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#1988quarathon
anotherashley · 4 years
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Give Me Thunder // 1988
Summary: When you’re part of rival fraternities the last thing you’re supposed to do is fall for the enemy, but then, Patrick’s never known anyone like Jonathan Toews before.
*
In retrospect, Patrick really should’ve known better.
Homecoming is a huge night for most fraternities, including his own, the Delta Chi house. They’re known for going absolutely balls to wall with the planning, preparation, and execution of their parties. It’s an event. An evening to remember if you will. And where’s Patrick? Wedged in some hallway at the Sigma Alpha Epsilon mansion drinking shitty overpriced beer from a keg, sweating his nuts off, and listening to fucking Chumbawamba playing from their high-priced stereo system.
This disgrace of a party deserves no attendees, and yet, the house is packed, every little inch and every single corner filled with Sigma Alpha brothers, their dates, and friends. A house of garbage monkeys. A house of ill repute.
"It's not that bad," Dayna says, exasperated.
Dayna, the reason he’s in this shithole in the first place.
Patrick narrows his eyes, watching her and the room suspiciously. "Oh, but it is, my friend. It is."
“You’re overreacting,” she says and grins.
Patrick frowns. He’s not usually one to get overheated, but it’s like a sauna in this joint. He pulls at his tie to loosen it, listening to some Billie Eilish song come on next. "I can't believe you made me come here."
"And I can't believe you wore a hot pink tie when I told you specifically I was wearing a royal blue dress, so I guess we're even."
Patrick surveys the slinky strapless number she’s sporting and his own shimmering tie. It’s not...awful. "I think it looks good together,” he shrugs.
She snorts. “You would.”
“I'm taking that as a compliment.”
“It's not one,” she fires back.
“Hurtful.” 
Dayna’s fun and gorgeous, wicked smart. They met last spring in Linear Algebra and became fast friends, partly out of necessity because the math department was full of dull assholes, and partly because they got along so easily. There’s this pressure to find dates for every Greek event, someone to hook up with or to show off, and Patrick just wanted - wants - to relax, hang out, have a good time and not be plagued the entire night with what might happen at the end or if his date will be disappointed. It’s why he asked Dayna in the first place - there are no strings. 
He hadn’t really counted on her betraying him in this obscene of a manner, however. Sigma Alpha? Really?!
“I'm sorry,” she says, rubbing his shoulder, but she seems distracted. She’s been looking off into the crowd as if she’s trying to find someone, ever since they arrived. 
Patrick tickles at her arm to get her attention and when she turns, smiling, he says. “It’s okay. I forgive you.”
“Will you forgive me for ditching you? Because I'm about to do that too.”
Patrick blinks. “What?”
She scrunches her nose, just a little, and takes his wrist as if in apology. “It's not you, it's me.”
Patrick barks out a laugh. “You're not serious. Here? Now?!”
“I know,” she says, and begins patting his hand like she’s his goddamn grandmother or something. “I'm the worst, but it's really not you.”
“It must be a little me.”
“It's mostly Brent.”
Patrick gasps. As far as reactions go, it might be slightly overdone, but still. “Brent Seabrook? A fucking Sigma Alpha. Dayna!”
Dayna manages to at least look contrite. Sort of. She drops his hand gently. “I can see you're mad. Understandable. I'm gonna go...over there. And hopefully, when I see you Monday you'll be less mad. Bye Pat!”
“Bye Traitor!” he yells. He hopes the whole party hears it over the awful music playing in this awful house on this awful night.
Patrick watches her walk over to a table with a group of guys centered around Seabrook. They took up camp there shortly after Patrick and Dayna arrived. And more and more people have gathered around since. People always seem to gravitate to Seabrook, so Patrick really shouldn't be surprised that Dayna is too. The guy is huge in that cuddly bear sort of way, but with perfect hair, and the kind of laid back attitude that most people never really achieve.
Too bad he's a fucking Sigma Alpha.
God.
Patrick hates Sigma Alphas.
