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I'm never tired, never tired

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I'm never tired, never tired cover art - David and Patrick leaning against a bar, lit in pink and purple. Patrick is wearing a white t-shirt and jeans; David is wearing a black and white sweater and black jeans. The back wall of the bar has shelves of liquor bottles, all backlit in pink. Two small neon signs advertise cocktails, and a large neon sign above the shelves reads I'm Never Tired, Never Tired with writing, narration, and art credits

Author: DesignatedGrape

Narrator: B13_MaybeThisTime

Art: mallpretzles

Download: mp3

“So I’m guessing I shouldn’t just order a whiskey?” Patrick asks, winding an arm around David’s waist and leaning in close so he can be heard over the pounding bass of the music in the club. David’s face glows pink from the backlighting behind the bar, and when he grins, the glitter he’d brushed over his cheeks before they’d left the hotel shimmers and glows like a beacon.

David brings his lips to Patrick’s ear, tickling the sensitive skin. “It’s your birthday, honey. Get whatever you want. But—” David accents the T, and the warm puff of air sends a shiver down Patrick’s spine “—it looks like they do have some very fun drinks here.” He points to the small menu that’s displayed on the bar.

The drink names are, frankly, exactly what Patrick was expecting-slash-hoping for when he’d asked David if he would take Patrick to a gay club in Toronto for his thirty-fifth birthday. The Naked Experience. Ménage à Trois. Taste the Rainbow.

But Patrick feels his eyes light up as they land on, “Boulevard of Roses!”

David wrinkles his nose at Patrick’s exclamation and squints distantly at the menu before giving in and picking it up so he can look at it more closely. “Bourbon, Campari, and…ew, rose water?” He turns to Patrick, his face twisted in disgust. “Have you ever had rose water before?”

“No, but, David! Rose! Like you!” Patrick smiles innocently and blinks up at his husband, who rolls his eyes.

“You know what, fine. Be my guest. But don’t complain to me when your drink tastes like a bar of soap.”

“Millions of people can’t have it completely wrong, David.” He presses what’s meant to be a quick kiss to David’s lips, but as he starts to pull away, he feels David grip the front of his t-shirt, holding Patrick in place and deepening the kiss into something sweeter and more languid. Patrick happily melts into him, tightening the arm that he still has around David’s waist and reveling in the warmth and strength of his husband's body pressed against him.

It’s not that they aren’t openly affectionate with each other back home. Any one of the numerous customers who has unwittingly interrupted some impromptu in-store kissing (not making out; they learned that the hard way many times over during their first year together) can attest to that. They go on dates to Cafe Tropical, hold hands walking through downtown Elmdale, kiss under the cherry blossoms at the Elm Valley botanical gardens. It’s never been lost on Patrick how lucky he was to discover his true sexuality in a place that was so welcoming; a place where he could be himself, whoever that may be.

But still, Schitt’s Creek—and Elmdale, and Elm Valley, and even Thornbridge—are tiny compared to Toronto, and so is the local queer scene. It’s rare for him to be in a large gathering exclusively of queer people, and rarer still for the group to consist of almost all men. It’s not that he and David came here to pick up. Not tonight, anyway. It’s just…nice to look. And as much as it’s a wonderful luxury that no one usually bats an eye at Patrick pecking David on the lips or David catcalling Patrick from the stands at his baseball games, sometimes…just sometimes…it’s nice to be looked at, too.

David finally releases him from the kiss, but not before tugging at Patrick’s bottom lip with his teeth. The unexpected roughness sends a jolt through Patrick that has him leaning back in for more, but David stops him with a smirk and a single finger pressed to his sternum. The sound of a throat clearing causes both of them to turn their heads.

"Something to drink?" the bartender asks with a smirk. He's wearing a very, very tight black t-shirt with—jesus fuck—a black leather harness that cris-crosses his chest, and he's leaning forward with his hands pressed on the bartop, giving them a look that Patrick could only describe as smoldering. Patrick glances at David to see if he is feeling as gobsmacked and dry-mouthed as Patrick. Inexplicably, however, instead of looking at Hot Bartender, David is looking back at him with eyes full of laughter.

