They’re sprawled out on Johnny’s bed, sweat cooling on their skin, arms and legs overlapping, when Patrick says, “I kind of miss going down on girls.”
Johnny’s muscles seize up so suddenly he thinks he can hear his spine snap. They haven’t talked about being exclusive because they haven’t really talked about anything, they just keep falling into bed with each other and spending all their time together and Johnny had thought they were on the same page.
He hasn’t slept with anyone else in months.
“Uh,” he says, because Patrick has rolled his head lazily on his pillow - the pillow, Johnny thinks, because that’s another conversation they haven’t had - and is furrowing his eyebrows at Johnny.
“I was pretty good at it,” Patrick says, eyebrows still furrowed. He still manages to leer, licking his lower lip in his typically obscene way, and Johnny gets a sudden unpleasant flash of images: Patrick’s curls between some girls legs, tongue curling and flicking. Johnny can picture it perfectly, unfortunately. Patrick is great with his tongue, can make Johnny’s toes curl, make him groan like it’s ripped from his chest. He’d just done so a few minutes previously, as a matter of fact, and Johnny’s still coming down from an orgasm that had felt like a punch to the chest.
“Oh?” Johnny says, and reaches down for the edge of the sheet, tugging it up over his body. He needs to not have dick out for this conversation. It just feels wrong.
“Yeah. Really good at it, actually, or so I’ve been told. And I always liked it.”
Of course he did. Patrick loves anything that he’s been told he’s really good at, even if he sometimes has a hard time believing it’s true.
Johnny feels like he just took a hard check into the boards, frustrated and knocked breathless, and he swings his legs out of the bed, reaching for his boxer briefs. “Then go find a girl, if you miss it so much.”
Patrick doesn’t say anything, and Johnny doesn’t look back to see what his face is doing. He pulls his underwear on and contemplates a tee shirt before remembering that he has Patrick’s come drying on his stomach. It’s a good time to shower that off, actually, and Johnny heads towards the bathroom. Normally he’d drag Patrick in with him, but he’s kind of hoping that Patrick will get dressed and leave while he’s washing up. The conversation has him feeling out of sorts, head spinning like it hasn’t since the concussion, and having Patrick in the room is making it worse.
Johnny shuts the bathroom door behind him and turns on the shower, and he doesn’t strain to listen for the rustle of clothing or any other indication that Patrick might be leaving. When he comes out of the bathroom, towel around his waist and his hair dripping down his neck, the bed is empty.
They have a game the next night, and usually Johnny misses Patrick on his wing, but when they’re having off days he’s glad that they’re on different lines. They can be fuck-ups off the ice but Johnny can’t let their issues come on the ice with them, and it’s easier to leave them at the door when they’re not skating together.
They still end up on the power play together, because it’s never as effective as when Patrick’s out there cycling the puck and skating through defensemen like they’re ghosts, and Johnny has to face off with Patrick at his back, and his jaw actually aches from clenching it.
Post-game is more raucous than usual, even for a big overtime win like that night’s, because Patrick is wired, manic in a way Johnny hasn’t seen for a long time, even his hair frizzing up more than usual like there’s actual electricity running through him.
He’s calling out invites across the locker room, assembling a crew that makes Johnny’s stomach churn. Shawzy has a gleeful grin on his face, Bollig’s arm around his neck, and Leddy’s nodding stoically from his stall. It’s the group of guys that Patrick can really let loose with, and he’s yapped enough about Shawzy making a great wingman. Johnny catches Patrick’s eyes as they’re skipping around the room, and the challenge in them is unmistakable.
Johnny shoves his arms through his coat sleeves, grabs his bag, and jets.
Traffic is fuck-awful, because of course it is, and usually Johnny likes the time in the car after a game, unwinds with the city roaring around him and Patrick’s iPod plugged into the stereo. Tonight he skips around on the radio, unable to choose a station, before jabbing the power button with his thumb, and the traffic irritates him, the constant stop-and-start grating on his nerves.
By the time he gets home he’s so wound up he feels like turning back around and going back to the UC, forcing them to stop dismantling the rink so he can skate laps until his lungs burn. He stands in the lobby of his building for a full minute, contemplating the gym, but he’d already done his post-game workout and he doubts he’ll loosen up enough to not hurt himself.
