#this story happened mainly because I finally bit the bullet and listened to Noah Reid's album

[leupagus]

you will miss the green and the woods and streams

A Schitt’s Creek AU thing I wrote for @broadlybrazen, which boils down to “lol what if Schitt’s Creek had been Schitt Records can you imagine.” 

You’re welcome/I’m sorry.

***

“Okay, but why are you making me do this.” David doesn’t ask, because it’s not a question; it’s a declaration, something he’s learned in the long years since he and Stevie were coworkers, then friends, then — something, almost, not quite — and now they’re people who drag each other to shitty bars in shitty basements in shitty Toronto, except only Stevie is that.

“I’m not making you do anything,” Stevie lies right to his actual face as they collect her beer and his wine from the bartender. “You offered to comfort me.”

“I don’t think I said ‘comfort’ so much as I said ‘support you in your time of—‘“ he waves at her generally, carefully not to spill. “Loss, or whatever.”

Not that Jake qualifies as a loss, per se; he hadn’t even tried to get out of the contract, which Stevie keeps saying is the important thing. And David of all people knows that above-average sex can only take you so far when the other guy is an emotionally illiterate carpenter/rockstar who responded to a breakup text with “bummer :P”

“Well, this is you supporting me.” Stevie takes a swig and leans back against the bar; David admires the clean line of her neck and chest the way he’s done a thousand times before, absentminded appreciation the way he looks at a beautiful coat or listens to a new record; letting it slip through his fingers, like everything else.

“You’re not…performing, are you,” David doesn’t-ask.

Stevie gives him a long look. “You’ve known me for over two years,” she says, even. “Do you think I’m likely to break out into song?”

“You’re a talent scout for a major record label,” he feels obliged to point out.

“Uh, first of all, it’s not major, and second of all, so are you,” she says.

This is, sadly, irrefutable.

*

When Ira disappeared to God knew where with the keys to the Rose family fortune, their lawyer had pulled them all into the living room with a chipper expression and a folder. David hadn’t listened, the sounds of furniture, paintings, his life being carted out the door overwhelming everything else. But Dad’s voice cut through.

“Schitt Records? That was a joke—“ and it still is a joke, almost two and a half years later. The biggest joke in the music industry, and David hears the laughter everywhere he goes.

*

Roland Schitt had been managing his wife and an extremely chipper singer-songwriter who went by “Twyla” and did tarot card readings after every set. Schitt Records was worth approximately nothing; probably why the government had let them keep it. When Dad finally exercised his ownership clause and made Roland an ex-officio (read: non-voting) board member, Roland had actually cackled with delight and wished them all the best, taking his “President of” title and a small stipend with him. Jocelyn and Twyla stuck around, although David still isn’t sure that Twyla’s all that aware of the change in management.

And anyway, as far as David’s concerned, the only thing of value at Schitt Records, at least at first, was Stevie.

*

They’d put Alexis back in the studio for want of any better ideas; David had found a semi-decent, semi-sober songwriter to give her some of the songs Meghan and Ariana had rejected. “Pullin’ Up Alexis” didn’t so much as crack the top 200 but it had put Schitt Records in the black, at least, even if Alexis did go white-faced and brittle at the awful venues David coaxed her into for the better part of a year — county fairs and no-name festivals where the audience wanted to jeer and heckle, where her dancing would get her laughed offstage if her singing didn’t. But every time he’d tell her she could quit (she couldn’t) and that they’d find another way to get the company on its feet (they wouldn’t), she’d lift her chin and smile and ask her where they were going next, and David loved her more than he’d ever, ever tell her.

And when the tour ended, David gritted his teeth and went out with Stevie to find something else. They found Ronnie, who hates them all but has hands like an angel on the piano; Jake who’s prettier onstage than off but who can draw a reliable crowd; even Ray, whose one-man band act is surprisingly lucrative, though David suspects that’s because anyone who listens can’t actually believe what’s happening.

Schitt Records still isn’t worth buying, but it’s worth something, now; worth spending late nights in small towns, worth sleepless weekends working festivals, worth more than David had ever expected to find.

But he’s still looking, he knows, for something else.

*

Even more insultingly, the open mic has a theme; “90’s Nostalgia!” which means too many bad covers of Alanis and one truly offensive attempt at “I Will Always Love You” that has David ordering his next glass of wine in a pint glass.

