Archive of Our Own

Jonny’s favorite part of Tuesday Tiki Tequila Night at Captain George’s is he can drink as much as he wants for ten dollars. It’s a big bang for his buck considering all he has to do is show up in an ugly Hawaiian shirt and flash a smile or two at Meaghan, the bartender. TJ usually has to fork out a twenty, a fact he’s never truly stopped bitching about, but then, it was TJ’s idea in the first place to start coming to Tuesday Tiki nights since Jonny doesn’t have class on Wednesday.

“I’m bored as fuck,” TJ said at some point in mid-October.

Jonny was in the middle of studying for a Microbiology quiz he had coming up the following week, notes spread out in front of him as he lounged on his bed in their shared dorm room.

“That’s unfortunate for you,” Jonny said. He didn’t look up from his textbook. He hatefully highlighted another passage and turned the page.

TJ groaned from his own bed where it looked like he was playing a game on his phone. “Aren’t you bored?”

“I’m studying Microbiology,” Jonny said, looking up this time. “Yes, of course, I’m fucking bored.”

TJ’s face brightened. “Then let’s go do something. You don’t even have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Something fun?”

“Specific. I like it,” Jonny said dryly. “Let’s go.”

TJ rolled his eyes. He looked down at the pillow he was resting on, like he was contemplating throwing it in Jonny’s direction. In the end he took off his tennis shoe and threw that instead. It hit Jonny’s shoulder and bounced off the wall, falling to the floor. Jonny didn’t give him the satisfaction of flinching, even a little, and so TJ went back to his phone dejectedly. “Why aren’t there any parties going on?”

“Because it’s Tuesday.”

“What about a bar? We can get some food? Maybe watch a game?”

The idea was appealing. Jonny hadn’t eaten since before his noon class and the granola he’d inhaled after his trip to the gym was long since digested. A basket of wings and some hockey sounded right up his alley.

“I am hungry. Yeah, alright.”

TJ whooped and hollered, jumping up off his bed so fast he almost slipped on the linoleum with his one socked foot and brained himself on the edge of his desk. He caught himself at the last second, gracefully inelegant as he spun to a stop and avoided any major consequences. But that was the epitome of TJ, unpredictable, enthusiastic, encouraging, reckless, and fortunate.

Most of the on-campus bars were packed since all of the major sports were in season. So ending up at Captain George’s Tiki Bar and Grille was more happenstance than anything else. The second they walked in, however, was the game changer. The hostess placed leis on both of their necks and explained anyone who showed up in a Hawaiian shirt on Tuesday Tiki Tequila Nights could drink as much tequila as they wanted for half the price. And well, TJ was sold right then, right there. Jonny took a little more convincing, even if the spicy wings were solid, and they always had hockey playing on at least one of their big-screen TVs. They also played Jimmy Buffet on a loop ad nauseam, put little umbrellas in all of their drinks, let girls dance on the bar if they wore a hula skirt, and had possibly the most uncomfortable bar stools of all time.

It wasn’t an ideal setup by any stretch of the imagination. Although TJ vehemently disagreed, declaring this their official hangout for buddy date night. Jonny went along with it for a while, hoping eventually TJ would find a new shiny place that would catch his attention. The bartender Meaghan hated making any drink that wasn’t a whiskey neat, a perpetual faraway look in her eyes as she shuffled through her shift.

Jonny struck up a conversation with her one night when he’d arrived before TJ and found she was actually quite nice, her sense of humor sardonic and sharp. She brought out a free basket of wings for Jonny when things started to pick up enough that their conversation got cut off. Later, after TJ joined him, he noticed she was refilling his tequila shots without charging him half the time.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, waving him off at the end of the night when he tried to pay her for the full amount.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Absolutely,” she smiled.

“This is bullshit,” TJ complained, even later, on their way back to the dorm. “This is an INJUSTICE.”

It didn’t stop him from going back the following week, or the one after. And as a poor college student, Jonny really couldn’t afford to turn down free food or booze. So it was cemented thereafter that Captain George’s was their bar, and they owned it proudly, ugly Hawaiian shirts and all.

On this particular January night Jonny’s more than the usual amount of wasted as he and TJ stumble home in the snow. It’s below freezing outside, his breath a white puff of cloud every time he exhales. But he’s not cold. He almost wore a pair of flip flops out tonight with his black jersey shorts, UND long-sleeve T-shirt, and short-sleeved blue Hawaiian button up. It seemed fitting. In the end, he’s glad he didn’t, as he’s finding it difficult to navigate the slippery streets and sidewalks of campus in his laceless Vans. A block back he skated over a dark patch of ice and almost ended up flat on his back.

TJ isn’t faring much better even as he trails behind Jonny, flush-faced and singing at the top of his lungs.

“If you like Pina Coladas, and getting caught in the rain. If you´re not into yoga, if you have half a brain. If you like making love at midnight, in the dunes of the cape.”

It’s not a horrible rendition as far as the song goes, Jonny thinks. Even if he has some pitch issues. As they enter the parking lot across the street from the dorms, Jonny interrupts TJ with a question.

“In the dunes of the cape. What’s a dune anyway?” Jonny asks, turning to look back at TJ. “A beach hill? They were fucking on a beach mound?”

TJ opens his mouth to respond but, before any words tumble out, Jonny feels himself lose his balance and smack into something hard and cold and distinctly car-shaped. He throws his arms out in a desperate bid to catch himself and ends up rolling over the hood until he comes to a stop, back plastered to the front of the car and legs spread wide as he holds onto whatever he can grip to keep from falling further.

“Oh shit,” he says.

“Dude,” TJ says.

Jonny lies immobile for a minute, trying to collect himself. New rule: six tequila shots is too many. A light flashes and then a sharp whoop-whoop sound of a siren goes off. This, Jonny knows, is no good, very bad news.

“Oh fuck,” he says.

“Dude!” TJ yells. “It’s the police!”

Jonny’s up and running the second he hears a car door open. He makes it about twenty feet, across the street, and sees a single chain fence. From his periphery, he can see as TJ bolts off in the opposite direction of the dorms and he wants to call out to him, to ask where in the actual fuck he’s going, but he comes upon the fence and tries to vault over it. His right foot makes it almost all the way over, the toe of his shoe clipping the chain at the last second and causing him to slam face-first into a giant snowbank.

He doesn’t move. Head spinning, limbs heavy, ears ringing, and the only thought he can think of as he imagines being handcuffed and taken to jail is, My mom is going to murder me.

