Chapter Text
Patrick is on the Carpathia for what feels like years.
He’s sure it’s not that long—but between slipping in and out of consciousness, often being forced awake only to eat something, and then, finally, sleeping for what the doctor assures are long, healthy bouts of time—well, he’s not entirely sure how many days it’s been by the time he wakes up to hear they’ve docked in New York.
He has to assume it’s only been days, a week at best—they’d only been a few days’ travel out from America when everything had gone wrong. When he’d wake up for food, the doctors would tell him what happened—that he and the other men who’d survived the night on the collapsible boat were pulled into another lifeboat, and eventually brought on board the Carpathia with all the other survivors. He’d been standing and wading in the cold water for long enough that his body was forcing itself to rest from the—hysteria, the doctor called it.
So he’d stayed in the cold, makeshift, overcrammed hospital, in varying states of consciousness, for god knows how long.
At least until someone from the crew comes in to say they’ve docked in New York, and that, after the Carpathia’s passengers were let off, they’d be guided off the ship.
It was supposed to be different; but instead of pulling his bag and guitar down the gangplank, hand in hand with David on a warm Wednesday morning, to the sounds of his mother and sister chatting and the hum of the city, planning for the future—
It’s raining in New York.
It had felt like too awful and obvious a metaphor, the way the ship had been rattling with the sounds of thunder outside nonstop for the last few days. But the patter of the rain persists outside, even as Patrick sits in the infirmary, watching as the rest of the passengers and patients are slowly guided out. Some are brought crutches—others are pulled out on stretchers.
The guilt is heavy.
There were moments, when he’d been awake over the last few days, that he’d considered asking to get up. Trying to find the Roses. But what would he say—I’m sorry? Sorry doesn’t feel like enough, not when Patrick knows exactly how David Rose’s last hours played out, when he knows how close Johnny and Moira came to having their son back. How would he look at Alexis, and Ted—who’d done nothing but immediately welcome him into their family, odd as the whole situation was—and say that David was gone because Patrick just couldn’t keep his mouth shut? That he’d died on his own, in the cold ocean, and Patrick had, by some shred of misfortune, escaped with his life, with nothing but a case of frostbite on his legs to show for it?
They take the first and second-class passengers out first. Patrick waits. And waits. And waits. It’s an endless stretch of time where a thousand thoughts race through his head—how he’ll get home, what news has spread about the sinking, anything and everything to stop thinking about the last five days and what could have been.
The sky has long turned dark outside when a new man in uniform comes into the space—says he’s from immigration, apologizes for how long they’ve waited, and that once they fill out his forms, they’re free to go; that if they want help, they can get lodging for them for the evening, and a few charities have offered to provide some help for the time being for those stranded far from home.
It’s daunting and a relief all in one. For one, as Patrick scratches out vague information on his form about James Farrell, he feels at ease, finally getting to leave behind all of the fake names and charades that had come with his journey aboard the Titanic , and what had come after. He even makes the choice he can hear David chide in his mind, rejecting the hotel space for the night. His body is itching to be himself again, to wash this entire thing off him. Every night he’s attached to that name prolongs the truth. There was no more delay, no denial; he was Patrick Brewer again, in every way that counted. Patrick Brewer had survived the sinking. Patrick Brewer was in New York.
But what now?
With David, Patrick had finally found his plan. After going completely off-book for the first time in his life, he’d been directionless, which at first had been freeing. And being with David, he’d been distracted from how terrifying it all was; leaving behind the job and life and his roadmap he’d been following for over a decade. He hadn’t had time to be afraid, because he’d gone from being with David and not worrying about what came next, to—
Well, being with David became what came next. New York. Rose Apothecary.
Now, after he’s guided with a group of other third-class passengers from the depths of Carpathia, his legs aching beneath him, the only thing Patrick Brewer seems to be sure of is how uncertain his future feels. What comes next is buried in the night sky and the sound of rain as they step to the gangplank, shrouded in questions about where he’ll stay tonight and how he’ll get home with no money—
What immediately becomes clear, though, is that people in New York know what happened to them. The instant second he steps into the cold evening air at the pier, there’s a barrage of flashes, and shouting. He tucks his head down quickly to keep his step, focusing on every pace forward instead of the reality at hand; anything to mute out the shouting that reminds him what’s happened.