He's not joking when he tells this to everyone, and he means everyone: from the freshman rushes to his TA, Marian, from his Tuesday-Thursday biochem lab, to Lee, his favorite delivery guy, to generally anyone who passes him on the street. Sigma Alphas are self-obsessed, shitstain, egomaniacs, that ruin everything and have no concept of fun. They’re the absolute worst.
So, of course, it only makes sense on this wreck of a night that Patrick runs into the very worst one of them all after Dayna abandons him.
“Amazing,” a smug voice says from behind him.
It’s truly unfortunate Patrick recognizes that voice so well seeing how he can’t stand Jonathan Toews. One of life’s evil jokes, apparently, because Toews is the very embodiment of gum under his shoe, or a flat tire on a rainy day, or some other horrible Alanis Morissette analogy.
The point is...he’s terrible.
Patrick turns slowly, already annoyed when he sees the amusement written all over Jonny’s stupid, grinning face.
“It's not you, it's me,” he mocks. “I didn't know that was a thing people actually still said.”
“Well, that’s what happens when no one will go out with you, Toews,” Patrick fires back with a wink. “No one talks to you.”
Jonny’s smile fades. “Says the guy who just got dumped.”
They’re not exactly standing near each other, but the music is loud and to keep from shouting Patrick takes a step closer, having to tilt his head back just a bit when Jonny moves in too.
“At least I had a date.”
“A date that dumped you for one of my friends.”
Patrick clenches his fist at the smug expression on Toews’ stupid face. “What, you think you can do better?”
“I don't think, I know I can do better.”
“Oh really,” Patrick scoffs.
“Absolutely,” he says. “I could get any girl’s number in here before you.”
It’s a ridiculous statement. Inane. Besides the fact that Jonny has a clear advantage since this is his house and he probably knows half of these girls, it’s a dumb bet to make to prove he’s somehow, someway, better at not getting dumped. Which was the original argument? Maybe? Fuck, Patrick isn't even sure any more he’s too pissed off.
But he takes one look at Jonny’s smirking face and knows he’s going to rise to the challenge. He hates himself a little for not being able to just walk away.
“Go ahead then,” Patrick says, sealing his fate. “Show me your moves.”
Jonny eyes him, nonchalant. “You couldn't handle it.”
“Couldn’t handle what? You haven’t even declared a wager yet. That confident in your moves?”
Jonny straightens his back, stands tall, and pauses for a moment like he’s gathering himself, then he looks down at Patrick, down into his goddamn soul and smirks, calm, confident, cocky. “Hey,” he says. “What’s up?”
“Uh,” Patrick says, confused.
Jonny moves in closer, the corners of his mouth curving up and up as he leans in. “I’m here now. What are your other two wishes?”
Did he just…?
Patrick laughs, can’t help himself. “Good god that’s an awful pick-up line. F minus. You’re supposed to be impressing me - I mean her, dude. That just makes you look like a stuck up jackass.”
Jonny’s brow furrows, displeased. “Okay, what about: Does your left eye hurt? Because you've been looking right all day.”
Less awful, but Patrick can do better. “Are you a 90-degree angle? 'Cause you are looking right!”
“Was that a math joke?”
Patrick glares. “Maybe.”
Jonny snorts.
“Don't shit talk math.”
He waits for Jonny to say something else, now that Patrick’s exposed a weakness, but instead he taps a finger against his chin, as if in thought again.
“I seem to have lost my phone number. Can I have yours?” he tries.
Patrick shakes his head. “Do you know what my shirt is made of? Boyfriend material.”
This time Jonny laughs, vivid and real, and it brightens his whole face in a way Patrick’s never seen before, not this close up. His eyes are almost black in this dimmed corner of the house and they sparkle when the light hits them. He takes another step in, closer, so they’re just a foot away from each other. When he catches Patrick’s gaze he says low, voice softer, “I'm sorry, I don't think we've met. I wouldn't forget a pretty face like that.”
Patrick swallows and pulls at his collar. It’s really fucking hot in this house. It probably shouldn’t be this hot in September.
