breathed.

David just relaxed into the moment, as he hadn’t been able to do the first time around, caught up as he had been in anxiety and discomfort and self-consciousness. This time, he knew what he was about to hear, and he knew that he could believe in the emotions that lay behind the words.

* * * * * *

Patrick woke up suddenly, like a loud noise had startled him awake even though he was pretty sure there hadn’t been a noise. He blinked; David was sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, and Alexis was hovering behind him. They looked like someone had died and they were afraid to tell him. “Oh my God, what’s going on?” he said, slurry with sleep.

David had his most sincere “taking care of my husband” face on. He reached out and laid a hand on Patrick’s arm. “Sweetheart, I just need you to stay calm, okay?”

“David! What is it? Are my parents okay? What’s going on?” Nightmare scenarios were running through his head. Had the store burned down? Were they being audited? Had the car been stolen?

David and Alexis exchanged a glance, then he held out his phone. “You’ve gone viral.”

Patrick took the phone. It was the YouTube video of himself singing “The Best” two nights ago. His eyes bulged. He blinked and looked again. It was...still there. “It has eighty-two thousand hits?” he spluttered. “What...how...I looked yesterday and it was like...twenty-five! Half of which were my mom!”

“Okay, so,” Alexis said, sitting on the chair in the corner. Patrick was grateful he’d gone to sleep clothed last night. “The video started getting traction on Twitter yesterday. At first it was just a few people sharing the link after someone posted it on the Elmdale community forum…”

“Ray. Ray posted it on the Elmdale community forum,” David cut in.

“But then...I don’t know how he found it, but Michael Bublé retweeted it.”

Patrick’s whole chest caved in, or that’s what it felt like. “Michael Bublé watched me sing?”

“Yes, and he was very impressed, enough that he shared the link, too. Then John Legend retweeted it. And it...kind of went from there. John’s tweet has twelve thousand retweets. The video’s migrated to Facebook, too. That’s when you’ve got real social media penetration, when something actually makes it to Facebook.”

“A bunch of other musicians have shared it. And GLAAD and PFLAG both shared it on their page because you dedicated the song to your husband, I guess.”

“That’s...that’s amazing!” He looked up at them. “Why are you both looking at me like you’re afraid I’m about to freak out?”

David glanced at Alexis. “Because we thought...you might do that? You’re not exactly a fan of high visibility.”

“No, that’s true, but this...this is exciting, isn’t it? And I mean...nobody’s ever really heard my music before, outside town, and now so many have and they like it? That makes me feel good. Shouldn’t it?”

“Yes! Of course it should! Oh, honey, I’m so relieved. I was afraid you’d panic.”

“Well, the day is young. I may panic later. Good to know you’re prepared.” He sighed, looking up at David’s twisted-up “concerned” face. “I love you,” he said, on a casual exhale.

David’s face smoothed out and he leaned in to kiss him, letting his lips linger against Patrick’s. “Me too,” he whispered.

“Okay, ew,” Alexis said, getting up. “If you guys are gonna make out, I’ll just...go somewhere else and set up some more Google alerts.”

* * * * * *

It was an interesting day.

Ronnie marched into the shop the moment they opened the door. “John Legend retweeted you?” she said, sounding like this concept was an affront to her entire worldview.

Patrick shrugged. “I can’t help it if professional musicians choose to acknowledge me.”

She shook her head. “Oh, I see how it’s gonna be. Now you’re not even going to pretend not to be insufferable.”

“And why wouldn’t John Legend retweet him?” David said, swooping in. “Are you suggesting Patrick is not worth retweeting?” He crossed his arms and gave Ronnie the David Rose Staredown, and Patrick felt his spine straighten a little bit.

Ronnie met him stare for stare, which David was comfortable doing as he knew where he stood with Ronnie, i.e. one of the few people in town who could get away with throwing down with her. She flicked her eyes over to Patrick. “Next show, I wanna hear some girl group covers, got it?”

“I’ll get right on that,” Patrick said. In fact, he’d been working up a cover of “Free Your Mind,” but she didn’t need to know that.

Alexis spent most of the day sitting on the cashwrap, madly texting and scrolling her phone. “You’re trending on Twitter,” she announced. “Richard Marx picked up the tweet from John,” she said, saying “John” as if she and Legend were old friends.

“Richard Marx?” Patrick said, frowning. “That guy from the 80s?”

She blinked at him. “He’s, like, a super popular Twitter follow. But yeah, that guy from the 80s. And we need to plan the next show, like, soon.”

“I can’t do another show all that soon, I’m going to run out of music.”

“How long do you need to write more things?”

“It’s not that simple!” he said, throwing his hands up. “I’m not a full-time musician, you may have noticed I run a store and I also have a husband to look after.”

“Hey, I’m not a toddler!”

“David can handle the store on his own so you have more time to write songs and stuff,” she said, flapping a hand as if this were something he was prepared to do.

“I’ve never treated songwriting as a job,” he said. “It’s something I do for fun, when the mood strikes me. I don’t want it to be a job.”

“Well, you’re well on your way to having an adoring, demanding public, so maybe it could be at least a side hustle?”

“How can it be a side hustle if I’m not getting paid?”

“Oh, you are. Ray and I monetized your YouTube page as soon as we realized what was happening. You’ve made four hundred dollars today.”

Patrick shut his mouth with a snap. David looked at him, eyebrows shooting up. “I mean...that’s an espresso machine, honey.”

“And that’s not all. We should start charging for the shows.”

“No!” he said. “I’m not asking for money for people to come hear me play.”

“That’s...kind of how it works, though? Barack Obama said that if you’re good at something, never do it for free.”

“The Joker said that,” Patrick said.

“It’s good advice, though,” David interjected.

“Also, I’ve set up a Patreon for you. You’ve already got fifty patrons at five bucks a month each! They’ll get early access to new video content and one song from each concert exclusive to them.” She beamed at him.

Patrick pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. “I’m...I just...I need a minute.” He went into the backroom and sat at the desk where he kept his laptop. He propped his elbows on the desk and covered his face, breathing deeply.

As he knew he would, David came in a few minutes later. He leaned against the edge of the desk and let his hand rest on Patrick’s shoulder, saying nothing at first.

“Say the word and I’ll tell her to stop everything,” he finally said.

Patrick sighed and let his hands fall. He looked up at David, who was watching him with his Worried Eyes on. And he knew that David would do it. Even though this could make them money. Even though it could mean good things for their business. If Patrick didn’t want it, David would give it up, and he wouldn’t hesitate. “You would, wouldn’t you?”

