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“Here, hold this for a second.”
“Did you seriously bring a Cabernet?” Patrick snorts, peeking into the paper bag Jon’s sloughed off onto him. “You know this party’s gonna be lit, right?”
“It’s a department Christmas party,” Jon says as he punches in the gate code. “Lit isn’t how I’d describe it.”
“Have you been to one of Professor Tipton’s parties?” Patrick asks dubiously.
“Well, no,” Jon admits, “But I’ve been to plenty of other–”
“Oh, Jon.”
“Oh, Patrick,” Jon mimics, capturing the faux sympathy in Patrick’s voice. “What do you know, anyway? Are you even old enough to drink?”
“Babe, you know I’m old enough to drink,” Patrick answers with a leer, bringing a nostalgic flush to Jon’s cheeks just as Professor Tipton opens the door.
“Jon, you finally made it,” she exclaims, instantly engulfing him in a warm hug. “And Patrick, too!”
Jon doesn’t have to talk to Patrick to pinpoint the second that he smells the rum on her breath, because the fucker smirks at Jon over her shoulder.
“How’s it going, Annie?” Jon asks after she disentangles herself from Patrick.
“Wonderfully, now that you’ve finally deigned to grace me with your presence. Seventh year’s the charm?” Her tone is light and teasing, but the reminder evokes a pang of guilt.
“Sorry,” Jon replies sheepishly, ducking his head a little. “It’s just, the children’s project really picks up around the holidays, and–”
“And you’re scheduled for sainthood next week, yes, yes, I know,” she sighs, patting him on the arm. Jon opens his mouth to protest, but she’s already spiriting Patrick away to meet some “admirers.”
“That’s a hell of a protege you’ve got there, Jon,” Sharpy whistles, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “You could make a fortune renting him out.”
“He’s a graduate student, not a prostitute,” Jon says, making a face. After close to a decade of working together, Patrick Sharp still gets under his skin like no other. Well, except for...
“He’s in-demand,” Sharpy says, shrugging. “Everyone wants him working on their research. Kid’s going to have no shortage of suitors to serve on his committee.”
“No kidding,” Jon mumbles under his breath.
“What’s the matter, buddy?” Sharpy chuckles. “Worried someone’s going to poach your prodigy?”
“You’re lucky I haven’t poached him, Jon,” Professor Tipton interjects as she floats back around, sans Patrick, eyes already twinkling with rum and holiday cheer. “He’s my advisee, after all.”
“I'm grateful for your generosity,” Jon answers dryly, but the prospect of losing Patrick hits too close to home, and the lump in his throat lingers long after the conversation has moved on.
If Jon’s mood plummets, it’s not because he feels an irrational sense of possession over Patrick. Rather, it’s that his colleagues’ light-hearted banter has unwittingly rendered the ephemeral nature of their association all too stark.
It feels like just yesterday that Patrick walked into his lecture hall on the first day of the fall semester, bright-eyed and full of the “fuck it” swagger that had drawn Jon to him to begin with. The backwards cap and chinos had been a little more youthful than the outfit he’d worn to the bar, but there had been no mistaking his unruly curls and quiet intensity.
There had been something satisfying in making Patrick’s eyes go wide with recognition. Just three days prior to the start of class, Patrick’s gaze had been unwavering and intent, mirroring the razor focus with which he’d meticulously taken Jon apart piece by piece. Even now, Jon swears he can still close his eyes and feel the impression of his fingertips.
And yet, the snow steadily falling outside the window and the twinkling Christmas lights belie the passage of time. Jon’s still knee-deep in final papers, but Patrick’s free and clear until January. One semester down, and one semester away from finishing the first year of his doctoral program. One semester away from seriously thinking about his thesis and who he wants on his committee.
One semester away from making a decision that Jon has no business influencing, but nevertheless weighs inescapably on his mind.
It’s no wonder Jon finds himself three cups of eggnog deep at the refreshments table, cheeks warm and toes tingling. He should really know better; Professor Tipton is renowned for spiking her eggnog as liberally as she grades her finals, buoyantly insisting that the holidays are a time for good will and good cheer.