“That’s um,” he coughs. “That’s not terrible.”
“It’s the one,” Jonny says, lips curving.
He’s more pleased with himself than he has any right to be, the arrogant dickbag. He thinks he’s already won this thing and they haven’t even ironed out all of the details yet.
Patrick purses his lips. “Anyway, what do I win if I get a number first?”
“You have to win first.”
Patrick steps forward, determined, until they’re only inches apart and whispers, “Watch me.”
Jonny doesn’t cede any ground, tall and looming, too casual. He makes Patrick’s skin itch in the worst way. If he could just get Jonny to break,  just a little, it’d be worth all this shitty night has wrought upon him.
He shoulders past Jonny roughly, using his upper body strength to edge Jonny a step back as he passes. It’s a small victory, but he relishes it as he looks around the room for a willing participant. Almost everyone is already clustered in groups or pairs so the pickings are slim. He’s about to turn into the next room when he sees two girls tucked away against a bay window, one texting on her phone and talking, the other, curvy, cute and brunette, looking bored beside her.
She’s wearing one of those side strap dresses that are incredibly sparkly, and her feet are shoeless. When Patrick steps up to her, smiling, she’s still almost as tall as him.
“Hey,” he says, cool, calm.
He’s got this. No problem.
“No,” she says, bored expression unchanging.
“I just-”
“No,” she repeats. She’s not even looking at him, which is a little rude.
Patrick drops the chill guy act and goes for something more sincere, genuine, as he bites his lip.
“Look, you want to maybe-”
“No,” she says again, this time sharper. “No, go away.”
“Well, alrighty then. You have a nice night,” Patrick salutes her, spins on his heel and walks away.
That was a dumpster fire.
He can already see Jonny laughing from across the room. Goddamnit fucking bullshit fuck. A weak-ass effort, and of all the times.
He trudges back to their original spot expecting the gloating of a lifetime, but Jonny has his chin tilted up and is already passing Patrick by, headed for somewhere and someone in particular.
Patrick’s eyes trail him, riveted to the way Jonny moves through the crowd like he owns it, as if the room bends to his will.
There’s a petite strawberry blonde with black gauges in her ears and dark red lipstick painted on her mouth, chatting with some skinny kid that's clearly trying too hard. She turns to Jonny when he steps up, her smile curious, but her arms crossed. Patrick can't look away, watching them talk back and forth, the way her expression shifts from curious to suspicious to amused. He barely says more than a handful of words to her before she’s writing her number on his palm.
And where did he even get a pen? Did he just have the pen on him? Who carries pens on a night like this?!
“How the fuck…,” Patrick murmurs to himself, and receives a weird look from one the Sigma rushes, as they walk by. 
Before Patrick can blink Jonny’s returned, standing straight and smug in front of him as he holds his hand up.
“Here ya go, slick.”
Slick? This guy is so lame. 
Patrick sighs. “Double or nothing?
“No way,” Jonny says. “Don’t filch on the bet now, Kane.”
It was worth a shot.
“Fine,” he shrugs, mentally preparing himself for whatever humiliation is about to come his way. “What do you want?”
Jonny hums. “Loser gives winner a blowjob?”
Patrick tries to replay the words Jonny just said, again, like it’s a recorded message and if he can listen to it closely enough he’ll understand. They’ll make more sense if he can hear them one more time. 
There might be a 404 ERROR message currently running through Patrick’s brain.
He needs a rewind button. 
He can’t...
He...
Patrick coughs his way into a laugh. “Uh...what?!
It's not that it's a secret either of them are into guys. Patrick's seen Jonny around campus getting friendly with both men and women more than a few times. Still, it's quite the leap to assume Patrick, a Delta Chi, and therefore a superior species is interested in him, a mere peasant.
“Are you serious?” he asks, still laughing. It might be a bit of a hysterical laugh. It’s pretty high pitched.
Jonny doesn't look insulted, the cocky asshole. His expression is more impatient, if anything, as he steps into Patrick's space and says, “Do I look like I’m fucking with you?”