He plays video games instead, some awful first-person shooter that Patrick had brought over, and takes out his frustration on the XBox controller, mashing buttons until he can feel the plastic creaking in his hands.
Johnny lays awake in bed and checks his phone roughly every three minutes. He tells himself it’s just to check the time, because he’s impatient when he can’t sleep - hell, he’s impatient pretty much always - but every time the screen lights up and there are no new text notifications he feels a little more hollowed out.
It’s 3:26 AM when Johnny hears the front door open, and his body buzzes, like all that space inside of him was filled up with bees, and he rearranges himself as silently as he possibly can to look like he’s asleep.
He can hear Patrick - because of course it’s Patrick, Johnny’s awareness of him is freaky on a regular day but it’s even more attuned when they’re fighting - kick off his shoes, and one thumps against the wall. He’s drunk then, trying to be careful and failing, Johnny assumes, and he squeezes his eyes tighter.
Patrick shuffles into the room, and Johnny hears the clink of his belt hitting the floor, and holds his breath when the mattress dips behind him. His heart is thunking so loudly in his chest it feels like it’s echoing through the whole room, and the rate kicks up a notch when Patrick slides into Johnny’s space under the covers, molding himself to Johnny’s back and tucking a cold arm around Johnny’s waist.
He reeks of booze, and the shitty cologne he thinks attracts females or whatever, and his breath is rank when it wafts over Johnny’s shoulder, but Johnny feels more relaxed with their skin pressed together than he has all day.
“I know you’re awake, asshole,” Patrick says, his lisp more pronounced when he’s drunk, and Johnny feels a wild flare of affection in his chest. He tamps it down and tucks it away behind his growing irritation, because if Patrick hooked up with some chick and then crawled into Johnny’s bed Johnny is going to give him a new scar on his face.
“You reek,” Johnny says.
Patrick makes a noise in the back of his throat, affronted. “Thanks.”
Johnny pulls away, feeling Patrick’s fingers kind of scrabble at his ribs like he’s trying to hold on, and scoots to the edge of the bed, reaching over to turn on the lamp on the nightstand, twisting around to see Patrick blinking at the light.
“Duh,” Patrick says, and actually rolls his eyes. Johnny looks for some sort of sign that Patrick may have hooked up, but he doesn’t know what to look for. He’s got a suspiciously mouth-shaped bruise under his collar bone that Johnny put there a few days ago, and his hair is a wreck but it’s not sticking up in the way that Johnny knows it does when someone’s been pulling on it. He resists the urge to reach for the douchey polo shirt Patrick dropped on the floor, because lipstick on collars only happens in the movies.
Who kisses people’s shirt collars in real life?
Patrick is grinning at him, and Johnny wants to punch him in his stupid, pretty mouth.
“You’re going to hurt yourself, thinking that hard,” Patrick says, and Johnny almost does punch him in his stupid, pretty mouth.
“Did you pick up?” he asks instead, to see Patrick’s grin slide off his face. He feels like he’s in a face-off, coiled tight and mind racing. He needs to prepare for every possibility, read the situation and figure out where to go if the puck doesn’t go his way, if Patrick says yes.
He’s ready to deal with the fallout when Patrick grits his teeth, hand balling into a fist on the mattress. “No. Fucker.”
Johnny’s mouth drops open. He knows his math, knew there was a 50/50 chance of Patrick having not picked up (more than that if you base his chances on past precedence) but he’s surprised by the anger in Patrick’s voice.
“No, I didn’t pick up,” he continues, and reaches out to punch at Johnny’s shoulder, weak and slightly off target, knuckles glancing off of Johnny’s skin. “And it’s all your fault.” He slumps onto his back and glares at the ceiling and Johnny feels slightly hysterical all of a sudden, his chest tight and his throat aching.
“I was going to,” Patrick says, and he’s slurring more now, his eyes drooping tiredly, all the fight gone. “I was going to. There was this blonde, man, she was incredible. Leddy was drooling into his beer. She was giving me the eye, too, you know. She was, even Shawzy said so. But I just,” he trails off, sighs, lets his head fall to the side so he can look up at Johnny. Johnny’s mouth goes dry. “I just couldn’t.”