Then. A laugh breaks out, a loud cackle cutting through the air like popcorn crackling in a microwave. It builds and builds until the person begins to wheeze and cough. A car door opens and shuts. An engine starts up. Tires slide over slushy pavement.

Jonny stays still for another long minute before he chances lifting his head from where it wedged itself into a pile of snow approximately as hard as a block of ice. His hair is covered in a thousand snowflakes and his ankle is throbbing, but when he blinks his eyes open he is blessedly, thankfully alone.

It takes him a few attempts to get up and remain up on unsteady feet, his path to the front of his dorm a wobbly one. His key card sticks as he tries swiping it five times to get the door open and the Herculean effort he puts forth to walk down the long hall to the elevators almost isn’t worth it. Especially when he pops the up button on the elevator, steps inside, and realizes he left his room key back in the...room.

“Fuuuuuck,” he murmurs to himself. He glares at the numbered buttons in front of him hoping if he watches them long enough they’ll magically provide him with an answer, as his head is too fuzzy and heavy to come up with anything at the moment. He really wants to sit down, maybe take a nap, have some water. He scrubs at his face and a clump of icy snow falls off and lands with a splat on the floor.

When he opens his eyes again there’s another guy on the elevator, in black Adidas slides and socks. Socks. Really?

He’s also holding a can of Arizona Iced Tea with lemon. Jonny wonders if he’d be willing to share. He’s so thirsty.

“Nice shirt,” the guy says and Jonny finally looks all the way up, past his fitted black sweatpants, his equally fitted black T-shirt and the dark gray zip-up hoodie jacket that’s hanging open, to his blond head of riotous curls and his shockingly pretty face.

All Jonny can stupidly think to say in reply for a moment is, You really must like the color black.

He blinks at the guy once, then three more times before he shakes himself out of his daze and pats at his own chest, now wet from the melted snow.

“Thanks. Thank you,” he says, staring. He’s possibly staring too much. He can’t help it.

Gorgeous smiles, just a little, from the side of his mouth. “Going up?”

“Yes,” Jonny says.

“Which floor?”

“Um.”

“Need some time to think about it?” Gorgeous asks, and smiles without fighting it this time. Jonny gets caught up in it for another beat.

He has to look away before this gets fucking creepy.

Stop. STOP IT.

He shakes himself, finally turning. “No, no. I got it. Got this. It’s just.”

It’s just he’s locked out of his dorm and drunk off his nuts, and he’s so goddamn thirsty, and yet he has to piss immediately. Gorgeous must see all of these conflicting emotions rush over his face because his, frankly, amazing eyes widen slightly and his smile turns downwards. “You good, buddy?”

Jonny leans dejectedly against the elevator wall. “Don’t have my key.”

“You sure?” Gorgeous asks, like he thinks Jonny’s slow. Or maybe just very intoxicated, which okay, he very much is. So, fair point.

Jonny pats all of his pockets, shoves his hands inside, and comes up with nothing but his cell phone. “Pretty sure.”

“Oh. Well. What about your roommate? Can you call him?”

For a wild second, Jonny stops and tries to consider how he’s going to do that when he realizes like a dumbass that he has a phone in his own damn hand. He brightens. “Yes! Good. With the thinking. I can. I...no.”

“No?” Gorgeous asks adorably, his face questioning. Jonny wants to stare at it some more.

“It’s dead.” He demonstrates by trying to hit the on button, and nothing happens.

A hand goes up into that curly, floppy golden hair, scratching, thinking, deciding. “How about you come hang in my room until you can get ahold of your roommate? I can get you a dry towel or something since you’re all…”

“I fell in the snow.”

A small snicker. “I can see that.”

“Was wet,” Jonny explains.

“Yep, noticed that too. What happened?”

Jonny hesitates. Even drunk he knows this story isn’t exactly the most flattering or dignified. Does he really want to look like that moron who drunkenly tripped into the snow, even though he is that moron? Decisions, decisions. He tries to think of some, better, cooler, reason for why he could’ve fallen. Something that involves saving a puppy, or rescuing someone from a burning building. Anything that could make him look suave here.

He’s got nothing. Less than nothing.

He blows out a breath, eyes skyward as they ride the elevator up. “I ran into a cop car. And ended up in the snow when I tried to run away.”

“You crashed into a cop car?!” Gorgeous says, expression melting from amusement into shock, and maybe a dash of fear.

“No, no.” Jonny waves his arms. Is he directing traffic? Who knows? “With my body. I rolled over the hood. Then tripped over a fence thing.”

Hands come up to cover a pink mouth. A little bleep of a sound escapes. Then another until Jonny realizes he’s giggling. He’s fucking giggling, almost howling behind the shelter of his very nice hands. “Holy shit.”

“Don’t laugh.” Jonny frowns.

The elevator dings and the doors open on the third floor, Jonny thinks. He’s not really paying attention, too focused on watching Gorgeous giggle until he’s out of breath.

“I’m not laughing,” he says, laughing.

Jonny frowns harder. He frowns and walks down the hall, passing several doors, a common room, and the communal bathrooms.

“It hurt. Cops laughed at me too,” he says, bumping into Gorgeous as they tread down the hall.

“Poor baby. How you’ve suffered.”

Gorgeous eyes him like he’s not sure if Jonny brushed against him on purpose or because he’s still rather inebriated. Jonny will let it be a mystery because he is a very mysterious kind of person and does not leave it all out in the open at all. Ask anyone.

They come to a stop in front of a door with a regulation whiteboard taped to it. One side is filled with illegible scribbles and the other is much neater, the name Patrick Kane in blocky, capital letters at the top, notes, and jokes written underneath, even a phone number or two with a heart beside it.

“Patrick?” Jonny asks.

“That’s me,” he says, shrugging gently. He moves to unlock the door.

It’s a nice name, Patrick. “Patrick,” he says to himself, letting the word roll around in his mouth. “Pat-rick. Pa-trick. Pat-trick.”

The look Patrick gives him in return is mixed. Does he think Jonny’s funny, insane, bizarre, all of the above? Possibly. He says, “Yep, that’s it, that’s my name. And yours?”

Instead of telling him, Jonny chooses to point to the embroidered letters over his left pocket. TJ had taken their Tiki Tequila Night shirts to this girl he’d been flirting with their sophomore year. She was a theater major who worked in the costume department and was apparently very handy with a patchwork quilting sewing machine. TJ’s shirt read: TJ Maxxximum Drive and Jonny’s shirt read…

“Jonny Mambo,” Patrick says.

“Just Jonny.”

“What’s the Mambo stand for?” Patrick looks at him like he’s maybe questioning himself again, about letting a weird, drunk, stranger into his room. Jonny doesn’t blame him.