Not yet, Patrick thinks and feels his dick twitch. Jesus. It's too goddamn hot in this house. Sweat gathering at his temples and his tie too tight around his neck. He pulls it looser and tries to shake off his jitters.
“That's a bold assumption you're making, dude.”
“Are you saying you don't want to?” Jonny asks.
The truly gross part is how Patrick only hesitates a second before looking him over, really takes a moment to let his eyes wander up and down the length of Jonny’s long body, his muscular arms, the broad shoulders, the ruddy tint to his cheeks, the sculpted jaw, his pink lips and dark brown eyes. The kind of eyes that are warm and so so intense, and currently trained all on him.
On Patrick.
Patrick’s traitorous dick thickens in his pants, his own body enacting a mutiny upon him.
He swallows roughly. “Uh...no.”
“Let’s go up to my room then,” Jonny says.
Patrick should leave. He should leave.
Instead, he follows.
*
Walking up the stairs to Jonny's room the only thing Patrick can think about is that he wishes he'd had more to drink. He’s not even buzzed enough to realistically blame this error in judgment on alcohol. But he refuses to blame himself either so it's pretty obviously all Dayna’s fault, and Brent Seabrook’s. Which means it's Sigma Alpha’s fault. 
So there, the world makes sense once again.
The upstairs is less crowded than the rest of the house, most of the bedroom doors shut, probably locked to prevent outsiders from fucking on house members beds. Jonny’s room is at the end of the hall, tucked away next to the bathroom. Jonny lets them both in, ushering Patrick inside first and flipping the lock behind them.
It’s a single, which shouldn’t be surprising since Jonny is the Sigma President, but it catches Patrick off guard all the same. He has to take a few beats to gather himself as his gaze travels over the room. It’s every inch what Patrick would’ve expected, from the collection of Apple products scattered over his desk to the trophies and medals pinned to his bookshelf. There’s an econ textbook on his dresser beside his overpriced watch and Armani cologne. Sports gear looks to be thrown in a pile by his closet almost artfully. It’s like his bedroom is a set for a fucking Abercrombie and Fitch ad. Patrick gags a little. Almost.
If that was all there was to Jonny in this room Patrick wouldn’t be surprised one iota. But it’s not.
There’s also framed photos of his family everywhere, pictures of him fishing with his brother, of their family dog, of his grandma knitting him a Christmas sweater. The floor is a mess with socks and crumpled paper, a thousand post-it notes of things he’s written to himself tacked up everywhere. He’s got anatomy posters on his walls and a signed Canadian hockey jersey framed over his bed, the forest green sheets are rumpled and soft to the touch when Patrick takes a seat on his bed. It’s a bit much to take in all at once especially with Jonny’s attention still on him as he removes his tie and unbuttons his shirt at the collar.
“I need a drink,” Patrick says, warm everywhere and restless.
Jonny pulls an unopened Absolut Vodka bottle from his dresser, unscrewing the cap, and handing it over.
“Here,” he says, and begins rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “I don’t have any clean cups.”
“Anything to chase it with?” Patrick asks, staring at the veins running along Jonny’s toned forearms, the skin golden and his hands large.
“You need a chaser?” Jonny says like it’s a dare.
“Oh fuck off,” he mumbles, shrugging out of his own jacket. He fists the bottle by the neck, using his free hand to wipe at his sweaty brow, averting his attention. He takes a breath, in and out, feels the way his stomach flutters. “Bottoms up!”
Jonny snorts as Patrick takes a long pull. It tastes horribly bitter and burns all the way down his throat. He takes another drink, and then two more, and then again one last time for good measure.
When he hands the bottle over to Jonny he licks his lips, catching a stray drop of vodka at the corner of his mouth and utterly staggered by the way Jonny’s staring at him, eyelids heavy and pupils blown wide.
The overhead light is turned off, just a small desk lamp left to softly illuminate the room, everything a soft yellow glow.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Patrick mutters, even if the idea of it all seems less crazy now with a glass of vodka in his system and Jonny’s bare forearms in view.