It does the trick, though; the alcohol dulls the increasingly suffocating anxiety to a faint twinge. By the time that Patrick finishes making the rounds and knocks his shoulder companionably, Jon manages a real smile.
“Shit, Jon,” Patrick laughs. “I leave you alone for an hour and you’re toasted.”
“I’m not toasted,” Jon protests, fumbling to regain purchase on his Santa mug as it slips in his hand.
“Sure, teach,” Patrick hums placidly.
“Ugh, can you not?” Jon says, grimacing at the nickname. “You make it sound like I’m 50.”
“You made it sound like I was 18 earlier,” Patrick says.
“That’s different,” Jon insists. “That’s because–”
“That’s because?” Patrick prompts, grinning like he knows Jon’s not in his finest sniping form.
“That’s because you suck,” Jon concludes – emphatically if not convincingly.
“If you say so, teach,” Patrick hums, infuriating to the core. The only thing more trying than his incessant teasing is how good he looks in his navy button-down and dress slacks. It makes Jon want to–
“Oh my god, are you serious?” Patrick says amid a collective groan. In his buzzed state, it takes Jon a minute to realize that “All I Want For Christmas Is You” is playing for the 18th time and, none-too-coincidentally, that Sharpy is wielding the Apple remote and cackling like a loon.
A mob of exasperated colleagues descend upon Sharpy, but Patrick laughs and wisely stays out of the fray.
“Happy holidays, Jon,” Patrick says, blue eyes sparkling so brightly that Jon momentarily feels dizzy.
“Happy holidays, Patrick,” Jon says, collecting himself enough to clink Patrick’s outstretched mug.
Riding the L in the winter is always an experience. It’s Jon’s 8th winter here, but the novelty of watching the marshmallow coats huddle under the heating lamps has yet to wear off. Patrick’s usually the perpetually cold one, but tonight it’s Jon that shivers.
“Alcohol, man,” Patrick says sagely, upturned lips betraying his amusement at Jon’s predicament. It makes Jon want to kick and kiss him all at once. “Lowers your body temperature.”
“And who fucking told you that?” Jon scoffs, shouldering into Patrick just because he can. It’s okay, like this. It’s okay if it’s only–
“Oh, some stuffy old professor, you wouldn’t know him,” Patrick answers, laughing and nimbly evading Jon’s attempt to grab his arm. He should be annoyed, but his heart hurts with something he can’t put a name to. Won’t put a name to, maybe, because if he does–
“Hey, Jon, come on,” Patrick says gently, fingers squeezing Jon’s arm as he herds him onto the train. Sober, Jon would be affronted that Patrick saw fit to treat him like cattle, but right now, he’s just grateful for the opportunity to stay in one place long enough for his head to stop spinning.
Hand reflexively tight on the rail overhead, Jon’s eyes gradually fall shut, surrendering to the familiar motion of the train rocking beneath his feet. At some point, Patrick must find him a seat, because he’s nodding off with his head against the window when Patrick gingerly shakes him awake.
“Gotta change trains,” Patrick murmurs, tugging on the lapels of Jon’s coat until he gets the idea and pulls himself to his feet.
By now, the alcohol has worn off a little, and Jon doesn’t feel like he’s in danger of falling asleep on the way through the underground tunnel. He’s awake enough, at least, to sidestep a hypodermic needle and drop a few bucks into a homeless violinist’s coffer – and he even manages to climb three flights of stairs without missing a beat.
By the time they settle into the second train, he’s achingly aware of how close Patrick is standing next to him. It’s out of necessity, of course – everybody’s headed home in their fluffy parkas and there isn’t much room to spare – but that doesn’t make him any less attuned to the scent of Patrick’s conditioner. It doesn’t make him any less endeared by the fact that Patrick’s pocket is bulging with a handful of mini candy canes he stole from the party, or any less enthralled by the length of Patrick’s eyelashes up close.
He doesn’t realize he’s staring until Patrick catches him and smiles.
“What, something in my teeth?” Patrick asks.
“Something on your face,” Jon shoots back. It’s weak, but he needs the deniability – needs to hide behind the safety of the jocular retort. For one terrifying moment, he thinks Patrick’s gonna call him on it and bring what’s been shimmering indistinctly between them for months into existence.