“I mean, this wasn’t exactly the plan. You becoming a YouTube star wasn’t really something I envisioned.”

“No moodboard for viral music trending?”

“I don’t think that’s the phrase, but no.”

Patrick swiveled to face him and took one of his hands, staring down at the four gold rings on it, two each on his index and ring fingers today. “I promised to make you happy here,” he said, quietly. “I wanted to give you the things that New York could have given you. Something of your old life back. The...glamour, I guess. Maybe this could…”

“Uh-huh,” David said, cutting him off. “Nope. You make me happy, Patrick. My old life didn’t. It never did. I’m not saying I don’t sometimes miss the restaurants and the glitz and the ready availability of culture and social opportunities, but…” He shrugged. “I miss it less than I thought. And I want you to be happy, too. Brace yourself for this shocking revelation, but it’s not all about me.”

Patrick grinned. “Your mother would disown you if she heard you talk that way.”

David snorted. “If you want this, if performing is something that’ll make you happy, I want you to pursue it. Not because it makes money, but because you enjoy it. If you don’t, then it can all stop right now.”

Patrick rubbed at his face. “Not gonna lie, it's exciting. I can't stop thinking about...possibilities. It’s just happening so fast. I went to bed a regular person and woke up with a Patreon, whatever the hell that is, and a monetized YouTube channel and John Legend is retweeting me and I just kind of need to...catch my breath.”

“You know,” David said, after a pause. “I can handle things here. Why don’t you go home? Read a book, or watch the baseball. Catch that breath. Because yeah, this is a lot. Definitely.”

Patrick wanted to say no, I couldn’t possibly, I don’t want to do that, I don’t need to do that, but...he desperately wanted to do that. There was a time when he’d have swallowed his own needs and wants in order to avoid inconveniencing David, but if he couldn’t feel secure attending to his own needs with the man who’d married him, he had bigger problems than sudden viral fame. He inhaled, held it for a second, then let it out. “Yeah. I think I need to do that.”

“Okay.” David squeezed his hand, then bent and kissed his temple. “Go on home. I’ll bring dinner after I close up.” He started to head back to the sales floor, but Patrick held him back for a moment.

“Thank you, David.”

* * * * * *

David got home around seven o’clock. It had been a busy day at the store, and he had to wonder if Patrick’s sudden virtual fame was connected to it. He’d seen an above-average number of unfamiliar faces. The YouTube video of Patrick’s concert had included the name of the town, and it wasn’t like there was a whole lot of town. If anyone decided to pay a visit, they’d find their way to the Apothecary pretty quickly. Nobody asked about Patrick, but he did catch a few people furtively looking around.

He heard the piano the minute he walked in the door. Patrick was playing something up-tempo and energetic, in a ragtime style. It sounded weirdly familiar. David set down their pizza and went into the studio. Patrick was playing hard and fast, head down. The piano and the floor around him were littered with scribblings and pieces of sheet music. He must have come home from the store and set right to work. He’d stripped down to a tank and looked flushed; David paused a minute to appreciate the flex of the muscles and tendons in his back, arms and shoulders as he banged away at the keys. David cocked his head, his brain making a connection to the song. He shook his head, smirking.

Patrick stopped abruptly and leaned forward to write something on the sheet music in front of him.

“Panic! at the Disco?” David said.

Patrick jumped and turned around. “Jesus! I didn’t hear you come in.”

“No, you were pounding on that thing like...well, I could make a comment, but I won’t. Was that ‘High Hopes?’”

He grinned. “Yep. It’s such a bouncy song, I thought it might sound cool as a rag.”

“It does. What else have you been working on? You’ve been busy.” He sat next to him on the edge of the piano bench. Patrick’s hand came to rest on David’s thigh.

“Yeah, I had no idea it had gotten this late. After what Alexis said, I thought I’d better get to work so I came home and just started...all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the litter.

“Don’t worry about what Alexis said. I can’t have you turning into some kind of recluse impresario, refusing to leave his keyboard and wasting away like a Gothic prodigy.”

Patrick laughed. “I won’t. I promise, I’ll ease up. I guess I just wanted to see if I had...more songs. In my head.”

David pointedly looked at the sheafs of notes. “I think the answer to that is a big yes.”

“Yeah. I feel pretty good about it.” He met David’s eyes. “How’s my internet fame?”

“Quieting down. Lil Nas X posted a photoshoot and then some homophobic politician got caught on Grindr again, so that sort of took over the Twitter cycle.”

Patrick shook his head. “It’s getting to the point where we should just assume that any public figure spouting awful homophobic nonsense is cruising for dick on the down low.”

“I mean, I’ve known that for years, it’s nice for the rest of the world to catch up.” He cleared his throat. “So how are you feeling? About Alexis’s ideas.”

Patrick sighed, dropping his forehead to David’s shoulder. “I don’t know. I could definitely have plenty of songs. I liked playing the concert, even if that’s all it was. And I admit, the online stuff is...well, it’s flattering. It makes me feel good.”

“Honey, you say that like it shouldn’t. Of course it feels good. People are praising you and sharing the clips and saying you’re talented, which you are. That’s supposed to feel good. It’s okay to get an ego boost from it, or feel validated. It’s also okay to want more of that. Not to mention it’s okay to get paid for it.”

Patrick nodded. “Getting paid for it would be nice, I gotta say. It’d be great to be able to get a new car, or pay down the mortgage, or take a trip. We never had a honeymoon.”

“If it became a regular income source, we could hire some staff, so we wouldn’t be stapled to the store constantly.”

“It just feels so mercenary, like I’m...I don’t know.”

“Selling out?” David said, his brows darkening.

“Yes!”

“Banish that thought right this second. The whole concept of selling out is rooted in artistic snobbery and perpetuated by people who want to claim some kind of untainted superiority. An artist should be compensated for their labor, like any other labor. Just because the nature of the labor is creative doesn’t mean it’s too pure to be paid for.”

Patrick grinned. “It’s hot when you talk like an art critic.”

“This is a personal soapbox of mine.” David looked around at the borderline-chaos in the studio. “Can I, uh...help you, here?”

Patrick rubbed the back of his head, chuckling. “I’ll sort through all this. I should take a break, anyway. Do I smell pizza?”

* * * * * *

Alexis wanted another concert in a month. Patrick countered with two months. “You don’t want the public to forget about you, Patrick! It’s very important to maintain visibility!”