“You want to go ahead and order, honey?” David asks, light and playful.

“Uh, sure,” Patrick says uneasily. He’s clearly missing something here, but he’s certain that David wouldn’t tell him even if he asked. He turns back to the bartender. His light brown hair is trimmed in an undercut, his smile is wide and bright, he clearly goes to the gym, and…okay. He’s, yeah. He’s the queer version of Ted. Patrick sees it now. He internally rolls his eyes at himself and orders his drink. “Boulevard of Roses, please.”

“Sure, gorgeous. And what can I get for your guy, here?”

David winds a finger posessively into one of Patrick’s belt loops, which Patrick has absolutely no complaints about. “His husband will have a vodka soda, thank you so much.”

The bartender steps back with a wink and leaves to get started on their drinks.

“Vodka soda?” Patrick asks. “After all that about getting something fun?”

David shrugs. “Been there, done that, would rather forget those times.” He grimaces. “Have definitely already forgotten some of those times. Besides,” he adds, nodding towards the bartender and giving Patrick’s belt loop a tug, “tonight is about you living your best lil’ gay life, and I’m going to help you do that by letting you get delightfully drunk like I know you want to while I sip my drink and enjoy the show.”

“I am thirty-five years old, David. I might get tipsy, but I don’t need to get drunk just because it’s my birthday.”

David responds by kissing him placatingly on the forehead, which Patrick should really take offense to, except for the fact that he’s completely and utterly besotted with the man in front of him. Patrick just smiles and runs his hand gently up and down David’s spine, feeling the soft fabric of his sweater underneath his fingers.

Patrick had been surprised when David emerged from the bathroom of their hotel room wearing not his standard going-to-a-bar leather jacket, t-shirt, and silver necklace combo, but a fitted sweater that looked like it was covered in storm clouds. Patrick had no complaints, though, especially when he’d realized how thin the fabric was, and that he could feel every inch of David’s body underneath it, hidden away from everyone else but right there for Patrick to touch.

He shivers at the memory and presses closer into David’s space.

“Okay,” the bartender says, returning with their drinks, “vodka soda and a Boulevard of Roses. Do you want to open a tab?” He crosses his arms across his chest, and goddamn, he looks strong. Patrick wonders how much he benches. Patrick is always the one picking up David during sex when they’re in the mood for that, but honestly, this guy could probably pick up Patrick no problem. He can’t help but imagine what it would feel like to be crowded between him and David, the press of both of their bodies, one familiar, one unfamiliar—

“You’ll have to excuse my husband,” David’s voice interrupts his thoughts, and Patrick looks up to see David laughing at him again. “We’re out way past his bedtime. He’s practically asleep on his feet.” David reaches for Patrick’s back pocket to pull out his wallet, unabashedly squeezing Patrick’s ass as he goes.

“Am not,” Patrick mumbles, and grabs for his drink to cover the blush he can feel creeping across his cheeks.

Once the bartender has taken their credit card, David raises his glass towards Patrick. “Happy birthday, honey. Cheers to ogling all the hot guys you want.”

Patrick chuckles and clinks his glass against David’s. “You know you’re the only one I’m taking home.” He kisses David sweetly.

“This time,” David challenges, raising a playful eyebrow.

Patrick answers by taking a sip of his drink in a way that he means to be suggestive, but the atmosphere is broken when he can’t help but sputter as his mouth is filled with what he can only imagine his grandmother’s perfume must taste like. He grimaces and wrinkles his nose at his glass. “God, what is that?”

“Did I, or did I not try to warn you that you were buying a glass of liquid potpourri?” David asks.

Patrick swallows thickly, smacking his tongue in his mouth. “It’s fine,” he chokes out.

“Oh, well then please enjoy.” David takes a sip of his vodka soda, not breaking eye contact with Patrick.

