Work Text:
Part I
The Anvil is more crowded than Pat expected it to be on a Sunday night. He gets to chatting up a guy he's seen once or twice before. He leans back against the bar, worn wood cool against his elbows and lower back. The man is tall and broad and slouches into Pat's personal space with an easy confidence that Pat finds equal parts charming and alluring. They get to talking about music and Pat places a hand on the man's hip, fingers toying with the hem of his shirt; Pat is about to say something when the man cups the back of his head and pulls him in for a kiss.
He tastes like gin and lime and Pat can also taste his least favorite brand of cigarettes on the back of the man's tongue as he's pressed firmly against the bar. Pat smiles as the man grabs his hips and slots his thigh against Pat's crotch. He's been half-hard since they started talking and Pat knows it won't take much more of this for him to get the rest of the way there. Sliding his hand down the front of the man's jeans, Pat grips his erection firmly. Pat gasps into the man's mouth as he feels how big he is — he'll have a sore jaw tomorrow no doubt — and in the same moment feels the man smile against his lips as his cock twitches in Pat's palm.
"Like what you feel?" the man says, thumbs rubbing circles into the divots of Pat's hips above the waistband of his jeans.
Pat responds by squeezing the man through his jeans again, harder this time.
"Can't do this at the bar, big guy," Pat says. He feels his own jeans starting to get uncomfortably tight.
The man smiles — there's those dimples again — and pulls Pat along by the hand to a secluded spot around the corner, near the bathroom corridor. Pat smirks as he pushes the man back against the wall, next to a couple of men making out, clad in leather pants and vests. Pat looks at them, letting his gaze linger for half a second too long. He's jealous of their vests, but he doesn't get to voice his complaint before the man he's with is tugging him in by the harness and pushing him to his knees with a big hand on his shoulder.
Pat's breath hitches as he settles on his knees between the man's legs. He squeezes his own erection once before turning his attention to the task at hand: he runs his tongue along the man's length over his jeans, tasting denim and the scents of the club soaked into the fabric, and his mouth waters. He looks up at the man and gets rewarded with hands in his hair, tugging at his sweaty locks.
The man sighs, groaning as Pat unzips his jeans and takes out his cock, which is just as thick as Pat had anticipated. Pat gives him a few long strokes, licking his lips before leaning in and trailing his lips along the man's shaft. It gets a groan out of him, which makes Pat's cock twitch where it lays trapped between the denim of his jeans and his thigh. The man tightens his grip on Pat's hair and Pat takes the head of the man's cock into his mouth, suckling gently.
"Fuck," the man groans. "You can take more than that, baby."
Pat inwardly grimaces at the pet name but lets his jaw fall slack as he takes more of the man's cock into his mouth, exhaling slowly through his nose as he feels the head press at the back of his throat. The man tightens his grip on Pat's hair and pushes Pat forward until Pat's nose is pressed into his pubic hair. Pat gags around him, hands clutching at the man's belt loops. He can't breathe but as he relaxes his throat and lets his eyes flutter shut, Pat feels himself settle into his bones.
It's been a long week, and yesterday Pat's encounter here didn't prove very fruitful. This — hands in his hair, cock down his throat — is exactly what Pat needs. About to tap on the man's hip to let him up for air, the man does so anyway; Pat feels saliva drip down his chin and he blinks up at the man, lips curling into a smile.
"That all you got?" Pat says, far too pleased with himself when the man tugs his head back, other hand clenching Pat's jaw open.
The night passes in a satisfying blur.
Pat strolls down the empty street, his body still thrumming from the club. He takes a long drag on his cigarette as he rounds another street corner, and registers how pleasantly sore his jaw is. He'd liked the guy enough, had his fun, but as is his routine, Pat politely declined the man's offer for another tryst.
Like any other Sunday-night-Monday-morning the streets are quiet, and although Pat knows he could take the Tube home, it’s nice out and the walk will give him a chance to clear his head. Exhaling slowly, Pat cuts around an alley, wanting to steer clear of cops on the main drag, and spots the familiar glow of his local bakery — a sign that not only is he just a few blocks from his flat, but also that it’s nearly dawn.
Gentleman Jim’s Bakery — or Jim’s as it’s known in the neighborhood — is almost always in the earliest stages of preparing to open as Pat is headed home from the club. The eponymous Jim is always the first one in before opening and the last one out after closing. Pat’s seen him out around town, at the pub here and there, but he’s never had a real conversation with him. Jim usually gives him a smile or a nod and Pat returns the gesture and the two continue on their ways.
Tonight — or this morning, to be more accurate — Pat spots Jim as he’s exiting the back door, dusting off his floured hands on his apron.
“Morning,” Jim says. There’s that smile, there’s that nod.
Can he tell I’m still drunk? Pat thinks.
“Morning,” Pat says, stopping a few feet from Jim on the sidewalk. A cigarette dangles from Jim’s lips and he fumbles around his pockets for a lighter. Up close, Jim’s taller and broader than Pat had thought; he feels his palms clam up.
“Here.” Pat steps forward and pulls out his Zippo from his back pocket. He passes it to Jim and tries not to stare as the small flame illuminates Jim’s features. Pat’s never been close enough to tell that his eyes are blue, and even now he can barely tell in the dim light, but Pat doubts that he’ll be able to forget that fact now, even tipsy as he still is.
“Thanks, mate,” Jim says, handing the silver lighter back to Pat. It looks small in his hands and Pat nods, taking in the fact that his fingers now have the barest hints of flour on them where they both touched the lighter.
“Pat Riley, by the way,” Pat says, forcing some sense of normalcy to the front of his mind. He holds out his hand. Jim’s handshake is strong and firm and Pat can feel calluses on his palm.
Jim smiles. “Jim Almonds,” he says.
I know, Pat thinks.
“I’ve seen you in the neighborhood,” Jim continues.
“You too,” Pat says.
“Late night or early morning?” Jim says, exhaling.
Pat smiles, almost sheepishly. “Late night,” he says, taking a longer drag of his cigarette.
Jim motions to the bakery behind him with his head. “Early morning for me. Better be getting back, though. Don’t want the rolls to burn.”
“See you ‘round,” Pat says.
Jim smiles. “Hope so. Next time, I’ll have something fresh and warm for ya.”
Pat nods and, returning Jim’s smile, hopes for the second time that it’s not embarrassingly obvious that he’s still drunk.
Pat rolls over in bed, muscles aching, a comforting reminder of what he got up to last night. He’s late for work, but Mondays aren’t days where he’s ever early and Jock knows that. He’ll bring him a pastry or something and that’ll be that.
Half-heartedly putting on clothes that are passably work-appropriate, Pat feels a familiar stiffness in his lower back. Maybe next time not up against a wall, he thinks. He fixes his hair and mustache before he’s grabbing his keys, wallet, cigarettes and lighter, and heading out the door.
Morning is chilly, summer is starting to turn to autumn and the sun cuts through the cloudy sky brightly. Pat's walk to work is short and pleasant, despite the drag in his limbs. He crunches over a few leaves on the sidewalk, though a good majority of the trees he passes by are still green.
Pat lights a up a cigarette as he rounds the corner onto his office's street. The office building is a tall elegant structure of glass and stone, rebuilt after the war. It's ten floors, Pat thinks, though he hasn't needed to visit all of them, nor has he been curious enough to wander about.
He gets himself a coffee in the break room when he gets in. He’s lived here for God knows how long now and tea just doesn’t cut through a hangover like coffee. The caffeine hits him quickly and clears his head faster than the nicotine rush he had on the way here.
The office is starting to bustle to life — legal counsel on the first and second floors, Jock’s architectural firm on the third and fourth, and various others occupy the rest of the building.
Heading down to the mail room, Pat nods hello to Paddy Mayne, a solicitor he’s somewhat befriended at the pub after hours — and does the same to Bill Fraser, who barely sees him as he rushes up to Jock’s office.
Neither of them has acknowledged it but they’ve seen each other at the club a handful of times. The first time Pat saw Fraser he was getting to his knees, leather pants straining, jaw slack as the man in front of him was pushing his fingers to the back of his tongue. Pat had caught Fraser’s eye from across the room — dark and smoky as it was, Pat was sure it was him — and uncharacteristically choked on the fingers in his mouth.
Pat and Fraser saw each other two days later at work and thankfully, young as he may look, Fraser was not stupid. Pat doubts they’ll ever acknowledge it, and frankly, he's grateful for Fraser's aloofness among the rest of their friends.
Pat arrives to the mail room to find it in its usual Monday morning chaos. Packages delivered over the weekend have backed up and need to be processed, morning memos need to be delivered. Downing the rest of his coffee, it burns his throat in a way he would normally find satisfying, were his throat not still slightly sore from last night. Pat tosses the little styrofoam cup into the nearest bin and gets to work.
The morning goes by quickly enough, time made quick with the droll of it all. The work isn’t exciting really but it’s a productive blur of tossing letters and packages into big fabric-lined bins, and shoving letters and memos into pneumatic tubes. Pat makes usual small talk with some of the other guys working alongside him, chatting about the football match that Pat only saw a quarter of.
Midday rolls by and passes without anything to write home about. Pat and one of the other guys get sandwiches across the street for lunch and eat and smoke at the patch of grass barely passing as a park. The fresh air feels good, almost enough to convince Pat that he’s recovered from his hangover, so he jumps at the opportunity to spend the latter half of his day as a courier, running small parcels across town.
The building manager, a tall, yet mousy woman named Jeanette, gives him a stack of manila folders tied together with twine and a key to a bike lock.
“Here’s the bike that Eric usually uses, should be somewhere in the car park,” she says. “I expect you back by five-thirty. I know some of the other businesses close later, but let’s both get home at a reasonable hour, shall we?” She smiles stiffly. “If you get a flat or something worse — God forbid — ring me.”
Pat nods. “Will do.”
Doesn’t take him long to find the bike, tucked away in a far corner of the building’s underground car park. Pat glances at the address on the first envelope — the bakery he was at just this morning — before tucking the bundle in the bike’s wire basket and setting off. The fresh air clears his head, and although Pat almost gets hit by cars twice, he finds that the exercise wakes him up fully, body and mind finally out of his hangover haze.
The bakery seems to be winding down when Pat cycles up to it, parking his bike out front. He leans it against the side of the building, next to the door and sees the hours listed on the door — he's come just a bit before closing. There are a few patrons inside and Jim can be easily spotted behind the counter chatting animatedly to an elderly woman in a green jumper. Pat gives a wave with the manila envelope in his hand and Jim sees him right away, waves him over with a smile.
He says a polite goodbye to the woman as Pat walks up to the counter.
"Afternoon, Pat," Jim says, and Pat's chest warms at the way Jim has remembered his name.
"Delivery for ya," Pat says. He leans forward on the counter, weight on his forearms, and hands Jim the envelope. Like this, leaning over the cool linoleum counter, Pat is soberingly aware of their height difference. Jim is a good few inches taller than him when they're standing up next to each other normally — taller and broader, Pat's reminds himself — but now Pat has to deliberately look up at Jim to make eye contact.
He waits patiently for Jim to open the envelope and read the contents, not sure if this is something that Pat needs to run back to the office after delivering it. Jim's eyes meet his over the papers briefly. Jim has blue eyes, Pat knows this from the night before, and it's almost too much with the way Jim looks at him; for half a second the rest of the bakery fades away, and all Pat can concentrate on is Jim's gaze. Then, the door is opening and the bell ringing and Pat is looking away, standing up straight as he clears his throat, the spell broken.
"Need me?" Pat says.
Jim looks at him, eyebrows raised. "Hmm?"
"—to run anything back to my office. Need me to take that back?" Pat gestures to the papers in his hand.
Jim lets out a huff of laughter. He shakes his head. "No, thanks, though. Can't promise that anything's warm anymore, but you're welcome to have something."
Pat wants to take Jim up on his offer, wants to stay for far longer if he's being completely honest, but he knows he should head out and finish these deliveries. He smiles as he shakes his head, feeling disappointed in himself for impulsively coming here first instead of last.
"Sorry," Pat says. "Rain check?" He waves the pack of envelopes in his hand and takes half a step back from the counter, standing up straight.
Jim smiles, but Pat swears he can see the slightest amount of disappointment on his face. At least, he hopes he does.
"See you 'round, then," Jim says. "And thanks."
Pat nods, smiling past the disappointment he feels in himself as he heads out. The rest of the day passes uneventfully and as Pat cycles around the city, he finds himself unable to stop thinking about the way Jim looked at him. Maybe it's wishful thinking, maybe Pat thinks he hasn't gotten laid in a while — properly fucked, in a place other than a slightly secluded corner of the club — but it sure looked like Jim wanted him to stay for at least a little while longer.
Though they've only interacted a handful of times — small, fleeting interactions at that — Pat wants to believe that he saw something more in Jim's gaze, which would be easier to believe if Pat hadn't seen him wearing his wedding ring during both interactions. Plenty of men he's been with have had wives or even worn their rings while they were together, but Jim doesn't strike Pat as the type to cheat on his wife. Maybe he's wrong, but as Pat locks up the bike in the office's car park, he doubts it.
After leaving the keys and signed papers in Jeanette's mailbox, Pat heads home. He's got a matchbox apartment that should hardly qualify as livable under humanitarian criteria, but he doesn't have roommates and the landlady is someone who would much rather leave her tenants to their own devices than care about every little going on in her building. Which means that if he felt so inclined, Pat could bring home men from the club with him. Usually, he elects to keep his activities apart, separation of church and state and all that. What he does at the club shouldn't come home with him, Pat reasons.
Pat finds himself back in his familiar corner of the club, clad in jeans and his leather work boots, shirtless save for his leather harness. The soft leather feels familiar and cozy in a way Pat has never understood but feels right. A light blue bandana hangs out of his right pocket; he wants to give head.
He'd spent too much time in front of the mirror at home, fixing his hair and grooming his mustache, and the guy Pat had hoped to hook up with is already dancing with some skinny kid. Next time, then, Pat thinks. He nurses a pint, some can of imported American lager. It's not particularly good, but it gives him the buzz he wanted.
A man across the room catches Pat's eye. He's tall and broad — a good head and a half taller than Pat, which becomes more evident as the man nears him, approaching with a smile. Pat gives him a clear once over; he's clad in leather chaps over his jeans, shirtless under his studded dark leather jacket. Pat leans back against the bar, swiveling around on his barstool. He lets his thighs fall open, welcoming the man into his personal space.
Pat moves his cigarette towards his lips to take a drag when the man reaches out and swipes the fag from between his fingers and takes a long drag off it himself. Before Pat can say anything, the man is grabbing him by the jaw — firm but not ungentle — and brings their mouths together. Pat opens his mouth and inhales as the man exhales smoke into his lungs. He clutches at the man's jacket, eyes fluttering shut, and exhales raggedly as they break apart slowly. Pat can feel himself getting hard already, just from the way the man keeps cupping his jaw, fingers relaxing at the corners.
"Hi," the man says, his other hand trailing along Pat's thigh.
"Hi, yourself," Pat says.
"Tom."
"Riley."
Neither of them moves to shake hands, but they hold each other's gaze for a few long seconds and Pat lets himself smile, trailing his hand down Tom's chest, raking his nails gently through his chest hair. Pat knows he's got his light blue bandana hanging out of his left pocket and he's eager to suck this man off, but Pat thinks if Tom wanted to do more with him, he doubts he'd decline. Tom returns his smile and moves his hand from Pat's jaw to the back of his head, cradling it.
"American?" Tom says, continuing to let his fingers trail along Pat's leg.
"At one point or another," Pat says. He leans back, letting his hand fall from the man's chest to grip at his jacket, idly playing with the zipper. Pat feels his jeans tightening in anticipation; Tom continues to tower over him between his legs, his eyes dark with arousal. Pat rakes his eyes up and down Tom's body again, swallowing as he trails his hand up his stomach to his chest. Tom's well muscled, a comfortable layer of fat cushioning him; Pat feels his mouth water as he grabs a handful of Tom's pectoral and gently kneads the soft flesh. He looks up at him, expectantly.
"Should we continue like this, or… go somewhere else?" Pat says, looking pointedly at the bulge in Tom's jeans. Tom smiles as Pat looks hungrily at his cock, letting his hand trail along to cup Pat's jaw far too gently for Pat's liking.
"Let's go then."
Pat heads home later than he intends, but as he's walking he remembers the bakery and doesn't feel so bad about losing hours of sleep. Sure enough, as he takes the backstreets to his flat, comes the familiar smell of freshly baking bread. He puts out his cigarette on the wall of the nearest building, confident his breath no longer smells like he was just sucking cock.
There Jim is, with that warm smile, hands and apron covered in flour.
"You call this a reasonable hour?" Jim teases.
Pat laughs as he takes out a cigarette, offers one to Jim, who nods in thanks as he takes one.
"If I could ditch work to stay here, I would," Pat says, immediately internally reprimanding himself for sounding like some desperate schoolgirl. He catches a glimpse of Jim's wedding ring again and feels more like an idiot.
Jim smiles, though, as he takes out a lighter and reaches forward to light Pat's cigarette first. Pat is glad that there's no chance Jim can see him blushing as he leans forward into Jim's personal space, gaze focused on the flame at the tip of his cigarette so he doesn't stare anywhere else.
"Thanks," Pat says.