How did you make it out?
Did you see the iceberg?
Do you know anyone who’s died? We’re looking for names—
A few of his companions stop to speak to the crowds of press; but Patrick pushes forward. It’s something he’s always been good at. If you don’t stop, you can’t collapse, or break. If you don’t stop, you can’t think . As if he could think with all the shouting around them, not only from the press, but even more clearly as they reached the doors of the pier, from hundreds, maybe thousands of people there waiting for their loved ones out in the rain.
But there was no one here for him—the Roses were surely long gone by now, and had no reason to go looking for him, positive he was at the bottom of the ocean with their son. He should be—he’d rather it, right now. It would be better than having to wade through this crowd alone, figuring out how to get back to Canada, how to explain this to—
“Patrick?! Patrick!”
His dad? His dad.
Patrick’s head immediately snaps to the sound of the shouting—and there, without a doubt, in the sea of people is Clint Brewer. His father stands tall among the crowd, exhaustion painted all over his face with drops of water from the rain. He doesn’t look real—none of it does, after so long feeling like his own body was a foreign place—but before Patrick can even process what’s happening, he’s crashing into his father, his dad, gripping him like his life depends on it.
He’s not sure if Clint came to him, or he ran—it doesn’t matter. Because for a moment, Patrick’s allowed to forget. No—not forget. Just...not think at all. The crowd isn’t there, the rain isn’t pouring above them—for a moment, he’s just a boy in his father’s arms.
The sobs rattle Patrick’s body, but his dad’s grip is strong and firm around him. That’s who Clint Brewer’s always been—steady. He’s where Patrick had gotten the trait from, and he’s more than grateful for his embrace in the moment.
He wants to let it all out. About how unsteady he’d been the last five days. About why he’d really decided to buy a boat ticket from an acquaintance in a bar. About the Rose family and how they’d pulled him into their odd fold. About David, and how right things had been until they were suddenly wrong.
“—How did you—” Are the words that spill from his lips instead the moment he’s able to catch his breath. Later, he thinks. All of that can come later.
“Let’s get you out of the rain first—”
Reality comes crashing back in—Patrick’s soaked again. His dad is, too, albeit a bit better dressed for the weather in his overcoat. They push together through the rest of the crowds; as the two of them weave through the bodies, it begins to set in just how far the news must have spread. The people stretch on for blocks, looking at Patrick and his father as they pass, clearly searching their faces for some sort of familiarity. Their own loved ones, likely lost at sea.
Will the Roses look for David? Are they somewhere in this crowd, taking one last look around to see if their son somehow made it off the ship? Johnny Rose’s face is glued to the inside of Patrick’s mind, when Patrick said he’d do everything in his power to keep David safe—
Almost immediately, that image is replaced with another. One that Patrick’s familiar with from the last few days, as he’d been slipping in and out of consciousness—the dark ocean. David disappearing into it, never resurfacing. The sound of his voice when he’d screamed Patrick’s name.
“—Patrick— ”
The world comes crashing back into color—it’s only Patrick’s father, standing against a brick backdrop of a building, the aggressive beat of the rain against an awning overhead. “—Patrick,” Clint repeats, eyes filled with concern. “Thank god you’re okay, I was out there for hours and I thought—”
“—My ticket was third class, they—they let us off last—” He knows it’s not what his dad is asking about, or what he cares about. He just seems to be saying all the wrong things, his mouth moving before his brain even has time to catch up. “—How did you get here?”
The rain beats steadily along the stone pavement around them as Clint’s eyes search Patrick’s face for a moment. “Monday, on the radio, they said something about an issue with the ship—your mother and I, we were trying to get more information, but by Tuesday morning the papers were saying the ship had sunk, about—about how over a thousand people were gone—” Patrick quickly moves to grip his dad’s shoulder a moment, a reminder he’s right here. He doesn’t deserve to be here, he thinks, but right now, for his father’s sake, he’s glad he is. “—So I went to Mr. Taylor first thing that morning and asked to borrow his car, and his blue book—”
Clint’s story starts to fill in the rest of Patrick’s questions—he can see it, his dad rushing from the house, still with a thousand questions about why Patrick had been on the ship in the first place, to go to his boss’s home. Mr. Taylor was a decent man, and his father had worked for the businessman for the better part of Patrick’s adult life. He can see his dad navigating the roads of Ontario on his own, trying to flip through the blue book for directions while going as quickly as he can manage down the roads.
