Chapter Text
It was in the pawn shop on 167th that David saw them. The rings. He’d been following Sebastien to every pawn shop in the Bronx for the last six hours, looking for items that were, according to Sebastien, “Imbued with the piquant tragedy of humanity.” His next project centered on urban found art, apparently. David tried not to ask too many questions.
These rings though, they weren’t imbued with anything tragic. They were a set of four wide, silver, open-backed bands, set in a simple cloth case. David made eye contact with the pawnbroker, who looked him up and down before nodding. David picked up the leftmost ring, checking for markings, but there were none. Just smooth, scratchless silver. They looked almost new, but somehow, David knew they weren’t. These were old . These were special.
David checked to see that Sebastien was still otherwise occupied in the back of the store, perusing the selection of hocked vacuum cleaners and drills. David handed his card over at the register, turning down the gaudy, yellow plastic bag emblazoned optimistically with “THANK YOU” in, of course, Comic Sans. He didn’t need a bag; he was going to be wearing these immediately.
The shopkeeper nodded wordlessly again when David collected back his card and the ring box.
“Sebastien?” David said, heading in his direction.
Sebastien turned around, a shop vac hose in each hand. “David, I’ve told you a thousand times. There’s a process, and it cannot be short-circuited. If you can’t understand that -”
“Nevermind. I’ll just -” He was going to say, ‘wait for you.’ But maybe, this time...maybe not. “Head out then.”
“Suit yourself.”
“I’ll see you later?” David said, cringing at the stupid, contemptable hope in his voice.
Sebastien hummed noncommittally in reply, not bothering to turn around. Apparently, pawned home appliances were an engrossing representation of human misery. A lot more engrossing than David.
The bell above the shop door jangled loudly as David stepped outside. He hadn’t gone two steps before he nearly ran smack into someone. An unusual sort of someone, maybe, if David’s quick assessment was correct. A man was leaning against the brick wall of the pawn shop, hands in the pockets of his long, tweed jacket. He had a simple, black toque over his hair, and one foot propped up on the brick behind him in that casual and effortless way David never could pull off. Not even for pretend, and David pretended a lot.
“Sorry,” David heard himself say. Which was weird, because David didn’t apologize. To anyone. Not even to Alexis, that time he’d slept with her tennis coach. Or her French tutor. Or her reiki master.
“It’s fine,” the man said, looking right at David. And that, that just wasn’t done, and yes, he was in the Bronx and not Manhattan, but still. People didn’t look each other in the eye until you took the train to at least White Plains, and David had only been there once before, under duress. What was this guy’s deal? David had no interest in finding out.
“Okay, um. Bye?” Why was that a question? What was wrong with his voice?
“Can I ask you something?” the guy said, stepping away from the wall and a foot or two closer to David.
“Um, sure.” The word his brain had been looking for was definitely, definitely ‘no,’ and yet.
“Did you find what you were looking for in there?”
“I wasn’t really looking for something for me, I was with...someone, and he was looking for something, and I just happened to find something after all, and. Why am I telling you any of this.”
“I asked.”
“Oh,” David said, stuffing his hands in his pockets, enjoying the way the rings clinked together on his fingers. “Well. If that’s all -”
“It actually isn’t.”
“Um. Okay?”
“So…”
“Oh, are you - are you asking for money?” The tweed jacket the man was wearing was a little worn after all, and definitely not appropriate winter attire for New York. “No cash, I’m afraid. I’ve got a few yen in my wallet, but that probably won’t help. And they’re sentimental yen, besides. You can’t have them.”
“I don’t want them.”
“Okay. Well. Good," David said. “I’ll just be...going, then.”
"I want the rings you just bought."
"Um. How did you know about the rings?" David said, warily. He took a few steps back. Nearly into the gutter, really, which. Gross.
“That doesn’t matter. I’m going to buy them from you.”
“Uh, no?” David said, be-ringed fingers clenching in his pocket.
“No?” the man’s forehead wrinkled in confusion. “I have gold.”
“Okay, first - that’s weird. Second, still no.”
“Why?” the man asked.
“I like them.”
“You like them. More than gold?”
“...Maybe?” David said, suddenly sure that the answer was actually ‘yes.’
“So there’s room to negotiate. The thing is, I need those rings.”
“Sure you do.”
“No, really. I - they’re important, and...”
“They’re important to me ,” David said, with more indignation than was probably justified for a purchase he made not five minutes ago. But it felt true, nonetheless.
