“Hey,” Patrick says, when Johnny pulls his mouth away from Patrick’s and starts nipping at the curve of Patrick’s throat, tugging Patrick closer onto his lap as Patrick’s knees dig into Johnny’s couch on either side of Johnny’s hips. “Hey, Johnny, hey. Hey. I don’t think I can get it up, man.”
He’s pretty sure it’s true. One of Johnny’s hands is under Patrick’s shirt, spread warm across his back, and it feels great, and he is so, so into the way Johnny’s tugging the collar of Patrick’s shirt down with his other hand and sucking a massive fucking bruise under Patrick’s collarbone, but he’s so drunk that there’s, uh, not much happening in his pants. Right now, it kind of feels like the most tragic thing that’s ever happened to him, right up until Johnny snorts against Patrick’s chest and says, “I’m shocked,” and bites him again. He sounds happy to be making fun of Patrick, like he always does, and he keeps Patrick on his lap like his plans aren’t even changed by the fact that Patrick’s dick is down for the count. Johnny’s not exactly the epitome of sobriety either, even if he’s not as bad as Patrick (but when is he ever), and he doesn’t really seem to be in a rush to get himself off. Patrick would know if he were; Johnny’s not exactly one for coyness when he’s after something.
Just to be sure, though, Patrick says again, “No, really, I’m pretty sure it’s not happening tonight.”
“You want to go to bed or something?” Johnny asks, propping his chin against the middle of Patrick’s chest and looking up at him, eyebrow raised. He looks really dumb from this angle; his head’s kind of lightbulb-shaped, Patrick can’t believe he’s never told Johnny that before.
Patrick doesn’t want to go anywhere if it means getting off of Johnny’s lap right now, so he just cups Johnny’s dumb lightbulb-shaped head in both hands, shakes his own in a no, and wriggles a little closer. Johnny looks pleased and irritatingly smug and kind of relaxed. Clearly Patrick is a genius and he should get Johnny drunk all the time. It’s good for him. …Maybe Patrick will cut it back a little himself, though, next time.
“Good,” Johnny says, and drags Patrick’s head back down by his hair. “Then shut up.”
And hey, Patrick’s not about to take that sitting down. Metaphorically, at least, because literally he’s wormed his legs behind Johnny’s back so he can wrap his thighs around Johnny’s waist so tightly they might need to be surgically removed afterward. He opens his mouth to tell Johnny that he’s not captain right now, Patrick totally doesn’t need to listen to him, except then he finds his mouth full of Johnny’s tongue and decides to abandon this fight for another time.
Johnny kisses Patrick thoroughly, lazily, like they have all the time in the world. He’s unfairly coordinated for being drunk; when Patrick tips slightly to the side, giddily, Johnny grabs him by the front of his shirt and reels him back in, and then the world flips over and Patrick finds himself on his back on the couch, Johnny bracing himself above him.
“Probably safer,” Johnny murmurs, and lowers himself down until he’s covering Patrick fully, a warm weight that makes Patrick’s head spin in a way that has nothing to do with alcohol.
Johnny’s a really good kisser. Patrick’s sloppy even at his best, and that’s definitely not what he’s at right now; he sucks on Johnny’s tongue and moans when Johnny closes his teeth gently around Patrick’s lower lip, and he knows he’s getting spit all over Johnny’s mouth, but Johnny doesn’t really seem to mind. Their lips slide together wetly, pull apart with a smacking noise that strikes Patrick as hilarious all of a sudden.
“Dumbass,” Johnny says softly when Patrick starts giggling against the side of Johnny’s face, but his voice is fond and open, and he lets Patrick laugh for a moment or two before he nudges Patrick’s head back into position to kiss him again.
They make out like that for what feels like forever, until Patrick’s limbs feel heavy and he feels warm all over—not the dizzying warmth of a fever, but an easy, soothing feeling like falling asleep in the sun. Johnny runs his fingers through Patrick’s hair, again and again, nails raking gently over his scalp; Patrick goosebumps from the back of his neck down to his fingertips in response, digs his fingers into Johnny’s back until Johnny does it again. Patrick’s lips are tender and hot when he runs his fingers over them. The skin around his mouth stings a little, and he can feel the same burn under his jaw, down his throat, from Johnny’s stubble.
“Everyone’s going to think I’ve got a rash,” Patrick grumbles, failing to sound anywhere near as indignant as he’d like to.
Johnny grins, ducks his head and rubs his cheek down Patrick’s throat in a swift stroke. Patrick yelps and swats at the back of Johnny’s head; lets his hand linger and tug at Johnny’s hair when Johnny decides to stay while he’s down there, sucking softly at the thin skin of Patrick’s throat. Patrick pulls Johnny back up after a minute or two, and Johnny leans in and kisses the corner of Patrick’s mouth, slowly slicks the curve of Patrick’s lower lip with his tongue until Patrick opens his mouth.
Their kisses taper off after a while, soft presses of their lips that go no further than that. Patrick yawns against Johnny’s mouth; pulls away and tucks his head into the curve of Johnny’s neck, yawns again.
Somehow they’ve managed to arrange themselves on their sides without falling off the couch, though that’s probably at least partially due to the way Patrick’s slung his leg over Johnny’s and wriggled close enough that they can knock foreheads. Johnny’s hand fits against the back of Patrick’s neck, thumb stroking slowly; Patrick feels his breathing match the rhythm of it, long and slow and easy, and the two of them fall asleep like that: in the languid space between one breath and the next.