“Long story,” he explains. Or, well, doesn’t.

Patrick’s right eyebrow rises, assessing, and then he walks into this room, leaving the door ajar. “Well, come on in, Just Jonny.”

The first thing Jonny notices after he closes the door behind himself is how neat Patrick’s room is. Almost everything is ordered and in its place. Two twin beds sit end to end against one wall, on the other side of the room are two desks, Patrick’s at the far end, near the window and his roommate’s at the other, near the door. In the middle, two wardrobes, one closed, one open. Patrick’s is open to reveal a few shelves that have been removed and a television sits in between two upper shelves and two lower shelves, all with clothes folded and piled in stacks by darks and whites. There’s a Buffalo Sabres poster on the wall and a row of tennis shoes lined in pairs below it on the floor. Patrick’s desk has a closed laptop sitting on it, with a book beside it, both parallel. Above that, on the backboard of the desk is a calendar filled in with tiny sticky notes and reminders of his upcoming schedule. Any empty space on the backboard is filled with pictures of his family and friends, taped in a uniform vertical pattern and in rows. His bed, with the black comforter and white sheets, is made. His fucking bed is made.

Jonny can’t remember the last time he made his own bed. When he was eight? Maybe. There’s not even any dirty clothes on the floor. Unless he counts the sweatshirt half-hanging off of Patrick’s roommate's desk chair. He doesn’t.

And the part that really kills him is it smells so good in here. Not like his own room, which always manages to have a faint odor of foot funk and ball sweat, even when he and TJ do make an effort to clean up.

He didn’t know a dorm room could be like this. They even have a fucking rug! A rug!

“Nice room,” he says, a little bit in awe.

Patrick looks around like he’s trying to see it from Jonny’s perspective. He shrugs. “Thanks.”

“Roommate?” Jonny says, gesturing to the empty bed. He’s not sure why he turned that into a question when it’s clearly a fact.

Patrick nods. “Kris is usually at his girlfriend’s during the week. During the weekends too, actually. I don’t know. He comes and goes as he pleases. He’s chill either way though, so no worries. You get along with your roommate?”

Jonny sits down on Patrick’s soft bed. “Yeah. TJ. Best friends since high school.”

He realizes suddenly he’s still pretty fucking damp all over and stands, staring at the huge wet mark his ass made on Patrick’s perfectly made bed. Oops.

Patrick glances at the wet spot then back at him, he bites his lip. “TJ Oshie?”

“You guys know each other?”

“Sort of,” Patrick says, turning to his wardrobe. He starts shuffling through some of his well-folded clothes. “He was in my Intro to Journalism class last spring. We were tic-tac-toe partners.”

“Tic-tac-toe partners, eh?”

“Here, put these on while your clothes dry.” Patrick turns and hands Jonny a shirt and pair of sweats. He has a towel in his other hand and he lays it down over the wet spot, pressing in, trying to soak up the water. “Yeah,” he continues. “The class was pretty much a blow off. The Prof just read from his PowerPoint slides and all the tests were based on the slides so being there was mostly pointless.”

Jonny sits the clothes on the end of the bed and begins to strip as he listens to Patrick talk. First his Hawaiian shirt, which is clinging to his long sleeve T annoyingly, then the long sleeve, and finally his shorts, pushed down his thighs unceremoniously leaving him almost naked in nothing but his blue boxer shorts. He slips out of his Vans, bare toes curling pleasingly in the plush black rug. A motherfucking rug!

There’s a quiet exhalation of breath and then a cough, like something got caught in the back of Patrick’s throat. “Except he...except he, um. He was…”

“He was?” Jonny asks, glancing up as he begins to step into the sweats Patrick offered him. He trips twice before he gets his foot in effortlessly, reaching out for balance so his clumsy ass won’t ram into something yet again tonight.

Patrick’s studying the wall next to him very closely all of sudden. The tips of his ears are red. “He, uh. He was a dick about attendance. If you were late or-or missed more than two classes he’d knock you down a letter grade.”

“That’s horseshit.” Jonny pulls the pants up, the legs lifting above his ankles. He snorts and goes for the shirt.

“It was.”

“So who won? In your tic-tac-toe tournament?”

The shirt isn’t much better, looser in the shoulders but tight in the chest and only just managing to cover his stomach, the hem hovering over the waistband of the sweatpants. This was what it was like trying to share clothes with David when he was fourteen and Dave was twelve. He’d hit a growth spurt and his parents wanted to save money on new clothes over summer break. It was not a good look.

Patrick’s eyeing him from his periphery while he works hard at drying the wet spot. If he’s fascinated, possibly enticed, or just entertained Jonny can’t tell.

“Me, obviously,” Patrick says. “TJ never quite caught on to my cross diagonal slash horizontal two-way approach. Got ‘em every time.”

“How often was he falling asleep?”

TJ’s favorite nap time is any class he’s only marginally interested in. How he still manages to get decent grades is an enigma to them both.

“Only some of the time. But hey, if you aren’t cheating a little, you aren’t really trying,” Patrick says, with a grin.

Jonny finds his eyes and smiles back. “You’re damn right.”

They stick like that for moment, looking at each other, mouths turned up, Jonny’s face heating. He stares at the creeping blush on Patrick’s neck, then up to his beautifully shaped mouth, his straight, white teeth, the tongue that’s poking out just a little.

Jonny unconsciously licks his own lips, wanting to feel skin against the pad of his tongue. Patrick’s eyes flash and then he’s swallowing, turning to throw the wet towel in his hamper by his wardrobe.

“Here, give me your clothes and I’ll hang them up so they dry faster.”

Jonny bends to pick them up, noting that there isn’t any trash under Patrick’s bed or littered by the garbage bin in the far corner. “Your room’s really clean.”

“Is it?”

Jonny laughs. “Totally. Me n’ TJ are fuckin’ slobs. Trash everywhere. Moldy pizza boxes. Smelly shorts. Crusty socks stuck to the floor.”

“You’re painting me quite the visual here, man.” Patrick takes the clothes and moves to place them on the hook on the back of his door, taking extra care to make sure they aren’t crumpled together and free of knots before he hangs them up.

Done with that, he walks back to his wardrobe, turns on the TV, grabbing the remote and turning on Netflix. Jonny watches him for several minutes as he flicks through movie genres and television shows, trying to find something to watch.

“It’s nice here. Smells like fresh fruit.”

Patrick huffs out a small laugh. “That’s just Clorox wet wipes. Citrus blend.”