“Okay, fine. Anything you wish.”
“Nothing,” David said, shaking his head firmly. “I don’t want anything.”
This was, in fact, a bold-faced lie. He wanted so many things. For his gallery to get reviewed in the Times, for Sebastien to kiss him when they fucked, for Alexis to break up whichever of the lesser Hemsworths she was currently dating, among a thousand other things.
“Try me.”
David spun on his heel to face him.
“Fine, alright. I wish Vik Muniz would agree to an exhibit in my gallery. I’ve been after him for years , and he’s got these microscopic castles engraved on a single grain of sand -”
David’s phone buzzed in his pocket, against his fingertips. On instinct, David pulled it out, eyebrow rising at the international area code. Probably Alexis, needing David to express mail something absolutely essential to her in São Paolo.
“Alexis, if this is about your ankle boots again, no, I didn’t borrow them. They’re not my size, and even if they were, the fringe -”
“David? David Rose?” a decidedly male voice said.
“Um, yes?”
“This is Francisco Santos, assistant to Mr. Vik Muniz, and I’m calling to confirm Mr. Muniz will be happy display his Sand Castles collection at Gallery Adelina beginning on -”
David’s brain whited out and he nearly dropped his phone onto the sidewalk. What the fuck. David somehow made it through the call without ruining his professional reputation. A miracle, considering.
It had to be a coincidence. A really, unbelievably timed coincidence. This guy didn’t have anything to do with that call. But even as he was thinking this firmly to himself, Tweed Coat Guy was smirking at him.
“Okay, um, what the fuck?” David said, emphatically gesturing in the air in the way he always did when he was nervous. Patrick’s eyes tracked the movement of his right hand, obviously enough that David glanced down to see what could possibly be so fascinating. The reason for the staring became clear when the rings shone back at him in the bright winter sunlight.
“You’re upset?”
“Yes! I mean, no! But also yes! Who the fuck are you?”
The guy laughed, eyes crinkling in a way that was at odds with his entire demeanor up until this point.
“My name is Patrick. And you’re welcome,” he said.
“I didn’t thank you, though?” David replied, still trying his best not to have an aneurysm right here outside Big Marty’s Gold and Pawn.
“You didn’t have to.”
“Okay. Um. This is too weird for me. You know what, fine." David twisted each ring off the fingers of his right hand and held them out in his palm. "Here. Not worth it.”
The guy, Patrick , stopped smiling.
“Well, what?” David asked, confused. “I didn’t ask for you to do...whatever you just did. Not that I’m acknowledging that you did anything at all. But still. Just in case. Nobody does anything for free, so...here.”
David held the rings out again, taking a step toward Patrick.
Patrick plucked the rings out of his palm, slipping them on the index and ring fingers of his right hand without looking. "Alright. Thanks. So what else do you want?"
"What do you mean?"
"You wouldn't let me buy them, so you get two more wishes."
"You say that like you're reminding me of rules to a game I've never played."
"Okay, sure. Here are the rules. You gave me my rings back, so you get three wishes. Usually the wishes come first and then the rings, but you - you're a little different. I’m improvising.”
“I don’t want any of that. Not creepy rules, or wishes, or anything. Just, we’re good. Enjoy your rings,” David said with a decisive nod.
“You’re very frustrating. And strange.”
“Excuse me, I’m strange? Am I the pissy genie who materialized in the middle of the Bronx?”
“Not a genie.”
David rolled his eyes. “Okay, fine. Djinn.”
Patrick shook his head.
“Fairy?” David hedged.
“Nope.”
“Wizard.”
“Fuck you, I’m not a wizard.”
“Was not expecting that reaction. Is there something offensive about being mistaken for a wizard that I’m not, like, aware of, or...?”
“Are you done guessing?”
“Yes. Because I’m frozen. I can no longer think.” David’s stomach grumbled. “And I’m hungry.”
“Ah, so your wishes are for warmth and food. Easy.”
“No! I didn’t say that! I can get myself a fucking sandwich, thank you very much.”
“Then, warmth. Wish for warmth. Go on.”
“No.”
Patrick huffed. He looked on the verge of stomping his feet in frustration.
“There’s a diner a few doors down,” David heard himself say for reasons he would never be able to articulate.
“You want the diner then? I can get you the diner.”
“No I don’t ‘ want the diner,’ do I look like I have food service-based aspirations?”