Stevie is laughing, though — she’s happy, in tune with the crowd who are clearly here for their respective friends onstage, leading the shaky ones through their choruses and cheering with far more enthusiasm than is merited when each of them wraps up.

“This is horrifying,” David tells her as some guy in his 60s gets gently ushered offstage and there’s a blessed lull.

“I know,” Stevie replies, eyes shining. “It’s great.”

And it is, in a weird way that David would never have enjoyed in his other life; he would never have set foot in here, would never have been friends with someone as grounded and solid and plaid as Stevie in the first place. So he takes a drink and doesn’t suggest they leave, but does pick a fight about sending Ray to ACL.

Stevie obligingly takes the bait and they’re halfway through the comfortable old argument about riders when David realizes the strummy-strummy lala in the background is a) recognizable, b) good, and c) infuriating.

The guy onstage is best described as “unprepossessing accountant,” wearing an ugly shirt and ugly slacks and uglier shoes and an astonishingly ugly fringed vest that’s probably (hopefully) a joke, judging by the wolf whistles from a table near the stage. But he’s got a smile like a searchlight as he rounds the corner of the first verse:

“I’m caught up in the midst of you And I cannot resist…”

David flails around until he makes contact with Stevie’s — okay, her face, which she’ll probably complain about later, but he’s too incensed. “He’s singing Mariah?”

Stevie swats his hand away. “He’s not bad.”

“I—“ David clutches at his pint glass. Fringed Vest, still grinning into the crowd and unaware of David’s newborn vendetta against him, continues.

Boy, if I do The things you want me to The way I used to do Would you love me, baby Hold me, feeling now Go and break my heart

The entire bar joins in on the chorus, Fringed Vest leading them like some hick accountant Pied Piper:

Heartbreaker, you got the best of me But I just keep on coming back incessantly Oh, why did you have to run your game on me I should have known right from the start You'd go and break my heart

Fringed Vest does not, thank God, try his hand at rapping the break but the crowd seems reluctant to let him actually finish the song, the choruses getting progressively louder and more boisterous until Fringed Vest puts a line underneath and steps back from the mic and they finally take the goddamn hint.

“That was—“ awful, he’s about to say, but the problem is that it wasn’t. There’s not a whole lot a Canadian accountant can add to Mariah Carey, especially with the advent of Lip Synch Battle. But it hadn’t felt patronizing or mocking; Fringed Vest knew every word, sang with a voice that couldn’t hold a match to Mariah but still expressed some sort of longing. He’d been joyful, earnest where most people tonight had clung to trite. It… worked.

He’s even more enraged.

“C’mon,” Stevie says, slipping through the crowd with the weary ease of someone who’s been doing this half her life. David tromps behind in her wake, bumping up against the same people Stevie glides past and almost losing her twice before she gets to the dinky curtain that is the backstage and ducking inside.

Which smells like vomit; David immediately flips through the various acts tonight and makes a bet with himself that it was the very sweet otter with the beard and the accordion even while Stevie is making her way over to the side of the stage where Fringed Vest is talking to somebody else and drinking — god, Red Mountain, David is vetoing any contract Stevie tries to push on this guy for that alone.

But Stevie’s introducing them and Fringed Vest extends a hand. “Patrick,” he says, grip firm. Up close he’s — not attractive, exactly, no eyebrows to speak of and a haircut that screams middle management, that smile still the most interesting thing about him. But it’s very interesting.

“David,” he admits, aware of Stevie’s narrowed eyes.

“David Rose,” Patrick says, worryingly. “You own Schitt Records.”

He blinks; this is possibly the first time anyone’s said the name of the company without smirking. “Co-own,” he corrects.

“You manage a friend of mine,” Patrick continues, “Ray? Butani?”

“We only manage one Ray, don’t worry,” Stevie tells him.

“How are you friends with Ray?” David demands. “He plays a vibraphone.”

“We both went to Rotman,” and that explains so much about both Ray and Patrick. “He was pretty excited when he signed.”

“Yes, the glamour of the pub circuit,” David says. “Who can resist the allure of all this,” and he almost hits a girl with beads in her hair and a banjo in her hand climbing onstage.

“It’s got its charms,” Patrick says, still smiling.

*

#schitt's creek #david/patrick #schitt records #schittalking #ficcage of interest #this story happened mainly because I finally bit the bullet and listened to Noah Reid's album #which hit all my 'very impressed‚ was not embarrassed at all‚ and I thought I would be' buttons #and was like 'oh no what if Patrick had written this instead'