Jim nods. He settles back against the bakery wall, taking a long drag and exhaling slowly. Pat stands a couple paces away, letting his eyes linger on Jim's body when Jim isn't looking. Gesturing with his cigarette, Pat motions to Jim's left hand.
"How's the missus?" he says, forcing himself to sound casual.
Jim glances down at his hand, almost like he's forgotten he's wearing his ring.
"Oh." He lets out a huff of embarrassed laughter. "She's moved to Cornwall, to live with her parents. Not much of a missus anymore." Jim smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes, that much Pat can tell in the dim lighting.
"I'm sorry," Pat says, meaning it. Though he is relieved to hear it, Jim does seem genuinely upset about the fact and Pat feels something unnameable bubbling up inside him.
"'S alright," Jim says. "No matter so much anymore. She bought me out of the house and I bought her out of the bakery. Win-win."
Pat almost feels bad about bringing it up. He nods, not sure what to say and the two lapse into a silence that feels not quite awkward, but very noticeable.
"Where are you always coming from?" Jim's question brings Pat back to the present and he flicks his gaze to his eyes. "Late at night. Dressed like you are."
Pat blushes and feels a brief stab of fear deep inside him. Make something up, Riley, he thinks, harshly.
"One of the clubs," Pat says, gesturing vaguely in the direction. It's not a lie at all. "I like to… have a little fun, sometimes." No need to elaborate further than that.
Jim nods, seemingly satisfied with the answer. "I like it."
"Hmm?"
"Your get up." Jim gestures to Pat's outfit — leather jacket, jeans, boots — and Pat acutely feels his harness against his skin, hidden by his jacket. He can't help but smile, a little smug at the knowledge that there's much more to him than Jim can see.
"Thanks," Pat says, taking a deep breath, a long drag on his cigarette to keep his mouth occupied and to keep him from saying anything more. He hazards a glance at Pat from the corner of his eye, half wondering if Jim is aware of the meaning behind Pat's "get up", but Jim catches him looking and offers another soft smile as Pat shifts his gaze away quickly and lets out an embarrassed laugh.
"What is it?" Jim says. "Flour on my face?"
"No— well, yeah." Pat notices quickly that Jim does have flour on his face, a dusting across his nose, a smear just under one of his eyes, now that he gets a closer look. As he lets his eyes linger, Pat makes note of two moles on Jim's left cheekbone, a couple centimeters apart, another just to the right of his nose. Pat swallows, dryly.
"That wasn't… why I looked," Pat says, feeling suddenly very self conscious about what he's wearing and if he has any come drying in his hair or if he looks like he just got his face fucked kneeling on the floor of a sex club's bathroom or anything else that is equally improbable. He looks at Jim, really looks at him — putting his cigarette out on the brick wall at their backs — and opens his mouth to say something more when a timer dings from inside the bakery.
Jim's eyebrows shoot up and hurriedly he drops and snuffs out his cigarette. "Croissants," he gasps. "Shit. I gotta go." He hurries back inside, looking back at Pat over his shoulder with a smile. "See ya, Pat."
"See ya," Pat says, far too quiet for Jim to hear. But it doesn't matter, Pat reasons, Jim's out of earshot anyway. He lingers at the door for a few moments longer, wondering and half-hoping Jim will come back outside and then wondering what he would actually do if Jim did come back. Pat thinks he's being foolish.
He walks home feeling empty, and a little confused at himself. Maybe he should wait a few days before coming back. There are other routes he can walk to get home from the club, as roundabout as they are.
Pat goes back to the club with the express purpose of putting Jim out of his mind. He doesn't remember this fact until he's against a wall, back pressed against the chest of a tall, broad man. The man presses messy kisses along the nape of Pat's neck, winding his hands over his chest. Pat keeps his palms against the wall, hands spread out, just like he was told, and groans at the feeling of the man grinding his erection against the curve of his ass.
The man smiles against Pat's skin as he winds his hands lower, undoing Pat's trousers deftly and sliding his hand inside his pants to grasp his hardening cock. Pat is grateful he had the foresight to forego boxers as he rocks against the rough warmth of the man's palm. Pat's breathing comes out ragged and he gasps, his mind momentarily flashing to Jim. The man has similar facial hair to Jim's and the way he drags his lips along Pat's neck makes Pat think about what it should feel like if Jim were the one at his back right now.
It all feels dishonest, sleazy. Pat feels his stomach churn and his chest tighten.
"Fuck— stop. Stop." Pat pushes the man away as he turns around, and he staggers back from him with an expression equal parts confused and concerned and a little angry.
Pat immediately feels embarrassed; his pants are still open, shirt rucked up his chest, hair askew, and his face flushes deeper than it already is.
"What the fuck?" the man says. He stands a step and a half away from Pat, arms crossed over his chest.
Pat doesn't answer him as he tucks himself back into his trousers and fixes his shirt with shaky hands. He glances up at him briefly before casting his gaze down again.
"C'mon, mate, I thought we were having fun?" the man says, a little bit of desperation slipping into his voice. On another night, Pat might be flattered.
Pat lets out an exasperated laugh, mostly breath. "Fuck off," he says, toothlessly, but he pushes past the man and heads for the exit, fixing his hair as he goes.
The walk home is long and chilly and Pat thinks he's a damn idiot for not realizing it sooner.
Pat doesn't go back to the club that weekend. He picks up a handful of other courier shifts at the office, runs errands, cleans his flat. Pat does what he can to keep his mind off Jim; he doubts that Jim has given him much thought over the past few days and decides he should take comfort in that.
Having a schoolgirl crush on the local baker isn't something he needs to stress about. Jim, while Pat knows is no longer married, is hardly the type he suspects to be queer, and even if by some miracle he was, Pat doubts that he has the same, or even similar, tastes as he does.
After work, he joins Jock and some of the other folks from the building at one of the pubs. Pat isn't terribly close with any of them other than Jock, but he likes Fraser and Mayne well enough. A few other folks are there — David Stirling, a project manager, Eve Mansour, his beautiful girlfriend whose job no one is quite certain of, and Dave Kershaw, another solicitor.
Pat shakes their hands as Jock politely introduces everyone. It's quickly apparent that Jock is the common denominator here; he and Stirling go back nearly as far, if not further, than Jock and Mayne, it seems. And while Stirling seems annoyingly curious about Pat's sounding American, he and David quickly get to chatting about football, much more common ground, though they back different teams.
That discussion spreads quickly enough to the rest of the table, and with everyone eager to weigh in on the recent match between Liverpool and Manchester United, the big round booth they're all seated at becomes very lively.
Pat sits sandwiched between Fraser, who mostly stays quiet but observant, and Jock. In the back of his mind lingers the memory of his seeing Fraser at the club a few weeks back, but — obviously — neither of them says anything about it.
"Has anyone talked to Jim recently?" Jock says, as he signals the bartender for another round.
"Jim?" Pat asks, finishing the last dregs of his pint.
Jock nods. "Jim Almonds, runs the bakery nearby the office. He's a lifelong fan of Manchester United. No doubt he watched the match and has opinions."
Pat nods slowly, surprised and thrown off by the fact that Jock also knows Jim.
"He's recently been divorced," Jock continues. The rest of the table devolves into smaller conversations, but Pat keeps listening to Jock, finding himself perhaps too invested in hearing more about Jim. "Unfortunately, my Mirren and his wife were quite close, so I haven't been able to check in on him as much as I'd have liked."
"Bakery seems to be doing pretty well," Pat volunteers.
"Oh?"
"Been around a couple times. It's usually pretty busy," Pat says.
Jock sips his ale, studying Pat's face for a long moment before speaking up. "I think you two would get along," he says.
Pat nearly chokes on his pint, quickly recovering with a sharp cough and deep breath.
"Really?" he says, voice strained slightly.
Jock nods. "You two seem… similar in temperament. And forgive my frankness, neither of you have the most friends."
Pat can't dispute that, but he gives Jock a small glare nonetheless. He supposes there's a reason people usually think he's a recent transplant from the states, rather than having lived here for well over a decade. Pat doesn't know why or how he's still retained his accent all these years, but it doesn't help first impressions either. It's not for lack of trying to make friends, Pat thinks, as he glares at Jock over the rim of his glass. He's personable and kind and enjoys being around others, but he supposes work is time consuming and when he's at the club he isn't exactly looking for platonic companionship.
"Next time he's around," Pat says. "You can introduce us."
Pat figures, this time, if he consciously hooks up with men who look like Jim, then it will help him get over his crush. Maybe it's a silly line of reasoning, but he can't figure what else to do. Divorce notwithstanding, Pat doubts a man like Jim would have his same inclinations, not that he could ask. As he dresses, Pat laughs to himself thinking about what it would be like to ask Jim next he sees him — "Hiya, Jim. Are you by chance at all homosexually inclined?"
He tries to imagine Jim's response, maybe he'd give Pat a shocked look, or an angry one. Maybe he'd push him away, call him a name, but Pat doubts that. Realistically, he thinks Jim would probably smile politely and change the subject and at the realization that he's thinking about this realistically, Pat stops himself.
Get it together, Riley, he thinks, stepping into his chaps and buckling them up. He's showered, fixed his hair, combed his mustache. Pat puts thoughts of Jim out of his mind as he shoves a couple condoms into his front pocket, along with his wallet and keys, and heads out the door.
The weather is starting to cool off, finally. Pat wouldn't say it's cold, not yet anyway, but he's glad he's got a t-shirt on under his jacket as he walks the short distance from his place to the nearest Tube station.
Pat thinks he's doing too good a job finding a Jim-lookalike. He's not got a Northern accent but he's tall and broad and has Jim's facial hair which scrapes along the sensitive skin of Pat's neck sharply as they kiss. Pat realizes it's a bad idea too late though; the man has him against the wall, having promised him a night full of activity, in the midst of biting a bruise onto his neck. Pat's clinging to him, grabbing handfuls of the man's dingy vest.
The man trails a hand up under his shirt, callused palms rough against his soft skin. Pat's breath hitches, leaning into the touch. Their thighs are slotted together, grinding against each other and in Pat's mind he can't help the image of Jim that pops in. He lets out a small noise, but the man takes it as a hint to press his thigh into Pat's crotch as he bites at his neck harder.
"Wait—" Pat gasps, but the man doesn't hear him over the music blaring from the speakers. His hands wind down Pat's body to grab at his ass through his jeans, grinding his own cock against Pat's hip. He's thick, and Pat feels his own cock twitch at the prospect of getting this man down his throat.
Another flash of Jim through his mind. What must Jim's face look like when he comes, Pat wonders? What do his hands feel like on Pat's bare skin? On his cock?
Pat gasps— trying to tell the man to wait again, but it's too late. He shudders in his arms, coming in his jeans just at a few kisses and imaginary fantasies.
Fuck.
Pat apologizes breathlessly, hands shaking as he tries to grip at the man's shoulders desperately embarrassed.
"I'm sorry— fuck, I'm sorry," Pat says hurriedly. The mess in his pants is wet and sticky and impossible to ignore and he feels like a moron. The man isn't outwardly pushing him away, but he doesn't look too pleased either.
"Didn't think it was your first time here," he says, gently detaching Pat's hands from his shoulders.
"It's not," Pat insists. "L-let me make it up to you…" He reaches for the man's cock, still straining against his pants, but his hand gets batted away. Pat has never felt this small before, this embarrassed. He can barely look the man in the eyes as he tries to step forward towards him. The man takes a step back, with a polite, tight-lipped smile.
"Listen," he says. "You seem nice. You're hot, but… I think I ought to go."
Pat swallows and nods; he can't blame the guy, not really. "Yeah, uh… see you around."
"Cheers."
Pat's left against the wall, pants wet, skin crawling. He can feel his heart hammering in his chest, veins thick and slow with shame. Heading home feeling like a real piece of shit — not only for letting down that man, but somehow to Jim, who Pat feels like he dragged into this — Pat forgets to go the more circuitous route home, his legs operating on autopilot.
He smells the familiar smell of baked goods and before he knows it, he's on the same block as the bakery. Pat is half tempted to just turn around and walk the other way when he sees Jim walk out of the back of the building and offer a wave. As he walks toward him, only intending a quick hello in passing, Pat is at least glad that the mess on his pants has mostly dried off so he doesn't look like a complete degenerate.
"Morning," Jim says, with that same damn smile. He sits down on the back steps with enough room for Pat to sit next to him, offering a cigarette.
Pat finds himself sitting, hands shoved in his jacket pockets. He takes the cigarette and on autopilot, leans into Jim's personal space as Jim lights it for him. Briefly their eyes meet and Pat feels his stomach lurch, remembering too vividly what made him come earlier.
It's just a crush, he thinks. Act fucking normal.
"You alright?" Jim says, nudging Pat's shoulder with his own gently.
Pat smiles, hoping he doesn't look as awful as he feels. "Yeah," Pat says, as a reflex. He takes a long drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke fill his lungs. He's grateful it gives him a moment to think, keeping him from saying or doing anything stupid.
Jim looks at him with an expression that Pat can't quite figure, which he chalks up to the light being too dim to properly look at each other.
"You sure?" Jim says, softly. He motions with his cigarette to Pat's neck where Pat realizes with rapidly growing shame that the man from the club has left a bruising bite mark. He covers it with his hand, trying to make it seem like he's scratching at the back of his neck, but he knows Jim isn't an idiot.
"I… yeah. I'm fine," Pat says, half wondering if he should just come clean, tell Jim that he's a pervert and gets off on men degrading him at the club.
Jim's gaze lingers on him, not at all prying, and looking shockingly earnest, and Pat can't help but squirm in his seat. "I can't say I believe you, but… I suppose we don't know each other that well."
Pat could so easily push back against this, say something harsh and push Jim away, but he doesn't. He stays quiet and listens, letting Jim say his piece.
"You seem like a nice lad," Jim says. "Don't wanna see ya' get into any trouble. Ah, what am I saying?" Jim shakes his head and takes a deep breath, huffing out an embarrassed laugh.
"Thanks," Pat says, quietly. Then, "sorry."
"Why're you apologizing for? I'm the one who made it weird."
"Wh— No, Jim—"
"The missus always said I was getting into other people's' business too much. Guess she was right about that," Jim says.
"I'm alright, really," Pat says, eager to change the subject and for Jim to stop beating himself up. His voice probably comes out sharper than he expects, but Pat can't do anything about that now.
They sit in silence and smoke for a few moments, the tension doing anything but diffusing, and Pat stands.
"I should be going," he says, at the same moment Jim opens his mouth to say something.
"Right," Jim says, softly.
Pat leaves and can't help but give Jim a final glance over his shoulder, seeing him put out his cigarette on the bakery wall before walking back inside the building, seemingly not noticing Pat watching him.
Pat sleeps in the next morning and doesn't visit the bakery nor the club for the next few days. He cleans his clothes meticulously, gives them one more rinse with detergent and warm water even after they've stopped smelling like sweat and cigarettes and come. Pat also has the fleeting thought that they no longer smell like flour and fresh bread, but quickly pushes that thought away as he hangs up his jacket and chaps to dry in his shower. They probably never smelled like the latter anyway.
He tries to put thoughts of Jim out of his head, but as Pat goes about his day he finds his mind still drifting to their last interaction.
Pat manages to get out of his head enough to go to the pub later in the week. Work is a blur, keeping him busy and distracting him from any possible stray thoughts — however clean they may be — about Jim. Jim, who — of course — is at the pub when Pat shows up after work one Wednesday. It's been nearly two weeks since their paths have crossed and even though Pat knows already that Jock is a mutual friend, it still feels slightly jarring seeing his… late night acquaintance here with his work friends.
Jock waves him over and Pat slides into the booth next to Mayne, who politely nods but doesn't offer any pleasantries. Across from him, impossible to ignore, is Jim, who smiles too earnestly for Pat's liking.
"Here he is," Jock says, tossing an arm over Pat's shoulders as he sits on his other side, effectively trapping him in.
"We've met," Jim says, as Pat opens his mouth to say the same.
"Just a couple of times," Pat says, hurriedly.
Jock nods. "Well, then even better. Saves me of having to make awkward introductions."
Jim smiles and takes a last sip of his ale and helps distribute the next round as their waitress comes by. Pat quickly takes a big gulp of the pint Jock places in front of him, muttering a quick "thanks". He looks at Jim over the rim of his glass, who's looking away.
Seeing him in the daytime is strange, Pat thinks, but not unpleasant. Unsurprisingly, Jim looks quite good in the filtered sunlight streaming through the pub's window; Pat can see more details on his face: the beauty marks on his cheeks, the small scar on his chin, barely noticeable amid Jim's stubble. Pat looks away as Jim catches him looking.
The rest of the booth has dissolved into scattered discussions about work and weather and football, though Pat notices Mayne and someone else discussing the merits of who Pat assumes to understand as Walt Whitman in hushed but heated whispers.
"How've you been?" Jim says, clearly directed at no one but Pat.
"Been alright," Pat says.
"You look well."
"You too." Pat feels like a schoolboy, caught in the net of his crush like a soft, small animal. Say something more, Pat thinks, frustratedly.
Jim looks at him and Pat, for a moment so small he swears isn't real, feels like he does when he's on his knees for a big man at the club, pinned down, completely exposed. But the moment passes and even though it looks like Jim is going to say something to him, Mayne leans over and taps Jim on the arm, asking him about something that Pat doesn't hear. Jim looks away and Pat feels himself exhale, taking a big swig of his ale as he ignores his rapidly increasing heart rate.