Patrick looked him up and down, slowly. If David didn’t know better, he’d have wondered...but no. That’d be crazy. As crazy as this already was? David’s brain helpfully pointed out.
“Coffee. I’m going to buy myself a coffee. You’re...welcome...I guess. To join me.”
Patrick shrugged noncommittally, but when David headed down the street, Patrick fell into step beside him.
They didn’t speak during the short walk to the diner.
“Two, please,” David said to the harried-looking hostess when they stepped inside. She nodded, showing them to a booth.
“Do you have any more guesses?” Patrick asked. “Or have you figured out what else you want to wish for?”
“Yes, and no. Are you some kind of god? I feel like some of the Greek ones could grant wishes, but I can’t quite remember.”
Patrick laughed. “No. Not a god.”
“You seemed a little grumpy for a god, anyway.”
“Hey.”
“Well, you do. If I were a god, I’d -”
“You want me to make you a god? That one’s a bit of a challenge. Getting you this diner would be easier, but -”
“No!” David nearly shouted. “I definitely don't want...that.” David glanced around the restaurant to see if any nearby people were eavesdropping. “Keep your voice down.”
“Good,” Patrick said, quieter. “You don’t want to be a god. I’ve known a few, and I should tell you -”
“Jesus Christ,” David interrupted, just as the waitress set two large coffees down in front of them.
“Oh no, he’s okay. A little preachy sometimes, but -”
“You do not know Jesus Christ.”
“Who's to say,” Patrick said, grinning into his mug as he took a sip. “This coffee is terrible. You should have wished for better coffee.”
“I didn’t wish for any coffee!”
“I know,” Patrick said, despairingly.
“Okay, tell me. What the hell is going on? Who the fuck are you?”
“I already told you, I’m Patrick.”
“That doesn’t answer either question, though!” David said, his voice rising shrilly at the end. “Again, what’s going on, and who are you?”
“You haven’t guessed right yet. Or given me your name. Which I already know, but -”
“It’s David. Wait, what?"
Patrick smirked at him.
"And you can’t just tell me what you are?”
Patrick sighed. “Okay, David. Leprechaun. I’m a Leprechaun.”
“Shut the fuck up.”
“Is that a wish?” Patrick said, mouth twisting to the side.
David shook his head, mutely. He was at capacity. This wasn’t happening. He reached into his pocket for his wallet, signaling to the waitress for the check. He was done.
“Where are you going?” Patrick asked.
“Somewhere. Anywhere? Anywhere else. Not here.”
“I’ll go with you,” Patrick said.
“No, you won’t.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
“Um, no?” David said. The waitress dropped the check on the table.
Patrick pinched the bridge of his nose, breathing out harshly. “Okay, alright. You need proof. You’re a skeptic. I get it.”
He snapped his fingers, and when he presented his open palm to David, an ancient-looking coin rested in the center of it.
"Wow. So you're a magician."
At Patrick's scowl, David amended, " Illusionist. Fine."
"Leprechaun," Patrick said through gritted teeth, and a veritable shower of coins clattered to the tabletop from thin air.
David whipped his head around to see how their fellow diners were reacting, but they were all still steadfastly engaged in their food or their phones. What the fuck?
Patrick waved his hand again, and all but one of the coins vanished. David's hands were shaking - his coffee was about to slosh out of the mug.
“Don’t worry, no one else saw,” Patrick said.
This was less than reassuring.
“Am I...hallucinating? I haven’t taken anything. Today, anyway. But. This feels suspiciously like a hallucination.”
The futility of asking his probably-hallucinated dining partner whether he was, in fact, hallucinating was not lost on him.
“No,” Patrick said. “Watch this.”
As the waitress walked past the table, Patrick held out the check along with one of his magic coins.
“Um, we don’t accept...whatever this is,” the waitress said, holding the coin up to the light and offering David back his grip on reality. She could see the coin. The coin was real. Or, rather, it was temporarily real. She tried to hand it back to Patrick, but he waved her off. She shrugged, pocketing it as David offered up his credit card instead.
“Sir, we have a ten dollar minimum for cards. You boys sure you just want coffee? I should tell you, our Eggs-Quisite Omelettes are...good.” The waitress, Diane, her name tag said, gave them a pained smile.
“I’m so sorry you had to make that pun,” Patrick said.
Diane whispered, "It's a branding thing? I guess? New owner rolled it out. God, I feel so stupid saying it, but my boss skims my tips if I don't..."