“Alexis, I can’t be ready for another concert, especially if you want a longer one, in a month. It sounds like a long time but it really, really isn’t.”

David cut in. “Honey, not that I’m taking a side here, but you do know that most musicians don’t play an entirely new lineup of songs at every show.”

“Most musicians aren’t playing to 90% of the same audience every time. I want at least half new content, at least for the first few shows.”

Alexis had perked up at that. “So you’re thinking there’ll be more shows after this one?”

In the end, Alexis accepted Patrick’s timetable, and he agreed to film a clip for the YouTube channel once a week.

The direct consequence of this agreement was the presence of Ray and his film equipment setting up in their front room at 8 pm on a Wednesday. David hovered nearby, staying well clear of any camera lenses, while Ray set up a surprisingly professional set of lights and microphones. David had chosen Patrick’s Camera Ready Outfit of his darkest jeans and a black button-up. Alexis was back in New York, but Ray had her on FaceTime, directing the clip. “Do I look okay?” Patrick said, sounding a little nervous, standing in the living room giving Ray space to set up.

“You look gorgeous.” David reached up and flicked his fingers through Patrick’s curls, which were growing out very nicely.

“Do you want to make an appearance? It’s your song, after all.” For this clip, Patrick was going to play “The Best” again, with better video and sound quality, in response to the many thousands of people who’d reacted so strongly to it.

“No no no no, definitely not. I’ll remain your unseen husband, watching supportively from a safe distance.”

Patrick slid his hands to David’s hips and kissed him. “Wish me luck.”

“You don’t need it. You’re amazing.”

Patrick sat on the stool Ray had placed in the middle of the room and slung his guitar over his shoulder. Ray had also set up several large poster boards with prompts on them - Patrick hadn’t wanted to be reading from cue cards, but having bullet points so he didn’t forget to say something seemed prudent. “Are you ready?” Ray said.

“I guess so,” Patrick said.

“This isn’t live, so we can stop and start. And I’ll be editing it for you,” Ray went on.

“Okay, that’s good to know.” David had tucked himself behind Ray’s lights and was watching as Patrick strummed the strings and fiddled with the tuning pegs. He gave him a quick thumbs-up.

“Whenever you’re ready, just start talking. I’m taping,” Ray said.

David watched Patrick take a deep breath, settle his shoulders, and face the camera.

* * * * * *

[INT: A cozy-looking room in a house. An upright piano is visible on the right. It’s nighttime outside. Center frame is PATRICK, seated on a stool, holding a guitar.]
PATRICK: [gives a charmingly awkward wave and a smile] Hello, The Internet! I’m Patrick, and my sister-in-law, who has also appointed herself my publicist, has decided that I should record a clip for the channel once a week, so that is the plan going forward. [strums the guitar] I’ve been kind of overwhelmed with the reaction to the video of my concert. It was recorded just so friends and family who couldn’t make it here could see it, and then it kinda got away from us a bit. Viral, as the kids are calling it. On that note, let me say hello to Michael Bublé and John Legend and also say that when I found out you both had listened to me play, I had to go lie down for kind of a long time. This is not anything I expected, or even anything I hoped for. [he sighs, and rests his elbows on the guitar] I’m not a professional musician. I’ve been playing and singing for a long time, but it’s always been a hobby, something I shared with friends and family, and more recently, the people in the small town where we live. So this has all caught me off guard, a bit. I’m getting used to the idea of making music for a larger audience. But be patient with me. I don’t know exactly what’s involved in being a viral music person, I'm learning as I go. [he begins to quietly pluck out the introductory chords to “The Best.”]
There were a lot of comments and questions about this song I’m going to play for you right now, the one that got all the Twitter traffic. A lot of people asked what made me choose this song, and a lot of people asked about what it meant to me and my husband, so I guess I’ll just...tell that story. [he continues to play quietly while he speaks]
I was almost thirty years old when I realized I was gay. It’s a long story and not that interesting. Suffice it to say that it took me almost making a catastrophic life change to jolt me into some self-awareness. I left everything behind and started over somewhere new, and then I met David. The first time I saw him, I thought he was the most beautiful person I’d ever seen. He was just coming to my workplace for help with his new store, and before I knew it, we were business partners. I fell for him hard, very quickly, and thank God he was able to move us along because I was so new and scared that I might still be working up the courage to kiss him. The day I married him was the happiest day of my life. [he glances past the camera and winks at someone] This song came on the playlist one day when we were driving to a vendor visit. I associated it with car commercials and Olympics press packages, like most people, but David kept saying what an intimate, passionate song it was, and I should listen to the lyrics. So I did, and he was right. So when I wanted to make it really clear to him how I felt about him, without saying the words, I knew this was how. I tried to make the lyrics really stand out - they get a bit lost in the power ballad original. If this song resonates with you, if you can tell what it means to me, it’s because when I wrote this arrangement and performed this song, it was the first time in my life I’d had someone to sing for.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Patrick Brewer?”

“Yes?” he said, cautiously. In the month since his sudden Internet fame, the number of random phone calls he’d gotten had increased significantly. “Who’s this?”

“My name is Pete Scoggins. I have a folk trio with two friends. We live up in Thornbridge so we heard about you, and we’ve seen your videos.”

“Okay?”

“Well...we thought...you might want a band? Like, backup musicians?”

Patrick leaned back in his chair, wondering if telepathy was a side effect of viral fame. Just the night before, he’d been working on a new arrangement and pondering how much easier this would be if he had at least one other player, but he’d stopped short of formulating a way to find such a person. Now, one was apparently dropping himself into his lap. “You’d want to...play with me?”

“I mean, yeah? At least we could give it a try, see if we vibe? I think we would. Your arrangements are dope, man.”

“Who are your friends?”

“Well, there’s Ella, she plays drums. And Quinn plays keyboards.”

“Hmm. I’d want to play piano myself.”

“That’s cool, he also plays bass, and violin. I play guitar, and also bass.” Pete hesitated. “Look, you shouldn’t say yes sight unseen. Give me your email, I’ll send you some links to our clips, and you can see if you like our sound. Call me back after you’ve watched them.”

“Yeah. That’s a good idea.” Patrick gave Pete his email, and they said goodbye. Not five minutes later, an email popped into his inbox with several links to another YouTube Channel for the Elm Valley Three, which was a pleasantly neutral name.

He clicked the first video and settled in to listen.

After watching five videos, he picked up the phone.