He plops onto his bed and scoots until his back is against the wall, his legs spread out before him. He pats the spot on the bed next to him, which is set up like a couch this way, facing open toward the TV. Jonny takes a seat next to him, a respectable distance away, although maybe it wouldn’t hurt to inch a bit closer. He does, then he rethinks it and moves back, then says fuck it and inches over again. It’s fine. It’s chill.

He clears his throat. Smooth operator.

Patrick’s biting at his bottom lip again, pretending not to look. Jonny’s noticed he does that a lot, pretends not to look. It makes him want to work twice as hard for his attention.

“You mind watching The Dark Knight? I’m in the middle of a marathon,” Patrick says.

He reaches over to his desk where he left his iced tea and grabs it, along with a bottle of water. He hands the water to Jonny.

“Thanks. And go for it,” he says, breaking the seal and taking a long gulp. “The Dark Knight Rises is the best one.”

Patrick scoffs. “Wrong. It’s The Dark Knight. Or if you want to get technical it’s really Batman Returns with Michael Keaton and Michelle Pfeiffer. The worst being Batman and Robin, which we do not speak of. Ever.”

He’s very solemn as he says this, the most serious he’s looked the entire time Jonny’s known him. That being all of approximately thirty minutes, but still, it transforms his face in a way that’s almost vulnerable. Jonny wants to cup his cheek, brush his thumb over Patrick’s soft mouth.

But he can’t. He just met the guy. He needs to get a fucking hold of himself. He needs to sober up.

“What about Batman vs. Superman?” he asks, swallowing half the bottled water in one go.

“It gets a pass because of Henry Cavill,” Patrick says. He’s giving Jonny that curious side-eye again, surveying.

Jonny glances away this time, his face going hot and his hands itching to move of their own volition. He places them on his thighs and orders them not to move. “Is he your favorite actor or something?”

“Nah, he’s just hot,” Patrick says, easy.

Jonny lets this new information sink in. His eyes wander back over to Patrick’s desk as Christian Bale growls at a criminal on TV. He’d skipped over it earlier when he was too busy noticing all of the other details in Patrick’s room and on his desk, like the tiny, bright rainbow flag mixed in with Patrick’s other pens and pencils all sitting inside a coffee mug that reads: Sorry I’m Late I Didn’t Want To Come.

Jonny’s heart rate picks up the longer he looks at it, thoughts tumbling around in his head.

“Meh. He’s alright.”

“Yeesh,” Patrick breathes. “Tough audience. Or is it that Amy Adams is more your style? You a redhead guy?”

Jonny flicks his eyes to Patrick’s. “Blondes usually.”

“I see.” Patrick gives nothing away as he nods, turning back to watch the movie. Ten minutes pass by, maybe five. Okay, maybe one. Jonny’s sense of time and patience isn’t at normal capacity right now.

“How about you? Blondes? Redheads? Henry look-a-likes?” he asks, keeping his voice even. He watches as the Joker interrupts Maroni’s videoconference to make them an offer for killing Batman. He doesn’t look at Patrick. Much.

Patrick doesn’t look at him either, attention focused on the carnage on screen. “Tall, dark, and handsome seems pretty apt. It’s a classic for a reason right?”

“Right,” Jonny agrees, a slow smile emerging.

Conversation dies out for a while after this, and they sit in relative quiet, watching as the events surrounding Batman, the Joker, and Harvey Dent play out. Somewhere around the midpoint mark, when a particularly tense scene occurs where the Joker is threatening Batman’s former love interest, Jonny’s stomach makes a startling gurgling and groaning noise.

Patrick laughs in surprise, a gentle, airy sound. “You hungry?”

He’s fucking starving.

“I guess,” he says, downplaying it. “Forgot to eat dinner after class earlier.”

Patrick hits pauses on the movie and pops up off the bed. He starts rattling around in a mini fridge and a large tupperware container he has stowed underneath his desk. “I don’t have much. A couple of granola bars, a couple of ramen packets, shrimp flavored, and some leftover sesame chicken and rice. If you want?”

“Can’t take your food.”

Patrick waves him off, pulling the sesame chicken and rice in the styrofoam container from his fridge. “Sure you can. I’m hungry too. I meant to eat earlier but then I got distracted by this sad, lost dude in an elevator, on the run from the cops. We’ll share it. Is that better?”

It’s clear he’s already made up his mind and who is Jonny to decline free food from a hot guy who’s basically saving his homeless ass? Only a fool would say no to that. And Jonny’s mom didn’t raise no fool.

“Yeah, okay,” he says shooting Patrick a small, lopsided grin.

Patrick pauses and stares at him for a second, then a few more. His ears are doing that thing again where the tips of them are a rose red and his pupils are very black. He licks his lips and tells Jonny he’s going to the common room to heat up the food and he’ll be back in a few minutes. While he’s gone, Jonny heads to the bathroom and takes the longest piss in known human history, the relief so great he almost sheds a tear or two. He washes his hands and throws some water on his face at the sinks, taking in the image of himself in the bathroom mirror. His, or well, Patrick’s clothes are plastered to his body, and his skin is flushed all over like he gets after he’s just finished cardio in the gym. His hair is sticking up in random spikes that he attempts to flatten and there’s a slight bump on the corner of his already rather prominent forehead, raised and slightly purple from where it hit the snowbank.

All in all he’s a certified hot mess.

But fuck it, Patrick’s definitely not uninterested. Jonny knows that much. He thinks.

He hopes.

Back in the room, Patrick’s returned and now has two paper plates and forks, and is spooning food from the container onto each plate equally with measured care.

Jonny ambles back over to Patrick’s desk while he’s involved with the food and proceeds to be nosy as fuck. He examines Patrick’s photos, the one with him and presumably his dad at a hockey game, him with three girls he also assumes are his sisters, goofing it up for the camera and making silly faces. There are others of Patrick’s friends, a few with a couple of guys. Jonny reaches out and touches the rainbow flag settled in the coffee cup, gingerly rubbing the ends of the fabric between his fingertips as he looks more closely at one photo of Patrick with a tall, dark-headed guy. Their arms are wrapped around each other as they smile, in another they’re in pink T-shirts with a banner in the blurry distance that says: Pride 2018.

“What’s your major?” Jonny asks, after the silence has gone on too long.

“Elementary education,” Patrick says. “I keep going back and forth though. I’m getting a minor in applied mathematics and I keep thinking…”

“Tell me.”