“Keep the coin. We’ll take two loaded omelettes. Won’t we, David?”
David nodded, despite himself. He didn’t eat omelettes, especially ‘loaded’ ones. But Sebastien had been in a hurry today, so they’d skipped breakfast. He was so, so hungry, and cheesy eggs with ham sounded - okay, he wanted a loaded omelette.
Diane smiled, and God , winked at Patrick, tucking her hair behind her ear.
When she was out of hearing distance, David asked, “Was that actually generous, or will the coin disappear on her in a minute?”
Patrick laughed. “No, she gets to keep that one. She deserves it.”
“How can you tell?”
“Almost all foodservice workers deserve gold coins. Fifty coins, actually. But that might be conspicuous. And she was nice , unlike some people.”
David put a hand to his chest in mock-offense.
“I’m nice,” David protested. At Patrick’s skeptical expression, he added, “What? I am!”
“You’re good. There’s a difference.”
David stopped short, the teasing words he was about to say dying on his tongue.
“You don’t know that,” David said. “You don’t know me.”
“Let’s just say I have a sense for these things.”
“Sure,” David said, unsettled. “So leprechauns can sense moral character.”
Patrick tipped his head to the side. “In a way. Glad to hear you’re coming around on accepting the leprechaun thing.”
“I’m decidedly not coming around. I’ll need, possibly, the rest of my life to ‘come around,’” David said, throwing out air quotes despite his better impulses.
“Alright, gentleman. Two loaded omelets,” Diane said, setting twin steaming plates in front of them.
When David immediately set about enthusiastically shoveling eggs into his mouth, Patrick said, "You sure you don't want the diner? Or just Liam, the line cook in the back?”
“On second thought, maybe I do want Liam,” David said after his eleventh rushed bite. How Patrick knew the name of the line cook was a concern made distant by the gorgeous saturated fats currently hitting his bloodstream.
“Okay, judging by the obscene sounds you’re making about a four egg omelette, you’re at least a little serious.”
David nodded, humming around his fork.
“One of the rules is that you can’t wish for actual people. I could give you the diner, no problem. You’d inherit it from an obscure relative you didn’t know you had. It’d be great. But I can’t literally give you the people who work here.”
“Well, what’s the point of that? The building didn’t make the eggs. What kind of leprechaun are you, anyway?”
"The only one you'll ever meet," Patrick said, glowering.
"Mm. Okay, sure. So what are the other ground rules? You can't give me actual people, which upon further reflection, is a good rule. What else?"
"Well, I'm supposed to grant you exactly three wishes, and you used one up on the sand artist. Which, alright. That's a choice."
"He's a genius . You wouldn't understand."
Patrick bit back a grin. "Anyway. Three wishes. Then you’ll never see me again."
When instead of replying, David continued happily eating his eggs, Patrick added, "There's really nothing you want? I know - you could wish for identical rings, if you liked mine so much! Then you'll still have a spare wish left over."
"No."
Patrick huffed and let his head tip back against the booth wall, exposing the long line of his throat, which David couldn’t not notice.
“I tell you what. I'll think about it - what I want to wish for. And I'll let you know when I've decided. Give me your phone number."
"Don't have a phone," Patrick said with a shrug.
"Okay, well that's weirder than the leprechaun thing."
Patrick laughed. "Don't worry, I'll find you."
David raised an eyebrow at him, when he probably should've called the cops. But he just couldn't manage to summon a proportional amount of actual fear in this bizarre situation.
He should talk to his therapist about that. But what did she know really, always giving him useless advice like how we should re-evaluate his boundaries with his family, or consider prioritizing his own happiness in romantic relationships. Whatever the fuck that meant. Thanks for nothing, Dr. Mendelbaum.
"Somewhere public, don't worry," Patrick added. “I'm not going to show up in your kitchen. Unless you invite me."
"I won't be...doing that," David said, his voice carrying far less surety than he told himself he had.
*
David was standing in the middle of his gallery, a bright, open space that was currently as empty as the day he'd leased it. Possibilities were playing out behind his eyes, and he was so engrossed in his imaginings that he barely registered the chime of the door opening.
"We're closed," he called out, without turning around. He'd almost figured out where he'd position the projectors -
"Looking great in here. Really loving all the...minimalism."
David turned around, but he already knew who he'd see when he did. He recognized that voice.
Patrick was there, hands in his pockets and smiling at him, rocking back on his heels.