“Or you can’t believe you lost?” Jonny volleys back, taking a few swigs of his own.
“Do I have to choose?”
Patrick reaches for the bottle again, wiggling his fingers in a ‘gimme’ gesture. Jonny holds out the bottle for a moment, offering, but the instant Patrick actually touches it Jonny snatches it back, teasing, baiting.
“No,” Jonny says, low. “But you could come closer.” He tilts his chin up, gesturing Patrick to him, movements like dripping honey.
There’s this tension in the air, something that’s always been between them, but it’s different now. No less heavier, but still challenging, still stuck deep underneath his ribcage and tight. It’s sizzling through his skin now, making goosebumps pop up all across his overheated skin. He waits, just long enough to see Jonny shift on his feet before he stands - until they’re both standing. It’s a little victory, but he enjoys it, even more for the way Jonny meets him in the middle, stepping into Patrick’s space again and slotting a leg between both of his.
Jonny’s legs are long, full of thick corded muscle and his thigh hot to the touch. When it presses up against Patrick’s dick he can’t help the way a small gasp escapes his lips.
“This is so stupid,” he says, even as he pushes closer.
“Is it?” Jonny murmurs, rocking forward until they’re chest to chest, faces only a breath away.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I hate you,” Patrick says, huffing out a laugh at the absurdity of the question, of this entire night.
“Well,” Jonny, says, nose barely grazing the edge of Patrick’s jaw and the sensitive spot behind his ear. “I hate you more.”
Patrick shivers. “Impossible.”
“You wanna bet?” he chuckles.
He’s so goddamn annoying Patrick wants to shove him away and storm out. He wants it so bad he can taste it, the tips of his fingers practically tingling. So it makes absolutely zero sense that he fists his hands in Jonny’s dress shirt, yanks him close, and spins them both around to tumble back onto the bed.
“Just,” he groans. “Just shut up and let’s get this over with.”
Jonny stretches his arms wide, crosses them under the back of his head as he spreads his legs. “Pretend all you want, Kane, but I know.”
“Know what?” Patrick asks, settling between Jonny’s tree trunk thighs and unable to keep his eyes off the considerable bulge in Jonny’s pants.
“You’re hard too. You want this too.”
His voice is a deep timber and it slides over Patrick like a silky wave. Almost calming despite Jonny’s provocative words. He wishes he could deny them, flip the script on Jonny and show him he’s not as hot as he clearly believes he is. The truth is he can’t. His own dick is a hard line inside his boxer briefs, the need to rub himself over the bedding becoming a problem he won’t be able to avoid for very long. Especially not with the way Jonny’s stupidly perfect body is right within reach of taking.
“Stop talking,” Patrick snaps, fitting his hands over Jonny’s hips and moving them up. He can feel the buzzed flush at the tips of his ears spreading down his neck. Jonny’s own throat is covered in a glossy sheen of sweat and smooth enough to lick. Fuck.
Patrick frowns.
Jonny mimes zipping his lips, locking them, and throwing away the key. It’s disgustingly endearing and Patrick gives up any pretense right then, gives all the way in. 
He reaches for Jonny’s pants, opening them up and then peeling Jonny’s silver-gray boxer briefs over his hips and the plush curve of his ass, his cock slapping back against his stomach. There’s foreskin, which is new. Not much, just enough to cover part of the rosy-colored crown. Patrick's never been with an uncut guy before. That's not what causes him to pause. Jonny’s cock is long too and so so thick, fat enough it’s difficult for Patrick to get his fingers around. The tip is slippery wet and perfectly shaped. It’s an unfairly gorgeous dick, as far as dicks go. Patrick wonders if he can hate a guy for being so well endowed while still wanting to see exactly how far he can deep throat him. It’s not a question he thought he’d be asking himself on Homecoming night.