Patrick hesitates, as if he’s embarrassed, or perhaps uncertain how to explain himself. He takes a breath, blowing out a long sigh. “I’m good at numbers. They’ve always come easy to me even if the teachers I’ve had were shitty. It’s part of the reason I initially chose elementary education. But I have this professor this semester, a really nice guy, younger, you know? Not like some of these Crypt Keepers that have probably been tenured since the turn of the century. But he’s just...garbage at explaining the material to anyone that doesn’t get it right away. And I don’t know. I’ve been thinking a lot lately about if that’ll be me down the road. If I’ll be that kind of teacher. I don’t want to do this if I can’t do it right. You know?”

“I do,” Jonny says. He understands better than most about wanting to get things right, about the almost absurd compulsion to never fuck up. It’s been a part of him since before he can remember.

“Anyway, sorry for, like, dumping all that info on you five minutes after we’ve met.”

Jonny steps away from the desk to where Patrick’s fixing their plates at Kris’ desk. The thing is mostly empty anyway. Does this kid ever come around? Does he ever do homework? “It’s okay. I like it. Like hearing you talk.”

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, looking up quickly only to duck his head again, the back of his neck pinking. “Well, um. Here.”

He hands Jonny his plate of food in one hand, then opens a bottle of Tylenol and drops two tablets into Jonny’s free hand.

“Thanks,” Jonny says, voice low, quiet.

It’s been a few years since anyone’s taken care of Jonny like this, like they want to make sure he’s going to be okay. He wonders if anyone does this for Patrick, if Patrick’s like this with all of the people in his life, or if Jonny’s just lucky enough to experience his giving nature on this crazy ass night in the middle of winter.

He’s not going to take it for granted.

“Thank you,” he says again, thumb skimming Patrick’s palm as he pulls it away.

Patrick gifts him with an open look, his blue eyes thickly lashed and regarding Jonny’s face. “You’re welcome.”

They get resituated back on Patrick’s bed with their plates and eat while the movie wraps up. Jonny spends more focus trying to shovel forkfuls of rice and chicken into his mouth as quickly as possible without spilling it all over Patrick’s clean, well made bed, than he does on the movie. But that’s okay, he’s seen it several times before and the third in the trilogy is superior, absolutely.

He feels about 37.4% less drunk by the time he’s scraped his plate clean and emptied one bottled water, then another. He’s been eyeing that egg roll on Patrick’s plate for the last ten minutes, but refuses to let himself ask for it. That’d just be rude. Patrick’s already done enough.

“Here, have it,” Patrick says, picking it up and holding it out for him. “I’m full.”

Jonny takes it, breaking it in half and handing Patrick the bigger piece back. It’s only fair. Except Patrick catches his wrist, wrapping warm, slightly greasy fingers around him, and switching out their pieces again. Jonny now has the bigger one. He lets go of Jonny with a satisfied nod, then takes a napkin and wipes Jonny’s skin clean with a ripped paper towel.

The credits begin to roll as Jonny inhales his part of the eggroll while Patrick’s bites are much more civilized. When they’re both done he edges off the bed, taking both of their paper plates and placing them in the garbage bin. Then he grabs an iPad from his backpack and hands Jonny the TV remote as he returns to his seat.

“I’ve gotta finish some reading up I need done for class, but you can watch whatever you want.”

Time passes as Jonny tries to keep himself occupied watching The Office, then a whole Blue Planet special. Patrick gets distracted every time a creepy sea creature from the bottom depths of the ocean is shown. Likewise, Jonny is distracted by Patrick, watching the way he reads and takes notes, all of his little quirks and personal idiosyncrasies.

He likes to chew on things, a lot, like his bottom lip, or the cap of his iPen, ways to keep his mouth busy. When he remembers he shouldn’t be chewing on it, probably because it’s expensive, he pulls it out and scrunches his forehead, grits his teeth adorably. His hands fidget constantly, tapping against his iPad and unable to be still for more than a few minutes at a time. Occasionally his lips move as he reads and re-reads passages to himself, his eyes intense on the screen. He never looks up, not that Jonny can tell, not once. But he’ll smile, just the tiniest bit from the corner when Jonny ends up staring at him for too long.

At one point Jonny remembers to get up and charge his phone. He even tries to call TJ, more than once. The calls all shoot directly to voicemail. He goes up to their room on the fourth floor, but no luck there either. Jonny hopes wherever he ended up, he’s safe and warm. Although knowing TJ’s penchant for always landing on his feet, Jonny isn’t too worried about him.

“You never told me your major,” Patrick asks at some point after three AM.

“Health Sciences,” Jonny says, turning from the episode of Parks and Recreation he was watching. It’s the one where the entire gang get drunk on Snake Juice and act like idiots. He feels a kinship to them now.

Patrick hmm’s. “What can you do with that?”

“Lots of things. Physical therapy, paramedic, speech pathologist. I just have to narrow my focus before I apply for grad school next year.”

“Speech pathology sounds interesting. Do you speak any other languages?”

“French,” Jonny shrugs.

Patrick’s eyes flash, face brightening. He shuts down his iPad and puts it away on his desk. “Are you fluent?”

Jonny nods.

“Say something French to me.”

Jonny laughs. “Like what?”

“Like anything. Whatever you’re thinking right now.”

Whatever he’s thinking...

“Tu es beau et je veux t'embrasser,” Jonny says.

Patrick blinks at him for a long minute. “What’s that mean?”

“‘Say something French to me.’”

“Smartass,” Patrick laughs, his ears burning.

Jonny wants to reach out and touch them. “Je veux vraiment baiser avec toi,” he says under his breath. He feels his own face heat. He shouldn’t speak French when he’s still buzzed like this, it’s not a good idea.

“I…” Patrick begins. He leans forward, an action that seems almost unconscious.

Jonny wants to lean forward too, to get closer, but he holds back. "Mais nous venons de nous rencontrer et peut-être que je ne devrais pas.”

Patrick’s watching his mouth move, eyes tracking his face. He smiles wider. “How long have you spoken French?”

“Since before I can remember. My mom’s Québécois so I learned it as I learned English. And I went to a French-speaking school until I was eight when we moved to the States for my dad’s work. But we, my brother, me, my mom, sometimes my dad, still speak it frequently when we’re all home.”

“You make it sound a lot better than my boy Duncan. He mostly sounds like a semi-literate hick when says shit like ‘beaucoup de fun, you know’.”

Beaucoup de fun.

Jonny cringes, making a face. “Is he your boyfriend?” he asks without thinking.

Once upon a time Jonny knew how to be slick, how to throw a casual pick up line out there, charm someone with a single look. Wherever that version of him went, he’s not here tonight, and he took all subtlety with him too.

“Who? Duncs?”