Patrick stares down the ruby liquid, taunting him from inside a rocks glass that looks a lot fuller than it did a minute ago. He mentally does a quick cost-benefit analysis of drinking it slowly versus quickly, and decides that a few moments of air freshener mouth, in exchange for being able to get a new drink as soon as possible, is worth the fact that he is almost definitely going to be tipsy sooner rather than later.

“Waiting for something?” David asks brightly.

“Nope, just…admiring it,” Patrick stammers, and brings the glass to his lips. Down the hatch, he supposes. He does his best to channel his college days, now more than a decade in the rearview mirror, and chugs unthinkingly until the glass is empty. He slams it down on the bartop and takes a gasping breath, wiping his lips with the back of his hand as he glances hesitantly at David.

“Wow,” David says, “that bad?”

“No-o,” Patrick tries, but his voice breaks around the lingering burn of bourbon. It might have been nearly undrinkable, but at least it was strong. He clears his throat. “Nope,” he tries again. “Just…really delicious.”

“Ah! Well, we should order you another one!” David’s voice drips with sarcasm. God, Patrick loves this infuriating man.

“You know, I think I’ll try something else. You said I should expand my horizons tonight, right?”

“Mm, yes. Of course. Want me to pick something for you?” David’s eyes soften and his mouth twists into a sideways smile, and Patrick can’t help but kiss him again.

“Yes, please.”

Two hours later, Patrick is feeling great.

He’d been skeptical when David ordered him a daiquiri, but instead of the frozen strawberry concoction he’d been expecting, the bartender had slid an elegant coupe glass across the bar. Patrick had taken a tentative sip, and the combination of rum, lime juice, and sugar had been perfect. He’d wound up drinking it faster than he’d intended because it was so delicious, and followed that up with a Naked Experience (bourbon, pineapple juice, and lemon, which he’d drunk while fully clothed).

Now, he’s just finished a Sloppy Blowjob (the drink, not the act, although maybe later…), which he thinks had vodka in it but also came—hah, came—topped with whipped cream. Patrick had slowly and sensually licked the whipped cream off the top while holding steady eye contact with David, feeling like sex incarnate. David was so turned on he could hardly look at Patrick without smiling, even when David used his thumb to wipe some extra whipped cream off the tip of Patrick’s nose.

So yeah. Patrick is feeling pretty good about himself.

At the moment, they’re smack in the middle of the crush of bodies on the dance floor, pressed chest to chest, David’s arms slung over Patrick’s shoulders and Patrick’s arms around David’s waist, his fingertips inching up under David's sweater to get infinitesimally closer to him. The music is almost painfully loud. The bass threatens to burst his eardrums with every other thump of the electronic drum beat, and Patrick might have cared on another night, but tonight he’s just here to go with the flow. He and David are dancing in a way that can really only be described as grinding, and his whole body is electrified with the thrill of being surrounded by gorgeous, sweaty men, while being allowed to actually touch the one in front of him wherever and however he wants.

He loves David so much.

He should tell him that.

“I love you so much!” Patrick shouts.

David grins at him—fuck, his smile is so beautiful—and leans in to press their lips together. Patrick can tell that David only means for it to be a quick kiss, but damn it, they’re in a gay club. And Patrick is gay. He’s so gay. And David is his husband! So Patrick deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue between David’s lips. David tastes a little like gin, but only a little. He’s pretty sure that David only had a vodka soda and a gin and tonic, and then switched to club soda and lime an hour ago. But it doesn’t matter, because Patrick is having an amazing time, and David is here with him, and he just wants to touch David everywhere, and have David touch him everywhere. His husband is so sexy. He should tell him that, too.

“You’re so sexy!” Patrick shouts.

David throws his head back and laughs, and Patrick is more than happy to nuzzle into the long line of David’s neck and lick a stripe up the soft skin, dragging along the rasp of his stubble and tasting the salt of his sweat. Patrick can feel the vibrations of David’s laughter stutter and his breath hitch at the sensation of Patrick’s tongue on his throat, which is exactly what Patrick was going for. He dives in deeper, intending to bite David just a little, just the way David likes, but instead, he feels David pushing him away and turning him around by the shoulders.

