Chapter Text
WINTER
“Whenever you’re ready.”
Patrick closes his eyes. His pulse thrums under his skin. Inhale, exhale . When his eyes open, he’s no longer Patrick Brewer. He no longer has to feel Patrick Brewer’s feelings or endure the weight of expectations placed on him. For just a moment, he’s someone completely new.
The character’s emotions become his own as Patrick slips into what he practiced. Confusion and bitterness tinged with a hint of worry. Parting lips, furrowed brows.
He raises his turned-off phone to his ear. “Katie? Why are you calling so early?”
Someone is crinkling paper. Another person clears their throat. The background noise is nearly enough to bring him out of character, but he pushes himself to block it out and refocus. There’s no paper in the scene. It’s irrelevant static. Keep going.
An interviewer feeds him the opposing character’s line in a monotone voice. “I’m sorry, I just, something happened, and I couldn’t…I didn’t know what to do.”
Anger seeps away, replaced by a sense of caring, a need to comfort. The fear builds. Tension mounts at his shoulders. Clutch the phone tighter against the ear.
“Woah, slow down. I don’t—what’s going on? Are you okay?”
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Patrick fully flinches out of the scene this time, turning toward the noise. Someone was knocking on the door. One of the interviewers waves the person inside.
They’re taking lunch orders, apparently. The man in the center is adamant he get his sandwich without tomatoes this time. The other two look over the menu with a far more interested gaze than the one they graced Patrick with.
Orders taken, Patrick steels himself to try again, try and delve back into the scene…
“I think we’re good,” one of them says. Patrick isn’t sure which one, as they’re all flipping through the script again when he looks back at them.
Patrick swallows hard, stuffing his hands in his jean pockets. No matter the frustration, he can’t let it show. One wrong move and his disrespectfulness would be spreading like gossip among these Hollywood executives.
Thank god he’s an actor.
“Okay, um, thank you. Nice meeting you all,” Patrick replies with a wave.
No one bothers to dignify him with a response, so he walks out.
Outside of the audition room, chairs full of matching individuals line the hallway. One guy who passes him is built like a Roman god, nearly half a foot taller than Patrick with a broad, straining chest and wavy brown hair flowing just above his shoulders.
Patrick jams the elevator button and squeezes in with even more look-alikes, all white males with brown hair in gray sweats and a dark hoodie like the role called for. Surrounded by people who look similar to him, Patrick feels insignificant, unnoticeable, one of those faces in a crowd that everyone sees but no one cares to remember.
As the elevator descends, Patrick absentmindedly checks the time.
Shit. He’s late.
He jiggles his leg as the elevator pitters downward. Floor three…floor two…
A shrill ding alerts them that they arrived back on the ground floor in one piece. Right after the doors creak open, Patrick bursts out, offering out strangled apologizes over his shoulder after knocking into some of the others in his haste.
Patrick jogs through the production area while simultaneously tugging off his hoodie. He nearly trips when the hood catches but rights himself at the last second. The hoodie gets stuffed into his backpack. He ruffles his hair back into place as best he can right as he reaches the entrance.
Warner Bro’s Coffee Stop, otherwise known as Patrick’s ‘real’ job. So no, Patrick’s not a professional actor, not yet. But he’s been acting his whole life to prepare for it, and not just in a theatre capacity.
“Brewer, you’re late. Again,” Ronnie drawls from her position leaned up against the counter.
“I know, I’m sorry,” Patrick apologizes. “I just had an interview—”
“I don’t care. Just get here on time, Brewer.”
She throws his apron at his face.
Another day in paradise.
…
“How was your audition?” Rachel calls out from her spot on the couch as Patrick trudges through the front door to his (now their) apartment.
Patrick drops his bag and keys at the door. The dull thump causes Rachel to cease her typing, and her brows knit together as she glances up at him. Patrick figures he must be a sight to behold, all slumped shoulders and disheveled hair and clothes smudged with coffee grounds.
Patrick scrubs at his face. “I don’t know, not great.”
Rachel sighs, closing her laptop on the couch and standing with a cat-like stretch. She waltzes over to him, arms curling around his neck. He accepts her offered affection, cupping at her waist.
“Oh Paddy, I’m sorry. You’ll impress them at the next one, I know it. There’s a perfect role out there just waiting for you.”
Although he appreciates Rachel’s constant support and comfort after another failed audition attempt, Patrick dreads each time he returns with another rejection because he dreads hearing more of Rachel’s well-intended yet meaningless placations of which Patrick questions the sincerity. Still, she’s always been there for him when any other sane person would probably have given up on him by now. Really, any other sane person would probably have given up themselves. Luckily, Patrick is anything but sane.