But Patrick just rolls his eyes and looks back out the window, and Jon lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding. He knows that he should be relieved – knows that he should cross his heart and count his lucky stars. Instead, he’s almost disappointed.
If Patrick seems to notice the drop in Jon’s mood, he doesn’t say anything. Which, Jon figures, is fair enough; he hasn’t needed the guiding press of Patrick’s fingertips into the small of his back for the last half-hour, but he’s declined to mention that too.
Inside his apartment building, the lobby is warm and filled with the smell of gingerbread and the sound of Christmas carols. He’s past the doorman and halfway to the elevator before he realizes that Patrick isn’t following him.
“Figured you’d be good on your own from here,” Patrick says with a shrug when Jon turns around to frown at him.
“What if I fall in the elevator?” Jon shoots back ridiculously. “Wouldn’t you feel guilty?” They both know what Jon’s really asking, and Patrick blinks at him for what feels like an eternity.
Then, letting out a cool puff of air, Patrick walks toward him and says, “Okay, Jon,” in the softest voice that he’s ever heard him use. “I’ll– Make sure you get in safe.”
Jon’s only on the 9th floor, but it feels like the longest elevator ride in the world. They don’t look at each other – or, at least, Jon can’t bear to look at Patrick. He can’t wait for the doors to open on his floor, and yet he’s deathly afraid of what will happen if they do.
His heart is pounding in his chest as Patrick walks him to the door and asks for his key. It feels like everything that’s passed between them over the last five months has been building up to this moment.
“Jon,” Patrick begins uncertainly when they get inside, but Jon presses Patrick against the door and kisses him. It’s slower – softer and sweeter than the first time, and a little sloppy from how much they’ve had to drink – but it’s still better than everything Jon’s guiltily imagined.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Jon?” Patrick asks when they part, breathless.
“No,” Jon answers, even as he drops to his knees and makes short work of Patrick’s belt. “It’s a terrible idea.”
Patrick groans, head dropping back against the door as Jon buries his nose in Patrick’s boxers. Jon’s seen him in much less, but he didn’t really slow down enough to savor it the first time around. He hadn’t really realized that he needed to.
He takes the time now, breathing in Patrick’s musky scent and palming his dick through the fabric. Up close, it’s even thicker than Jon remembers it, and the memory of how good it felt inside of him makes his hole clench up in want.
He half-expects Patrick to grow impatient and encourage him to pick up the pace. Instead, he looks up to find Patrick staring so fondly down at him that it makes Jon’s chest hurt.
“Jesus, Patrick,” Jon whispers when he peels boxers down enough to let his cock pop free, fat and hard and leaking. Mesmerized, he leans in to lick a long, appreciative stripe up the length of Patrick’s dick.
Patrick sighs and threads his fingers through his hair and says, “Knew you’d be good at this, teach.”
Jon instantly pulls back, ignoring Patrick’s moan of protest in favor of giving him a withering look.
“Don’t call me that,” Jon insists for the second time that night, but this time he actually frowns. He doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think about the fact that Patrick’s his–
“Just fucking with you, man,” Patrick reassures him, smiling and stroking his thumb over the curve of Jon’s cheekbone. For someone who’s supposed to have all the power, here, Jon’s stomach can’t stop doing flips at the sight of Patrick’s stupid face.
“Come on,” Patrick urges him breathlessly, eagerly smearing pre-come over Jon’s lips. “Don’t slack off.”
It starts out less urgent than the first time, but it isn’t long before Jon is swallowing half of his Patrick’s cock like his life depends on it.
“Unngh, nngh,” Patrick is groaning openly, seemingly unconcerned with disturbing Jon’s neighbors in the face of raw pleasure. “Fuck, Jon, your mouth.”
Jon’s heart swells with pride at how undone Patrick sounds. He may not have a little black book of hook-ups, but this is something he’s always prided himself on being good at. There are few things he enjoys more than the weight of a thick cock in his mouth, and Patrick’s doesn’t disappoint.
“Shit, shit,” Patrick pants inanely. His jaw is slack and his eyes are squeezed shut, seemingly rendered dumb by the world-class blowjob he's being subjected to. Jon’s never been so hard in his life, and he hasn’t even had a hand on his dick yet.