“Your mother stayed at home in case you somehow got on a train before I could find you.”
He knows what that really means, though; if Patrick hadn’t been on board the Carpathia, his father would want to know first. Patrick’s chest tightens at the thought of his mother out in that crowd in the rain, waiting for him to appear. If he’d died out there, Patrick’s father would’ve wanted the time to figure out how to break the news to his wife.
It’s not that he wishes he was dead. He doesn’t. He’s relieved to be here, with his father. It’s just that he’s not sure he deserves it. Because David should be stuffed in a car with his parents, sister and brother-in-law. Patrick should have had to explain in the downpour to Clint Brewer who these people were. Maybe they’d all have shuffled back to David’s apartment and had a warm drink, sent a telegram or even a phone call to Marcy—
Patrick has to work to reign his imagination in. That’s how this should’ve gone—but it’s not. Every time he tells himself as much he feels sick to his stomach. “How—how long have you been waiting?”
“I’ve been here in New York since yesterday—I’ve got a room a few blocks away, over at the Terminal Hotel. We could stay the night, get you some rest—” It’s like his ability to keep his feelings under wraps has dissipated over the last week—the last thing he wants to do is stay one night here in New York City, and he can hear the way his father’s tone shifts almost instantly. “—Or just drive back tonight? I’m sure your mom’ll be relieved—”
“If—if you’re not too tired. I just...could really use home right now.”
It’s not a lie. It’s not. After the last week, the last year, really, all Patrick wants is to tuck away into a bed that belongs to him, a bed that’s home . But more than that, his skin itches being here in New York. Because this was supposed to be home. A city he’s never truly been in, with a man he’d met last week. It just feels wrong to be here, like this, now. And more than anything, Patrick’s desperate to get out.
“It’s not a problem, son. Let’s go home.”
Home has to wait, at least an hour or so. First, they escape down the street, flitting through the crowds outside the piers one last time, back to the towering hotel where Clint had found a home the night before. Did he sleep? The idea of his father sitting up, waiting, wondering if he was alive makes Patrick feel guilty for how little he’d thought of him and his mother in what he’d thought would be his last moments.
The employee at the front desk doesn’t charge Clint for the second night when he tells her he’s checking out—the second she realizes where Patrick’s just come from, her voice is laced with curiosity, sympathy, and well-wishes for their journey home. She even helps them send a telegram out to Marcy before they leave to pack up the space.
PATRICK’S SAFE. DRIVING HOME TONIGHT. APRIL 19 - 20. SEE YOU SOON. WE LOVE YOU.
His mother might not even see it before they’re home—but both of them know Marcy Brewer well enough to know she’ll fret and ask if they’d even attempted to get in touch.
When they get upstairs, there’s a comfortable, if anxious, silence between the two of them as Clint packs up his things. There isn’t much—Patrick can tell he’d pulled his things together in a hurry. He’s grateful when his father tosses him a sweater and slacks from his suitcase; he’d been in Ted’s clothes for days now, and it feels like another weight off his shoulders as he changes into the warmer, dry pieces. Still, he tucks the damp outfit, suspenders and all, against his chest to bring to the car, ignoring the slightly perplexed look he gets for it as they slip into the hall, and out of the lobby.
It’s long after midnight when they finally slide into their respective seats in the vehicle, Patrick picking up the copy of the Blue Book sitting on the seat. He tucks it between his knees as he gets settled in; he hasn’t traveled much, and he’s only flipped through one of them the one time they got to use the car to drive out to the Maple Leafs game. He’s not sure he’ll be able to be much help to his dad on the drive back to Toronto now, but he can at least pretend like he’s trying.
His eyes are glued to the window as they make their way out of New York City, and maybe he really is going insane—but the whole place looks like David. Even in the dark, he can make out the tall, gilded buildings that line the streets. They’re decorated with intricate carvings, and ornate accents—and sure, maybe, if Patrick were to look closely, he could spot a crack or two in their stone facades.
But it wouldn’t matter. They were still beautiful.
He can’t manage to spot any of the places David had mentioned when they spoke—he’s not even sure if they’re in the right neighborhood for it—but he can imagine the two of them walking along the streets anyway, finding new places together.