“Yeah.”

Patrick sucks in a sharpy breath and chokes, coughing as he says, “Ew, fuck no. No way. He’s just a buddy. That showers like twice a week and reads too many true crime novels.”

“Gotcha,” Jonny says, patting at Patrick’s back until the coughing subsides. “So no boyfriend. Girlfriend?”

“Uh, no. I’m single. A free man. Flying solo, as some would say.”

“Would they say that?” Jonny grins.

“Some would, yes,” Patrick nods. He bends his neck, looking down at his lap, Jonny looks there too, at where he’s fidgeting with his fingers. “And what would they say about you?”

“The same.” He realizes he still has his hand pressed to Patrick’s upper back, his forefinger at the collar of Patrick’s shirt, so close to bare skin.

Patrick clears his throat, cracks a few knuckles. “Well,” he says, shrugging. “I’m not surprised. I mean look at you, you’re basically a homeless fugitive.”

“I know, right? Who would want that?” Jonny moves his hand up, lightly squeezing at the nape of Patrick’s neck, then lets go. As he pulls away his body shifts, his shoulder pressing into Patrick’s shoulder, touching.

“A great question. Who could possibly?!” Patrick says, that teasing smile on his face again, his tongue poking out.

That tongue is unfair and it’s doing things to Jonny’s body - evil things - he needs to put a stop to right now. He picks up the TV remote and distracts himself with looking for something else to watch, mindlessly clicking through all of the menus available.

“Are you from around here?” he asks Patrick.

Patrick’s smile turns coy at the subject change, knowing, but he goes with it anyway, taking pity on Jonny. “Buffalo, New York. But my dad went here so I’m a legacy and it helped me get in because my grades in high school were pretty mediocre even though my test scores were high. I just got bored a lot, I guess, so I didn’t always do the homework. Anyway, it’s been nice to get away from Buffalo. I love it there, but the people aren’t always the most accepting. It’s good to get away, be anonymous instead of having everyone always knowing my business.”

“I know how that goes.”

“Do you? You seem like a guy who maybe enjoys the spotlight,” Patrick says, gesturing to Jonny’s Hawaiian shirt hanging from his door.

“That wasn’t my idea. That was so I can get cheap booze at a bar. It’s a requirement.”

“A requirement?” Patrick raises his eyebrows, curious. “Even the nametags?”

Jonny laughs. “Well, no. That’s all TJ. But he’d wear something like that even without the bar. I prefer a more laid back style.”

Patrick looks him up and down, then up and down again, deliberately. “A khakis and plaid guy?”

“Flip flops and T-shirts,” Jonny says.

He receives a look of distaste for this response, Patrick’s nose scrunched up, eyes squinting.

“Flip flops are the dumbest shoes ever invented.”

Jonny gasps. He places his right hand over his heart and points at the door with his left. “Get out.”

Patrick barks out a surprised laugh. “Of my own room?”

“Out!” Jonny says, deadpan. “You’re no longer welcome here.”

“I’m just telling you the truth, dude.”

Jonny shakes his head, looking away. “I’m sorry I can’t hear your lies. You’ll have to speak louder.”

There’s more laughing, quiet giggles like the ones Jonny first heard from Patrick in the elevator. It’s almost too much, and Jonny’s struggling to keep a straight face as Patrick leans into Jonny’s side, mouth coming dangerously close to his ear.

He acts like he’s about to whisper something when he opens his mouth and blasts Jonny with, “I SAID--”

A loud banging interrupts Patrick before he even gets going, like fists pounding on the other side of the wall they’re sitting against.

“Shut the fuck up!” someone yells. “I’m trying to sleep!”

Quiet for a moment. Then again. “Shut up!”

More quiet.

“Please.”

“Sorry, Alex,” Patrick calls, head coming to rest on Jonny’s shoulder as he starts to snicker. Jonny bursts into laughter with him, pressing his forehead to the top of Patrick’s golden curls.

“Shhh,” Patrick says in between laughs. He pushes at Jonny’s chest.

“You shhh.” Jonny pushes him back, not hard enough to really do more than cause Patrick to tip backwards so he lands with his head against his pillow.

“I’m already shhhh-ing,” Patrick says at full volume. He pulls Jonny down with him, laughing harder when Jonny attempts to cover his mouth.

“Shhhh,” Jonny whispers.

“Shhhh. Sh. Sh. Sh,” Patrick whispers back. He tugs Jonny’s hand away, but doesn’t let go, and it stays, hovering there for a moment until Patrick lowers both of their hands to his chest and holds on.

It’s a cramped fit with the two of them trying to fit horizontally in this tiny ass twin bed, Jonny mostly on his back with Patrick on his side, squished in between Jonny and the wall. It feels good to not be sitting up though, his body still floaty and warm from the alcohol and his eyelids heavy now that his head is on a pillow. He maybe needs to clean his own pillowcase because he forgot they could smell this good. He kind of wants to rub his face in it, and then press his nose into Patrick’s curls again, soak up that fresh, rainwater scent.

“What’s this bar like that gives you free drinks for just wearing a shirt?” Patrick asks, voice soft. “It sounds pretty dope.”

“Captain George’s Tiki Bar and Grille. They do discount tequila nights on Tuesdays if you wear a Hawaiian shirt or a hula skirt. They play a lot of Jimmy Buffett and they love flip flops.”

“Jimmy Buffett is the man.”

“I know all the lyrics to Margaritaville by heart now.”

“Would you judge me if I said that made me like you more?” Patrick confesses.

“I’m already judging you for hating flip flops,” Jonny says, but he flattens his hand over Patrick’s stomach and slides it up until he can curve it around Patrick’s waist.

Patrick relaxes even more against his side, curling his arm over Jonny’s. “You’re not gonna let that one go are you?”

“Definitely not.”

“It sounds like a fun place. This Captain George’s. Maybe I’ll stop by some time.”

“You should come with me.”

“Yeah?” Patrick asks, his question this gentle, sweet thing Jonny wants to curl around too.

He can feel his eyes close, sleep knocking at the door and ready to take him under. “Yeah,” he murmurs, words a little slurred. “But you have to wear flip flops.”

Just before he passes out he hears another one of Patrick’s breathy laughs and a quiet, “Okay, I can do that.”

*

In the morning, Jonny wakes and expects to feel like the wrong end of a dumpster on trash day. Surprisingly, he doesn’t. His head is still sleep foggy and his mouth is cotton dry, but there’s no throbbing headache or dead limbs like usual after a night of drunken shenanigans with TJ.