“Thanks, Rach,” he settles on.
She smiles, rubbing at the back of his neck and bringing him into a gentle kiss.
With all the instability in Patrick’s life, Rachel is the one constant. She balances out the chaos in his life, bringing him back to an equilibrium, back to a state where things are manageable and predictable. As counterproductive as it sounds, he’s come to enjoy the growing mundanity in their relationship after more than a year of being together.
Rachel, on the other hand…
“You know, there’s a party I heard about tonight. We should go check it out.”
Patrick hums, pulling away from her. “I don’t know…”
Rachel tires of their same old routine that they’ve fallen into: Date nights every other Sunday at a nearby, above average but affordable restaurant, taking turns making dinner or picking up takeout while the other cleans up, watching and rewatching movies with well-renowned superstars like James Dean and Leonardo DiCaprio, chatting about the same topics over and over. But Patrick values this lack of change because inside this little, stagnant bubble of theirs, things make sense.
“Come on, please! It will be so fun,” she begs.
“I’m sorry, I’m just beat from work, and I should work on prepping for my audition next week.”
“You have plenty of time to do that later. We’re in L.A., Patrick! We need to live a little. Plus, who knows who you might meet! Maybe you’ll bond with the next big director in the movie business.”
Rachel loves L.A., and L.A. loves Rachel. She works full-time as a professional travel blogger, highlighting all the hot spots in the city. Not only does she thrive in L.A., excelling under the high demands and fast-paced thrum of the city, but this demanding atmosphere gives her energy and motivation. For Patrick, on the other hand, life in the city is slowly sucking away at his motivation and dreams.
Patrick does feel guilty, especially since Rachel’s been so patient with him and so encouraging about his auditions. So, as much as he wants to stay at home wallowing for the rest of the night, he wants to make Rachel happy. She deserves a proper night out after putting him with him recently.
“Okay, okay,” Patrick acquiesces.
Rachel squeals, tugging his arm toward the bedroom. “Yay, this is going to be so great! Come one, let’s go get ready!”
An hour later, Patrick is grime free with only the residual scent of coffee beans which he knows from experience will linger no matter how hard he scrubs to remove it. Rachel helps Patrick pick out his outfit, a sky blue, button-down shirt overlayed with a navy blazer to match Rachel’s own navy-colored dress. The preparations for the party make Patrick feel like he’s getting ready for prom; all that’s missing is the boutonnière and corsage.
Rachel is glowing, curling red hair a striking contrast against the deep tones of her dress. Patrick’s always known she’s beautiful, but tonight, she radiates it. Rachel asks him to zip her up, swiping her hair to the side and revealing the pale, freckled expanse of her back. Patrick dutifully zips the dress, careful to avoid catching her skin. His fingers accidentally brush against her bare back, and she shivers. Patrick pulls his hand away.
“Ready?” he asks to distract her.
“I suppose this will do,” Rachel hems, smoothing out the lines in her dress.
“You look beautiful.”
Rachel beams, turning to face Patrick and fiddle with his collar. “And you look very handsome.” She pats his chest. “Okay, let’s go.”
If Patrick was asked to picture a Hollywood party, this lavish mansion in the hills is what Patrick would come up with. Patrick can feel the bass from all the way down the street as he drives up with Rachel. Colorful lights flash from the windows. Inside, the air is tinged with the scent of weed, vodka, and sweat. Rachel gets them both beers, although Patrick only sips idly on his, needing to keep a clear head to be able to drive them back tonight.
Partiers scream and cheer and chant. There are people doing body shots in the corner. Others leap into the humongous pool from dangerous heights, not a care in the world for repercussions. The bass vibrates through Patrick’s entire body as Rachel leads him to the dance floor. Patrick can’t help but dance along with Rachel, her positive energy too contagious to resist. They have a good time, at first, dancing sillily with each other and laughing at the other drunk shenanigans. Rachel downs more drinks while Patrick continues nursing his beer which barely gives him a buzz.
Then, the night turns to the part of these parties Patrick doesn’t enjoy. Rachel runs into a group of her blogger friends who Patrick has met a handful of times. After that, she gets swept up in the drunken group, leaving Patrick to trail behind her like a lost dog. She tries to include him for a while, but her version of including him mostly consists of getting as close to him as physically possible and telling her friends a story about the two of them where Patrick only chimes in once or twice to agree.
Patrick can only take so much. The headache that’s been gathering under his temples all day has started to pound with the beat of the music. He takes another sip of beer, but it settles uncomfortably in his stomach. Rachel presses up against him more, and he flinches, putting some more distance between them. She’s too drunk and engaged in her conversation to notice.