"Did you figure out another wish yet, David? It's been two weeks."
David sighed, rubbing at his temples. He was going to have to start all over now on his vision casting for the exhibit, after this interruption to his process. However well he filled out a henley.
"Are you alright?" Patrick asked, and David was surprised to see he looked genuinely, albeit marginally, concerned.
"Fantastic," David snapped. "A world-renowned artist is exhibiting in my gallery in a week, and I'm so, so prepared."
"Can't you hire someone to help?"
"Yes, I could. I totally, totally could , but I won't. This is too important for someone else to fuck up. You can't trust people, Patrick."
"Oh, I know," Patrick said wearily. "But, no offense, this situation seems a little lower stakes than some of the dilemmas I've witnessed throughout history."
"Um, excuse you? Vik Muniz is a pretty fucking big deal.”
“Mm. I don’t know. The 100 Years War? Napoleon? The Normandy Invasion?”
“Okay, granted. But that reminds me - how old are you?" David asked.
"614," Patrick said. "Wait, 29."
"Come on," David said, crossing his arms.
"Well, right now, I'm 29."
"Sure," David said with an eye roll. "And right now, I'm 27."
"You're 31."
"Fuck, you can sense ages? Wait, what does 'right now' mean?"
"What it sounds like," Patrick said. "Right now, I'm 29."
"Okay, why do I get the feeling that I'm missing something -"
"Am I also 614? Yes. But right now, I'm 29. This is a good age. I think I’ll hang out at 29 for a while. Maybe a few decades. We’ll see.”
"Please explain before I stroke out."
"Let's get lunch first," Patrick said "You're hungry."
“You don’t know that.”
“David.”
“You say my name a lot.”
“Do I? Do you mind?”
“...No.”
“Glad we've cleared that up. You’re hungry. Am I wrong?
“Also no.”
“There’s a great place a few blocks away. Burgers topped with onion rings, cheese inside the patty. You’ll love it.”
David followed him out the door like Patrick was holding a leash.
*
“Oh my God, this is so fucking good,” David said, biting into his burger.
“I’m glad you like it. I could hardly hear myself think over the sound of your stomach grumbling before.”
“So sorry,” David said, as he dipped a sweet potato fry in some sort of mayo/ketchup/hot sauce hybrid that was giving David a reason to live.
“So. Now that you’re fed -”
“Not all the way fed yet,” David corrected, moving on to the fried pickles.
“Now that you’re less hungry, have you given any more thought to your second wish?”
“Mm. Yes. Lots.”
Patrick drummed his fingers on the table as David continued eating.
“I didn’t say they were conclusive thoughts," David said, coming up for air between bites. "Just that I’d had thoughts. A large numerical amount of thoughts. That I had. Pass me the pepper flakes?”
Patrick handed them over.
“So yeah, these thoughts. I was thinking that maybe I should maximize this opportunity to engage in some spiritual reflection. Go with me here, what if I don’t want or need anything at all that I don’t already have?”
Patrick dropped his head to the tabletop, narrowly missing the tray of fried green beans and blue cheese dip.
All of this was delicious, and David hadn’t eaten this much fried food since he was ten years old and Liza Minelli told him his cheeks were looking 'extra pinchable.' He nearly considered wishing for the ability to eat fried vegetables and creamy dips every day of his life without changing his waist size until he imagined how disappointed Patrick would be in him. Which was weird. Why the fuck did he care? God, these pickles were amazing.
“David,” Patrick groaned into the faux-wood tabletop. “Please.”
“I’m just not sure yet. Ask again later. Are you going to eat those buffalo tater tots?”
Patrick pushed the basket of tots across the table toward him.
"Thanks so much."
*
"Oh good, you're here," David said when Patrick opened the door to his office at the back of the gallery. David had been busy trying not to obsess about why the opening last week had gone so well but the place had been empty since. He needed a break. "I'm starving."
"I know just the place."
David nearly fell out of his chair in his hurry to follow. He didn't know how it had happened, but this had become their routine. Patrick would invariably show up at the gallery just when David was buried most deeply in a pit of quiet self-loathing. He always came armed with an urgent recommendation for a restaurant David had never heard of, and David had learned to go along with it.
"Wait, before we go - do I need to change my shirt for this one? That barbecue place last week was amazing, but it took me hours to get that mesquite sauce out of my sweater."