I know what’s good, Patrick. David would huff.
I’m sure you do, but don’t you want to try somewhere new tonight?
Not particularly. Patrick can’t help the brief laugh he chokes back in his throat at the thought.
If you’re going to be running a store that’s cutting edge, you might want to keep up to date with what’s up-and-coming, too.
Rose Apothecary isn’t cutting edge, Patrick. It’s classic. There’s a difference.
Still, they’d end up someplace they’d never been before for dinner; David would complain and compare it to a place they’d been a thousand times before, but secretly love it.
Patrick bites the inside of his cheek and grips a little tighter on the small pile of clothes in his lap. The ache from the bite rings and echoes against the throbbing of his leg, and it’s enough to press back any tears that might’ve threatened to fall, even if his face was out of Clint’s purview.
New York hadn’t been home. But David had been. So it could have been.
“Do you want to talk about it?” His father’s voice cuts through the silence a good while after they’ve left the city limits. “The—the ship, I mean.”
The tall buildings have long given way to more standard shops and homes, sprinkled along the road. Every so often, a lamp post passes them by; but otherwise, it’s late enough that they haven’t encountered other cars or people on the drive.
He’s never been good at talking about these kinds of things. It should be easy; his dad’s a good person. Both of his parents are. He has no real reason to be afraid.
I’m gay.
Still, the idea of bringing it up—those two simple words—has bile threatening to rise up in his throat. He knows if he even tries to say it, he’ll choke on the words.
I’m gay.
He needs to just...rip off the bandage. Because while it might be easier to start with David, and go from there, well—it’s all too raw.
I’m gay.
“—I ended things with Rachel.”
It’s not the same, and certainly not what his father was expecting him to say if the look on his face says anything. But even as a family, they’ve never been great at this stuff; and his dad is trying. So Patrick will try, too. Baby steps. The look on Clint’s face says a million and one things; and Patrick can’t be ashamed that doubt is one of them.
“For real this time.” It’s definite, and sure; and Patrick can tell when he meets his father’s eyes that the older man believes him. They’ve had this conversation a thousand times; when Patrick was a teenager still sorting through what he wanted out of life, when he was a young person settling into his career, even as recently as when the idea of moving to London first came up.
He’d gone back on all those conversations; found excuses to fall back into what was comfortable instead of going back out there to try to date another woman. He’d even gone so far as to propose, finally, and agree to move across the ocean to prevent facing the reality of his situation.
Patrick knows why it didn’t ever work, now. Why it won’t ever work.
“Okay,” There’s no doubt in his gaze anymore. “Are you—alright? I mean—god, that sounds like a stupid question—”
“—No, I understand—” It’s easier, because neither of them are good at this. But they’d both like to be better. That’s enough. “Rachel—Rachel is a good friend. A great friend, but—we were never going to be happy. Like that. I owed it to her to be honest about that, and let her move on with her life. And—and me with mine.”
The more Patrick’s able to get off his chest about Rachel, the less the memory of the last week seems to grip onto him like a chokehold. It’s enough of a truth that it hangs in the air between them, echoing alongside the hum of the car motor. “—Your mother and I got your telegram, and we had so many questions, but—that about explains it.”
“I figured I could—come home, and figure out what was next for me.” If Clint notices the way his voice wavers, or the way his fingers find the single, silver ring on his hand, he doesn’t say anything about it. Patrick is grateful for it.
It’s different, explaining his struggles with Rachel to his father; he’d said so many of these things to David on the Titanic, but his father’s watched him over the last fifteen years. It’s hard, filling in the gaps of a story that someone thinks they already know word for word—but a relief, too.
For as much as the Titanic was real, it still almost feels like a dream; isolated, separate from his real life. Bits blend together; and he’d spent those days learning things about himself that, when the ship went down, he thought would remain a part of the boat. That there would always be two Patrick Brewers—the man his parents and friends knew and loved, who was steady, reliable, consistent, and the man David Rose had brought to the surface.
So for now, it’s enough to be able to have this conversation. To get things off his chest he wouldn’t have even known how to express if it weren’t for the journey he’d just had, or the man he’d met on it. He has time now. He’ll get to all of the rest of it later, when the idea of telling his story doesn’t feel like an open wound gaping in his chest.
David, and the Roses, can wait.