At the thought of last night, Jonny’s eyes spring open and he remembers with every inch of his body that he’s pressed against a beautiful man.

Patrick to be exact.

Patrick, he thinks, and smiles.

His face is half smooshed into the pillow they’re sharing, their legs tangled and Patrick’s hand is fisted in the front of Jonny’s shirt, like he’s hanging on. His morning wood is a problem begging to be solved, but Jonny will deal with that in a moment. For now he can’t help but lightly cup Patrick’s face, tracing a few fingers over his cheek, smooth skin giving way to the barest hint of stubble.

Patrick’s eyelids flutter and open at the touch, a monstrous yawn overtaking as he inhales, then exhales his morning breath directly in Jonny’s direction. Jonny scrunches his nose at the smell and Patrick smiles, moving to cover up his mouth.

“Hey,” Jonny says, pulling Patrick’s hand back down so he can see that smile in the light of day.

“Hi,” Patrick says, soft. “How’re you feeling?”

“Not bad actually. I’m thirsty as fuck though.”

Patrick pushes up on his elbows, still between Jonny and the wall, and leans forward into Jonny’s body so he can reach over him to grab a stainless steel water bottle from his desk. It feels like a deliberate thing, Patrick pressing close, letting Jonny feel him all over, his chest, his abs, his dick hard in his sweatpants. It only lasts a few seconds, but it’s enough to get Jonny addicted.

“Here.”

“Thanks,” Jonny says and drinks from the bottle until his throat isn’t dry. Then he hands it over to Patrick who drinks as well.

“No problem.” He’s settled back on the pillow again, knuckling at his eyes, his lower half more on top of Jonny than on the bed now.

Jonny fits a hand to Patrick’s back to let him know he wants him there, so he won’t go far. “And thank you for last night. I-Jesus. I would’ve ended up passing out and freezing to death on the common room couch if it weren’t for you.”

“I’m sure someone else would’ve taken pity on you. I know a few girls on the second floor who’ve been trying to get your attention since last year.”

Wait. What?

“You knew about me since last year?” Jonny asks, stunned.

Patrick ducks his head, or as much as he can with the lack of space between them. “Maybe.”

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

There’s no answer for a beat, and Jonny takes the moment to really explore Patrick’s face. It’s no less beautiful for him being sober. In fact it strikes an ache in his chest even more, if that’s possible. He curls a finger under Patrick’s chin and gently tilts his head up so their eyes meet.

“I don’t know. Would you have wanted me to?”

Jonny huffs a disbelieving laugh. “Patrick, yes.”

“Oh,” Patrick says, like maybe he’s surprised by the answer. Like maybe Jonny hasn’t been obvious enough in the last twelve hours.

“Absolutely,” Jonny says, just to make sure it really sinks in.

A slow grin begins to grow, the tips of Patrick’s ears pinking. “So have you made a decision yet?”

“A decision about what?”

“About whether you’re gonna kiss me or not. You seem undecided last night and I’m very interested in the answer.”

Fuck. If he isn’t full of surprises.

Jonny probably most closely resembles a gaping fish as he opens and closes his mouth, searching for a response. “You...knew what I was saying?”

Patrick pokes his tongue out between his teeth, teasing. “I took French my freshman year. I don’t remember much but I know vous, tu, te means you, devrais pas is like should not something, and I think embrasser means to kiss. And baiser is like the dirtier version of that? Or at least that’s what Duncs told me.”

“Well. That’s fucking humiliating,” Jonny says, then turns his face fully into the pillow to hide himself.

“I think it’s pretty funny,” Patrick hums, his voice filled with laughter.

Jonny wonders briefly if he’s made too much of a fool of himself with being drunk, ridiculous, and forward for Patrick to be into this now, into him. He wonders for all of a minute until a warm hand touches his neck and then fingers are carding through the back of his hair, caressing, tender.

Jonny turns into the touch, shifting until they’re only an inch apart on the pillow, mouths almost brushing. “Just funny?”

“No,” Patrick breathes. He doesn’t move away, eyes intent on Jonny’s.

“Good,” Jonny says, cupping Patrick’s face again. “I’m gonna kiss you now, okay?”

“Well, thank god. You made me wait all ni—”

He doesn’t let Patrick finish the thought, although the words make him smile as he tilts Patrick’s head back and presses their mouths together. He’s been in love with Patrick’s pretty pink lips since the moment he saw them and they feel just as lush against his own as he imagined. His tongue melts into Patrick’s mouth, licking over the seam and dipping inside to where it really wants to be. Patrick lets out the smallest, sweetest whimper and something inside of Jonny twists, the need pushing at him, demanding he do this right, take care of Patrick with this like Patrick took care of him. In return Patrick tugs at Jonny’s hair, holding him close, and sucking on Jonny’s tongue through the stale morning flavor until it’s just slick spit and the taste of skin and air and them between it all.

They kiss for so long Jonny loses track of the number of kisses, his head going dizzy, his lungs beginning to burn.

“Can I take you out for breakfast?” he asks, panting, when they break apart.

“It’s almost noon,” Patrick says, his smile stained red, lips swollen.

“Lunch?”

Patrick takes a minute like he’s contemplating the question, unsure of what his answer will be, playful, teasing. They haven’t known each other long, but Jonny can already tell this is going to be a thing. He’s looking forward to it.

“Kiss me again and you can,” Patrick finally answers, pleased with himself. He nuzzles at Jonny’s jaw, scrapes his teeth over his chin.

“I’ll kiss the fuck out of you. Don’t tempt me.”

To prove his point he flips them so Patrick’s beneath him, at his mercy, Jonny between his legs and leaning in. His hands have been on Patrick’s face, cupping his cheeks, his neck, and flirting with the ends of his curls, but they slide down like they’ve been commanded and grip at the back of Patrick’s thighs, coaxing his legs to wrap around Jonny’s waist.

Patrick’s eyes are fiery, his expression wicked as he pulls Jonny down against his mouth. “I like a good challenge. C’mon. Gimme your best shot, Jon.”

*

Even if it’s past noon by the time they leave the dorm, they decide on breakfast food for their meal and end up at Darcy’s Cafe not far from campus. Patrick drives them as Jonny’s keys are still stuck in his room and TJ hasn’t answered his phone yet. He’s probably passed out in there with the door locked and will surface sometime around three or four. Jonny should get him some ibuprofen and Gatorade on the way back.

At Darcy’s he receives a few eyefuls from the other patrons staring at his borrowed wardrobe of high-water sweatpants and tight midriff flaunting T-shirt, but he doesn’t care. Patrick can’t stop looking at him either and that’s the main goal here.