“Rachel,” Patrick shouts over the music, trying to get her attention. “Rachel, can we head home?”
“I was actually thinking of heading to a club with the girls!” Rachel shouts back. “Is that okay? I mean, I can come back with you—”
“No, no, go have fun. Enjoy yourself, you deserve it. Stay safe.” He kisses her cheek.
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure. I’ll be fine. I’ll take the car back to my apartment.”
Before Rachel can reply, she’s distracted by another one of her friends gasping at something and tugging her away. Patrick can’t help but be relieved. He’s ready to head home and collapse into his bed.
Patrick shuffles through the crowds and out the door into the dark, narrowly avoiding a couple passionately making out on the steps. As he gets further away from the house, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, tilting his head up toward the night sky and letting the warm breeze wash over him. After that, he starts the long walk down the road back to his car.
But right as he reaches his car, he finds it being towed away.
“No, no, wait! I’m here,” Patrick calls out, jogging behind the truck and waving fruitlessly. He stops after a few paces, groaning as he watches his car being pulled down the street. There’s no way he could get his car released at this hour. He slips out his phone with the intention to call an Uber, but of course, his phone is dead.
Great. Walking it is, then.
Patrick sighs and starts his journey back to the apartment. At least it’s not more than a mile and a half or so, making it close enough for Patrick to remember the route to get back.
A few blocks into his walk home, a soft, plinky sound draws his attention. Patrick follows the noise, ears straining to listen to the melody. Unlike the raucous techno blasting from the speakers of the bars he passed, this mysterious, airy tune attracts him. It leads him to a place called Lipton’s , a fancy restaurant of some sort based on the menu hung outside.
The tune is painstakingly familiar, yet there’s something a bit different about it that prevents Patrick from putting his finger on it. He stands outside for a minute, just listening to the striking melodies emanating what he now recognizes as a piano. It’s obvious now, too, that this is no recording but rather a live performance. No recording could achieve such roundness, such richness in quality.
Patrick moves inside as if compelled through a trance of a siren’s song. After getting past the garland wrapped around the columns at the entrance, his gaze lands on the object of origin. Everything zooms in at once, leaving only himself in a blank room across from a grand piano in the center, music drifting from its keys; it’s not the piano itself that interests Patrick, though, it’s the person playing it. Large, broad hands with silver-ringed fingers stroke at the keys in a blur. Patrick’s eyes trace up the hunched over curve of his spine, clad in a black suit that blends in with the dark ambiance of the room. The man’s lips are parted slightly as he plays, full-body leaning into each chord progression. His eyes flutter shut every so often as if he’s feeling the music rather than thinking of it in terms of individual notes. Then, the man’s eyes open again, gaze flitting to the side right where Patrick stands frozen.
Patrick’s heart crescendos in his chest at the same time as the melody.
The man finishes with a flourish, hands sweeping up and down the keys in motions too complex to keep up with. He lands a powerful, finishing chord and surges to his feet, bench screeching against the wood floors. His shoulders heave with the force of his breaths, and he swipes back a few stray hairs that fell loose during his performance. From behind the curtain of his hair, he glances over at Patrick with piercing eyes.
“David,” a voice drones. The man (David, apparently) turns his head toward a scowling figure who beckons him over with a finger.
Meanwhile, Patrick can’t bring himself to move, still captivated by the ethereal experience. His fingers are tingling where they twist together in front of him. The surrounding customers have since turned their attention away again, but Patrick continues to stand there, starstruck. He glances over at David, who appears to be having a heated conversation with the other man. After a few more seconds of flying hands, David is back at the piano, collecting his things.
Patrick swallows, mentally preparing what he wants to say. Before he can second guess himself, his feet are moving swiftly toward David just as he’s about to leave. They intercept within the rows of tables. Patrick opens his mouth.
“I just heard you play, and I wanted to say…”
But instead of stopping, he slams his shoulder against Patrick as he passes by, not bothering to apologize and not looking back.
Patrick shakes his head and bites at his lip. It’s probably for the best. He wouldn’t want to talk with an asshole like that, anyways.
After being stuck in traffic for an inhuman amount of time, David is finally home. The familiar itch under his skin has been nagging at him to practice his music all day, and now he can. Listening to a composition on a beat-up car stereo and tapping the beat against the steering wheel can only do so much to put him at ease until he gets back to his piano. He hums the tune on the way into his apartment using his steps as a guide for the beat, looking forward to spending the afternoon in his favorite spot. He’s almost got the hang of the first few measures of an arrangement of Sarah McLachlan’s Adia . Now he just needs to make it to his piano before he loses it all.