When he takes Jonny in hand he’s pleasantly surprised to see the way his hips arch up off the bed, just a tiny sign of need. Patrick runs his hand up and down the smooth length of him, dragging up the foreskin and pulling it down as he goes, then thumbs over the slick slit. Jonny hisses, moaning in the back of his throat and Patrick grins to himself evilly.
He could do this all night, he thinks, as he works Jonny up with the twist of his hand and the tongue that’s swiping out over his lips. Leaning down to lick a stripe up the length of him from root to tip he relishes the way Jonny keens, reaching out and then digging at the sheets instead. Patrick does this a few more times, just to see the way he silently begs for more.
All of it has his own dick leaking inside his pants, balls tight and snug. He presses into the mattress for relief as he mouths at the head, breathing over it hotly, but not taking it inside.
“C’mon!” Jonny growls, impatient.
Patrick hums wickedly and doesn’t move. “Ask nicely.”
“Fuck you,” he spits, propping himself up on his elbows.
“That wasn’t part of the deal,” Patrick sings, biting at his lip. He tries not to imagine another time, another deal, where it could happen, where Jonny could be the one pressing Patrick down into his mattress right now and filling him up.
Jonny whimpers a little, hand coming up like he wants to yank Patrick down on his cock, before falling to his side again. “Will you just...please?”
He says it almost sweetly, his expression shifting into something soft, earnest. It could all be a play to make Patrick do what he wants. It’s embarrassing how well it works.
Sucking Jonny down is overwhelming. He tastes salty and hot and he’s heavy on Patrick’s tongue. He can only take so much inside, working by half inches as he bobs up and down in a continuous rhythm. When he can feel Jonny at the back of his throat he’s still got one hand inelegantly stroking the base where two could fit. He can’t take much more, even with his truly enviable skills.
It doesn’t seem to matter anyway as the movements he’s making are enough to have Jonny arching off the bed and groaning deeply as he comes. There was a half-assed warning in the flapping of Jonny’s hand, but Patrick doesn’t let up, sucking him down until he’s jerking weakly. He's not really sure why he swallows, he certainly doesn't owe it to Jonny after all. That was never part of the bet. But it might be the way his own dick aches when that first splash of come hits his tongue, filthy and tangy, so clearly all of Jonny. Or it might be the way Jonny's eyes roll back in his head when he sees Patrick suck harder on the crown, instead of pulling back, shuddering all over and letting out a breathy punched out ‘fuck’. He’s not sure why and he’s not going to question it further. Instead, he eases back lazily, wiping at the edges of his mouth and watching Jonny stretch out across his bed, murmuring happily.
“You're welcome,” Patrick says, heart pounding and skin prickly.
“Oh yeah, thank you,” Jonny smiles, eyes closed. “That was great.”
“I know.”
“Mmm. Made me all sleepy.”
Patrick watches him settle back into his pillow, body slack, relaxed even with his shirt askew and his pants still unzipped. “Are...are you actually falling asleep?”
“I could.”
“Right now?”
“Why?” Jonny asks, breezily. “Did you want something?”
Was this guy for fucking real?
“Nah, man. I'm good. See ya later,” Patrick bites out, twisting to move off the bed. He doesn’t make it far.
“Shut up and c’mere,” Jonny laughs, looping his arms around Patrick's middle and pulling him back down. Then he kisses Patrick long and bruising, stealing all the air from his lungs and licking the taste of himself off of Patrick’s tongue. “Your breath smells like dick.”
“Your dick.”
“Mmm yeah, it's good,” Jonny says, and sucks on Patrick’s bottom lip for another few long beats.
“You're a weird one, Toews, but you're hot as fuck.” It shouldn’t be said, but Patrick can’t not say it. His buzz is really starting to kick in now.
“Thank you?” Jonny asks like he's unsure if Patrick's insulting him or not.
Patrick nods, dizzy drunk and skin tingling. “You’re welcome.” 