The conversation turns lively and Pat tunes in enough to keep himself from staring at Jim the whole bloody time they're drinking, but later he won't be able to recall a damn thing he said. He will, however, be able to recall the sound of Jim's laughter, and the way their feet brushed against each other under the table long after everything else has faded from his memory.
Pat ends up leaving the pub with Fraser; they don't live very close to each other but the conversation is waning and Pat knows he should get going before Jim looks at him like that again. The walk they share to the Tube station is quiet, which Pat expected from Fraser and is, frankly, grateful for.
"Haven't seen you around the block lately," Fraser remarks, not making eye contact. They stand on the platform, hands in pockets, leaning against the dirty tile wall. Pat clenches and unclenches his hands.
"Been busy," Pat says.
"With what?" Fraser pushes.
"Why is that any of your business, Fraser?" Pat sighs.
"It's not. But…" Fraser trails off, looking away, down the dark tunnel, and shrugs. When he turns back to look down at Pat — he's too bloody tall, Pat thinks — it's the most earnest Pat has seen him look in the few years they've known each other. "Was it that guy you were with? Last time…?"
Pat can't parse the look Fraser is giving him until he says more.
"He's bad news," Fraser says. "Friend of mine said he had a bad experience with him. Been trying to get management to ban him, but…" He trails off, looking away again, making a sour face. Fraser takes his hands out of his pockets and crosses them over his chest.
Pat's stomach churns. "What kind of bad experience?" he hears himself ask.
"Showed up at my flat with a bloody nose. Got his face beat in," Fraser says, grimly. That's still a risk, Pat knows. At least they can worry less about cops these days, but that doesn't mean there aren't bigots who come in looking for people to beat on, or even the occasional club patron who just wants to abuse power dynamics. Pat has been lucky enough to avoid either, but hearing he was this close isn't very comforting.
"Jesus." Pat steps forward as he sees his train approaching. Turning back, quickly he adds, "It wasn't him. That guy… isn't the reason I haven't been around."
Fraser's face seems to relax and his eyebrows go up in surprise, or relief. He nods.
"See you 'round." Fraser nods.
Pat gives him a small smile and steps onto the train. Maybe it wasn't such a bad thing he fumbled his time at the club, Pat thinks. Still felt more embarrassing than messing up his lines in the school play as a teenager, but as long as Pat knows to avoid this man in future, he reasons he'll be fine.
He still stays away from the club for a few days, half wondering if he should tell Fraser he's fine or not. Pat doesn't, but he does end up chatting with him a little more at work in the days that follow. Fraser isn't as prickly as Pat was led to believe, but he isn't the easiest to talk to, either. Pat finds him pleasant nonetheless, and is slowly starting to enjoy more of Fraser the more he gets to know him.
"You should come back to the club tomorrow," Fraser says, taking a sip of his coffee, paying complete attention to the book in his hands, cigarette dangling from his lips. The two of them sit at the small park nearby the office, eating a quiet lunch.
Pat looks up from his sandwich. "Hmm?"
"The club," Fraser repeats, still not looking up from his book. "The Anvil. Tomorrow night, they're having Bear Night."
"Bear night…" Pat repeats, slowly. "Oh."
"All the guys I've seen you go with. You have a type."
Pat feels his face flush and sits up straighter in their bench, feeling a mite defensive all of a sudden.
"No, I —"
"Aye, I'm not saying it as a bad thing. Just… what I've observed," Fraser shrugs. He closes his book and takes a long drag off his cigarette. "And you seem… out of it. So maybe come back to the Anvil and have a good time."
Pat glances at Fraser out of the corner of his eye, slowly exhaling smoke at the same time. It has been some time and that persistent feeling, that indescribable itch seems to be building inside him again. Moreover, Pat feels like he's been doing pretty well not thinking about Jim. Sure, he's seen him around here and there — at the pub, and when he's had to pick up pastries for work — but Pat has made a conscious effort to keep his feelings to himself and not intrude on Jim's life more than he absolutely has to.
"Maybe I'll go, then," Pat says.
Fraser nods. "Sure."
Sure enough, Pat goes. He gives himself two goals:
1) Avoid the guy from last time, which he knows he'd be doing even if Bill hadn't warned him.
2) Have a good fucking time.
Both seem quite reasonable, Pat thinks, as he heads to his usual corner spot at the bar. He sips on a fifth of rum as he leans back and surveys the room, eyeing up various patrons. Pat's clad in jeans, harness on his chest, and his work boots on. He checked his leather jacket at the door and decided earlier not to tuck any handkerchief in his pockets. Tonight, Pat had decided, he's going to simply go with the flow.
The flow leads Pat to his knees, hands cuffed behind his back, leather-clad fingers thrusting into his mouth, a lazy back and forth on his tongue. Drool drips out of the corners of his mouth, sliding down his chin to drip messily onto his chest and the floor between his knees. The itch at the back of Pat's brain slowly starts to fade, the more that the big man in front of Pat praises him, the tip of his boot toeing along Pat's cock where it strains against his jeans. There's already a wet patch there and as he looks up at the man, Pat wonders if he'll be allowed to come. The prospect of the answer to that question being no excites Pat almost as much as yes.
The man whose fingers map the inside of Pat's mouth sits in a cold metal chair, leather from his feet to his hips. He's tall and stocky, and Pat has felt his mouth water when he'd sized him up. His name might be Mark or Martin — doesn't matter now that his thick fingers are pushing into Pat's throat and hindering his ability to do anything but drool and moan.
"Good fucking boy," the man groans. His cock hangs out of his fly, leaking onto his leather pants. His other hand cradles the back of Pat's head, fingers threading through the short strands of hair at his nape. Pat moans, eyes fluttering shut. He ruts against the man's boot slowly, like he was told, and licks between the man's knuckles, the bitter taste of leather sending another wave of arousal through him.
Pat feels the hand on the back of his head disappear and he opens his eyes, in the same moment sucking the man's fingers further into his mouth.
The man is sitting back, stroking his cock in time with finger fucking Pat's mouth. He smiles down at Pat and Pat feels his chest warm.
"Fuck, you're pretty," the man says.
Pat moans, trailing off into a whimper as the man takes his foot off Pat's crotch. He keeps himself from biting down on the fingers still in his mouth — tonight isn't the time to brat out, he reasons — but he does strain against the leather cuffs around his wrists. The man laughs at that and leans forward, cupping the side of Pat's face as he takes his fingers out, letting them trail down Pat's chin and jaw to his throat, saliva smearing on his skin. The man rests his hand at the base of Pat's neck, thumb in the soft divot in the center of his clavicle.
"You're a needy thing, aren't you?" he says, softly.
Pat nods, leaning into his touch, his body thrumming with arousal and the need to please this man.
"Come here," he says. Pat leans forward, pushing against the man's hand as he tries to get his lips around his cock. The man smiles, lets out a gentle laugh. "Jesus."
"Let me…" Pat looks up at him, eyes wide, mouth watering. His tongue darts out to wet his lips.
He watches as the man considers something for a long moment. Pat feels his pulse race, his palms grow a little sweaty; maybe he's misread this, maybe he shouldn't be so eager to please. But the man obliges, moving his hand from the base of Pat's neck and guiding his mouth to his cock. He places his gloved hand on the back of Pat's neck, holding him in place as Pat takes all of him down, making a small noise at the feeling of his throat being stretched and airway restricted. The man smells like sweat and cologne, the familiarly sharp scent muted by the sweetness of his cologne. Pat's smelled it before, maybe he's been with this man before and neither of them remember. Wouldn't be the first time.
Pat lets his eyes flutter shut as the man sets his pace fucking his mouth. It's gentle at first, and Pat is practiced enough to relax his throat and let himself leak saliva around his lips as he does it. His throat flutters at the surprise of the man's boot against his crotch. Pat moans, feeling the hard steel-toe run along his erection, trapped in his jeans.
His eyes flash open, meeting the man's gaze as he smiles. Pat shifts, wrapping a hand around the man's calf as he gets to a better position to grind against his shin.
"That's a good boy," the man says. He runs a hand through Pat's hair before he sets a faster pace.
Pat hears the obscene noises coming out of his mouth as he attempts to moan around his cock. He doesn't bother trying to hold back as he ruts against the man's boot, chasing his orgasm as the man above him chases his own.
"'M close," the man warns.
Pat whines, the pressure of the man's leg against him sharp for a moment, as his jeans rub against the sensitive skin of his cock. It's almost painful, but Pat ruts against him again and again and again and soon he's spilling into his jeans. Nearly a moment later, the man is pulling out of Pat's throat just far enough to come on his tongue. He lets his jaw fall slack, holding the man's come on his tongue until he's finished; Pat matches his smile as he swallows, ignoring the quickly growing sticky feeling in his pants.
"Well, aren't you something," the man says, bringing Pat into his lap. He kisses him, licking into his mouth harshly as he undoes the leather cuffs around Pat's wrists. Pat lets him, and the man doesn't protest when Pat pushes himself away and stands.
"Want to grab a drink? Get out of here?" the man says, taking Pat's offered hand as he stands.
"No thanks. I had fun though," Pat says, reflexively. "Got an early morning tomorrow."
The man nods, seeming slightly disappointed. "See you 'round, then." He smiles at Pat and Pat heads to the bathroom to wash himself up before heading home.
Pat inhales the night air deeply, closing his eyes. He exhales slowly, feeling his mind slowly clear. Zipping up his jacket, Pat starts down the road in the direction of his flat. The man was nice, and Pat thinks he probably ended up having more fun than he expected to. He should have gotten his name afterward, but maybe he'll be there next time. Letting his fingers run along the bite mark on his neck, Pat feels his cock twitch at the memory. He smiles as he lights up a cigarette.
Doesn't take Pat long to make his way to the block that Jim's bakery is on, the gentle light streaming out of the back doorway. Jim is out for a smoke, just lighting up as Pat makes his way over.
"Evening," Pat says.
Jim glances up at him, but doesn't let his gaze linger. "Evening."
He sits on the steps next to Jim, leaving room between them.
"You haven't been 'round in a while," Jim says, not looking at Pat.
"Yeah…" Pat doesn't bother to offer an excuse as he feels his hands get clammy. He dries his palms on his jeans.
"I say something wrong? Make you uncomfortable or something?" Jim says. He turns his head to look at Pat and Pat looks at Jim, then away quickly.
"No," he says, quickly. "It's not… It wasn't you."
"Then what? Why've you been avoiding me?" Jim sounds hurt and Pat feels his stomach twist up sharply in shame. He feels instantly worse as he realize he's still fucking high.
Pat furrows his eyebrows and looks down at the concrete beneath his feet. He puts out his fag on the steps.
"Do you know where I've been? What I've been doing?" he says, sharply.
"What?" Jim says, just as sharp.
"When you see me late like this. Dressed the way I am, do you know what I've been up to?" Pat turns his body towards Jim, unzipping his jacket just far enough to show the bite marks on his collarbone, exposing part of his harness too. He blushes, half out of anger and half out of shame. Some part of Pat, so far hidden that he won't realize it's there until much later, does warm in relief that Jim finally knows Pat's biggest and most shameful truth.
He holds eye contact with Jim for as long as he can, both of them looking away. Pat nearly misses the way Jim's eyes linger on not only the bite marks, but the shiny leather of his harness. Pat zips up his jacket and they fall into silence, his heart racing.
Pat tucks his hands in his jacket pockets, palms clammy, mind slowly feeling sharper. He can feel himself metabolizing the poppers he took earlier, adrenaline slowly fading as the silence between him and Jim extends.
Pat turns to Jim again, opening his mouth to say something, when Jim reaches for him. Jim grabs the lapels of his jacket with both hands and all Pat can do is clutch at Jim's broad shoulders for balance — pushing away out of instinct — as Jim clumsily presses their lips together. The shock makes Pat freeze up, but soon he's gripping Jim's shoulders harder and kissing back as Jim tries to pull away. If this is just an experiment or a one-time thing, Pat knows he should stop while he's ahead and go home. But at the same time, he thinks, as Jim's tongue slides against his own, if this is a one-time thing, who is Pat to deny Jim a good time?
Jim breaks apart first, pulling away with a tiny string of saliva still connecting their mouths. Pat almost whines at seeing it. He makes a small noise as Jim takes both of his hands and pulls him up to stand. The look Jim gives him is unreadable, something between relief and confusion and desperation; all Pat can do is squeeze Jim's big hand as Jim pulls him inside the bakery.
They make it just inside the door — Pat kicks it closed — before they're kissing again. Pat feels his every nerve a live wire. As he stands on his tiptoes and tilts Jim's face down to meet his, Pat feels his cock stirring again. He's about to tilt his hips away when Jim slides a big hand under his jacket and pulls them flush against each other with his palm splayed at the small of Pat's back. He gasps, feeling the unmistakable press of Jim's growing erection behind his apron and trousers. Pat's head swims as if he'd just taken a fresh hit of poppers and momentarily he pauses, which Jim takes full advantage of, tilting Pat's face to the side to drag his lips along Pat's neck.
Jim's hands are big and firm and they hold Pat steady when his knees buckle at the tickle of Jim's facial hair along one of his most sensitive spots. Pat grabs fistfuls of Jim's messy white t-shirt, pressing himself further against Jim's big, soft front.
It doesn't pass Pat by that neither of them has said anything since Jim kissed him. Pat doesn't want to break the silence though — as silent as kissing can be — out of fear that he'll jinx it and he'll wake up to find that this has all been some wet dream.
Hands shaking, Pat reaches around Jim's waist and unties his apron, tossing it off to the side somewhere. The kitchen isn't dark — there's a couple overhead lights keeping the counter and sink illuminated, and the ovens glow in the far corner — but where they stand pressed against the big industrial refrigerator, it feels as though they're shrouded in darkness, in privacy. Pat moans into Jim's mouth, kissing him again, as he rocks into him. He's almost uncomfortably hard already, straining against his jeans for the second time this night.
"Pat—" Jim says, but Pat shuts him up with another kiss, a messy press of lips and teeth.
Pat quickly drops to his knees, cock twitching at the gasp Jim lets out. His hands shake as he undoes Jim's pants, mouth watering as he runs his fingertips over the outline of Jim's cock. He's well endowed, as Pat had hoped, and as he looks up at him, Jim shows no sign of wanting to stop. Pat wraps his hand around Jim's cock, pulling him out of his soft red boxers.
"Jesus Christ," Pat breathes at the sight of Jim's cock. He's bigger than Pat by a good bit, both longer and thicker. In the dim light, Pat can't precisely tell what color he is, but it doesn't matter. Seeing a bead of precome leak out of the tip, Pat leans forward and laps it up, pressing messy kisses along Jim's shaft. He reaches down to squeeze his own erection through his jeans, glancing up at the same moment to catch Jim's eye. Jim is looking at him, biting his lip, hands gripping fistfuls of his shirt, as if he's afraid to touch Pat.
Running his tongue along the underside of Jim's cock, Pat reaches up and gently takes hold of one of Jim's wrists, bringing his hand to rest at the back of Pat's head. Jim doesn't grab onto his hair, like Pat had hoped, but his hand is big and warm and it's enough to keep Pat going. He groans as he wraps his lips around the head of Jim's cock, tasting him. Pat has enjoyed sucking cock for as long as he's been doing it, but he wonders now if somehow Jim is the best cock he's sucked.
Pat moans as he takes more of him into his mouth with each bob of his head, wrapping his hand around what he can't fit. Feeling the head of Jim's cock hit the back of his throat has Pat slowing down, fighting against his gag reflex as he always does. Above him, Jim moans, bringing a shaky hand to grip Pat's shoulder firmly. Just like that, Pat thinks. He wants to smile at the touch, instead whimpering as he feels Jim tentatively run a hand through his hair. Pat looks up, eyes wide, watering as he relaxes his jaw and takes Jim as deep as he can, nearly to the root.
"Pat— fuck—" Jim gasps, trying to pull Pat off of his cock by his hair, tugging insistently.
It only spurns Pat on, and he continues bobbing his head, hollowing his cheeks at a steady rhythm, eager to make Jim feel good for as long as he can. Between his legs, Pat's own cock lies painfully hard against the denim of his jeans and the soft skin of his thigh, leaking heavily into the fabric. The pain is grounding, as it always is, keeping Pat firmly where he is — Jim's gorgeous cock intermittently cutting off his air supply.
With Jim's big hands on his shoulder and in his hair, Pat knows he wants to feel him come down his throat. Maybe some part of him needs it. He doesn't have the wherewithal to interrogate that right now. Pushing that to the back of his mind, Pat focuses on the task at hand.
He continues working one hand on Jim's cock as he bobs his head, bringing up his other hand to cradle Jim's balls, gently squeezing them as he goes. Jim whimpers at that, a sound that Pat immediately wants to hear again and again. Pat pulls off for a moment, catching his breath as he sits back on his haunches and smiling up at Jim, slowly stroking his cock. Blinking moisture out of his eyes, Pat wonders how he must look — hair messy, lips slightly swollen, lashes wet.
"Christ, lad," Jim breathes, moving his hand from Pat's hair to his cheek. Pat leans into the touch, still not letting himself say anything. He winks up at Jim before taking his cock back into his mouth, setting a faster pace. Jim is looking down at him with such affection Pat has to look away, letting his eyes flutter closed as he presses all the way forward. Nose in Jim's pubic hair, Pat relaxes his throat as best as he can and holds his breath; he grips Jim's hip for stability, surrounded completely by him. He can smell a mixture of Jim's soap — a gentle peppermint — and the faint smell of his sweat. Pat moans, unable to resist the urge to reach down and squeeze himself for just the smallest bit of relief.