Patrick laughed. "You should be fine. There's this Korean place that has these stone bowls that make the rice in the bibimbap all crispy... you'll love it. And I believe in your ability to get food to your mouth without always ruining your clothes."
"Fuck you. Let's go."
*
Over lamb kebabs from a street cart on an unseasonably warm March afternoon, David asked, “How come you never take me to Irish places? Ashamed of your homeland?
“Not at all. It’s just that Irish food is terrible. Want some of my chicken paprikash?”
“Yes, please."
Patrick passed him the steaming paper tray. “And for the record, I’m third generation Irish Canadian. I’ve been splitting my time between New York and Montreal since 1869.”
David nearly choked on a bite of perfect chicken, which he would’ve been irritated about on multiple levels. His untimely demise, obviously, but also that he almost didn’t get to eat the rest of this chicken. “Anyway, what were you telling me about your mom?"
"Oh, right,” David said, clearing his throat. “So this one time, she interrupted my 4th grade choir recital with a stunning, if out of place, rendition of Moon River. Standing ovation. At least I think there was, I might've been astral projecting from embarrassment at that point."
"Wow."
"What about your parents?" David asked.
"Hm. No parents, exactly. Born from a solid gold cauldron at the end of a rainbow."
"Seriously?"
"No. Give me back my chicken, please."
*
"Where do you go when you're not dragging me to dive bars?" David asked, digging into his heaping plate of nachos.
"This isn't a dive bar. It's a gastropub. And I took you to that mom and pop Italian place last week."
"Mm. Right. Did you say that this place makes their chips in house?" David asked.
"Yup, Maria's a pro. And to answer your initial question - I've been around."
"Okay, good talk."
"I don't know what you want to know,” Patrick said with a shrug. “I do things, I go places. I see people."
"Oh good. I thought I was your only friend."
"We're friends?" Patrick said archly.
Shit . "Well, just. You haven't tried to borrow money from me or steal my good weed, so I'd say we're kind of friends."
Patrick pressed a hand over his heart. "David, I'm touched. Also, a little concerned for you. Sounds like you need better friends."
David scowled, before turning his focus to building the perfect bite out of the various exemplary nacho components in front of him.
"Hey, that's something you could wish for," Patrick said. "I couldn't give you friends of course. But I could hand-select some worthwhile people for you to cross paths with in a perfectly natural way, and you'd be able to trust that they'd never steal your drugs."
"Wow. Thanks, I'll pass."
"Friends are important."
"Interesting. Remind me, who are yours, besides me?" David asked, licking a stray bit of cheese off his finger.
"Linda, the records librarian at the 53rd Street Library, and I have a strong rapport. She finds me all the microfiche I could possibly want."
"Why...nevermind. That doesn't count. She's being paid to be nice to you."
"Counterpoint. Civil service workers aren't paid according to their friendliness, so I'd argue that the fact that she's told me all about Sparkles, her Boston Terrier, says even more about the strength of our connection."
"Sure. Are you going to eat that queso?" David asked.
Patrick passed it over.
"You might be my best friend," David said through a mouthful of cheese.
"I know," Patrick said.
*
"I'm having a bad day, Patrick. This isn't a good time," David said without looking to his right as someone hopped onto the bar stool next to him at Antonio's Elixirs.
"How'd you know it was me without looking? I could've been anyone."
"You smell like fresh air and honeysuckle,” David slurred into his gin and tonic. “I'd recognize you anywhere without looking."
"Wow, how many drinks deep are you?"
"Eleventy."
"Hm. I see."
"How'd you find me?" David asked, picking absently at the napkin beneath his glass.
"You weren't in the gallery this afternoon. I thought we were getting empanadas. Your office assistant tipped me off that you’d gone here.”
David leaned his head on his palm, looking at Patrick and wondering. "So you were worried about me?"
"No," Patrick said with a scoff. "I just really wanted empanadas."
"Hmm."
Patrick signaled for the bartender.
"You gonna drink with me?" David asked.
"No. I'm taking you home."
Patrick handed the bartender a crisp, $100 bill, telling her to keep the change.
"That's not gonna be enough," David said, moodily.
"Jesus." Patrick handed the bartender another $100. "Prices in this town."
"Wow, flush with cash, are we?"
"Are you complaining that I bought your drinks?" Patrick said.
"No. You're very...nice. Where does the money come from?"
"Well, David, there's this thing called the U.S. Treasury..."
David rolled his eyes, downing the rest of his drink.