“Patrick?”

“Hi Pete. How soon can you guys come down to the Creek and start rehearsing?”

* * * * * *

[YouTube Channel “Patrick at the Mic” videos list]

Concert 6/23/19 Full Recording, duration 58:12 - 45,334 Views, 413 comments

“The Best” [Tina Turner cover] 6/23/19, duration 3:32 - 223,341 views, 4319 comments

“Apollo” [original] 6/23/19, duration 3:45 - 67,341 views, 321 comments

“Runaway” [original] 6/23/19, duration 2:59, 43,234 views, 129 comments

“Glitter & Gold” [Barns Courtney cover] 6/23/19, duration 3:05, 34,927 views, 237 comments

“Got You” [original] 6/23/19, duration 3:10, 23,891 views, 127 comments

“Galileo” [Indigo Girls cover], 6/23/19, duration 3:45, 45,628 views, 268 comments

In the Studio #1: The Best [Tina Turner cover] 7/18/19, duration 6:34, 147,129 views, 5412 comments

In the Studio #2: Runaway [original] 7/24/19, duration 5:34, 78,431 views, 1234 comments

In the Studio #3: Another Love, feat. the Elm Valley Three [original] 8/1/19, duration 6:23, 127,128 views, 2314 comments

In the Studio #4: Got You, feat. the Elm Valley Three [original] 8/10/19, duration 8:23, 167,239 views, 1241 comments

* * * * * *

By the time the second concert rolled around, the rebranded “Patrick at the Mic” channel had 70,000 YouTube subscribers. Several of the videos had over 100,000 views. Patrick had been rehearsing a few times a week with the trio, and the sound was just what he’d always imagined it would be. Quinn, a massive red-bearded mountain of man, loaned Patrick his keyboard for the garage rehearsals and the shows, as the upright in the house wasn’t terribly portable. Ella, who somehow managed to play the drums in broomstick skirts and peasant tops, had a charmingly compact drum kit of a bass drum, a snare, two toms, a hi-hat, and a beat-up leather case of mysterious noisemakers and somehow coaxed delightfully quirky percussion rhythms out of it. Pete looked like Leonard Cohen if he’d been a twenty-eight year old organic mushroom farmer, but he played guitar like he’d been born to it.

Playing with them in the garage (his studio in the house was too small for all four of them plus Ella’s kit) tapped into some long-forgotten teenage garage-band fantasies Patrick didn’t realize he still had. There was a delirious kind of freedom in noodling out covers and new arrangements of his original songs with others who spoke this language, the concrete floor snaked with cords, the lawn mower parked behind his stool, instruments everywhere and the floor littered with notes and sheet music. David would bring them iced tea on a tray and then sit on the hood of Patrick’s car and listen, smiling and watching Patrick at the keyboard; it made Patrick grin with self-conscious glee and show off for him. “Dude, you already landed the guy, no need to peacock all over the place,” Pete said, one night after David had gone back inside. Everyone laughed.

“Don’t know if I’ll ever stop doing that,” Patrick replied.

An unexpected bonus of adding the trio was that Quinn’s day job was social media manager for an instrument company. He was only too glad to take on Patrick’s accounts as well. “First rule, do not read the comments. I will do that. if you want to hear some of the nicer ones, I can choose a few to show you.”

“Um...what do they say, generally?”

“Mostly it’s people praising your musical skills. A lot of people praising...um, other things about you,” he said, with a wink. “A lot of people wanting to see David. Quite a few musical requests. You’re not famous enough — yet — to attract real haters and trolls, but there’s a smattering of those. Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Ordinary. Somehow it was now ordinary for him to have haters and trolls, even a “normal” amount of them. Any amount over zero seemed strange to him. In a few short weeks he’d gone from an anonymous store owner in rural Canada to someone who had...subscribers.

“How did this all get so complicated?” Patrick groaned, in bed the night before the show. “I just wanted to have a little open mic night to get people into the store. Now we’re not even having the concert at the store.”

David shrugged, not looking up from his book. “Your musical virtuosity would not be denied, honey. Sometimes things just run away with us. And you were the one who wanted to go ahead with all this.”

“I know, but does that mean I can’t also whine about it?”

He chuckled. “I mean, I don’t know if I can relate. The store is my dream business, and I definitely, for sure never, ever whine about it.”

Patrick laughed. “Nope, never. Can’t ever recall a time.”

David marked his page and put his book on the nighttable. He held out an arm. “C’mere, baby.”

Patrick slid down and tucked close to David’s side, snuggling his head into his shoulder. “Sometimes I think this is all awesome and exciting and it feels great, but other times I just want to hide here where nobody can see me and be your husband and run our store in peace.”

David stroked his back. “Oh honey. I know those feels. I think every artist who gets any kind of exposure knows them. It’s like...we want to show ourselves to the world, but it’s terrifying, and the more we do it the more people see us, and it gets more terrifying, and it’s easier to just never let anyone see.”

“Yeah. Like, I want to have success at this, but I’m also really scared of having success at this. That’s not weird?”

“It’s not even a little bit weird."

“Oh. Good.” He sighed. “I don’t want to be famous. That’s not why I’m doing this.”

“I know it’s not. But being famous might be a side effect you have to live with.”