“Why?” Johnny asks, and his tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of his mouth. Patrick’s mouth goes crooked, and his hand slides across the sheet until his fingers are brushing Johnny’s forearm.
“Didn’t want to. Because of,” he pauses, shrugs his shoulders. “You know.”
“Patrick, I really don’t.”
Patrick sighs again and pushes himself up, swaying forward on his elbow, twisting his body until his mouth bumps against Johnny’s. Johnny watches him coming, keeps his eyes open the whole time, and doesn’t let them slide closed until Patrick brings a hand up to wrap around the back of Johnny’s neck.
“Because of you, douchebag,” Patrick pulls back to say. “Because of us.” He shrugs one shoulder and his tongue darts out, swipes over his lower lip. It’s a nervous habit, one Johnny is all too familiar with, but the sight of it coupled with what Patrick is saying - and what Johnny thinks Patrick is saying - sparks something in Johnny that crackles along his nerve endings, heats his skin.
Johnny wants to pin Patrick to the bed and suck that tongue into his mouth, wants to hold him down and make him beg, but they’ve done that too often - replaced words with actions, and Johnny needs some words right now. More specifically, he needs to say one word, and he does push Patrick to the mattress, does hold him down with his hands clamped over Patrick’s shoulders, but he gets the one word out, nearly growled through his teeth.
“Mine,” is what he says, and Patrick’s eyes go wide, startled, but his mouth is spreading in a grin, going crooked in that way that means he’s feeling cocky, and Johnny wants to bite it.
“Yeah, Johnny, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.” Patrick licks his lips again, and Johnny figures that’s enough talking for now, he got what he wanted anyway, and leans down to chase Patrick’s tongue with his own.
Johnny gets desperate pretty fast, all of his focus centered on Patrick’s tongue curling around his own, making the kiss wet and dirty. Patrick is gasping against his mouth, bucking his hips up against Johnny’s, hands roaming all over Johnny’s back, calluses rough against Johnny’s hyper-sensitized skin.
Patrick starts running his mouth as soon as it’s free, Johnny licking his way down Patrick’s throat. “You never let me finish what I was going to say,” he starts, and he’s not slurring now. He sounds sure of himself, and gravelly in the way he gets when he’s really turned on. Johnny lifts his head from Patrick’s collarbone, where he’d been sucking a mark to match the fading one.
Johnny opens his mouth to argue, because he thought they’d been done talking, his mouth has better things to do, what the fuck, but Patrick reaches down and tucks two fingertips into Johnny’s mouth, pressing down on his tongue. Johnny bites down, and Patrick’s pupils dilate a little more, black swallowing up blue.
“Not tonight, before. About going down on girls.”
Johnny bites harder, and Patrick groans, tugging his fingers free.
“Freak. Let me finish this time.”
Johnny sits up on his heels, and just barely stops himself from propping his hands on his hips. He waves a hand at Patrick, a lazy go-on sort of motion, and Patrick leans up on his elbows.
“When I was talking about going down on girls, eating them out, I wasn’t saying I wanted to go back to that. I was giving you a hint.”
“A hint?” Johnny’s erection is flagging fast, because hearing Patrick talk about girls, about anyone other than Johnny, even in that dragged-over-broken-glass voice, is really not doing it for Johnny.
“Yeah, idiot. A hint.” Patrick gives him his widest, filthiest grin and makes a flicking motion with his tongue. Johnny’s hips jerk a little, instinctively, and his dick comes back to attention.
“So what, you were trying to say you really wanted to blow me? You do that all the time, you’ve begged for it before, I don’t understand - “
“I didn’t want to blow you,” Patrick interrupts, and Johnny wonders if dicks can get whiplash or something, because all this back-and-forth is fucking confusing.
Patrick’s eyebrows are waggling in a slightly distressing way, and Johnny is honestly really through with hints. “Just say what you want to say, jesus.”
“I want to rim you,” is what Patrick says, slowly, enunciating each word as carefully as he can and watching Johnny’s face.