For breakfast he orders a large helping of hashbrowns, egg whites, and two orders of sausage and bacon. Patrick chooses the strawberry crepes, sneaking pieces of Jonny’s bacon when he thinks Jonny isn’t looking. It’s an act for which the perpetrator would usually get their hand slapped. Jonny’s very serious about his breakfast meats. But Patrick grins at him impishly and offers him a strawberry from his fingers. There’s enough people around Jonny should do the polite thing and take it from Patrick with own fingers, but he’s happy in a way he hasn’t felt before, feeling reckless and a little new after a crazy, weird, wonderful night with Patrick. And he doesn’t want it to stop, this bubbling feeling simmering low in his belly. So he leans in and takes it, and all its syrupy covered goodness, with his mouth, sucking the tips of Patrick’s sugary fingers and reveling in the way Patrick laughs delightedly, eyes sparkling and shiny lips spread wide.

“So,” Patrick says when their food is mostly gone and Jonny’s paid for the check. He’s got a question in mind, Jonny can tell.

“So?”

“Jonny Mambo.”

“Oh god.”

“Oh yes,” Patrick nods. “I gotta hear the story behind this.”

“You gotta?” Jonny says, unimpressed.

Patrick’s amusement only grows. “Gotta.”

Jonny groans. “It’s nothing exciting, really. I got drunk my freshman year at a sorority party and this senior girl I was hitting on said she’d give me her number if I did a striptease to the song Mambo No. 5. And I did. And then she posted the video on her Twitter and my buddy TJ basically pissed himself laughing.”

Patrick’s not doing a good job of hiding his laughter either. Then, like something’s clicked over in his brain, his eyes widen. “Oh my god. I think I saw that tweet. I couldn’t really see your face in the video because the camera was shaky, and I was a little distracted by your body, but. Holy shit.”

“Well, this is awesome.” Jonny crosses his arms morosely.

“Stop,” Patrick says, not the least bit sympathetic. “You looked hot. Good moves.”

That’s patently untrue. Jonny’s seen the video. He grumbles something that sounds like ‘sure’ under his breath.

“Did she go out with you?”

“Who?”

“That senior girl you were trying to get the number from?” Patricks says.

Jonny enjoys how interested he is in the answer, wonders if it’s just a sliver of jealousy prompting him to ask, maybe he feels some claim to Jonny now that they’ve essentially spent the night together, now that they’ve kissed. Maybe it’s too early, but Jonny’s starting to feel those things too.

“Oh, yeah. We went for coffee once. But I’m pretty sure she thought sober me was boring. She never texted me back after that.”

Patrick frowns, his face showing a mixture of emotions from annoyed to disbelieving to finally pleased. “Her loss,” he says, catching Jonny’s eyes. “My gain.”

Jonny leans forward In their booth, arms coming to rest on the table between them so he can get closer. “C’mere.”

“Why?” Patrick asks, but he already knows. He’s leaning in too.

“Because I’m gonna kiss you again,” Jonny says, and then he does.

*

3 months later

“How long have you guys been together?” Tom asks.

The four of them are studying for finals in the living room of Tom’s frat house, spread out over two different couches as they try and fail not to distract each other. The four of them being: him, Patrick, TJ, and Tom.

Patrick started on the opposite end of the couch as Jonny, but now he’s on the floor, his back to the couch Jonny’s sitting on, head pressed up against Jonny’s thigh as he takes notes on his iPad. Meanwhile, Jonny’s attempting to read and not think about taking Patrick back to his empty dorm room to fuck. He’s not thinking about it very hard. Finals are important, but his dick is a formidable force.

“Three months,” Patrick answers. “We had our first date the night we met.”

“Oh yeah?” Tom asks. He’s only sort of paying attention. TJ, who gave up the ghost of studying about thirty minutes ago, has been doing his ample best to sidetrack Tom. It’s involved a lot of flirting and tiny balled up pieces of notebook paper.

“No, we didn’t,” Jonny says. “Our first date was the next morning. At the cafe.”

It’s been a mild point of contention since Patrick’s sister, Erica, came to visit in March and he told her the same thing, that they began dating the night they met, for which Jonny disagrees.

Patrick states a sleepover must count as a date while Jonny argues he was drunk, so it doesn’t count. Patrick is so far not swayed.

“Our first date we ate leftover Chinese food in my dorm room, and watched a movie, and snuggled. That’s totally a date. That’s the definition of a date,” Patrick says, never looking up from his notes.

“....that wasn’t our first date though,” Jonny says.

Patrick isn’t listening. TJ and Tom have gone back to flirting.

*

5 years later

After years of being together and hearing the story, and telling the story himself, over and over and over again, Jonny should really be used to it by now when it pops up. It being the night they met, the famous night Jonny met his future. And to have It come up the night of their engagement party really shouldn’t surprise him either. It’s a pivotal part of their history, he knows.

It’s just. They had this fancy dinner across town with their closest friends and family, and now they’re back at his parents house, doing the entertaining thing, getting ready for some sentimental and probably embarrassing toasts, when Jonny hears Patrick from across the room telling them THE story. The story before they officially got together story.

“Hey, did Jonny ever tell you guys about how he was shitfaced and running from the cops and half-frozen on our first date?”

He’s saying this to one of his work colleagues, two of his sisters, and a few of his friends from back in Buffalo, no parents thankfully. But Jonny cannot let this abide.

“IT WASN’T OUR FIRST DATE!” he yells from across the room.

Jonny can’t see him, but from somewhere in the crowd TJ starts cracking up.

Patrick pauses, winks at Jonny, then continues on, unbothered.

Later, after they get home to their own apartment and Jonny’s sitting on their bed, working to undo his tie, he says, ”Why do you keep telling everyone that was our first date?”

Patrick, who’s pantsless and unbuttoning his shirt turns from his dresser and walks up to Jonny. He climbs unceremoniously into his lap and takes over the task of loosening Jonny’s tie for him, pulling the knot free and tie from his collar. Then he wraps his arms around Jonny’s neck, bumping his nose to Jonny’s jaw.

“Because it’s hilarious to see their faces when I tell them you were running from the law, wasted, and banged up the same night I fell for you.”

“Well,” Jonny says, clearing his throat. “That’s, um.....me too.”

They fall back against the bed as they kiss and kiss.

It’s not such a bad story when Jonny remembers all of the things that one night has given him, how it eventually brought him here.

It’s our story, Patrick said to him once, soon after Jonny proposed, touching the ring glinting on his finger. And it’s a good one.

Jonny has to agree.