* * * * * *

CONCERT REVIEW: A Guy Who Went Sorta Viral Did A Hometown Concert and It Was Really Freaking Good
[posted on vice.com]
by Lewis Carrollton
A couple of months ago, a clip went around the tubes, like they do. This one was of a guy in a button-up at a backyard concert, playing his own acoustic cover of Tina Turner’s “The Best,” which he dedicated to his husband. Music Twitter went mildly bonkers over it, and then the five nanosecond Twitter cycle moved on to something else and it sort of faded away, but the musician, Patrick Brewer, has enjoyed some pretty decent success on his YouTube channel, “Patrick at the Mic.”
His socials (which he clearly does not run himself) have been talking about an upcoming concert for weeks, in the rural Canadian town where he lives. I’m based out of Toronto, so I drove up to check it out, mostly because I was curious.
It was the most charming musical experience I’ve had in a long time.
Having outgrown the restaurant-patio setting of his first viral concert, this one had been set up in the back field of a local goat farmer who makes cheese. No, really. The field slopes like a natural amphitheater, and a modest stage had been set up at the bottom with a backdrop of bucolic hills and fields. They had limited bench seating near the stage, and then lots of room on the upper lawn for blankets and camp chairs. Parking was in the empty field next door, or you could be bused over from the high school. Stacked hay bales defined an entry gate, where there was a voluntary cover charge donation. It was all very Andy Hardy “let’s put on a show in the barn.”
Once you got to the field, there were food trucks and a local microbrewery pouring drinks. Homemade bake-sale goods, and the goat farmer hosting the event had a table with the store that Brewer owns with his husband. People were setting up their chairs, opening coolers, buying tacos, perusing the goat cheese (which was really freaking good, I gotta say) and chatting. The whole thing felt like a community fair, and most of the audience seemed like locals, but I talked to a dozen people who’d driven as much as three hours to come to the show.
The opening act was the Elm Valley Three, the backup band. They were cute and folksy and kept it short, and when Brewer took the stage, he got a huge ovation, which seemed to both surprise and embarrass him.
I wasn’t sure what to expect. What I got was ninety minutes of original songs and covers, all of them peaceful and beautiful in a way that I associate with artists like Hozier and Andrew Bird. Brewer has a lovely, calm voice, and the backing vocals and instrumentals from the Elm Valley Three created a rich, full sound behind his piano or guitar lead. Brewer’s original songs are excellent, with the standouts being “Hold On,” “Apollo,” and “Runaway” which revealed that Brewer plays not only the piano and the guitar, but also the accordion, to the audience’s delight.
But what really got everyone going were the covers. Brewer started off the show in energetic fashion with a rollicking, boisterous cover of Panic!At the Disco’s “High Hopes” done in ragtime solo piano that had him cranking his voice up to volumes and pitches that would make Brandon Urie proud. Brewer also played a juiced-up version of Barns Courtney’s “Glitter & Gold,” a lush three-guitar cover of Regina Spektor’s “Samson” and a surprisingly emotional bayou-jazzy rendition of Billy Idol’s “Eyes Without a Face” that showcased the skills of Elm Valley Three percussionist Ella Higby. And Brewer’s invisible husband was not forgotten — he dedicated another song to him, this time choosing to honor “the great Canadian divas: Celine, Shania, and my husband David” with Shania Twain’s “Still the One” on the piano.
This is all very interesting, I’m sure, but probably not what you’re here to hear about, and not the clip you’re here to see. I’m writing this well after midnight in my hotel in Thornbridge, but I fully expect that within 24 hours, Patrick Brewer will have gone not just kinda viral but massively viral, in a manner to dwarf his previous fame.
After ending the show with the original “Always Gold,” a haunting, vaguely Celtic ballad that sent chills up my spine, the sustained ovation brought Brewer and the Three back onto the stage. Brewer sat at the piano, and then...well, this happened.
[YouTube clip, shot from the audience. Patrick begins to play the piano, it’s a jazzy, upbeat riff. Ella backs him unobtrusively, then Quinn adds a bass line. The audience begins to titter and laugh and applaud as they gradually realize that the song is “Shoop'' by Salt-N-Pepa.
Patrick sings “Here I go, here I go, here I go again...girls, what’s my weakness?”
The music cuts out, and right on cue a lone female voice from the crowd shouts “Men!”
Everyone laughs. Patrick looks out at the audience, waits for a beat of total silence, then winks and says “Damn right,” low and close to the microphone, then continues the song.]
I mean, who doesn’t love a good jazz cover of 90s hip-hop?
At one point, Brewer thanked everyone for coming, directed them to his channel where he announced that concert clips would be available soon, and promised regular shows going forward.
I may become very familiar with the drive here from Toronto, is all I’m saying.

Rachel

Soooooo what’s your weakness, again?

ha ha

you’re a fucking troll, you know that?

it’s been suggested

c’mon. you planned that. it was too well-executed, and that voice sounded a lot like stevie.

i cannot confirm or deny this hypothesis.

for all your aw-shucks golly-gee “I can’t believe lil old me is a viral sensation” you fucking knew a clip like that would go wide. a guy doing “shoop” on the piano complete with innuendo about how much he likes dick? twitter eats that shit up.

let’s just say I knew that the counterintuitive covers got the most traction. i’ll be honest, I didn’t expect...this.

yeah, I waited a week to text you until things calmed down a little.

they have...not done that.

you looked great on the today show. did david make you buy new clothes?

do you need that answered, really?

lol. how many subscribers are you up to on YT now?

brace yourself. it’s 1.2 million. and my twitter somehow has 60K followers with like, no content. quinn’s just tweeting the links to the clips on YT.

how long were you in new york?

just overnight. they flew me down for Today, and then I filmed the Seth Myers show the same day. we stayed that night and flew home the next morning.

so david went with you?

yeah. he didn’t want to, but I asked him to come.

he didn’t want to? that surprises me.

me, too. he’s been really reluctant to “intrude” on any of this. i think he still has some residual...honestly, some trauma, from being on the gossip sites before. and when his family lost their money, it was like a free for all for a solid week. i think he’s afraid of getting any of that near me. I told him people are gonna figure out who I’m married to eventually.

especially if you keep dedicating songs to him.

well, he hasn’t asked me to stop. i just worry that he thinks that people knowing about him would detract, or something. i’m proud to be married to him. i’d be thrilled to show him off, but that’s not what he wants, so. I told him he didn’t have to be part of any of the TV stuff, I just wanted him to come with me because I always want him with me. We got to have a much fancier date night than we’d usually have.

did he take you to any of his old haunts?

he didn’t offer and I didn’t ask. Alexis recommended the restaurant we went to. she has good taste. it was honestly great. we had an amazing dinner and then we went to a gay club. my first time.

how was that?

freeing. not that we feel not-free at home, but it’s something to be surrounded by other queer people where you’re the default. you know? plus it’s fun to grope my husband on a dance floor and see other guys checking him out. and uh...I got recognized.

whoa really?

yep. some guy spotted me and yelled “omg it’s patrick at the mic” and a bunch of people cheered and it was...kind of awesome? but then they were like “omg is this your husband” and david kind of slunk off and I felt bad. so we left. but we were about to leave anyway, so. it was fine.

so did you watch the livestream?

of course! it was amazing. truly, patrick. it was a great show. i love your backup band.

aren’t they great? they fell into my lap and it’s only been a month and I don’t know what I’d do without them. quinn’s a rock star with all the social media stuff. pete’s a much better guitarist than me which frees me up to play keyboard, plus he’s teaching me stuff. and ella is David’s new best friend. seriously, i think stevie’s jealous.

that original song “always gold” was amazing.

thanks. i’ve been writing a lot. say what you want about sudden un-sought fame but it’s motivating af

i ran into your cousin mandy and we had a gush-fest about it.

yeah the family group chat has been a little single-topic lately. i feel bad for my cousin bailey who got his phd last week and the announcement kinda got swallowed up with the shoop clip being on Colbert or whatever.

how many thirsty randos have been after you on the internet?

um…

that’s what i thought, LOL.

i’m a happily married man.

they don’t care.

evidently not.

so when’s the next show?

well the weather’s going to turn soon. i’d like to do a fall show, maybe in early october? you should come. you could stay at our house. david would love to see you.

i’d love to. how many people did you end up with at the last one?