Entering his bare apartment, David drops his bag at the door and immediately spots the out-of-place purse. Why the hell did he give her a key in the first place?
“Please stop sneaking into my apartment!” calls out as he rounds the corner into the kitchen.
“There you are, David! I was wondering where you were,” Alexis greets casually as if he should be expecting her.
“Can’t you call or text like a normal person?” David snaps, shuffling through his cabinets for a mug. If he wants to get through this interaction alive, he’ll need a heavy dose of caffeine.
“I do text, you just never respond!”
David flips on the switch to his coffee pot, fingers tapping along the edge of the counter. “Well did you ever think maybe there’s a reason for that?”
“Ugh! You’re so annoying.,” Alexis complains. She stands up and starts wandering through to what David calls the piano room. “And your apartment is a disaster.”
“It’s not a disaster.”
“There are half-unpacked boxes everywhere.”
David leaves his coffee momentarily, following behind her as she reaches into an overflowing box. “I’m still — don’t touch that! — I’m still trying to figure out the aesthetic of it all, okay?”
“Okay well, it’s creepy, David. It’s like someone broke up with you and you’re stalking her. Do you even have like, a plan? For what you want to do with your life?”
Alexis meanders toward another box and shuffles through it. David shoos her away, rearranging everything back inside as it’s supposed to be.
“I had a plan, a very serious plan, before Dad’s business manager screwed us over.”
Alexis leans against his desk with exasperation. “We’ve all had to deal with the fallout of losing our money, David! But you’re acting like John Mayer when he was all hung up over that song Taylor Swift wrote about him.”
“What, like you’ve accepted it? Like mom’s accepted it?”
“None of us are happy about it, but Mom has her new movie, Dad has a new business venture, and I’m on my way to become a major advertising girl boss,” she replies, flipping her hair over one shoulder.
“You don’t even have your degree yet,” David snipes out as a reminder.
“I will in a few months! And it’s more than you’re doing! You’re just sitting around, waiting for that space to open up again.”
The mention of that space sets him off like usual. He still can’t believe such a historical site was desecrated in the name of cheap commercial products. He could have made it into a success if it wasn’t for his father’s business partner screwing them over right before David was planning on renting the space out.
David paces while muttering, “Fucking Christmas World , forsaking the name of live piano music. Nobody needs a year-round Christmas store! It’s tacky.”
“See, this is what I mean! You need to move forward, David. Have you even dated anyone since Sebastian?”
“That’s none of your business!”
Sebastian was a pretentious asshole, there’s no doubt about it. David knew he was a pretentious asshole ever since they met at a seedy, underground club in West Hollywood. He Sebastian’s paths crossed at a low point in David’s life, a time during which David spent most hours of the day drunk or high or both, and all the while he was so, so lonely. Sebastian was the first person who wanted something to do with him after a casual hookup. He made David feel precious and special in a way that no one had for a long time, so David kept him around. He kept him around despite the cheating and the insults and the deceit and the drugs because of those tiny, insignificant moments of adoration, of worshipping David’s beauty.
Then, David’s family lost their money and their influence, and Sebastian didn’t want to associate with him any longer. Sebastian breaking up with him was like getting rid of a nasty parasite, but the thing is, David was just as much of a parasite, just as much of an asshole. Yes, Sebastian was using him, but David was using Sebastian right back, using him to feel something good for once in his life. It was a symbiotic relationship, of sorts. Was it an unhealthy relationship? No doubt, but David can’t be mad at Sebastian for being such an asshole when David knew what he was getting into the whole time.
“I’m taking that as a no which might be a good thing because I have someone I want to you meet,” Alexis says, holding her phone screen with some woman in front of David’s face. David scoffs, batting her phone away.
“I don’t want to meet anyone, especially not someone you introduce me to!”
“You need to do something! You’re living like a hermit,” Alexis replies, gesturing in a circle around herself.
David drops his face into his hands briefly, pressing his knuckles hard enough against his forehead that his rings probably leave an indent. “I’m fine, and I don’t need you meddling with my life any more than you already have!”
“I’m just trying to help you!”
“I don’t need your help! Now get out, please. I have important stuff to do, and you’re bothering me.”
With that, David turns his back to Alexis and walks toward the window. He folds his arms, staring out at the alleyway view of his apartment where a man rifles through the garbage.
“Fine, I’m leaving, for now. But please, stop shutting yourself off so much from mom and dad, from me. We worry about you.”