Jon’s mouth pops free and Patrick instinctively twists his fingers in Jon’s hair to push him back down, sending a shock of pleasure through his body. That scintillating hint of insistence has him flashing back to the way Patrick shoved him face down on the mattress five months ago; the memory of Patrick’s tongue tonguing open his hole makes him moan involuntarily around the cock in his mouth.
“Jon, stop, I’m gonna–” Patrick gasps, but Jon’s compliance is only momentary.
“Want you to come in my mouth,” Jon says raggedly, throat raw from Patrick’s dick. “Wanna taste it.”
Patrick swears under his breath and squeezes the back of Jon’s neck, head thumping back against the door as soon as Jon wraps his lips around his dick again. Intent on watching Patrick unravel, he sucks at the head and twists his hand over the rest, avidly trying to pump his come into his mouth.
That’s all it takes for Patrick to cry out, hips stuttering to a stop and flooding Jon’s mouth with come. It’s a struggle to swallow it down and watch Patrick’s face at the same time, but Jon desperately wants to remember this moment. He wants to remember, in case–
“God, Jon,” Patrick breathes after he’s come down, subjecting Jon to the devastating weight of his half-lidded stare. “That was–”
“That was?” Jon teases, licking the remaining come from his lips.
“Fuck you,” Patrick laughs. “Come on,” he says, dragging his ankle across Jon’s straining dick and wrenching a groan from his lips. “Let’s take this to bed.”
It’s still dark when Jon stirs to catch Patrick trying to stealth away. Outside, the snow is falling thick and steady, and the thought of Patrick trudging all the way back to University Village makes Jon frown.
“Those boots are never gonna hold up in this,” Jon manages tiredly, skeptically eyeing the battered snow boots Patrick is tugging back on.
Patrick looks up, startled, like he didn’t expect to be caught. Jon wonders if he would have left without a word if he hadn’t woken up.
“Hold up in what, Chicago snow?” Patrick snorts, bending back down to lace up his boots. “Please. They’ve survived five Buffalo winters. This’ll be a piece of cake.”
“What about your back?” Jon ventures. “You could fall.”
“I didn’t fall lugging your ass here, did I?” Patrick asks. “I’ll be fine.”
“Stay,” Jon urges him, when casting aspersions against Patrick’s footwear and drawing attention to his old hockey injury fail to yield the desired result. His voice sounds plaintive even to his own ears.
“You know I can’t, man,” Patrick says, sighing. “You’re gonna feel guilty as fuck in the morning. I don’t wanna be here for that.”
“You don’t know that,” Jon insists stubbornly, reaching out in vain for Patrick’s arm as he climbs off the bed. “You don’t know how I’ll feel.”
“I know, Jon. I see the way you look at me–”
“Then you should know,” Jon interjects. “Then you should–”
“I see the way you look at me when I catch you looking,” Patrick corrects him, shaking his head sadly. “I see the shame. I don’t want to be responsible for putting that kind of look on your face.”
“Patrick…”
“Listen,” Patrick says, donning a brave smile and turning on the false bravado. Jon isn’t sure if it’s more for his benefit or Patrick’s. “I know you’re enchanted by my dick – and, honestly, who could blame you? But if you’re still into this tomorrow, we can talk about it then, okay?”
Jon wants to argue – wants to will that unbearable glimmer of sadness out of Patrick’s eyes for good – but his head is starting to spin again from getting so worked up. Instead, he sighs and grudgingly lays back down, but not before pointing an insistent finger in Patrick’s direction.
“Okay, but you’d better answer when I call,” Jon warns.
“Sure, Jon,” Patrick says easily, but he’s already fixing his scarf in the doorway and Jon can’t see the expression on his face. He isn’t sure that he wants to. “Drink your water and get some rest, okay?”
“Eight glasses a day!” Jon calls out, but the front door swings shut on the second-to-last syllable. He realizes, too late, that Patrick has turned up the heat and left a glass of water on the nightstand. He stares at the UIC emblem on the mug and touches the Patrick-shaped depression in his bed and feels a crushing wave of loneliness crash over him.
He’ll talk to Patrick tomorrow.
Yeah, he’ll–