Roland was in charge of the count. he took it very seriously. he had students from the high school at the gate with those little clickers, three of them, for “duplication of results.” he claims there were 2,687 people. that’s a good ballpark figure, anyway.

wow, that’s amazing! i hope you were charging.

oh man. alexis and me got into it over that. i didn’t want to. we settled for a voluntary gate donation. stevie said at least ⅔ of the people put money in. and we made...ugh, i’m embarrassed. we made about $15,000.

holy SHIT patrick!

yeah, I couldn’t believe it. stevie said some people were putting in like $20 or more. it was more than enough to cover renting the lights and the stage, and paying heather for use of the field. plus the food trucks and the beer truck paid us $500 each to be there, and they all said they made a great profit for the night. we sold a bunch of stuff from the table the store had there, too. and traffic in the store itself is way up. the online shop is going bananas. but the good news is we’re going to be able to hire some help now. we’re going to add a shop clerk, and someone to just do the online stuff. the income from the youtube channel is...yeah. more than i thought. and the patreon subscriptions actually cover our mortgage on the house. i can’t believe this.

you’re doing that thing where you act like you don’t deserve the things you get.

it still feels weird. david says i’ll get over it.

you earned this, patrick. you spent how many years practicing your music, and how many years acquiring business expertise, and you and david opened that shop all on your own! you’re not being paid for the 90 minutes of music you played, it’s for the 20 years of preparing to play those 90 minutes.

you’re smarter than you look you know.

TROLL.

turning my music into a career was never something i even considered. i never thought i was good enough, and i never thought i wanted that life. the idea that i could have it as a career, while still living the life i want, and doing things for david that i couldn’t afford before...i keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.

* * * * * *

“David, what would you think about swapping the toners for the scrubs? I feel like the color progression leads the eye towards the more expensive items,” Shiloh said, her brows furrowed as she looked down at the table.

David blinked and joined her. He followed her gaze and immediately saw what she meant. “I think that’s a brilliant idea, and by the way, I don’t know how we ran this shop without you.”

“I’ve worked here for two weeks,” she said, grinning.

“I said what I said. Go forth and rearrange,” he said, waving a hand at the bottles. The bell over the door dinged and David looked up. The man who walked in was in his forties and rich; his clothes were casual but David knew high-quality items when he saw them. “Hi,” he said. “Welcome to Rose Apothecary, can I help you?”

The guy’s whole face lit up and he walked right over. “You’re David, aren’t you?”

“Umm...yes? Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

“My name is Cole Patterson. I’m actually looking for your husband.”

David’s guard went up immediately. He crossed his arms. “I’m afraid he’s not in right now. Can I give him a message?”

“I’ll wait.”

“It could be awhile.” In fact, David expected Patrick back any minute, but he wasn’t about to tell this Cole person that.

“That’s all right.”

At that moment, the door opened and Patrick walked in with Pete on his heels. They were laughing about something, and Pete was carrying a crate of whatever Patrick had been picking up at Heather’s. “Hey,” Patrick said to David, his eyes flicking to the newcomer. David could sense Shiloh sending Patrick warning eye-blinks from behind him. “What’s going on?”

“Patrick Brewer?” said Cole Patterson, before David could even open his mouth.

“Yeah?” Patrick said, putting his hands on his hips, his open smile tightening a little.

“I’m Cole Patterson. I’m from Island Records.” He stuck out his hand.

Everyone froze. “Uh..okay?” Patrick said, shaking the offered hand.

David came over and stood at Patrick’s shoulder, attempting to loom as much as possible, in case this guy had any thoughts about intimidating them. “Island Records?” he said. “Is that...what is that? Sounds like a luau.”

“It’s one of the largest, most prestigious labels in music,” Pete put in. “Hozier, Mumford & Sons, Fall Out Boy, Keane…”

“Just to name a few,” Cole said, grinning.

“Umm...well...okay?” Patrick said, still flat-footed. “I guess you’re here to...why are you here?”

“I’m here to offer you a record deal, Patrick. Which surely can’t be a surprise to you.”

“Well, it is! It’s a surprise, it’s a big surprise,” he said, glancing up at David.

“It’s not every day that an unrepresented artist plays live on morning programs,” Cole said. “You’ve made yourself a very attractive prospect for us. We think you’re great, and I came here to talk to you about it.”

Patrick looked up at David, and they had a silent conversation.

Should I talk to him about it?

It’s up to you, honey. If Pete’s right, he might be worth listening to.

I didn’t expect this.

I know, but here it is. Might as well hear him out.

Stay with me?

Always.

* * * * * *

The next night was Friday, which meant Rehearsal Night.

Rehearsal Night had started as just that. The trio came several times a week, but every Friday they came early and took turns bringing dinner. Then Stevie started showing up to listen. Then Twyla tagged along. Then Ray and Ronnie showed up, then Roland and Jocelyn. Three months after it started, Rehearsal Night was barely a rehearsal anymore. Patrick and the trio would play through some things, sometimes trying out something new or just jamming, while various friends and relatives trickled in (Marcy and Clint had been down twice, and Patrick’s cousins were not-infrequent guests). What had begun as a rotating dinner became a potluck, with Twyla supplying pulled pork or brisket or hamburgers courtesy of Ruston, the infinitely-better new chef at the cafe (who usually showed up after closing time, still smelling like the flat top). Several of their vendors had become regulars (Heather never missed Rehearsal Night), Shiloh and her girlfriend Mary were almost always there along with Buck, the clerk they’d hired to work the online business. It wasn’t unusual to have thirty people at Rehearsal Night. The gathering had long since outgrown the house and now spilled into the garage, the side yard, and the backyard, which Patrick and David had worked long hours to make into a comfortable outdoor space.