Pat pulls off for a quick moment, breathing hard, not daring to look up at Jim, who moves his hands — both of them — to gently cradle Pat's head as he goes, just barely pushing and pulling in tandem with Pat's own pace. It's terribly tender, almost disarmingly so, but Pat knows what he's doing; of course it would be different with Jim, Pat reasons. This isn't someone who frequents The Anvil; this isn't someone who probably does anything like this frequently with men at all. Pat has the fleeting thought about if Jim's ex-wife ever did anything like this for him; he moans at the mental image of a beautiful woman on her knees for Jim like he is now.
"I'm close— Pat— Pat, I'm cl—" Jim gasps, trying to tug Pat by his hair off of his cock. But Pat knows what he wants and clutches Jim's hips as he presses forward and gets Jim's thick cock as far into his throat as he can. Pat moans around his cock and that's all Jim needs; hands tightening in Pat's hair, he lets out a strangled groan as he tips over the edge, pulsing down Pat's throat. Pat swallows as much as he can but he pulls off before Jim's quite finished, smiling as Jim spills onto his lips and cheeks and chin. With a soft thud Jim is leaning his head back on the fridge, panting.
Pat sits back, taking in the sight before him, letting Jim's hands fall from his hair to his shoulders again, gently keeping him right where he is. As if he was going anywhere yet.
Pat glances around and snatches a dishtowel from the counter behind him, wiping his face off as he catches his breath too. Jim blinks his eyes open, looking down at Pat with the softest expression, a smile quickly forming. Pat clears his throat, hardly complaining as Jim pulls him up into a messy, slow kiss. He's feeling a dull ache in his knees that will undoubtedly be more prominent tomorrow morning — this wasn't the first time he was on his knees tonight — but Pat can hardly be bothered to care as Jim slides his tongue into his mouth and holds him close with his big, warm hands.
Jim's grip on him is firm and, maybe Pat is feeling wishful, but it almost feels possessive. Jim trails his mouth to Pat's neck, sucking a mark next to the one Pat knows he already has there and Pat knows he isn't imagining it; he gasps, smiling, as he leans into Jim's every touch. Jim's big hands are at his crotch, trying to undo his belt and jeans hurriedly.
Pat groans as Jim rather inelegantly shoves his jeans down his thighs far enough for his cock to bounce out, wetly slapping against his stomach. For the second time that night, Pat is grateful he didn't bother wearing underpants. All Pat can do is grip onto Jim's broad shoulders for balance as Jim wraps a hand around his cock and strokes him.
Gasping, Pat buries his face into the crook of Jim's neck. The grip Jim has on him is too dry, too rough, but Pat thrusts up into Jim's palm anyway. His palm is callused, his touch nearly too much, even with the amount that Pat is already leaking, but Pat just whines and finds himself arching even further into Jim's grip. His head feels fuzzy, body thrumming with arousal. Jim pauses for just a moment, unzipping Pat's jacket and pushing it off his shoulders, before pulling him back into him again. He winds a hand up Pat's back, holding him in place with a firm grip on the harness strap stretching across his shoulder blades.
The motion, simple as it is, makes Pat whimper. He thrusts into Jim's hand erratically, clinging to him, grabbing fistfuls of Jim's worn tee.
"Fuck—" Pat gasps, the only warning he's able to give before he's spilling messily onto Jim's hand and shirt. He groans, tapering off into a whimper as he finishes, riding the wave of it. Jim keeps stroking him through it and Pat shudders in his grasp, but doesn't push his hand away. His heart is hammering in his chest and Pat is half afraid that when he opens his eyes Jim will vanish and this will all have been some fantasy.
"Pat."
Jim's voice breaks Pat out of his head, bringing him back to the present moment, where he stands on unsteady legs, leaning against Jim's big, solid form. Pat lets go of his shirt, smoothing out the wrinkles as best as he can. He steps back and looks down, purposely avoiding Jim's gaze as the two of them silently put themselves back together. Against his better judgment, Pat grabs the dish towel he cleaned his face with earlier and grabs Jim's hand, quietly cleaning off his fingers. Seeing his and Jim's come mingling in the fabric makes his chest feel some type of way that Pat decides he won't be thinking about right now.
Pat takes a step back once Jim's fingers are clean.
"Pat," Jim says again, holding onto his wrist before he can pull away.
Pat looks at him, finally, for one long moment. The air in the room feels thick, and time seems to stop for the brief second that their eyes meet. There's no hiding what they've done just now — though Pat thinks that Jim could at least put an apron on and hide some of the stains that Pat left from coming on his shirt — and there's no undoing it either. Just like when he arrives home after a long night, Pat feels the familiar cold of shame starting to creep up from deep inside his chest.
"I have to go," Pat says, picking up his jacket and zipping it back up. He doesn't meet Jim's gaze as he walks to the back door, right where they came in just a little while earlier. Against his better judgment, something urges Pat to look over his shoulder. He does, and it breaks his heart just a little to see how disappointed Jim looks in him as he ties his apron back on.
As he walks home, Pat leaves a barely visible trail of sugar and flour, the powder gently falling from his knees.
Part II
A day passes.
Pat tries to go back to the bakery after work but it's closed. He walks home determined to fix this; Jim deserves more than a blowjob in the middle of the night. Pat shoves his hands in his pockets as he walks, breathing in the crisp autumnal air. The sun's setting, casting a gentle orange glow over the street. Thinking of things to say in his head, Pat almost misses the person sat outside his door.
He startles and the man stands.
"Hiya," Jim says, softly. Pat stops, a few paces before his door, Jim just out of arms length. Pat swallows as Jim looks him up and down, his eyes soft but not pleading. He's in a thick sweater, dark red and cable knit; in his hands Jim has a bakery box and judging by the way Jim holds it, Pat can tell it must be quite full.
"Come on in," Pat says, fishing his keys out of his pocket. Stepping into Jim's personal space, Pat unlocks his door, hands shaking just slightly. He runs a hand through his hair as he realizes how much of a mess his flat is right now; it's hardly the issue here, as if Jim came over to judge him about how he lives, but Pat finds himself self-conscious nonetheless.
"Sorry about the mess," Pat mumbles. He shrugs off his denim jacket and hangs it on the coat rack, stepping into the foyer, waiting for Jim to follow him. Jim toes off his shoes before gently closing the door. Pat finds it endearing and for a moment wonders if he should take off his own shoes as well.
They settle in the kitchen.
"Drink? Cuppa?" Pat says, already putting the kettle on the stove. Jim moves around his space, looking at the pictures Pat has on the walls, the books strewn about. He settles at the tiny kitchen table, sitting in Pat's favorite spot next to the window. Jim sets the box of baked goods in the center of the table. He shifts in his chair to face Pat, lacing his hands together on the table top. Pat faces him, leaning back against the stove, crossing his arms over his chest and immediately uncrossing them.
"Brought these for you," Jim says, gesturing to the box.
"Thank you," Pat says. He swallows. The air in the room feels thick as the only sound between them is the gentle hum of the stove slowly boiling the kettle.
"I'm sorry—" Pat says, rushed, before he can say anything else and ruin this any more than he already has.
Jim looks at him like he believes him.
"I'm sorry, I ran out. You…"
"I don't know what I'm doing," Jim says right away.
Pat balks. "Wh—What does that have to do with— neither do I," he says, almost defensively.
"You didn't have to leave, the other night," Jim continues. "Well, maybe you did, since I had to finish baking and open the shop. But… I didn't want you to leave, if I'm being honest."
Pat feels his chest twist and looks away, palms starting to sweat. "What does that… what does that mean?"
Jim pauses, sits forward in his chair, unlaces his hands. When he speaks, it sounds like the words don't want to come out. "I…" He looks away, scrubs a big hand over his face. "I've never felt that with anyone else." Jim gestures vaguely with a hand.
Pat listens quietly.
"The other night was… even before that, I've… I like you, Pat. A lot. You didn't have to suck my cock for me to know that," Jim says with a small smile, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink.
"Jim…" Pat says, taking half a step towards him.
"What I'm saying is… I don't want the other night to have been all there is between us. But I also… I've never fucked around with my mates before." Jim's face turns a bit more red.
Pat takes a moment to process just what it was that Jim has said. He stares at him, almost in disbelief, as his pulse starts to race. When Pat opens his mouth to speak, no sound comes out and he clears his throat, cheeks warming in embarrassment.
"You want… something more? With me?" Pat says. He thinks back to the last proper relationship he had; back up north he and a girl had been going steady for nearly a year. She was nice, very pretty, got along well with his family and he with hers. They'd mutually broken up before Pat moved to London, and she'd had no idea that Pat had ever felt anything more than platonic feelings for men.
Since then, Pat hasn't been with a woman. There's been a few he almost took home, they were nice, very pretty, but time and time again he found himself drawn further to men, and soon The Anvil. He's had a lot of fun with plenty of men at the club, but none have ever drawn Pat in in a way that made him want to see them outside of the context of leather and smoke and sticky floors and loud music. Leave it Jim — perhaps the nicest man Pat has met in the several years he's lived here now — to make Pat feel this way, genuinely.
Jim looks at him, brows knitting in confusion for a brief moment. "Yeah," he says.
Pat takes a long drag on his cigarette, exhaling slowly. "Are you sure… you know what you're getting into?" He raises his eyebrows as he looks at Jim, the weight behind his question sure to come across. The risk of getting caught — no longer a crime, but it would surely damage Jim's reputation as a neighborhood establishment — and the lack of public displays of affection.
The look Jim gives Pat as he says it is indecipherable, but he doesn't shake his head or say no. He looks at Pat, as if his answer is obvious.
"Jim…" Pat says, warning. He comes to sit across from him at the table, offering him a cigarette from the pack on the table. Jim takes one and lights it, meeting Pat's eyes as his face is illuminated in the gentle glow of the lighter flame. Pat swallows, feeling his heart in his throat.
"Neither of us know what we're doing," Jim says after a time, very slowly, as if he's choosing each word deliberately. "But… Maybe we can… figure it out?" Jim sounds tired, almost desperate, like he's rehearsed some of this but didn't think he'd get this far.
Pat exhales smoke shakily, tapping the ash on the end of his cigarette in the ashtray next to the box of pastries that Jim brought. He stares at the table for a moment, the worn calico tablecloth from his mom. It's got grease stains here, a splash of tomato sauce there; Pat mulls over Jim's words in his head, lets himself think about the possibility of being in a… something with Jim. He can't deny the way Jim has made him feel, not just the other night.
"Yeah," Pat says slowly. "Yeah, okay." He bites his cheek, trying to hide the smile threatening to form on his face. This is too good to be true, undoubtedly, but Pat figures he can enjoy it while it's here. He's allowed to have some fun, even if it won't last.
Jim relaxes, letting out a huff of relieved laughter, reaching forward to place his hand over Pat's. Pat turns his palm over and squeezes his hand, not missing the fact that Jim's hand is bigger than his by a not insignificant amount. He swallows, trying not to think about less savory things at such a nice moment between them.
"Is your name really short for Patrick?" Jim says, putting out his cigarette. He lets go of Pat's hand to open the box in front of them.
Pat laughs, shaking his head. "No, God, no. My first name is Charles," he says, blushing.
"Charles?" Jim laughs, in disbelief.
"Alright, alright," Pat says. He smiles as he waves his hand dismissively.
Jim invites Pat over for dinner a few days later. It feels old fashioned, the way Jim asks if Pat would come over as Pat helps him close up the bakery. Pat had decided to work through his normal lunch hour, taking the following our off since he knows it coincides with when Jim is closing up the bakery for the day.
Overlooking the fact that it will probably come off as terribly romantic, Pat goes anyway. Jim seems surprised to see him, but doesn't turn away the offer to help. Pat's in the middle of wiping down the little tables near the door — the only spot of seating in the small space — when Jim asks.
"Come over tonight?" Jim says. He glances up briefly as he counts the contents of the cash register. Pat turns over the chairs onto the table and sidles up to the counter, leaning forward on his elbows as he looks up at Jim, a smile slowly forming on his lips.
"What are you looking at me for?" Jim says, clearly trying not to smile as his cheeks gently color.
"Nothing," Pat says. "What time?"
Pausing for half a moment, Jim looks at him with an expression Pat can't quite read, before his shoulders relax as he lets out a little laugh. Pat wants to reach forward and press his lips to the dimple on his chin, but he ignores the urge and decides he'll have to do it later, when he gets to Jim's for dinner. Maybe he'll bring a wine or beer of some kind, something that will go with whatever Jim ends up making, though Pat is content on it being a surprise.
"When do you get off?" Jim says.
"Five," Pat says.
Placing the cash he's counted into the money bag, Jim winks at Pat as he disappears into the bakery office to leave it in the safe. Pat stands up straight, glancing over his shoulder; there's a handful of people walking down the street but no one gives the shop a second glance now that the lights are off and the open sign has been flipped to closed.
"Come over 'round six then," Jim says, walking back to the front. He pushes the cash register closed with a ding, and comes around the counter, hanging up his apron on the coat rack and grabbing his jacket. Jim hands Pat his and for a moment Pat thinks Jim will sling an arm over his shoulders.
"Six," Pat echoes, affirmatively. He opens his mouth to ask for Jim's address when Jim is handing him a note from his pants pocket, their fingers brushing minutely.
"Here," Jim says.
Pat reads his address over and over again, warming at the look of Jim's neat, slanted cursive handwriting and smiling when he realizes it's just above the bakery. He tucks it in his pocket as they walk out of the building. Jim locks up and Pat waits for him on the sidewalk, somehow feeling the phantom touch of Jim's fingertips against his.
This is supposed to be casual, Riley, he thinks, scolding.
"Thanks for helping me close up," Jim says, already walking down the sidewalk in the direction of Pat's office building. It's only then that Pat realizes he's been awfully quiet for the last few moments.
"No need to thank me," Pat says. "Bit more fun than my usual lunch breaks." He tucks his hands in his pockets as they walk and bumps his shoulder against Jim's arm; their height difference had been too pronounced when Pat had been on his knees a few days prior and now, properly side by side, Pat relishes the way Jim feels at his side, several inches taller as well as broader. Pat keeps his thoughts clean as they walk, though, knowing he'll have plenty of time later to act on them.
Jim bumps his elbow against Pat's arm in return. "Alright, you," he says. "Don't be late."
"Wouldn't dream of it," Pat says. He and Jim part ways there on the sidewalk and Pat manages to resist the urge to look over his shoulder and watch Jim head back the way they came.
The rest of the workday passes in a blur and Pat quickly heads home to wash up. He combs his hair, trims his mustache, and agonizes over what to wear for far too long. Pat settles on brown bell-bottoms and a blue-patterned satin button-down shirt. It's one of his nicer outfits, probably more fit for going out than staying in, but something about Jim has Pat wanting to look nice. Pat hasn't felt like this in a long time, certainly at least not since he moved to London, certainly not for another man. Leaving his flat, Pat grabs his wallet and shoves it, his keys, and a couple condoms in his pockets.
On the way, Pat decides to bring a red wine. The man at the store tells him a few good pairings — "Or, if you really want to impress your lady, you can bring her this…" — and Pat ends up laughing to himself as he buys a reasonably priced bottle of a Cabernet Sauvignon. It should taste good, and better yet, Pat knows it's not supposed to be the main focus of the evening.
Hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, bottle of wine tucked under his arm, Pat walks the familiar way to Jim's bakery. He buzzes in through a small door barely visible on the side of the building, and walks up the narrow staircase to the second floor of the building, thrumming with excitement and nerves. Pat dries of his palms before knocking on Jim's door, glancing down to see the welcome mat that says Almonds on it, with a few little cartoon depictions of the nut. Pat smiles at it, looking back up right as Jim opens the door.
"Hiya," Jim says. "C'mon in."
Pat takes in Jim — home apron over his front, beneath it a striped short-sleeved polo — who looks comfortable and welcoming, as he leads Pat into his flat.
"I brought wine," Pat says, holding out the bottle of red he has tucked under one arm.
"Great, thanks," Jim says. He takes the bottle from him and their fingers brush and Pat swallows and looks away as he takes off his jacket and hangs it on the coat rack by the door. Pat notices a moment later that Jim is shoeless, so he crouches down and unlaces his boots as Jim heads into the kitchen, just around a small hallway. His place feels cozy and lived-in; Pat notes the pictures on the wall of Jim and his family and friends, the books lying about, the large, clearly hand-knitted blanket over the back of the sofa. Pat also notices the empty spots on the wall, the bookshelves half-empty.
He runs a hand through his hair as he sits at the small kitchen table Jim has. Jim's moving about the kitchen, stirring something on the stove as he glances below it to whatever is in the oven.
"Can I get you a drink?" he says.
Pat stands, stepping towards him. "How about I open this bottle?"
Jim smiles. "Corkscrew's in the drawer to my left, glasses are in the cupboard above the toaster."
Pat moves around Jim's space tentatively, getting a feel for it. There's a couple hand-crocheted trivets on the counter next to the stove, the timer sitting by them is shaped like a red onion. The stove and counter look like they were recently cleaned. As he pours two glasses of the red, Pat steals a glance at Jim as he bends down to check on the contents of the oven.