Johnny’s face goes slack, and his brain kind of shuts down, because he’s … he’s never even considered that an option in real life. He’s seen it happen in porn, of course he has, but he’s seen a lot of stuff in porn that he’s never considered trying in real life. But he thinks about Patrick’s mouth, and his tongue, and he’s so hard he’s aching in his boxer briefs.
“Fuck,” he says, because he can’t think of anything else to say. Except maybe, “Yes.”
Patrick lunges forward then, knocks Johnny over onto the bed. Johnny goes with it, letting Patrick yank his underwear down and manhandle him into position. He gets Johnny on his knees and clamps a hand over the back of Johnny’s neck, pushing his face down into the pillows. Johnny goes, crossing his arms and pressing his forehead to his wrist.
He can hear Patrick rearranging himself, and then Patrick’s hands are on Johnny’s ass, fingertips digging in and spreading him wide open. He has a brief, panicked flashback to his earlier shower, hoping he was thorough, and then all thoughts are wiped clean out of his brain when he feels Patrick’s breath across his asshole.
“I am going to love this,” Patrick says, and he sounds awed almost, his mouth brushing against Johnny’s skin, and Johnny is groaning even before Patrick’s first, bold lick.
Patrick goes for it, which is no surprise to Johnny. Patrick isn’t tentative about anything, ever, and of course that would translate to rimming, too. He starts with long, broad stripes over Johnny’s hole, getting him wet and making his hips jerk forwards. Patrick hums contentedly, and Johnny shivers.
“You’re so into it already, god,” Patrick says, and presses just the tip of his thumb into Johnny. Johnny’s used to that, the stretch familiar enough to soothe him but good enough to make pleasure spark up his spine. Then Patrick joins it with the tip of his tongue, and Johnny grunts in surprise, his skin going hot.
Patrick keeps his thumb hooked into Johnny, holding him open for Patrick’s tongue, and Johnny feels caught between wanting to jerk away from it, it’s too much, too good, and wanting to grind back against it. Patrick licks and licks, getting him wet and messy, and Johnny can feel spit trickling down his thighs.
He thinks it should be gross but it’s really, really not.
Patrick’s tongue is fucking amazing, and Johnny thinks Patrick should know. “Fuck, Patrick, your fucking tongue,” he groans, but he’s cut off by a particularly deep thrust of that tongue, and he couldn’t form another word if his life depends on it. Instead he lets his groan go shuddery, because Patrick likes it when he’s loud, and Patrick makes a desperate noise and licks harder.
Johnny stops cataloguing all the different things Patrick is doing to take him apart piece by piece and just goes, slumping further forwards onto the mattress and making more noise than he’s ever made in his life. He hears himself grunting out words, like “yes” and “fuck” and “Patrick” but eventually even loses that to the rushing of sound in his head.
His orgasm comes on slowly, curling through his belly, until Patrick reaches around with one hand and circles his fingers loosely around Johnny’s dick, curling his tongue at the same time, and Johnny comes so hard he nearly blacks out, light flaring white behind his eyelids.
He’s dazed, his knees sliding on the sheet until he’s sprawled on his stomach, lying in the wet spot and not even caring. He can hear the sound of skin on skin that means Patrick is jerking off, and Johnny’s hand lifts weakly up from the mattress as he turns his head to look backwards over his shoulder.
Patrick looks as out of it as Johnny feels, his tongue licking around and around his mouth, his chin shiny with spit.
“Come on,” Johnny says, and his voice is gone, just a raw croak, and Patrick’s eyes go wide, his shoulders curling forwards, as he shoots all over the backs of Johnny’s thighs.
“Holy fuck,” Patrick says, dropping down next to Johnny in the bed. His eyelids are already slipping closed.
“We should really shower,” Johnny says, and Patrick groans, grimacing comically.
“I find it insulting that you’re able to stand up right now.”
Johnny grins at him, and rolls towards the edge of the bed. “Maybe you’re not as good as you think you are,” he says, and swings his legs out of bed to stand.
And then promptly crumples to the floor.
Patrick’s head pops over the edge of the mattress, grinning so wide he looks like his face might break. Johnny kind of hopes it does.
“What were you saying?”
Johnny flips him off, and pushes to his feet, forcing his trembling legs to stay upright. “Shut up, and come shower.”
Thankfully this time, Patrick does.