“Hey!” Patrick protests, because that was rude. But David pulls Patrick tight against him again, this time with his back to David’s chest. David’s left hand with its glinting band of gold settles low on Patrick’s hip, and oh, Patrick has always known David has good ideas.

“You have good ideas!” Patrick tells him, tilting his head back and pressing a smacking kiss to David’s jaw, and David answers with a low chuckle and a kiss to Patrick’s temple.

Patrick isn’t sure how long they stay like that, exactly. The music in this club just slides from one song into the next, and they all kind of sound the same. But he passes the time with his husband behind him, David rolling his hips and shimmying his shoulders and lifting Patrick’s arms into the air only to trail his own fingers down Patrick’s arms again, sending wave after wave of goosebumps along Patrick’s overheated skin. Patrick knows what David looks like, and, okay, he can allow himself to be vain in the privacy of his own head: he knows what he looks like tonight, too. He’s been working out, he’s been growing out his curls, and he’s wearing a tight white t-shirt that has probably gone translucent with sweat at this point. They’re hot together, and Patrick loves knowing that right now, anyone could be watching them.

Patrick spins in David’s arms and tugs him into a rough kiss. It’s sloppy and wet and full of way too much tongue, and Patrick doesn’t care one bit.

When Patrick releases David, his lips are deep red and spit-slick, and Patrick wants nothing more than to take him home.

“You wanna get out of here?” Patrick asks, imbuing his words with as much sensuality as he can. David twists his mouth into that cute little sideways pout face he makes when he’s particularly enamored with something Patrick is doing, which makes sense, since Patrick is pretty goddamn irresistible right now, if he says so himself.

“Sure, honey,” David says. Patrick boops him on the nose.

Patrick takes out his phone as they head for the exit, but the floor is really uneven in this part of the club, and Patrick keeps tripping while he tries to walk and figure out the Uber app at the same time. They really should have signs or something if they’re going to be doing construction in a busy club on a Saturday night. Also, does Uber change their app in different cities? It looks different here than in Schitt’s Creek.

Patrick tells David all of these things.

David clucks his tongue and takes Patrick’s phone gently from his hands. “Um, you seem to have opened Netflix. Were you planning on watching Heartstopper again?”

“What? No! I didn’t— I haven’t—” Patrick splutters. David definitely doesn’t know that he’s on his fourth rewatch of Heartstopper, right? He reaches to snatch the phone back, but David bats him away.

“I ordered the Uber already,” David says, pocketing Patrick’s phone. “It will be here in three minutes.” Patrick feels his mouth curve into a dopey smile. God, David is amazing. He's basically magical. Like a sexy David Blaine.

“David Blaine!” Patrick exclaims.

“Ew, where?” David jerks his head quickly to the side.

“No, you! You’re like a magician! David Blaine!”

David narrows his eyes. “Uh huh. Let’s stop that line of thinking right there, shall we?”

Patrick sighs. “Fine.” He wraps his arm around David’s waist. “It’s a good show, though.”

David Blaine?” David squawks, which is very confusing, because why would Patrick have been talking about that?

“No, Heartstopper. They’re like their own little rainbow, David! And they’re all such good friends, and Nick and Charlie love each other so much, and…” Patrick trails off and twists around to hug David fully, pressing his face into David’s neck. “Just like I love you so much.”

“I love you too, honey,” David says, his shoulders shaking with laughter, which, again, is confusing, since Patrick does love David so much. “Oh, look, our Uber is here!”

Patrick turns his head to see the silver sedan pulling up to the curb, but refuses to unwind his arms from behind his husband’s back until the last moment, when David may or may not have to do it for him.

The cloth on the seats feels good on Patrick’s palm, and he slides his hand up and down, with and against the grain, as he drops his head to David’s shoulder. David smells nice. He should tell him that.