"Roast," Jim says. "Been in here nearly since I got home this afternoon." He smiles proudly at Pat as he takes it out, arms bulging in their short sleeves. He catches a brief glimpse of a small silver cross necklace, dangling out from Jim's collar for a brief moment; Pat wonders why he never noticed it before.
As they eat, Pat supposes he can't be so surprised that Jim is as good a cook as he is a baker. The roast is prepared perfectly — tender and juicy — and the vegetables are full of the meat's flavor without falling apart into mush. They sit across from each other at Jim's little kitchen table, eating quietly, and Pat blushes as he realizes he isn't the only one stealing glances over their plates. Wine is hardly Pat's drink of choice, but he can't deny the way it compliments the meat and vegetables Jim's made, and the way Pat feels himself loosen up after a couple glasses.
"So," Jim says, as they both settle in with their empty plates and yet another glass each. He leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers over his stomach.
Pat raises his eyebrows, looking at Jim over the rim of his glass as he takes sip of his wine.
"The club you've mentioned," Jim says.
"Yes?" Pat says, slowly. Part of him feels like this conversation would be inevitable, but he hardly expected it to be the first thing they talk about after a single dinner together.
"I want you to take me. Next time,"
Pat straightens his back. "Are you sure?" He fishes his cigarettes out of his pocket and offers one to Jim before popping one in his mouth. Jim leans in and Pat lights their cigarettes at the same time, tips kissing in the lighter flame. He flicks his eyes to Jim's as their faces are illuminated in the tiny light.
Exhaling, Jim nods. "I know what it is. Even before you told me," he says. "Just… never been brave enough to go there myself."
Pat feels his heart beat faster in his chest. He's never gone to the club with someone before, and just a cursory glance at Jim tells Pat that he would be very popular among the crowd there. This admission also makes Pat realize, in no small detail, that Jim has wanted to go to The Anvil for some time, meaning that he's probably thought about it in the past, perhaps even before he and Pat have met.
"Okay," Pat says. "I'll take you. This weekend, let's go." He holds eye contact with Jim and watches the way Jim's face relaxes as he smiles, the lines around his eyes deepening. Pat can't help but smile back, failing to keep his face neutral under Jim's warm gaze.
"C'mere," Jim says, motioning for Pat to come closer. He scoots back in his chair, knees wide, and Pat — nearly on instinct — gets up and stands between them, his cigarette forgotten at his table setting, towering over Jim's seated form. He smiles down at him, reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder as Jim hooks a finger through one of Pat's belt loops.
"You'll have to show me the ropes," Jim says. He drags his eyes up and down Pat's body and though he's still fully clothed, Pat feels naked and exposed under his gaze.
"There's not much to it," Pat says. "At least for me." He swallows thickly as Jim splays his hand out on Pat's hip, one finger through his belt loop, his thumb dangerously close to Pat's crotch; Jim's hand, as Pat already knows, is big and warm and the feel of him even through his clothes is enough to get Pat's cock stirring.
Jim, still languidly leaning in his chair, takes his cigarette from his mouth and holds it up for Pat to lean in and take a drag. Pat does so without prompting, his heart skipping a beat at the indirect kiss. Leaning down slightly, he lets his eyes drift to Jim's face, and quickly notices how wide Jim's pupils have gotten, how pink his cheeks are.
Straightening up as he exhales, Pat lets the hand he'd had on Jim's shoulder fall to his side.
"You like doing what you're told, do you?" Jim says, voice low.
Pat nods, slightly embarrassed that the admission makes his cock swell. Jim clearly notices that, and Pat's breath comes out shakily as Jim moves his hand to gently cover Pat's cock where it starts to bulge in his pants.
"If I told you to get on your knees?" Jim asks.
Pat kneels, sitting back on his heels — even though what Jim said was hypothetical — and resting his palms gently on Jim's thick thighs, looks up at Jim for what he'll say next. He misses the feeling of Jim's hand on him, but feels such a rush at the way Jim's breath catches. The air in the room is thick, quiet; the only sounds between them are the gentle ticking of the clock and their breathing.
Jim leans forward and cups the side of Pat's face, tilting his head up to brush their lips together. "Good boy."
Letting out a noise he didn't realize he was capable of making, Pat leans right into Jim's hand before he surges forward to kiss him, smashing their lips together — shamelessly desperate for him. The immediate way Jim kisses back makes Pat's head swim, and he lifts a shaking hand to grasp a fistful of Jim's soft shirt. As he does, Jim tilts Pat's head back, just short of uncomfortable, and Pat opens his mouth to let Jim's tongue in, which makes Jim moan. He tugs Pat onto his knees properly and Pat reaches his other hand forward, pawing at Jim's soft middle. Half wondering if Jim will pull him up into his lap, Pat wraps an arm around Jim's back; kissing in this position is awkward, but as long as Jim keeps kissing him, he will manage to deal with the minor knee discomfort.
"Pat," Jim breathes, and pulls back slightly, but that only makes Pat jump at the opportunity to kiss along Jim's jaw to his neck. He stops to look at Jim when a firm hand pushes against on his collarbone though. Jim's mouth is open as if he's about to say something, but whatever it is, it seems to die on his lips as he rakes his eyes down Pat's body. A little smile starts tugging at the corners of his mouth, and it's only then that Pat realizes he's fully hard, cock straining against his trousers.
"My, my," Jim says, sounding terribly amused. "All that just from some kneeling and kissing?"
Pat knows his cheeks are already flushed, but he feels them warm even more. He lets out a huff of embarrassed laughter. "Doesn't happen like this— this fast, I mean— for every guy I'm with…" Pat trails off, letting what's unsaid hover in the space between them.
Jim takes Pat's hands from where they rest — at his shirt, around his middle — to hold them in his for a long moment as he studies Pat's face. He opens his mouth to say something when Jim brings his hands to his lips and kisses his fingers, mustache tickling his knuckles. Something deep in Pat's chest tightens then warms, nearly indescribable and slightly frightening, at the sheer tenderness in the way Jim touches him.
Pat's breath hitches.
"Stand up," Jim says, tugging Pat's hands gently as he stands from his chair. Pat stays kneeling for a moment, reveling in the way Jim towers over him, before he lets Jim pull him up on shaky legs. Knees creaking slightly, Pat wobbles, but Jim catches him and pulls him close. He lets himself lean right into Jim's solid form, and can't help but to make a small noise at the way Jim seems to effortlessly hold him steady.
Jim kisses him, softer this time, before he can say anything. Pat's head is swimming and he leans into him. Jim tastes like red wine and cigarettes and he holds Pat like he's something precious. It's disarming in a way Pat hadn't expected; he's used to being bossed around, degraded. Hell, he enjoys it. But this? Jim has his hands on Pat's back, holding him, not being rough at all, and Pat finds himself thrown off his rhythm.
As Pat tenses slightly, Jim pulls back, placing his hands on Pat's shoulders.
"What's wrong?"
Pat shakes his head. "Nothing," he says and tries to lean in again to kiss Jim, but Jim places a hand on his sternum and pushes him back. Knitting his brows together, Pat frowns. Usually when he's on his knees and a man has his hand in his hair, his mind slows down, everything becoming a little blurry around the edges, but here in Jim's kitchen, in Jim's arms, everything feels calm. His mind feels clear in a way he hasn't felt with another person before.
"You've hardly said a word since we've… gotten to this point," Jim says, sounding genuinely concerned.
"I'm…" Pat swallows. He blinks a couple times, finally tearing his eyes away from Jim's face to stare at the buttons on his sweater, the silver cross necklace peeking out among Jim's sparse chest hair. "I'm alright. I think."
Pat places his hand over Jim's on the center of his chest. His heart is steady in his chest, if a little fast, and Pat hopes that his… eagerness hasn't scared Jim off.
"I'm sorry," Pat says. "I didn't mean to… be this eager, this fast." He feels his cheeks color. His cock isn't hard anymore, which is a little disappointing, but he supposes he shouldn't have expected Jim to dive in headfirst. Though wine-drunk on Jim's kitchen floor wouldn't be the worst place Pat's had some fun.
"Well, I've never… done this much with another bloke. But I don't think that the kitchen is the only place we can do… this," Jim says, with a laugh.
Recalling the last time they were together in a kitchen, Pat smiles and pulls Jim down to kiss him again. "What a gentleman," he sighs against his lips.
Jim laughs at that and Pat feels the sound reverberate through his chest; it's infectious, Jim's laugh, much in the same way his soft smile is. Pat doesn't think he's ever felt more held than in this moment. He still feels thrown off, but he tries not to lean into it; he lets Jim lead him by the hand into his bedroom.
"Sorry for the mess," Jim says as they enter, trying to pick up clothes strewn about. The space is far tidier than Pat's, the bed made up neatly, a small pile of folded laundry at the edge of it; there's more books around — a shelf over by the window, a small stack on Jim's nightstand. The bed is at the far end of the room, headboard against the wall, and on the wall above the headboard is a small dark wood cross, which Pat suspects is hand-carved at first glance.
"Hardly a mess at all," Pat says. He considers undressing preemptively, but decides against it. No need to be so eager when they were both enjoying each other with their clothes on. He does, however, sit on the edge of the bed, and moves the pile of folded shirts gently to the floor.
Jim looks at him from over his shoulder as he finishes hanging up a knitted jumper in his wardrobe. He pauses for a moment, an expression across his face Pat can't quite put his finger on, before he walks over to sink down next to Pat on the bed. The springs creak as the mattress dips with their combined weight and Pat feels his pulse speed up once more as he reaches out and places a hand on Jim's thigh.
With their faces mere inches apart, Pat can feel Jim's warm breath on his face as their eyes meet. It's Jim who leans in first, but Pat is already moving to meet him. He doesn't even bother stifling the whimper that leaves him when their lips meet, his heart warming at the way Jim swallows it whole. Jim's mustache tickles his face again, and Pat relishes the sensation. Kissing Jim is easy, he's realizing, even if it starts to seem that Jim seems more tentative as they kiss sitting on his bed, maybe a little out of practice even.
He takes the liberty of grabbing Jim's hand and placing it on his thigh. It's funny, he thinks, the way they're sitting reminds him so much of the first time he kissed a girl back as a teenager. He smiles against Jim's lips, letting the tip of his tongue drag across Jim's bottom lip. As Jim slides his hand further up Pat's thigh and gives him a little squeeze, Pat can't help the giggle that bubbles its way up out of his mouth. He covers Jim's hand with his own, gripping the both of them more firmly, trying to ignore the fact that he's ticklish.
"What's so funny?" Jim says, pulling back enough to kiss along Pat's jaw to below his ear.
"Nothing," Pat says, but can't help but smile even wider when Jim's mustache tickles his cheek again, trying to suppress another giggle.
"You're a bad liar, you know that?" Jim says. He lays back on the bed, props himself up on his side with an elbow, and Pat looks at him for a moment before laying back and mirroring his pose. Jim runs his hand up and down Pat's chest and Pat sighs as he feels his nipples hardening at Jim's gentle touch. His cock is slowly swelling again and a cursory glance at Jim's crotch tells him the same of Jim, but part of him wonders if they could stay like this for the rest of the night. Pat can't remember the last time he felt this at ease at a man's flat with his clothes on.
Pat places his hands behind his head and laces his finger together, turning his head to smile at Jim.
"Thank you for dinner," Pat says.
"My pleasure," Jim says, his hand still running up and down Pat's chest. A beat of silence passes between them, not uncomfortable or awkward though, before Jim speaks again."You know… that first time we met in the middle of the night?"
Of course Pat remembers. "What about it?" A pang of embarrassment twists in his gut at the memory of him probably being still visibly drunk flashes in his mind.
The corners of Jim's eyes crinkles as his smile widens. "I'm a little surprised you remember it. You seemed… out of it."
Pat covers his eyes with a hand and laughs. "I was so sure you couldn't tell I was drunk. Otherwise, why would you bother giving me the time of day?"
Jim, to Pat's surprise, lets out a surprisingly sharp, but not unkind laughter at that. "Why on earth wouldn't I talk to you?"
When Pat opens his mouth to respond with something playfully self-deprecating, Jim's eyes are on him, and the way Jim looks at him urges Pat to take this seriously. Shaking his head, Pat scoots closer to him and covers Jim's hand with his own. Jim's palm is so warm on the center of his chest, directly over his heart, and the awkwardness that Pat had started to feel slowly dissolves.
"Nevermind," Pat says and moves in for another kiss. Jim pulls him on top of him again, his big hands sliding under his shirt, and Pat is grateful that Jim didn't push further. There's a nagging thought at the back of Pat's head for him not to mess this up, not to rush it — a reminder that this is not another one of his club hook ups — and at the feeling of Jim starting to undo his belt and trousers, Pat stops him. Jim offers him a soft smile and nod as he moves his hands to Pat's hips instead and kisses along his jaw.
They stay like that for some time; Pat loses track of time until Jim is making a joke about not having stayed up this late in ages. He leaves late, after turning down the offer to stay over — something about the idea of waking up next to Jim after just one date makes him nervous, though Jim has been nothing less than open and welcoming and eager.
Pat walks back to his flat in the wee hours of the morning still tasting Jim on his tongue. It's less surprising, he realizes, the fact that he isn't disappointed in the evening, rather than the fact that they didn't have sex. Pat doesn't regret it, though. He knows he's breaking one of his invisible rules by staying so late and not having sex, but Jim is handsome and nice and hot, so Pat reasons that breaking his rule this one time is probably fine. The memory of Jim kissing him goodbye against the door and of Jim's hands on him when he knelt on the kitchen linoleum makes him smile as he finds his way back to his apartment.
Nearly a week later, Pat finds himself digging around in his closet for something to wear as Jim sits on his bed, shirtless.
He had Jim try on his leather vest, but it was far too small for his broad shoulders. He'd suggested Jim go shirtless, but the idea seemed to make him uncomfortable, so Pat resolved himself to find something comfortable and on-theme for Jim to wear. Lord knows he has enough leather gear tucked away in his closet to make something work.
"Should I take this off?" Jim asks softly. When Pat looks back at him, Jim is holding up his silver cross necklace, still around his neck.
Giving it some thought, Pat pauses. "Only if you want to. Some people might be into it." He shrugs, turning his attention back to his box of gear.
"Hmm."
Pat moves out of his closet, taking the box with him, and comes to sit next to Jim on the bed. "Let me adjust this," he holds up his usual harness, the one he'd been wearing when he and Jim shared that encounter in the bakery before hours. "And you can wear it over your vest."
Jim takes part of the harness and feels the soft, worn leather between his fingers. Watching him, Pat feels his own face heat slightly, the memory of Jim holding him in place with it reemerging.
"Here." Pat stands and helps Jim into it, making sure it fits comfortably over his vest. He places his hands on Jim's broad shoulders. "How's that feel?"
Jim shrugs, rolls his shoulders back and forth. "Good. Bit strange, but good." He smiles up at Pat.
"Perfect." Pat tears his eyes away before he feels his mouth start to water; Jim wearing his clothes is doing something to his head. He ignores it, since he figures it'll be better to save that energy for the club. After all, he has to show Jim a good time.
As they make their way there, Pat gives Jim a rundown of what to expect, telling Jim with a smile that men will probably approach him — a statement that makes Jim blush — and though most of the patrons there are looking for a good time, there are a few unsavory characters to watch out for.
"And the handkerchiefs?" Jim asks.
The question takes Pat by surprise and he pauses for a brief moment, thinking about where to start.
"I noticed you coming home a couple times with different colored handkerchiefs in your back pocket," Jim continues.
Feeling his cheeks turning pink, Pat smiles at Jim, flattered that he's so observant.
"Hanky code," he starts. "Different colors denote what you're looking for, or into, and wearing them in different pockets tells if you want it done to you or if you want to do it to someone."
Jim nods and Pat takes that as his cue to continue, though he lowers his voice as they keep walking.
"Most common colors you'll see at the Anvil are black, light blue, navy, red, green, yellow, and orange. Left pocket, black hanky is someone who wants to whip, right pocket is someone who wants to be whipped. Left pocket, light blue — you want a blow job. Right pocket, light blue, you want to give a blow job. Red, left pocket, you want to fist. Right pocket, you want to be fisted. Navy blue, left pocket, you want to fuck. Right pocket, you want to be fucked. Green, left pocket, hustler. Right pocket, buyer. Orange, left pocket, down for anything. Right pocket, nothing — guys who just like to watch. Yellow —"
"I can guess," Jim says, cutting Pat off with a laugh. "Not really… my taste. That was… quite thorough."
"Well, it's your first time. And no one showed me the ropes." Pat adds the last bit more quietly; he wants Jim to have a good time from the get-go and going in blind, like Pat himself did, runs the risk of turning Jim off from this or from Pat entirely.
"I appreciate it," Jim says.
They walk in silence for a few moments more, passing by a bustling pub, then rounding the corner on the block right before the Anvil.
"I've never gone to the Anvil with someone before," he confesses.
"Really?" Jim asks, genuinely surprised.
"It's not really… Where I'd think to take a date," Pat says. "Not that I go on many of those," he adds, much softer.
Jim knocks his elbow against Pat's arm playfully. "Well, then I certainly feel special."
Looking at Jim from the corner of his eye, Pat narrows his eyes just slightly before giving in and smiling as he looks away. "You're such a romantic," Pat says, nudging Jim back.