"The coins, obviously," Patrick said. "I pawned a few. There's always more where that came from."
"Must be nice."
"As if you are unfamiliar with the idea of unlimited wealth."
"Mine's not unlimited ," David objected. "I'll have you know I'm very down to earth. A man of the people."
"Those shoes you're wearing cost $1200. I checked."
"A man of the people with taste ."
"Let's go. I'll get us an Uber. I don't think you should be alone tonight, probably. We can’t get empanadas if you're dead."
"So sweet," David said, pouring himself off the barstool. "Wait, how’re you gonna get the Uber, I thought you didn't have a -"
Patrick pulled a phone from his pocket.
"Oh."
"Figured it was probably time," Patrick said. "And this way, I can add photos to my Google Maps restaurant reviews."
David grimaced, stumbling a little. A classy stumble. No one saw. Patrick maybe saw.
"Hey, I only ever leave five stars," Patrick added defensively.
"But what if a place isn't good?"
"You think I'd eat anywhere that isn't worth five stars?" Patrick asked rhetorically, slinging an arm around David's waist to hold him up.
"Point taken. So what's your apartment like? I'm picturing a mossy cave. Or a treehouse. Do you have a spare hammock for me?"
"You can sleep on my couch."
"Your treehouse-slash-cave has a couch? Wowwww."
"You're an asshole. It's a good thing I like you a little," Patrick said.
"You though, you're not an asshole," David said, fighting back the temptation to boop him on the nose in emphasis. "You're nice. I mean, you're an asshole too of course, but your defining trait is...nice."
"Thank you."
David leaned into Patrick's shoulder a little more than was technically required to stay vertical. He had the cover of alcohol to hide behind after all, so why not? Patrick had very leanable shoulders.
In the back of the Uber, David may have done some light nuzzling in his effort to find the most comfortable place on Patrick’s shoulder and/or chest to rest his extremely heavy head. Were heads supposed to be this heavy? Maybe he should see a doctor. Later, though. For now, he had Patrick’s very nice neck to breathe into. How did he smell like that? That wasn’t a human smell. Did all leprechauns smell that good, or only Patrick? Could he ask, or was that rude?
“No, David. I’m pretty sure all leprechauns do not have a defining scent.”
Oh, he said that out loud. This would have been more worrying, but David was having trouble finding the desire to care. While he’d been thinking about how good Patrick smelled and about heavy, heavy brains, Patrick’s hand had migrated from it’s friendly, neutral position around his shoulder to carding through the short hair at the back of his head. Which, rude - Patrick should’ve probably asked before touching the hair. Maybe he did though, David wasn't the best listener sometimes. And anyway, David wasn’t the least bit offended. Actually, that felt...that felt...
“That feels amazing. Never stop. Is your apartment in Hoboken? I hope it’s in Hoboken, so you can keep touching my hair. It’ll take us forever to get to Hoboken.”
Patrick laughed softly. “Nope, not in Hoboken.”
David groaned as Patrick’s finger brushed over the shell of his ear on another pass through his hair.
“Okay, David. We’re here.”
David nuzzled his face deeper into the criminally soft fabric of Patrick’s hoodie in denial. Patrick lightly shoved him off, but softened the blow by offering David a hand out of the car. When he let go of David’s hand to dig his house keys out of his pocket, David pressed his forehead to Patrick’s back, leaning heavily.
“I might fall over if you keep that up,” Patrick said over his shoulder, attempting to work the key into the lock.
“Well, I’m definitely going to fall over if I stop leaning,” David grumbled. “You’re very leanable.”
“Are you always this cuddly when you’re drunk?” Patrick said, laughing.
“Excuse you, I’m not cuddly,” David protested, an arm snaking around Patrick’s waist. For better leaning support. That was the only reason.
Patrick eventually got the door open, tugging David with him as they ambled toward the stairs.
“So you can pull solid gold coins from thin air but you can’t afford a building with an elevator?” David complained, trudging up the first few stairs. The only thing that made this bearable was that Patrick was in front of him. His ass looked...motivating, if only David could make his legs cooperate.
“Cardiovascular health is important," Patrick said, taking the stairs two at a time.
"I get my cardio on a Stair Master, not actual stairs ," David wheezed.
"You haven't been to that gym in six months," Patrick said, turning around and looping his arm back around David's waist to help him up the last flight. "You said it's bougie, and you're right."