“Baby?” Patrick starts.

“Yes, Patrick?”

“You smell nice.”

“Thank you.” David kisses the top of his head, warm and soft and familiar.

“And I’m glad we’re going back to the hotel now, because it’s my birthday. And you know what that means?” He nuzzles into David’s neck then moves to nibble lightly at his earlobe. “Birthday sex,” he whispers.

David kind of jerks away. Did they hit a bump that Patrick didn’t notice? And the Uber driver snorts and coughs, which is unfortunate, because maybe he’s getting a cold, and Patrick knows how much David hates getting sick. David is rubbing his own ear and wincing. Does David have an ear infection? He can’t have caught something already, right?

David clears his throat and pats Patrick on the knee. “Sure, honey. For now, though, why don’t you put your head on my shoulder again.”

Patrick smiles and does. His husband, with his soft, sexy sweater, is very comfortable. And the lights of Toronto passing by the car window are very soothing. Maybe he’ll just close his eyes for a minute.

David smiles to himself when he hears Patrick’s breaths even out not thirty seconds after he puts his head down. If there’s one thing he knows about his husband, it’s that once Patrick has hit the “thinks he’s the sexiest thing on two legs” phase of being drunk, the “definitely going to fall asleep the moment he stops moving” phase isn’t far behind.

And it’s not that Patrick isn’t hot. Usually. But the stumbling, slurring, flirting, wildly dancing like no one's watching, head-over-heels in love with David and not afraid to let everyone in a five-kilometer radius know it, version of Patrick is just…adorable. In his past life, David never thought he’d actually be proud to be seen in public with such an unmitigated disaster of a man. But now, well. Patrick isn’t the only one who would happily tell anyone within earshot how in love he is. Metaphorically, of course. David has no plans to actually talk to anyone unless absolutely necessary.

When they pull up to the hotel, David has to manhandle Patrick out of the car in a way that is decidedly unsexy, but gets the job done. He thanks the Uber driver and apologizes for Patrick's lack of both filter and volume control, uses his free hand to leave five stars and a generous tip, and guides his dead weight, sloth of a husband to the bank of elevators at the rear of the hotel lobby.

David manages to get them up to their floor and into their room, and Patrick seems to perk up slightly when David deposits him in bed, slurring something that sounds vaguely like, “Mmmmcome t’bed, babyyyy.”

David stifles a laugh. “A very tempting offer, honey. Let’s get these jeans off you first, hm?”

Patrick tries to shimmy his shoulders suggestively, which, when combined with the fact that he’s lying down half-asleep on his back, results in a move that looks vaguely like a fish flopping on the deck of a ship.

It is, unfortunately for David, still very cute.

David helps Patrick wiggle out of his skin-tight jeans and sweaty t-shirt (with more attempts to make out from Patrick), sets a glass of water and two ibuprofen on Patrick's night table, and then gets himself ready for bed. He puts on soft pajamas, brushes his teeth, and then carefully cleanses the glitter and–ew–sweat from his face. He's just starting on step two of his skincare regimen when he hears a plaintive whine from the other room.


David bites his lips between his teeth, but the giant bathroom mirror tells him that he's done almost nothing to hide his smile. Is that what he always looks like? Fuck.

After a night out, he would normally never skimp on the skincare, but…it's Patrick. And it's his birthday.

With a put-upon sigh that even David knows is just for show, he skips right to step nine, quickly taps some moisturizer into his skin, and flicks off the bathroom light.

The bedding is fluffy and soft, rivaling even the beautiful set David had chosen for the cottage, and David sinks into it happily. Patrick is immediately on him, wrapping his limbs around David like a koala and snuggling into him. For a moment, David worries that he'll have to fend off Patrick's drunken advances, but moments later, he hears Patrick's soft snores return.

David stretches to flick off the bedside lamp and settles back into his husband. "Goodnight, Patrick," David whispers. "Happy Birthday."