Jim looks away, also smiling, and Pat thinks they must be feeling the same thing for each other right now. It scares him, just a little bit, that he feels so strongly for Jim so soon.
In the back of his head, Pat can feel something bigger brewing. Or maybe it's not his head, maybe it's in the deeper parts of his chest, the parts unfamiliar to himself, closed off out of necessity. The smallest hint of uncertainty nags at him; that little voice he can almost hear telling him he isn't deserving of this, but reality shakes him out of it and Pat gives Jim a polite nod as Jim holds the door open for him. Pat pushes down the thoughts and the voice and resolves himself to have a good time.
The Anvil is as lively as Pat expected it to be around this time, and getting livelier by the minute with the dance floor starting to become more packed, music blaring over the speakers, the disco ball on the ceiling casting luminous glitter over the scene. The bar, though crowded, still has room for the two of them to slide up to at the end of one counter and order their drinks. Pat expects Jim to order a beer, same as him, but to his surprise Jim asks for a glass of rum.
As they stand there and sip on their drinks, backs against the bar to watch the room around them, a man comes up to Jim, leaning on the wall next to him and placing a quite forward hand on Jim's shoulder. Pat opens his mouth to say something as he sees Jim bristle under the man's touch, but closes it, not wanting to seem overprotective or patronizing.
Jim leans into the man's personal space and Pat watches as he says something brief but effective as the man mumbles an apology and steps back, walking back out into the crowd on the dance floor.
"Sorry," Jim says, turning around to lean his elbows on the bar, knocking his arm into Pat's. In the dim lighting, Pat can still tell Jim has a bit of an embarrassed blush on his cheeks.
"What are you sorry for?" Pat says, taking a swig off his beer bottle.
Jim swishes the rum around in his glass. "Dunno," he says softly, eyes downcast on the swirling liquid.
Leaning over to brush his lips against Jim's shoulder, Pat shrugs. "Look, I said you'd probably be popular, right?" He offers a smile, hoping to diffuse whatever nerves seem to be running through Jim's body right now. Jim returns his smile after half a moment, downing his drink as he does so and shifting again so he's mirroring Pat's pose, placing a gentle but possessive hand on the back of Pat's neck. The touch sends a shiver down his spine and heat slowly starts to build in his abdomen as two more men approach Jim. This time though, there's no shoulder touching, as Jim tells them he's with Pat before they've even begun hitting on him.
Maybe it's partially the alcohol talking and the environment, but watching Jim reject someone a second time because he's with Pat, makes Pat feel ready to get on his knees and show Jim how much Pat appreciates getting to have him to himself. He doesn't though, not yet, but he comes to the conclusion that his goal for tonight is to give Jim another life-changing blow job.
"D'you want to dance?" Jim says, his lips so near Pat's ear, mustache tickling his skin, and Pat nods.
They finish their drinks and then make their way to the dance floor, Jim's hand sliding from the back of his neck to the small of Pat's back as they weave in and out of moving sweaty bodies. It's significantly harder to hear in this part of the club, with the music blasting through the sound system loud enough for Pat to feel in his bones. As uncoordinated as they both are, Pat knows the point is less to impress Jim with his dance skills than it is to be close to him and enjoy the feeling of their bodies pressed together.
It doesn't take long for Pat to end up with his back against Jim's chest, and Jim's arms wound around his torso. His cock starts to swell in his jeans as Jim runs one of his hands over his pectorals, unable to tell if it's purposeful that he brushes a finger over his nipple. Quickly, he turns around in Jim's arms, a hand on the back of the other man's neck, fingers carding through his damp hair and he watches as a bead of sweat drip from Jim's forehead onto his neck, down his collarbone and into his shirt. He leans in, lips at Jim's ear.
"Why don't we get somewhere more private?" Pat says, voice raised to be heard over the music.
Jim presses a messy kiss to the junction of where his neck meets his shoulder in response, taking his hand and letting Pat lead him off the dance floor.
Pulling Jim along, Pat finds them a secluded enough corner to be in. He opens his mouth to ask if Jim's okay with doing this here, but he can't get a word out before Jim is pulling his face in by the back of his head and kissing him. It makes Pat stumble, only keeping his balance by grabbing onto Jim's arms as he opens his mouth and tastes the rum on Jim's tongue. Blood rushes south fast, and instinctively, Pat grinds against Jim's thigh where their legs are slotted together, gasping as Jim grabs his ass possessively.
"Jim," Pat groans, tucking his face into Jim's neck as he gets his bearings.
Jim kisses along his cheek and down his neck, biting a little harshly at the junction where Pat's neck meets his shoulder. That makes Pat grab sharply at Jim's harness. As quickly as Jim's teeth are undoubtedly leaving a mark on him are they gone, replaced by the soft wet warmth of his tongue. Pat's cock presses against the zipper of his jeans.
"Jim," Pat repeats, now rutting against his thigh.
"Yeah?" Jim says, rather calm for someone whose cock presses insistently into Pat's stomach.
"Let go of me," Pat says, slowly.
This statement makes Jim knit his eyebrows together in confusion, and he looks at Pat, but he retracts his hand nonetheless. Pat, in turn, takes the opportunity to sink to his knees, while holding eye contact. Jim's face relaxes as he watches Pat kneel down and grip the waistband of his jeans. His gaze lingers on Jim for a moment longer before his eyes flutter shut and he presses sloppy kisses along the length of Jim's clothed erection.
Pat lets out a moan as Jim's hands make their way to his hair, fingers gently scratching along his scalp before Jim grabs a firm handful of his hair. Mouth watering, Pat leans back just enough to undo Jim's trousers and pull his cock out, arousal surging through him at the knowledge that Jim didn't elect to put on any underwear before he came over to Pat's to get dressed.
"Jesus," Pat groans, running his tongue along Jim's shaft. He wraps his lips around the head of Jim's cock, a hand drifting up to rub and press at Jim's soft belly. He is content to stay like this — Jim's cock in his mouth, toe of his boot pressing at Pat's crotch — for much longer, but Jim is tugging him up on his feet again, much to Pat's confusion.
"What's…?" Pat asks, but glancing over his shoulder, he can see that Jim has his eyes on a chair that's freed up across the room.
They make a beeline there and Jim sinks into the soft leather seat, pulling Pat onto his lap. Pat smiles down as he leans in to kiss Jim again, heart racing.
"Had an idea," Jim says, mustache tickling Pat's neck.
"Oh yeah?" Pat leans back slightly, running his hands down Jim's chest and brushing his thumbs over his peaked nipples through his shirt.
Jim swallows and nods. Pat watches as he takes his hands from his chest and holds them behind Pat's back. Jim looks up at Pat, eyebrows raised, as if asking him if this is okay. Pat nods minutely, testing Jim's grip as he looks him in the eyes. The corners of Jim's mouth turn up in a slight smile as he tightens his grip on Pat's slim wrists.
Pat shifts his hips, trying to get some friction on his cock, still trapped in his jeans, but Jim has a hand on his hip, holding him steady.
"Wish I had cuffs or something," Jim mutters, searching Pat's face briefly. "Stay like this, yeah?" He lets go of his wrists as Pat nods eagerly, grasping his forearms lightly. Pat sits, feeling exhilaratingly exposed as Jim seemingly effortlessly shifts him to straddle one of his thighs. Pat groans, leaning forward to tuck his face into Jim's neck as he slowly ruts against him.
Jim presses his smiling mouth against Pat's shoulder as he winds a hand around his back to loosely grip his wrists. Pat whines, licking up a bead of sweat that starts to trail down Jim's windpipe. Sparing a glance down, Pat sees Jim's cock is still out, leaking against his stomach.
He strains against Jim's grip, making a small noise. "Let me— your cock, please?" he all but begs.
"Not yet. Be patient."
Before he can say anything more, Pat feels Jim undoing his jeans, gently pulling his cock out and giving him a few slow strokes. Pat can't tell in the dim lighting, but he's sure there's a wet patch on his jeans. Pat groans at the rough drag of Jim's palm over his cock, thrusting into his grip.
At that, Jim tightens his grip on Pat's wrists and lets go of his cock. "Let me," he says, quiet but firm. Pat stills his hips and nods, heart racing.
Jim shifts so that he's leaning back in the chair, able to let go of Pat's wrists, leaving his hands at Pat's hips. Pat bites his lip as he stares down at Jim, his cock resting on Jim's leg, leaking onto his trousers. Pat looks at Jim, waiting for him to tell him what to do, or what he can do.
"Go on then," Jim says, nodding down at Pat's cock.
Pat knits his eyebrows for a moment, confused, until it clicks. Slowly, Pat moves his hips back and forth, dragging his cock along the rough fabric of Jim's jeans. Pat's eyes flutter shut, groaning at the sensation. He keeps a slow rhythm, the drag slightly painful on his cock, but he's always liked things a bit rougher after all.
When he opens his eyes, Pat sees Jim lounging back in the chair, fingers laced behind his head, looking rather smug.
Pat whimpers and leans forward. He rests his forehead on Jim's shoulder, feeling heat start to build more and more. He grips his own forearms tightly, keeping them behind his back just the way Jim instructed him as he continues grinding. The angle is slightly awkward and uncomfortable, but Pat finds himself enjoying the discomfort as Jim smiles at him, looking rather proud.
Trusting Jim will keep him balanced, Pat ducks his head to press his face into one of his armpits. Jim lets out a startled gasp, but doesn't push Pat away. He groans when Pat licks him, and Pat feels his cock twitch as he laps up the sweat building there, tasting him. The rhythm Pat has going with his hips stutters just slightly, but Jim's hand on his hip keeps him steady.
He groans into Jim's armpit as he presses messy kisses there, licking his soft skin. His orgasm is approaching embarrassingly fast and Pat is able to thrust once, twice more against Jim's leg before he's spilling over, gasping into his armpit as he comes.
Jim strokes him through the last of it, hand firm and warm on his cock as he coaxes the last few drops of come out of him. Pat shifts in his lap, burying his face in Jim's neck, holding onto him with shaky hands.
"Jesus Christ, Pat," Jim says, kissing his shoulder.
Pat lets out a small laugh, feeling an unexpected level of pride at the way he seems to have surprised — but not scared off — Jim.
He rides the high of his orgasm all the way home. They stumble drunkenly down the road and back to Pat's flat, laughing and trying not to draw too much attention to themselves, though not many people are out and about as it is.
Jim passes out nearly the minute they get back to Pat's, barely out of the harness. Pat tucks him in and takes a moment to admire the way Jim looks sleeping in his bed, face relaxed and large form looking somehow small as he curls up in the pale green sheets. Pat sets out glasses of water and paracetamol for them both on the kitchen table for their inevitable hangovers tomorrow.
He brushes his teeth quietly and spares a glance at himself in the mirror, lingering on the constellation of hickies on his neck and collarbone, low enough for him to hide them with a high enough collar. Leave it to Jim to be considerate when he's got his teeth and lips on his neck, Pat thinks, running his fingertips over the marks. He sighs, realizing that the more time he spends with Jim, the harder it's getting to ignore just how big his feelings for him are becoming. The possibility of having something real with Jim feels within reach; a reality that is equal parts exciting and frightening to Pat. Drinking from the faucet — and losing his balance slightly — Pat thinks he's far too drunk to worry about this right now.
The next day, they spend the morning recovering from their hangovers in bed, sleeping and until Pat decides it's time to be a person again and he gets up to make them an easy lunch of jammy eggs and bacon and toast. Though it's not the first time he's cooked for someone who's slept over, it's certainly been a while and Pat quickly realizes he's cleaned out of many fridge staples. Pat sits across from Jim and watches him eagerly eat up every bite on his plate, mopping up the runny yolk with his toast. It's so damn ordinary, so domestic, that Pat surprises himself at how much he enjoys watching Jim eat his food. It's hardly anything special, just breakfast as they emerge from their collective hangover stupors, but something in the way that Jim seems so grateful and eager to eat what Pat has made him puts Pat at ease as he turns his attention back to his own plate.
"First time at the club, huh?" Pat says, through a mouthful of egg.
"I can see why you like it there," Jim says. He looks down at his plate, a blush creeping up on his cheekbones, before he looks at Pat, a smile slowly spreading across his face.
"What's that supposed to mean?" Pat brushes Jim's ankle with his foot under the table, slowly running up his calf.
"You like… putting on a show. Being bossed around," Jim says.
All true. "S'pose we could do that here too," Pat says. He startles as Jim darts his hand under the table to take firm hold of his ankle before he starts to run his foot up Jim's thigh, meeting his gaze. Jim looks at Pat, his face neutral, eyebrows slowly raising as if daring Pat to do something more. Pat feels his pulse quicken at the feeling of Jim's callused thumb rubbing the soft joint of his ankle, no doubt able to feel the tiny childhood scar there. Pat swallows, dryly.
"Jim," Pat says, warning.
"Pat," Jim says, his voice betraying no intentions. He continues to rub his thumb in gentle circles around Pat's ankle, no doubt amused by the blush that starts to color Pat's cheeks. No one has touched him like this before; partially because Pat isn't into doing much anything with feet other than the occasional game of footsie under the dinner table (or in this case, breakfast table), and the way Jim has him in his hand is hardly sexual at all, just a gentle hand round his ankle, keeping him in place.
Jim lets go a moment later, gently placing Pat's foot on the ground rather than letting it fall with a dull thud on the linoleum like Pat half expects. Pat lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. As the tension diffuses, Pat pointedly ignores the way his heart is suddenly racing in his chest; this domesticity between them, casual as it may be, is something Pat has never properly had with someone. For the time being, he lets himself enjoy it as they finish eating together in a gentle and easy silence, Jim's hand on the back of Pat's chair.
Pat cleans his flat a few days later. Properly gives it a deep clean, washes all his laundry, washes all the dishes in the sink. As he's wrist deep in soapy water, scrubbing the remains of pasta sauce off of his nicest pan, Pat suddenly remembers waking up next to Jim. He'd been too hungover to process it at the time — probably still a little drunk now that he thinks about it — but he remembers feeling Jim's arm thrown over his waist, his slow, even breathing against the back of his neck.
It was calm and ordinary and Pat finds himself frightened by it. When they're at the club, with rules and structure, that makes sense. When it's them at his flat, or Jim's, and it's domestic and cozy is when Pat finds himself at odds. Casual sex is easy and Pat has never enjoyed complicated feelings. Realizing he fancies men along with women was its own hurdle and now that Pat is past it and reasonably comfortable sleeping with men more than women, the last thing he needs is a proper, complicated relationship.
That's the whole reason he's not in the business of bringing men from the club home, or spending the night at mens' flats. It's easier this way; Pat has his rules and structure and he had a temporary lapse in judgment last night.
He has to tell Jim this, of course. If they can simply keep what they do isolated to the Anvil and not spend much time in each other's flats, then this will be much easier. They've hardly defined the rules of what they're doing to begin with, Pat reasons; it shouldn't be hard to adjust. Jim likes him anyway, that much he knows is true, though why Jim likes him is beyond Pat.
Somehow, Pat manages not to talk to Jim about what he needs to the next time they see each other. Pat's stopped by the bakery to help with closing and — calling back to their first encounter — blows Jim in the back of the kitchen. Jim laughs as he comes, his hand grabbing a harsh fistful of Pat's hair, and Pat wonders for a fleeting moment if he could cut it in a real relationship with Jim. It's a silly thought, gone as soon as it forms in his mind, and before he can open his mouth to actually say anything, Jim is shoving his hand down Pat's jeans.
(Looking back, in a broad sense, Pat thinks his first mistake was agreeing to dinner at Jim's flat those weeks ago.)
After he comes in Jim's hand, making a mess of his apron, Pat makes up an excuse not to join Jim for dinner, but doesn't have enough mental capacity to sit him down and tell him why. Instead, they make plans to go to the Anvil on the weekend. Then I'll tell him, Pat thinks.
Before they quite make it to the weekend, though, Pat and Jim find themselves at the pub with the lads on Friday night. Jim's decided to let someone else open the bakery — the first time Pat is hearing about anyone else working there — in order to stay out a bit later than he usually does.
This time it's Mayne, Fraser, Eve, David, Jock, and Pat and Jim. They're all sat at a corner table in the back of the pub, near the decrepit jukebox that hasn't worked for as long as Pat has been coming here. Purely by coincidence has Pat managed to sit next to Jim, both of them at the end of a bench, Pat sandwiched between Jim's solid form and Fraser.
Pat sips his ale, casually engaged in the conversation Mayne is having with Fraser about work and transit related topics, startlingly aware of the places he touches Jim. The side of his leg against Jim's, his elbow knocking against Jim's forearm. Pat's warm all over and it's not just the beer he's consumed. From the corner of his eye, he steals a glance at Jim, who's laughing at something Jock — across the table from them — has said, his dimples making a guest appearance.
When it comes time to get the next round, Jim stands, volunteering to get it.
"I'll go too," Pat says, catching Jim's eye briefly.
"I've got it," Jim says.
Standing, Pat shrugs. "It's no trouble."
"Are you going to take all evening?" David says, shooing them off.
As they walk off, Pat rolls his eyes, flipping David the bird. Jim laughs as they head over to the bar.
"So," Jim says, leaning his elbows on the dark mahogany bar as they wait for the bartender to notice them.
Pat mirrors his pose, looking over at him. "Yes?"
"We're still on for tomorrow night?"
Pat laughs, pushing away from the bar. "Of course we are." He steals a glance over his shoulder, no one at their table is looking at them.