A large hand settles hot over his cloth covered dick, rubbing in circles that make Patrick whine with the need for skin on skin. Luckily Jonny doesn’t make him wait, flicking open his pants and shoving his hand inside until he can grasp Patrick good and tight. He’s a sticky, wet mess, precome slick all over his boxers. Jonny uses it to ease the way, grip firm and surprisingly deft. He leans close to bite at Patrick’s bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth again as Patrick shudders out his release. It’s better than it has any right to be.
When Jonny pulls his hand free he licks some of the come from his palm, lapping at it slowly, making a show. Patrick's so mesmerized he doesn't realize Jonny's wiped the rest of the jizz on his thigh until he feels it start to seep through the material.
“You're fucking rude,” he spits. Or tries to with the way he’s attempting to catch his breath.
“You liked it,” Jonny grins, still smug as ever.
“That second rate handjob? I've done better with a bottle of Jergens on my own, pal.”
Jonny flips over onto his front, throwing an arm over Patrick’s middle as he pushes his face half against his pillow, lips just inches from Patrick’s temple. “You know how I know you’re lying?”
“Mmm?” Patrick mumbles, limbs heavy and the room a little spinny. Maybe he needs a quick nap before he hikes it the fuck out of here. Just a quick catnap.
“Every time I touch you...you tremble,” Jonny whispers.
Patrick doesn’t shiver.
He doesn’t.
Because if he did that would be embarrassing and this night has already ruined him.
He’s wrecked and he can’t think about it.
Patrick lets his eyes flutter shut, let’s himself float into the hazy warmth of it all and doesn’t think, only murmurs, “You wish.” And then he’s blessedly asleep.
*
Patrick wakes the next morning to a buzzing in his pocket and a dull headache. Jonny’s knocked out beside him, breathing deep and pressed heavily along Patrick’s side. His face is soft in sleep, all of his edges rounded out, gentle. There’s no conceivable reason why Patrick should spend any time looking at Jonny or even be in Jonny’s bed. He shouldn't have landed himself here in the first place, and yet here he is, still, easing himself out of the enemy’s bed, and his room, and making the walk of shame home stained in disgrace.
It’s lucky Sharpy called him when he did, early enough that Patrick can escape the Sigma house without being detected. He’s not even sure what he’d say if he was caught or what they’d do to him, especially if Backes or Kesler were the ones to cross his path.
There’s other people out walking at this hour too, if only just a few. Patrick passes a couple of them on his way down the block. They look as unkempt as he feels, hair ruffled and clothes out of place. The sun is too cheerful bright the sky too blue for his dehydrated mind to process and he realizes he’s still got a come stain on the side of his pants, chalky and stiff to the touch. Awesome.
The Delta Chi house, when he walks through the lawn to the front door, looks a bit worse for the wear after last night. There are streamers and Solo cups strewn across the yard and trailing inside. Patrick kicks past some glittery confetti shit, pulling his phone from his pocket as it buzzes. It’s Sharpy again. His tenth text since last night and three missed calls. Yikes. Who’s about to get a lecture? Two thumbs for this guy.
Patrick considers trying to evade him for a few hours, maybe take a nap first. Unfortunately, he only makes it to the staircase before he’s caught.
“Where the fuck were you last night?” Sharpy says, face pinched and a mostly empty bag of trash in his hand. “You were supposed to help me with the pledges or did you forget?”
“Oh shit,” Patrick sighs. “Sorry, man. I...yeah. I totally forgot. Dayna dragged me to a Sigma Alpha party and well....”
Sharpy’s eyes go comically wide. “Sigma Alpha?!”
“Yep. And then she sorta bailed”
“The hell?” Sharpy says, stepping up to him.
The house has brothers scattered all over it in various levels of passed out, most of them too drunk to know better because if they did they’d be up safe in their rooms and not out in the open where anyone could mess with them. Shawzy’s plastered on the leather couch in front of the flat screen, some cartoon on that he’s probably seen twenty times before, Chaunette’s head pillowed on his lap. Phil’s smoking a cig by the window, even though he knows he’s likely to incur the wrath of their house mother for it. Buff is spread eagle on the floor, underneath the fancy shag rug that Soupy left them before he graduated last fall, a girl on each side of him. What a pimp. And on the green couch is G-Money, drooling from the corner of his mouth, and a dick in the shape of a J, for his first name, scrawled across his cheek.