Tonight was relatively quiet, as Rehearsal Nights went. Alexis was visiting, but the Schitts were out of town, Buck was at a wedding, and Bob had gone to Thunder Bay to see his sister. David bustled in the kitchen, refilling the charcuterie plate. Quinn and Pete were sitting in the corner just noodling tunes on their guitars. Ella was taking photos for the socials. Alexis and Ray had their heads together, taking furious notes about the YouTube channel, probably. Stevie was sprawled bonelessly in the chaise, a glass of wine in her hand. Patrick was outside with Rachel and his cousin Mandy, who’d both come down for the weekend.

“Here,” Heather said, coming up and handing him another wheel of goat brie. “Had another one in the car.”

“Oh thank God. I swear, people eat this stuff like it’s Nutella.” He unwrapped the brie and put it in the denuded spot on the board.

“A little bird told me you guys had a visitor yesterday,” she said.

“Was this little bird a very large bearded man?” David said.

“Might have been.” Heather and Quinn had been inching towards dating, to everyone’s delight.

“Yeah, we did.”

“What did Patrick say?”

“He said he’d think about it.”

“What do you think?”

David put his hands up. “I don’t even have an opinion.”

“You have never in your life not had an opinion.”

He sighed. “I feel like an asshole.”

“Why, because you don’t want him to sign with a label, because you’re afraid that he’ll start belonging more to them, and less to you and the store?”

David blinked. “That was unfairly perceptive of you.”

“Not my first time. Look, that’s a normal human thing to feel, David. The store is your baby together, you have Patrick twenty four hours a day now. If he signs a record label...it’ll be different.”

“I want it, if he wants it. I want him to have what he wants, what he deserves.” He tilted his head back. “Can I have that and still have him here all the time? Can I have that and have him still be mine first?”

“I don’t know. Can you?”

Twyla spared David having to respond to that by arriving with big foil pans and everyone scrambled to get the food set out on the kitchen island. Patrick propped open the French doors to the patio, opening the space, and instruments were put down in favor of plates.

David loaded up on Ruston’s blue cheese sliders, potato salad, charcuterie bites and Marcy’s rolls, of which they had at least ten dozen in the chest freezer downstairs. He went out to the patio and sat on the outdoor loveseat, which was universally respected as his-and-Patrick’s-chair. Patrick joined him after a minute, balancing his own plate and two glasses of wine, one of which he handed to David. “You forgot this.”

“Thanks, honey.” Patrick sat down and ran his hand along David’s thigh before diving into his plate.

Everyone ate and laughed and talked. Quinn kept up a quiet background instrumental guitar; he was celiac and brought his own food, which he’d already eaten, although David spied some of the goat brie on a snack plate by his side. Rachel was talking to Stevie, Mandy was talking to Ray (and seemed bemused but charmed by the experience). Heather was lurking near Quinn while trying to make it seem like she wasn’t lurking near Quinn. Alexis was sitting on an ottoman at David’s side; how she could so casually fold herself up in the most rustic situations while wearing designer clothing, he’d never know.

David sipped his wine, feeling that pleasant, warm wine-buzz feeling he always got during his second glass. The burger was outstanding, and it was a beautiful night.

He felt Patrick’s body language change and he looked over, alarmed to see that Patrick’s eyes were wet. “Honey?” he murmured, quietly, leaning in a little. “What’s wrong?”

Patrick met his eyes. “Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Everything is perfect.” He put his plate on the side table and laced his fingers through David’s. “David...this is what I want. All the time. Our home and our friends and family, and playing music with them, and for them. I don’t want a record label. I don’t want to tour, or be at some executive’s beck and call. I want to do this how I want to do it, not how they want me to.”

Much as it shamed him, relief flooded David’s chest. “Oh, Patrick...are you sure? You know I support whatever you want to do.”

“I know, David. This is what I want to do.”

“You don’t want to have an album?”

“I do. But I can do that without a label, these days. I’ve made enough with what I’ve done so far to pay for my own studio time and hire a producer. I can cut an album. I can make it available. Then I can do whatever I want. What’s wrong with the career I already have? The channel and the shows at Heather’s?”

“Nothing. It’s amazing.”

“Then let’s keep doing it. Just like this. I don’t need to tour. I’ll pick one of the several dozen agents who’ve called to handle everything so I can live my life. I’ll play shows here when I want to, and maybe I can do a festival now and then, or something. But I’ll do things on my terms. And I’ll still have this, and I’ll still have our store, and our life.” He lifted David’s hand and kissed his knuckles, his lips lingering there for a moment. “That’s what I want.”

David sniffed, leaned in and kissed his temple. “That sounds amazing.”

Patrick looked at him, their faces close. “I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They just stayed like that for a moment, until the mood was broken by Pete’s voice. “Something tells me nobody here is signing a record deal,” he said, smirking.

Patrick laughed. “We’ll talk about it later.” He stood and retrieved his guitar from the upright stand near the door. “Who wants to hear the new cover of ‘Brothers in Arms’ we’ve been working on?” Cheers and applause.

David watched Patrick sit down next to Quinn while Pete got his own guitar. He listened to his husband’s sweet voice rise over the patio, their community hip-to-elbow all around them, and in his heart, another notch was made in the ever-expanding scale of “the happiest I’ve ever been.”