"Just checking," Jim says, signaling the bartender over to them.
Pat studies Jim's profile for a long moment, the way his mustache frames his upper lip, the two moles below his left eye, the soft curve of his jawline. For a moment, all Pat sees is Jim; it's as if the world has slowed down and maybe it's the alcohol talking but Jim is all Pat can see. Pat opens his mouth, says, "I have to talk—" when the bartender sidles up to them on the other side of the bar.
"What can I get you boys?" she says, flashing a toothy grin. Jim shifts his attention from Pat to her and Pat knows he's missed his chance.
"Another round for us over there," Jim says, pointing over his shoulder with his thumb to their table.
"You got it. On the Stirling tab?" she asks.
"Yeah, that one," Jim says, flashing a wink Pat's way.
His stomach feels uneasy as his moment flutters away, but he manages a polite laugh anyway. As the bartender walks away to fetch their drinks, Jim turns his whole body to face Pat.
"What were you about to say?" he says.
Pat huffs out an embarrassed laugh, shaking his head. "Nothing that can't wait till tomorrow."
The following evening, Jim shows up at Pat's ahead of time wearing a borrowed pair of dark leather gloves. Pat feels his mouth water at the sight. His plan to talk to Jim is derailed before he can think properly, as he immediately gives in to his desires.
They don't even make it out the door before Pat has his dick out; he clings to Jim's shoulders, fingers digging into the other man's leather jacket as he thrusts into the soft warmth of Jim's leather-clad palm. Jim has his mouth on Pat's neck, his other hand around his waist, keeping him in place. Pat whimpers, turning his face to kiss Jim, a messy meeting of lips and teeth and tongues. Heat builds quickly in his abdomen, and Pat's thrusts become more erratic, groaning as Jim tightens his grip.
"Jim," Pat gasps.
"I've got you," Jim says, dragging his mouth across Pat's jaw, teeth against stubble.
Pat feels himself on the brink, about to spill over, when Jim takes his hand off him. Gasping, whimpering, nearly sobbing, Pat collapses into Jim's arms, gripping onto him tightly.
"Wait— please—"
Jim gives Pat the sweetest smile, pressing his forehead against Pat's and pulling him in tight.
"Why don't we get going? We can continue this at the Anvil, hmm?" Jim kisses Pat's temple, far too gently for someone who has just had his gloved fist around Pat's cock.
"Jim," Pat groans. His heart is racing, cock achingly hard between his legs. He drips precome onto the floor between them as Jim takes a step back, looking awfully pleased with himself as Pat tries to catch his breath. Pat leans against the wall, hands shaking as he tucks himself back into his trousers. He lets out a frustrated laugh, equal parts annoyed and amused that at this side of Jim.
"You're a bastard," Pat says.
"Am I?" Jim says. He stands at the kitchen sink, wiping off his glove with a paper towel and the smile he gives Pat is nothing short of cheeky. Pat has half a mind to keep him here and wipe it off his face, but the thought of getting to continue this at the Anvil makes his cock twitch were he's tucked it into his waistband.
They make it there slightly later than planned, with Pat walking just a little awkwardly, thoughts of talking to Jim honestly gone from the forefront of his mind. Once inside the club, Jim settles down in a chair and pulls Pat into his lap, Pat's back against his chest. Jim's hands wind their way around Pat's chest, down his stomach to grip at Pat's half-hard cock through his trousers as Pat melts into him, grinding his ass into Jim's crotch. It doesn't take Pat long to get fully hard again, not with the way Jim's leather gloves feel as they slide up under his shirt and caress his chest.
A few men stand nearby, half shrouded in the dim club lighting, watching with interest as Pat undoes his fly with shaking hands and pulls out his cock.
Jim's lips are at his ear a moment later, "Don't touch."
Pat whines, but obeys, moving his hands to grab the arms of the chair, anchoring himself. His heart is racing and he squirms slightly as Jim holds him steady in place. Gasping as Jim wraps a gloved hand around his cock — again — Pat instinctively thrusts into his grip. Jim presses his mouth to the side of Pat's neck, just below his ear, and Pat groans at the way Jim's mustache tickles his skin. Jim's hand winds its way over Pat's chest, keeping his shirt rucked up his chest. The slide of warm leather over his bare skin makes Pat's cock throb in Jim's grip and all he can do is grip the arms of the chair harder and moan.
"Jim," Pat says, needy. Against his lower back, he can feel the insistent press of Jim's cock and he wonders if Jim will let him touch him soon.
"What is it?" Jim says, so innocently.
Pat tries to say something coherent, but as he opens his mouth and inhales, Jim takes the opportunity to press two fingers against Pat's tongue. He startles for half a moment, surprised at the intrusion, but once he gets his bearings, Pat wraps his lips around Jim's fingers and sucks. The leather is bitter and the gloves bulky, adding more girth to Jim's already thick fingers. In the midst of licking Jim's gloves, it occurs to Pat that he has no idea how long they've been here for but he supposes it's been a while. Were he with anyone else, this thought probably would concern him, but Jim is in control and Pat trusts him.
As Pat sucks, his eyes flutter shut and he relaxes his jaw to accommodate the way Jim moves his fingers around, pressing over his tongue, near the back of his throat, around his teeth. Saliva pools quickly in his mouth and drips out of his mouth, down his chin, down Jim's hand. Pat resists the temptation to bite down on his fingers only for so long. Curiosity gets the better of him; he's never seen what Jim would do if he disobeyed their nebulous rules, and frankly Pat is wondering if Jim is all talk, though he doubts it.
Testing the waters, Pat nips at Jim's index finger as it passes over his molars. Jim takes his hand off Pat's cock quicker than he removes his fingers from his mouth, and Pat's eyes fly open.
"That wasn't very nice," Jim murmurs.
Pat's hips thrust up into nothing, aching for stimulation.
"I'm sorry," Pat says right away, turning his head to the side to kiss Jim's cheek. Now that Jim's hand is off his cock, Pat's impulse to disobey has completely disappeared. In his chest, his heart clenches as genuine remorse fills him. It's disarming for a brief, startling moment and Pat feels it keenly — the hot desperate arousal in him fighting against the cold remorse. He actually feels like he'd do anything for Jim to keep working him, and he'd even be ready to promise Jim to never do anything like that ever again, as long as Jim gets his hand back on his cock.
"For what?" Jim says.
"For— biting you," Pat says, both feeling and sounding small.
Jim hums thoughtfully at that, and wraps his hand back around Pat's cock once more, but doesn't move yet. "Are you going to be good for me?"
Pat's mouth feels dry as he nods.
"I couldn't quite hear you."
Pat whines, his attempt to thrust up into Jim's grip thwarted by the way Jim places his forearm across Pat's hips, holding him in place. It's impossible not to feel how strong Jim is, his arms thick, corded muscle under soft fat; the result of all that time kneading dough.
"Y-yes," Pat gasps. "I'll be good. For you."
He feels Jim smile against his neck, pressing another kiss to the side of his jaw. "That's a good boy."
Something in the way of hearing those words out of Jim's mouth directed at him has Pat's heart twisting and his cock throbbing. He bites his lip and lets out another whine, grinding his ass back against Jim's cock. Need boils up in him again, in every vein inside his body and Pat isn't entirely sure if it's the need to come or the need to be good and obey Jim.
"Alright then," Jim says, slowly moving his hand again.
By now, there's a small group of men watching them from across the small room. It's unmistakable the way a few of them are touching themselves as they watch and Pat feels his cock twitch in Jim's hand as he throws his head back, trying to make this look good for them. Bold as it feels, he takes Jim's hand at his hip and brings it up to his pec and Jim takes the hint, squeezing and kneading the soft muscle.
Jim's pinky brushes over Pat's nipple once, then twice, and Pat grips the arms of the chair as he realizes, startlingly, just how close he is to coming.
"More," Pat groans. Sinking back further against Jim's body, Pat turns his head to the side again, needing to kiss him. "Please," Pat mumbles against Jim's lips. He tries to moves Jim's hand to his throat, but Jim quickly moves it away, not reprimanding him for it.
"C'mon, love," Jim urges.
Pat whimpers at the pet name, unable to even warn Jim before he's spilling over his leather gloved hand and his own chest. "Fuck," Pat gasps, his breath hitching. Jim keeps stroking him through it, his hand steadily working his cock, pressure unceasing even as Pat starts to squirm and whine from overstimulation.
"Jim," Pat whines, and unintentionally grinds against Jim's cock as he tries to get away from his hand. The leather on his skin is far too velvety for him to be able to start to soften; even though he's just come, Pat still feels achingly hard.
"What's that, love?" Jim says, and there's that damn name again.
Pat opens his mouth, but all he can manage is another whimper, turning his head away from Jim's soft mouth. He gets the hint and gently lets go of Pat's cock, shifting him in his lap slightly. Breathing shakily, Pat slowly comes back to himself and as he blinks, he sees a couple of the men across the room wink at him and Jim as they walk away. Pat slides out of Jim's lap, onto the floor on his knees. His quads shake and he quickly has to brace himself on Jim's knees.
He reaches for Jim's messy hand, eagerly placing his fingers back in his mouth. Pat moans at the way his own come tastes with the bitter leather on his tongue. Glancing up, he meets Jim's eyes — pupils blown wide as he watches Pat, almost in shock at how eager he is. Pat smiles shakily as he licks Jim's glove completely clean, tucking himself back into his pants, cock finally softening. His head feels both clear and fuzzy still; the need to come isn't overshadowing every other thought, but Pat still feels the urge to be useful, to make Jim feel good.
Jim softly says his name, and Pat's eyes dart up to his face.
"Yes?" Pat lets Jim's fingers slip from his mouth, trailing saliva down his chin.
"Bloody come here," Jim sighs. He pulls Pat into his lap clumsily and brings his face in to kiss him, all desperation and affection wrapped in one. Pat cups Jim's face as he kisses him, groaning as Jim presses them together. He slides a hand down between them —shifting in Jim's lap just minutely — to grasp Jim's cock in his hand. He's leaking and achingly hard, a fact that makes Pat's cheeks flush; he's the one who made Jim that hard.
It's less of a show now; Pat is in Jim's lap again, but they're facing each other, this is only between the two of them. Pat slowly works his hand up and down Jim's shaft, licking into his mouth as he does so. If Jim hadn't pushed him so far — not that Pat is complaining — Pat thinks that he would probably be able to get hard again now.
Jim's hands wander from Pat's waist to his ass, squeezing him firmly through his jeans.
"Christ, you taste good," Jim murmurs against Pat's lips. Pat's head swims, knowing Jim can taste his come on his tongue. He speeds ups his hand, ignoring the way the angle slightly aches his wrist.
Jim trails his lips along Pat's jaw, down to his neck, biting softly.
"C'mon, Jimmy, I've got you," Pat murmurs.
Jim's hands desperately cling to Pat, holding him in place with a grip that is bound to bruise. Pat bites back a moan at the realization; the thought of Jim marking him up, leaving bruises to be covered by Pat's clothes, in only places where he and Pat will know makes Pat's head swim.
"Pat," Jim groans, hips moving in time with Pat's hand, rhythm becoming more erratic. Pat can feel the need to come starting to get overwhelming for Jim and he works his cock faster, eager to watch him come undone.
Jim gasps sharply, mouth against Pat's pectoral, as his orgasm hits him. He spills hot and fast over Pat's hand and their chests, and Pat keeps stroking him, slowing down his pace but keeping his grip tight. Jim holds onto Pat impossibly tighter, groaning into his chest. Pat kisses the top of Jim's head, his forehead and his temple, before he takes his hand off his cock finally. Panting, Jim lets go of Pat and runs his hands over where he was gripping him, soothingly. Jim has his face tucked into Pat's chest still, breathing slowly coming back to normal.
Pat shifts slightly in Jim's lap, feeling his hips aching slightly at the way they're positioned in the chair. He keeps his messy hand out of the way, admiring the way Jim's come looks white splattered over his knuckles, dripping between his fingers.
"Pat," Jim says, softly. Pat almost doesn't hear him over the club music playing, but he feels the vibration of Jim's voice against his chest.
"You okay?" Pat says. Jim runs a hand up and down Pat's back, before nodding against his skin. He pulls back to look up at Pat, a smile forming onto his face.
"Should be asking you that, I reckon," Jim says.
"I'm more than okay." He climbs out of Jim's lap, offers him a hand up and the two of them quietly put themselves back together for a few moments; Pat fishes a handkerchief out of his trousers pocket and wipes off his hand while Jim tucks himself back in and fixes his own trousers. Pat uses the handkerchief to wipe down their chests, and Jim patiently stands still for it, smiling at Pat.
He called you love, Pat thinks, head slowly clearing. The realization that he has spent all evening stringing Jim along, selfishly letting himself enjoy Jim's company, his pleasure, instead of ripping off this band-aid when he should have — before they left his apartment.
Pat shoves the dirty hanky back in his pocket and leans into Jim when he throws an arm around his shoulders. As his heart slows down to a normal pace, Pat feels that familiar discomfort starting to bleed in; shame starts to mix with the pleasant post-orgasmic haze. He's crashed after sex before, but it's been a long while since it happened the last time.
Ignoring the feeling in hopes it will go away, Pat wordlessly lets Jim lead him out, his hand falling from Pat's shoulders to the center of his back, then to his back pocket as they make their way to the front of the club. As they near the front, Pat unintentionally catches the eye of a man up against a wall, getting his cock sucked by another man. It takes him half a moment longer to realize it's Fraser, and as recognition passes over both of them, they look away. Pat glances as Jim, who seems like he isn't sure who it was they spotted.
"Was that Fraser back there?" Jim says, as they walk back to his place. They walk side by side, hands in their pockets and Pat can feel his starting to shake. He's got to tell Jim, got to talk to him honestly. He's strung Jim along all night and now it's time for Pat to man up and be straight with him.
Pat looks away, letting out a nervous laugh. It's not his business to share, but he can't bear to lie to Jim. The discomfort in him isn't going away like he hoped it would as they walked.
"Yeah," he says. He runs a hand through his hair. "See him there sometimes. We haven't ever — me and him, we haven't —"
"Pat," Jim says, catching him from tripping over his words.
Pat looks at him as they come to a stop on the sidewalk, waiting to cross the road. Jim is returning his gaze, looking at Pat like it's easy being with him. No one's looked at Pat like that before.
"I wasn't implying anything by asking. Just… I guess I never thought about him like that," Jim says, quiet and calm as ever.
Pat laughs, embarrassed again but feeling rather relieved to put off telling Jim what he has to tell him. "Right. Sorry. He's the only other person I know who… other than you, now."
Jim nods and they start walking again. "I'm sure there's more of us than it seems. I doubt it's really as lonely out there as it feels sometimes."
The night air is cooler than it's been the past several times they've walked home in the wee hours. The summer is starting to change properly into autumn and occasionally, they crunch on dying leaves on the sidewalk, adding unexpected punctuation to their conversation. Pat listens as Jim continues, half because he wants to and half to keep putting off saying what he keeps dreading.
"Thought something was wrong with me, before," Jim says. His voice is soft, much softer than Pat's heard him speak. "I couldn't go to anyone. Not the missus, not my vicar, not my parents. I'd never felt so alone."
Pat feels a sense of familiarity at Jim's words; he had less of the isolation, but growing up, Pat always figured he wasn't like the other boys he knew. The other boys he knew didn't want to kiss other boys and girls. Hearing Jim so candidly takes Pat by surprise, though it's not as if Jim has done anything to make Pat think he felt uncomfortable sharing these things about himself.
"Then I got my divorce, got the bakery out of it, that wasn't bad. Felt more like a person again. Meeting you…" Jim trails off, looking at Pat from the corner of his eye and Pat feels his cheeks heat up, his insides twisting with acrid shame. He resists the urge to shove his hand in Jim's pocket and lace their fingers together, the thought makes his chest ache terribly.
"Doesn't feel so bad anymore," Jim says, bumps his shoulder against Pat's and smiles wide, his eyes crinkling at the edges.
Pat watches him, pulse racing; the urge to grab Jim by the collar and drag him down into a kiss in the middle of the street and the urge to run and go home and never talk to Jim again clutch his heart in a dueling vice. One's ought to win out though. Hearing this confession, hearing Jim's feelings laid out in front of him makes all of this far too real. He's let this go too far. There's no way for Pat to pretend this is casual anymore. He feels tears welling up.
"Jim," Pat says in a shaky voice. He knows how he must look right now — eyebrows knitted together, tears pricking the corners of his eyes. He swallows thickly and looks away, suddenly very interested in the leaves crunching under their feet, thoughts racing fast through his head. What words could even start to make Jim understand what Pat's thinking?
"I think you're too good for me" is what Pat settles on. The words, while truthful, feel hollow in Pat's own ears. When he looks up at Jim, his face is twisted in confusion and Pat takes half a step back when Jim reaches for him. "Jim, I'm sorry. I meant for this to be— casual. But…" Pat chews on the inside of his cheek, voice wavering. His hands shake and he shoves them into his trouser pockets, wishing he had a cigarette or something to do with them.
"What are you talking… Pat—" Jim lets out a disbelieving laugh. "Pat." He says it firmer this time, but Pat sets his jaw and sniffs, placing his hands on his waist, then back into his pockets.
"I'm sorry, Jim."