Patrick’s going to have to wake him up in a minute. Hopefully, he doesn’t puke everywhere. 
“Yeah,” he shrugs in Sharpy’s direction. Then he sighs.
Sharpy chucks him on the shoulder. “Sorry, man. But wait. Why didn't you just come back here then? Did you...you got laid, didn't you? Aww Kaner, good job, buddy.”
His smile is so weirdly proud that Patrick has to shove him away with an eye roll. “Stop acting so surprised, shithead.”
“Was she hot?” Sharpy waggles his eyebrows.
“He was...very,” Patrick admits, even if he’s not sure why.
“Nice. Name?”
“Uhhh.”
The thing is Patrick could tell Sharpy, probably. That it was a Sigma, that it was Jonny. He’d catch no small amount of hell for it, but Sharpy wouldn’t actively judge him like the rest of the brothers would, at least not in any real way that would have consequences. The downside of telling Sharpy would come when he inevitably opened his fat mouth and told everyone Patrick’s business, probably by accident, but that would be moot once it slipped out.
So Patrick knows he can tell Sharpy, but he won’t. Instead, he shrugs, mind still too fuzzy sleep worn and foggy from the alcohol.
“Did you at least suit up?” Sharpy asks, like he’s Patrick’s father.
“Umm,” Patrick says, fidgeting under Sharpy’s scrutinizing stare. How's he supposed to tell Sharpy no, they had not, in fact, used a condom, because Patrick didn't want latex between his tongue and that gorgeous cock? But he’s pretty sure if anyone is squeaky clean on this campus it’s definitely Toews' lame ass.
Sharpy frowns and digs in his pocket, pulling out at least five foil packets. He shoves them into Patrick’s hand. “Hey! No glove no love, okay.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know. Won't happen again.”
They break off after that to begin cleaning, Patrick shuffles to the kitchen to grab a few black garbage bags and collects empty Solo cups and balled up napkins off the floor. Other brothers slowly join in, if a bit reluctantly, grumbly and moaning about headaches and begging to know where the Tylenol is located. Once the majority of the mess is under control Patrick leaves the rest of the pledges to it and escapes upstairs for a long needed nap. On his way he passes a framed picture of the unofficial house rules.
RULES TO NEVER BREAK (EVER!) (unless you’re shawzy and don’t give a fuck)
don’t sleep on the green couch. you’ll wake up with a dick drawn on your face.
never let a Sigma in the house
don’t leave your shoes by the door, they’ll be thrown out.
laundry days are on friday. wash your fucking clothes you, filthy animal!
the strawberry yogurt is kaner’s. don’t touch or he’ll glue your ass to the toilet seat. right, shawzy?
sharpy gets the TV every thursday from 7pm-9pm for The Bachelorette. no, you can’t watch your shitty Cardinals game. DON’T ASK.
I repeat, never let a Sigma Alpha in this, our home and refuge
if reggie is around feed reggie.
stop putting forks in the microwave, you morons.
david backes is satan. never look him directly in the eyes.
312-664-7440 Dominos Pizza - ask for Malynn NOT Bree for the 25% discount
DON’T ASK ABOUT THE GRASS
don’t give carbomb grey goose after midnight. or you’re cleaning the second story bathtub.
Seriously. Under pain of death DO NOT let a Sig into this house or you will forthwith be banished from the kingdom.
He taps his finger against the glass of the frame as he passes it by, a reminder to himself where his priorities lie.
In his room he face plants on his bed and dreams weird dreams of being kicked out of Delta Chi, then college, then his parents' house to live a lonely, shameful life on the streets of Chicago all because he let Jonathan Toews put his dick in his mouth. When he wakes, more clear-headed and less hungover he makes a vow to forget last night and never think of it again, like it never happened.
It’s for the better. It has to be.
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