* * * * * *

The Music Star Who Wasn’t: Grammy nominee Patrick Brewer’s unconventional back-country career
[posted on rollingstone.com]
by Ethan Wight
[header photo: a deserted amphitheater at sunset, warm light washed over the scene. Seen in profile, sitting on a stool on stage, holding a guitar, is Patrick Brewer, a thirtysomething white man with curly brown hair. He is looking out over the amphitheater]
Two years ago, an unassuming small business owner and hobbyist musician from rural Ontario went viral not once, but twice. The first time was with a clip of his acoustic cover of Tina Turner’s “The Best,” performed at a backyard concert and dedicated to his husband. The clip drew the attention of such music Twitter luminaries as John Legend, Michael Bublé, and Regina Spektor. The second time was with a clip from a much larger concert two months later, where this newly-minted viral celebrity played “Shoop” by Salt-N-Pepa in a jazz piano style, making much hay out of the “What’s my weakness?/Men!” exchange.
After that clip shot around the globe, it was all over. This previously anonymous man, Patrick Brewer, found himself with a music career he never intended to have.
“Music was always a hobby to me,” Patrick says. “It was something I enjoyed, and something I was dedicated to practicing, but the idea that I could make a living with music never crossed my mind, really. Nobody ever suggested it to me.”
Patrick got a business degree, dated his high school sweetheart on and off throughout his twenties, and floated in a series of boring jobs. Then, on the cusp of his fourth decade and newly engaged, he had an epiphany that blew up his life. “I finally figured out that the reason I never felt happy in my relationship, or in anything, was that I was gay. I’d spent my life trying to fit myself into everyone’s expectations, and none of those included dating men. I broke off my engagement, quit my job, and left town. I didn’t know where I was going, or what I was doing, or how to even go about living my life as a gay man. I didn’t know where to start.”
[Photo: Patrick with members of his backup band, the Elm Valley Three, rehearsing in a cozy home studio]
He fetched up in the town of Schitt’s Creek (yes, he’s heard the jokes) where he landed a job, which in turn brought him into the orbit of the man he’d first start a business with, and eventually fall in love with. “Sometimes I think the universe conspired to place me just where I needed to be,” Patrick says, smiling down at his wedding band.
Through it all, Patrick kept up his music hobby. He started a series of open mic nights at the store he owns with his now-husband, a charming local-products emporium called Rose Apothecary. It was at the inaugural open mic night that he first sang “The Best,” a performance directed at his business-partner-turned-boyfriend. “We were just starting to get serious,” he says. “I needed a way to let him know where I was, without forcing him to meet me there if he wasn’t ready. It worked.”
Two years after being thrust onto the scene in spite of himself, Patrick has a YouTube channel with over three million subscribers. His independently-produced album, “Creekside,” is one of the top twenty Spotify streams of the past year, and has recently been made available on vinyl. He was offered a contract by prestigious label Island Records, but declined. “I didn’t want to belong to anyone,” he says, of his decision to remain independent. “I love my life. I didn’t want to tour, or do press, or play shows I didn’t want to play. I wanted to stay in control. I’d already seen what could be done just through social media, and making my music available to people who wanted to listen to it. I don’t need a massive paycheck. My biggest ambition was to pay off our house and buy my husband a new car.”
The strategy seems to have paid off. “Creekside” is up for two Grammy awards this year, Album of the Year and Record of the Year for “Hold On.” Patrick continues to play concerts in his hometown on his own schedule. The farmer’s back field that served as a temporary amphitheater has now been transformed into a permanent, 5000 seat outdoor concert venue, thanks to the generosity of a local benefactor. “It’s really great to have my own space,” Patrick says, showing me around the facility. It’s impressive, with a state-of-the-art lighting and sound system, bleacher and lawn seats, ample bathrooms and retail stalls, and poured slabs for the food and drink trucks that clamor to provide food and drink for the shows. “Not to mention, having it here has been an enormous boon to the town.” The amphitheater hosts festivals, local events, outdoor theater and quite a few musical tours. Recent shows have included Vampire Weekend, The National, and She & Him. “It’s a surprisingly good location. We’re within an hour of like fifteen towns ranging from five hundred people to ten thousand. It’s an easy drive, and it hasn’t been hard to fill the seats.” The local economy has blossomed with all the visitors. Two restaurants, a coffee shop, an artisan’s workspace and a microbrewery have opened nearby since the Creekside Amphitheater — known colloquially as the Goat Field — was christened last year. Patrick’s shows are still the biggest draw, considering that this is almost the only way to see him live, although he refuses to increase the ticket price from $10 a head.
As for Patrick, he’s content with this level of musical fame. “I don’t have a schedule, you know? I have done a couple of national festivals, but I play my own shows when I want, when I’m ready. I rehearse with my band at my house, I run my store, it’s all just...it’s just right. My subscribers and my patrons have enabled us to accomplish some financial goals, and expand our horizons a bit.” He grins. “My husband did get that new car. I got one, too.”
Speaking of which…
Patrick has clearly been anticipating the moment when I’d turn the conversation towards his husband, David. He blushes and fidgets when he speaks of him — it’s kind of adorable — but that’s not what he’s expecting me to ask about. David has had numerous songs dedicated to him, but has never been so much as glimpsed in any of the media on Patrick’s channel or that has surfaced elsewhere online. The mystery surrounding him grew to the point that Reddit sleuths took on the job, and it took them no more than a few hours to ferret out that Patrick is married to David Rose, a name that may be familiar to you. The son of video store magnate Johnny Rose, David spent most of the early 2000s as paparazzi bait, his exploits breathlessly discussed by the Perez Hilton crowd. The family made headlines when an unscrupulous business manager caused them to lose their entire fortune, left only with a single asset: ownership of Schitt’s Creek. They moved to the tiny town, where in the course of time, David took on the lease of an empty general store, and then a business partner named Patrick Brewer.
[photo: Patrick seated on the edge of the stage with David sitting back-to-chest in front of him. Patrick’s arms are around David’s shoulders and he is smiling, his nose pressed to the side of David’s head. David is mid-laugh, eyes crinkled, beaming.]
The rest, they say, is history. “He’s never wanted to place himself in the public eye, you know?” Patrick says. “I think he had enough of that back in the day. And he was very self-conscious about not intruding on something he viewed as mine. He’s always been incredibly supportive of wherever I wanted to take my music, but that was all. He didn’t want to become some kind of a mascot, or muse. Which, it’s kind of too late for that. It’s because of him that I can do this at all.”
I ask Patrick what he means by that. He looks away for a moment, emotion making his jaw clench. He looks at me. “I always loved music, but I never wrote it from my heart until I met David.”
I ask if he has further ambitions for his musical career. “I’d love to support emerging artists here at Creekside. I’d love to write music for a film. I’d love to do more musical theater. But my greatest ambitions aren’t about music. I want to make my husband happy, and watch our business and our community thrive. If I reach the end of my life and my greatest legacy is that we had a good life together, I’ll be more than satisfied.”

Notes:

There is a playlist for this fic! Don't worry, I had a friend of mine host it, so it does not reveal my identity. You can find it here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1s43VlmNlX2nKJvlhutWsx?si=617a3113b00542bd
A few notes about it. I have used a lot of Noah Reid's original music for Patrick's original music, but I've added a couple of others. "Another Love" by Tom Odell is credited as a Patrick Brewer song, as well as "Always Gold" by Radical Face (who I adore and who I think really sounds like music Patrick would make). As far as the covers go - if a cover exists that's in the style I describe in the fic (such as the "Eyes Without a Face" cover, although it's a female vocalist), I've put that one on the playlist. If one does not exist, I've put the original song there (such as "Shoop" and "Samson.")

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