David presses his head against the window, not gracing her with a response. At first, David thinks Alexis might say something else based on her lingering, but a few seconds later, the fading clip-clop of Alexis’s heels signal her exit, followed by his front door creaking open and falling shut. Peace and quiet, at last.
David draws the blinds shut and flips on the tabletop light on his piano. He opens the clip on his phone he’s been studying all day, then settles his hands on the keys. As the tune starts, he practices along. His first attempt, while good, isn’t great. David restarts it again. He’s going to do this until he gets it perfect.
…
David arrives at Lipton’s that night dreading the atrocious lineup he’ll be forced to inflict on the piano and on the customers. If it were up to David, he would leave this restaurant and never return. Unfortunately, his rent is too far overdue for him to back out. He needs the cash, no matter how painful getting it will be.
His boss, Roland, stands near the back with raised brows. David takes a composing breath before walking over to him.
“Roland, thank you for having me back,” David says between gritted teeth, shaking his greasy hand.
“Of course, Dave. I know you’re desperate, so I’m giving you one last shot ,” Roland emphasizes. “Stick to the preselected songs. None of your freestyling mumbo-jumbo, pal. Capiche?”
“Got it,” David mutters, flinching at the slap on the back Roland gives him.
“Great! Now, get to work. The people need their music!”
David shuffles over to the piano. He adjusts the bench and runs his fingers along the keys, a silent apology for what he’s about to do. With a few final adjustments, David positions his hands on the keys and starts into an overly jaunty version of Jingle Bells with a grimace. This should really be considered a form of torture.
As per usual when he’s playing drivel like this, his mind wanders. It doesn’t take much effort for him to keep up the repetitive, boring melodies of Christmas tunes, thankfully. So as his hands continue playing automatically, his mind dissociates. He pretends that he’s in his own piano bar, having taken over the perfect rental spot instead of Christmas World. He pretends he’s on a stage, playing an arrangement of some of his favorite power ballads. The audience came specifically for the music, for the aesthetic and culture of it all. His parents and sister are there, too, not calling him a failure for once. And in this fantasy, David can do what he loves every single night for the rest of his life.
David breaks out of his fantasy at the natural end of the song and starts another. As he launches into a rendition of Deck the Halls , he can’t bear the bland, overplayed melody. Surely Roland wouldn’t notice if he slipped a few extra chords in there. He slows down and speeds up, adds a trill here and there, makes the song less bouncy and flowier. Soon, the song barely resembles the original, and David pushes it further until it’s something completely different.
It's a piano arrangement he's fiddled around with recently, one of his all-time favorite classics. And in this moment, he feels like he could actually be playing at his own bar. He tests a new variation, letting the sway of the music guide him. He closes his eyes, getting lost in the sensation of the cool keys under his fingers and the rhythmic pedaling on the rests.
Someone is watching him. David can feel the stare on him, and he glimpses over quickly to find the perpetrator. The man is standing in the middle of the entryway like an idiot, a blazer hung over one arm and brown hair ruffled, just staring. Well, if it’s a show that man wants, David will give him a show.
David strays even further from the original melody, playing a quick arpeggio up and a showy glissando down. Sweat beads at the edge of his forehead, and hair flops free from the parted style David spent way too long getting right. He stops abruptly, pushing up from the piano and huffing. He reaches up to tuck the hairs back in place, but they stubbornly refuse to stay put. Briefly, David glances back over to see the man still standing in the same position with his big eyes and a strange half-pout half-smile.
“Dave,” Roland says from over his shoulder. David turns to see Roland beckoning him over with an unamused look. Fuck.
David trudges over to him, “Okay so I might have gotten carried away—”
“I’m sorry to do this to you, Dave, but I told you, tonight was your last chance, and you went off the setlist again.”
“So I hear what you’re saying, but I don’t think you’re saying what you mean.”
“I know what I mean. I mean you’re done here, Dave. You’re fired. Laid off. Let go. Done-zo. Sorry, bud,” Roland says, leaving no more room for negotiating. He walks away, leaving David to glare at his back.
David turns in a huff, going to gather up his things when he notices that the same man is still staring at him. What kind of person watches someone while they’re getting reprimanded by their boss? Either this guy is a sadist or just an inconsiderate jerk.
Then, as David is heading for the door, the man is walking to meet him. “I just heard you play, and I wanted to say…”
David presses his lips together and ignores him, pushing past him roughly. He hears the man scoff. David smirks. Maybe that will teach him to be less of an ignorant creep.
With his night unexpectedly free, David plans on popping a pill, crying a bit, and falling asleep early.