David took up his position leaning against Patrick's back again as Patrick worked the door to his apartment open. It was such a good back. Maybe David could just stay right here, like this, possibly forever, and Patrick wouldn't mind. Something to consider.
"Oh, it's so green in here," David said, stumbling into Patrick's living room, after Patrick clicked on the lights. "Very on brand for you, since you're a..." He hiccuped.
"Leprechaun. I get it, David. Don't hurt yourself."
David slumped onto the couch. "I like the plants," David said, carefully running a finger down the waxy, deep green leaf of the exotic-looking plant on Patrick's coffee table. "They're friendly."
"Except the Madagascar Palm to your left. It has thorns."
"I like pretty, thorny things though," David said, eyeing Patrick where he was now leaning against the doorframe between the living room and what appeared to be the kitchen. He looked stupidly good like that, the long line of his legs having a sizeable effect on David's remaining functional brain cells.
"I'm so glad I have your approval," Patrick replied, smirking.
"My approval is very meaningful," David said, yawning and tipping over on the couch.
"Mmhmm. Definitely. It's all I think about." Patrick said. "Okay, goodnight, David." Patrick turned to leave as though David was remotely prepared to sleep yet.
"Wait," David said, lurching to his feet.
Patrick turned around, a vaguely expectant look on his face.
"Do you have, like, a spare toothbrush?"
"Under the sink in the bathroom."
"And something I could sleep in, maybe? This cashmere isn't the best bedwear."
"I'll leave a t-shirt and gym shorts for you in the bathroom. Along with some ibuprofen."
"Great. And some night cream, rosewater toner, vitamin C under-eye serum, something with high concentration retinoids -"
Patrick laughed, which was weird, because David wasn't kidding at all.
"Alas. My apartment isn't a fully-equipped spa. I might have some expired Neutrogena sunscreen somewhere..."
"Ugh. Well, it's you who'll be sorry when you have to look at this neglected face in the morning."
"Yes, what a hardship that will be for me," Patrick said. David was probably just drunk and delirious, but for a moment, it looked like Patrick’s eyes traveled down to his mouth for a moment.
"You'll tell me about what's bothering you in the morning, right?" Patrick asked, face turning more serious.
David nodded.
"Thank you, Patrick," David said softly to his retreating back.
*
In the morning, David was no longer feeling grateful. In his impaired condition last night, he'd failed to register that Patrick's living room windows lacked shades, and sunlight had started it's D-Day assault on his eyelids at an ungodly 6:00 AM.
"Paaaatrick," he groaned.
"What," Patrick said, appearing in the doorway, holding a steaming cup of something David was sure he needed in his body immediately.
As if reading his mind, Patrick set the mug down on the coffee table. David curled his hands around the cup, breathing in deeply.
"Single origin Tanzanian Peaberry, spot of cream, generous sprinkle of turbinado sugar," Patrick said, answering David's unspoken question. “Your coffee preferences are ridiculous, by the way.”
"Bless you." David took a sip - perfect. "You just happened to have my favorite varietal of coffee bean in your house?"
"No, I went to the pretentious coffee shop one block over and bought them before you woke up."
"You did not."
"I did."
"Why."
"You were sad last night. I don't know, David. I bought you coffee. It's not a big deal. It's nothing."
"This is not nothing. Almost enough for me to forgive you for your windows' lack of black out curtains."
"My plants like the early morning southern exposure. But I'll be better prepared next time."
"Thanks so much," David said, sipping the last of the coffee with an entirely appropriate amount of despair that Patrick hadn't brought him a ten gallon bucket of it for him to drown himself in instead of this inadequate little doll's mug.
Patrick tipped his head to the side, considering him. "Wanna get shakshuka? The Palestinian place downstairs is incredible."
"Fuck, yes," David said, before remembering an unfortunate truth. "My face though, shit. I can't go anywhere like this."
"This may come as a shock to you, but in fact, you can. People do it all the time."
" Other people. Not me."
"David. They have fresh labneh and their baker, Nouran - you'd love her, she's great - makes the pitas every morning. She always gives me extras."
"Do you know every foodservice worker in this city?"
"Not yet," Patrick said. "I'm working on it."
"You're ridiculous. But...do you think she'd give me some of those pitas?"
"With your face like that? We'll see."
David flipped him off before trudging toward the bathroom to put on last night's bar-scented clothes. He combed his hands through his hair, shrugged, and followed Patrick out the door.