Pat forces himself to look at Jim once more before he turns around and walks to the Tube station they passed a few blocks back. The expression on Jim's face is one that Pat's never seen before, never really fathomed he could make. His face has dropped, blue eyes wide in disbelief and shock and hurt and anger.
"Wait—" Jim's reaching for Pat as he turns and goes.
Pat's stomach churns, pulse pounding in his ears as he goes.
Part III
The days go by and it doesn't take long for some of the other lads to figure out something is wrong with Pat, though none of them approach him directly. What's worse is that Jim is polite enough to give Pat space. He doesn't call, nor shows up at his flat out of the blue, nor does he come to pub night with the lads. Pat wants to tear his hair out, anger wholly directed at himself. The first time he has something real with someone honest and genuine, and he couldn't handle it. Pat can't decide what is worse — that he could have prevented this or that he finds himself wanting Jim to reach out, as if Jim can read his fucking mind.
He avoids both the pub and the Anvil and actually shows up to work on time, so naturally, as his boss, Jock is the only one to do something about it. A week and a half after the break up, Jock shows up to Pat's flat with a box of pastries — "from Gentleman Jim's, I know you enjoy his sweets," Jock says — and Pat lets him in because he's never been one to turn away Jock.
Jock hangs up his coat on the rack and waltzes into Pat's small kitchen, grabbing two mugs from the drying rack, putting on the kettle and looking Pat up and down. Pat lets himself sink into a chair at the dining table and scrubs his hands over his face. He imagines himself to look rather unkempt; he hasn't shaved in a few days, so stubble has come in on his chin and cheeks, and he's been sleeping…well, badly doesn't begin to describe it. He stares at the box of pastries on the table, reminding him too much of the time Jim came over and brought the same. His stomach churns at the memory.
He watches as Jock prepares tea, moving around the kitchen as if it was his own, before sitting down across from Pat and setting down the mugs in front of both of them.
"What's going on?" Jock's gaze falls on at Pat, his eyes hard but not unkind. There's a difference from the way he looks at him when he's reprimanding Pat at work; this Jock is unequivocably Pat's friend in this moment, not his boss.
"I…" Pat wraps his hands around the mug, the ceramic burning his palms as he watches the dark tea bloom in the water.
"This is a romantic entanglement, isn't it?"
Pat looks up, eyes wide, heart starting to pound.
Jock waves a dismissive hand. "Oh please. I had a similar… breakdown when I was first seeing Mirren."
"How did you…? Get past it?"
Jock takes a sip of his tea, no doubt burning his tongue but not letting it show. "I got my head out of my arse and spoke with her," he says, frankly.
Pat averts his gaze and reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the windowsill next to him. He lights up and offers one to Jock, who takes him up on it. Inhaling deeply, Pat lets the nicotine rush calm his nerves.
"Things were going well," Pat says. "Until they weren't."
Jock looks at him, unimpressed, clearly waiting for him to continue.
"I…" Pat takes a long drag on his cigarette. "I've never been… I've never had someone like Mirren." He looks at Jock, finally meeting his eye. "But this, what I screwed up, felt so close to that. I think."
Mirren and Jock have been together for just under two years and everyone who knows them knows they will get married sooner rather than later. Only having met her, and seen her and Jock interact a handful of times, Pat feels like this is the closest analogue to what he feels for Jim. Not that he'd tell Jock the object of his affection is another man — though he's nearly certain that Jock would be reasonably understanding of his… tendencies — he just hopes that Jock will see the seriousness of his situation.
Jock's expression softens and he looks at Pat, cocking his head to the side slightly.
"Patrick," Jock says, though they both know his name is not short for any variation of Patrick. "My first question still stands. What is going on?"
"I ran. Don't know why," Pat confesses. "It felt… too real. I don't know what to do with real," he continues and stares down into his mug, his cigarette slowly burning down in the ashtray next to him. "But I wanted it."
Silence passes between them and Pat raises his gaze to look up at Jock again, feeling terribly torn open and vulnerable. Jock, in turn, looks at Pat over the rim of his mug as he takes another sip of tea, cigarette dangling from his fingers.
"Why are you telling me this, Riley?" he asks curtly, "Because to me it sounds like you need to tell whoever this is what you've just told me." Jock then suddenly stands from the table and places a the hand without the the cigarette on Pat's shoulder. "If what you see with this person is half as passionate as what I have with Mirren, believe me, it will be worth it."
Pat wasn't expecting such caring words and touch from Jock. He considers them friends, sure, but they've never been this open with each other before. It's… odd, but comforting, he realizes. As his anxiety receds slightly, he feels his heart slowing down a little. "Thanks, Lewes," he says, feeling the corners of his mouth pull up into a small smile.
Jock nods, seemingly thinking his job here to be done, because he starts making his way to the door. picking down his coat from the hanger. "And, Christ, don't come into work tomorrow. It's odd seeing you on time."
The laugh Pat lets out at that feels like the first laugh he's had in ages. "Got it, boss."
Jock nods at him once before he leaves, gently closing the door behind him. Pat stays at the table, finishing his tea, letting his cigarette burn down where it sits in the ashtray while he stares at the box of Jim's pastries and wonders if Jock mentioned to him that he was taking it to Pat. His chest tightens at the memory of the last time he saw him, and the thought of seeing him again makes him feel a little ill, but at the same time, there's nothing more he wants.
As he's left alone, with nothing but the quiet sound of the radio the background, Pat feels such a strong sense of longing it almost makes him sit down. He doesn't think he could properly define what he feels with Jim, but Pat can't deny that there is something just the slightest bit ineffable about the way his heart beats and his mood lifts whenever he's with him. Though he couldn't manage to express it in words before, he knows what he has to do now. Whether it will fix things permanently or partially or not at all, Pat doesn't know, but he owes it to Jim to at least try.
Two days later, Pat shows up at the bakery well within business hours, expecting to see Jim behind the counter with his floured forearms on display. Instead he finds a tall and skinny blond lad, who ought to be in school rather than working in the middle of the day.
"Is… Jim in?" Pat asks, immediately thrown off.
The tall lad, who Pat has met very briefly at the pub, and goes by the name Johnny Cooper, shakes his head. "No. Told me he isn't feeling well. Asked me to cover for the morning."
Pat nods. "Well, if you see him. Could you tell him I— tell him Pat— uh, fuck—" he lets out a huff of embarrassed laughter as he stumbles over his word, "just— nevermind."
"Oh. You're Pat," Johnny says, and Pat feels a bit put on the spot.
He bristles under Johnny's gaze. "Shouldn't you be in school?" he blurts out.
The lad lets out an unamused snort, crosses his arms over his chest and looks rather annoyed. "Oh, if I had a nickel for every time someone said that to me. Now, are you going to order something or are you just going to stand there?"
"Pain au chocolate," Pat says, after a brief moment of panic as he looks at the glass pastry case. "Please."
"Coming right up," Johnny says, dryly. Pat shifts his balance from foot to foot as Johnny eyes him up and down once more.
Something about Johnny strikes Pat; of course Jim would befriend someone like him and Pat wonders how they know each other.
Johnny rings Pat up and gives him a look that Pat can only describe as empathetic pity.
"Thank you," Pat says, slowly. He opens his mouth as he turns to leave, about to ask why Johnny knows who he is.
"He's talked about you. I'm his neighbor." Johnny rolls his eyes, as if it's obvious. "He's not home right now, but maybe if you come by later."
Pat feels his cheeks warm. "Oh." Knowing Jim has talked about him to other people makes him feel something indescribable blooming in his chest, but it soon twists into shame once more and he clears his throat with a small nod. He half expects Johnny to say something as he walks out the door, but he doesn't, instead politely ringing up the next customer after Pat.
Back at his flat, Pat sinks his teeth into the chocolate croissant. It's good, but it somehow tastes different from the ones that Jim brought to Pat's house a few weeks prior. Maybe it's his own shame and guilt giving the food a bitter taste, or maybe Pat is giving himself too much credit, and not all chocolate croissants Jim makes tastes the same.
The rest of the day passes by. Pat busies himself with cleaning his flat and doing laundry, before he sits down and pretends to read a book, which really ends up him opening it and reading the same paragraph over and over again as he thinks of Jim while his stomach ties and unties itself in knots. When Pat looks up and sees the clock is just about at bakery closing time, he feels an uncomfortable mix of shame and relief as he hurries to leave his flat.
His legs move on autopilot, walking up to the door as he sees Jim inside — his heart skips a beat as their eyes meet for half a second, hurt and disappointment crossing over Jim's face — flipping the open sign to closed. Pat hesitates walks up and knocks on the glass door.
"Can we talk?" he says, knowing Jim can hear him.
Jim moves about inside, wiping the little round tables down. "It's open," he says, not even bothering to glance over his shoulder. The bell at the top rattles with a familiar jingle as Pat steps slowly into the room, into a space he's been in what feels like hundreds of times, he can't shake the feeling of novelty, as if he's walking into the bakery for the first time. The air between them is different, much more tense than it has been over the past few weeks.
He quickly busies himself with helping Jim stack chairs on tables. There's only a handful of chairs to be stacked though, so they finished the job in no time, and then it's just the two of them standing in the middle of the seating area. Jim first has his back to Pat, but as he slowly turns around, Pat instinctively reaches for him, then stops himself.
Pat wonders if Jim is going to say something as he stands there, hoping he will, but Jim keeps his gaze locked on Pat, anger clouding his blue eyes.
"I'm sorry," Pat blurts out, unable to stop himself from taking a step forward. Jim looks at him, then lets out a bitter little laugh and looks down at the linoleum floor between them.
"Pat…" he starts.
"I shouldn't have ran, it was… I was a fucking coward. And I'm sorry," Pat says, willing with everything he has to keep his voice steady. His palms grow sweaty again and he feels his heart start to race as the silence between his words and Jim's response stretches.
"Why— why did you run off like that?" Jim says, his voice breaking, and when he looks up at Pat, meeting his gaze, Pat notices that his eyes are wet.
"It just— I was… it felt so real. More real than I'm used to," Pat admits quickly. It sounds silly, immature. Which it is— which he is, he knows. His palms clam up, but he resists the urge to shove them in his pockets like he always does. Pat keeps his hands by his sides, making the conscious effort to keep his body language open, though the vulnerability scares him.
Jim scoffs at him, crossing his arms over his chest, and turns, heading into the back of the bakery. Pat follows, assuming it's expected of him. They end up in the kitchen, and Pat can't help but glance over at the spot by the fridge where he was on his knees all those weeks ago. He feels a lump forming in his throat as he opens his mouth say something, but Jim beats him to it.
"I poured my heart out and you left me on the bloody sidewalk," Jim says.
Pat tears his gaze away to look over at Jim. They're standing on opposite sides of the kitchen island, a gulf between them, and he wants nothing more than to cross that distance.
"I've never felt— like this before," Pat says softly, unable to keep his voice from breaking.
"Pat," Jim says, the disappointment in his voice palpable.
Pat swallows thickly. "I was… I was scared."
He raises his hands in exasperation. "Of what?" Jim says. "What the bloody hell were you scared of?"
Pat looks away, eyebrows knitting together, and he bites the inside of his cheek as he tries to come up with anything to say. His throat feels dry and there's an unfamiliar desperation creeping in on him. He cannot fuck this up any more than he already has; he can't lose Jim.
"I don't know," is all he manages in the end.
"You've got to do better than that," Jim say. His face hardens in anger and Pat scrubs a hand over his face as Jim leans forward on the counter.
"We didn't— establish… When we started this thing—"
"I'm sorry I didn't write out a bloody… manifesto for us when I said I wanted something with you more than just— blowing me on the fucking kitchen floor," Jim says, nearly shouting.
Pat watches Jim's jaw waver as they look at each other. He feels warm all over and finally gives into the urge to shove his hands in his pockets before Jim sees them shaking. The dread that Pat feels, the fear that he's fucked this all up, feels heavier and heavier as the moments stretch on and Pat feels ashamed as he fails to meet Jim's gaze.
"I guess I thought…" Jim trails off, turning around and scrubbing his hands over his face. "I thought what we felt— what I felt — was strong enough to just… go for it."
Pat knows he has to say something, but his tongue his heavy in his mouth, throat thick with emotion. The kitchen feels both bigger and smaller somehow, the island between them seeming to grow while the walls feel like they're closing in.
"I thought I could— cut it. As… as whatever you wanted me to be. But I've never had that before. I should have just told you. I can't do anything other than— than sex," Pat says, his voice faltering as he speaks. His sinuses sting as tears threaten to spill over.
Jim looks at him and blinks in disbelief. "Are you… are you mad, Pat?"
"What?"
"We've had dinners together, I've slept over at your place, you didn't turn into a fucking pumpkin, did you?" Jim counters.
Jim is right, of course, and Pat wants to shrink in on himself, shrivel up into the husk that he feels like he truly is. He swallows, and lets out a bitter laugh, sniffling. "No. But—"
"Why are you so allergic to having a— a relationship with me?" Jim's voice wavers, coming out at the end very soft, anger having turned to disappointment, or sadness.
Pat lets the words hang in the air, desperately searching for a response that won't end up sounding terribly pathetic. He settles on, "You're so fucking sure of this. Of me." Pat looks through teary eyes, blinking them away quickly.
That makes Jim raise his eyebrows, as if Pat is missing something obvious, and he takes half a step towards Pat, moving around the island.
"Because… I like you," Jim says. "A lot actually. Dunno if you've noticed, but I like you a bloody lot," he continues, voice softening for each word.
The need for a cigarette hits Pat suddenly and intensely, so he pulls out his pack and his lighter and offers one to Jim, but Jim shakes his head and beckons Pat to follow him again. They end up outside, in the alleyway. It feels different from the other times they've been here together; now it's daytime, they can hear the sounds of the city around them, cars going by, people talking, bicycle bells. This time, Jim takes the cigarette Pat offers him and leans into his personal space as Pat lights both of theirs simultaneously.
It almost feels like how things were before, this gentle slowness between them that's always been there, as Pat sits on the steps and Jim follows suit.
"I think I like you too much," Pat finally says. A beat passes between them.
"How much is too much?" Jim says.
"Enough to run away. Enough to come back with my tail between my legs." As he exhales smoke, he looks at Jim out of the corner of his eye and looks away when Jim meets his gaze.
"Pat," Jim says very softly, far softer than Pat feels he deserves.
"This— you— it feels so real. I don't know what to do with real." His voice is hardly recognizable it's so small, wavering.
"What makes you think I know what to do with it?" Jim asks, knocking his shoulder into Pat's gently.
Pat furrows his brows and turns to look at Jim. "You've… you've been married before. That seems pretty real to me."
Jim laughs and Pat can't help the way his chest warms at the sight and sound of Jim's laughter, the way his eyes crinkle.
"Come on, now… I'm a divorced homosexual, who was married to a woman. What makes you think that qualifies me more than you to have something like— like we could?" Jim meets Pat's gaze and now Pat's stuck feeling some combination of embarrassment and stupidity as Jim gives him the smallest of smiles.
"I…" Hearing Jim say it out loud, calling himself a homosexual, is jarring for just a moment. If Jim can admit that, maybe Pat can do the same for himself. Maybe Pat can be man enough to meet him there
"Give us a chance, Pat."
Pat tears his eyes away from Jim's gaze, focusing on the cement under his feet and the cigarette burning down between his fingers. He swallows, then looks back at Jim.
"Come over tonight? I'll cook," Pat says, hoping he doesn't sound too desperate.
Jim nods slowly. "Alright. What time?"
Any time, Pat thinks but does not say. Instead, he says, "Seven."
"I'll be there," Jim says. He looks like he's going to reach out and touch Pat's shoulder, but pulls his hand back at the last minute. Pat's chest tightens.
"It'll be like a first date," Pat says.
"A second first date."
"A real first date."
There's Jim's smile again, and Pat can't resist the way his lips mirror the expression.
"I'll be there," Jim says, more emphatically.
Pat nods and leaves, walking out through the alleyway like he's done many times before.
Pat doesn't think himself much in the way of a cook, but he can sure as hell follow directions. He gets the recipe for roast chicken from one of his mother's cookbooks and follows it to a T. As Pat cooks, he wonders if Jim felt this nervous when he cooked his pot roast for him. The clock ticks on and the sun dips well below the horizon, and soon Pat's entire flat smells like thyme and garlic and roast chicken.
Jim shows up comfortably on time, as Pat predicted, and carries with him a bottle of wine.
"Evening," Pat says, eyeing Jim up and down as he walks in.
"Hiya," Jim says. He toes off his shoes and hands Pat his coat to hang up on the rack. "Smells fantastic in here."
"It's almost ready," Pat says. They head into the kitchen together and Pat wants to touch Jim, even just a hand on his shoulder or back, but he keeps his hands to himself.
Jim opens the wine, pouring them both glasses, as Pat checks on the chicken in the oven.He feels Jim's eyes on him, and his cheeks warm as he takes out the pan and places it on the trivets on the counter, before he turns off the oven and places a sheet of foil over the baking pan. He then turns to face Jim, who's quietly come to stand next to him, holding out a glass of wine for him.
"Cheers," Pat says taking his glass and tipping it to Jim's. With them this close together, Pat can easily feel Jim's body heat radiating off of him. They clink glasses and sip their wine, Pat holding Jim's gaze over the rim of his glass.
"Pat," Jim says, softly. He takes a step forward, crowds Pat against the counter, and Pat sets his glass down behind him, hands shaking as he looks away. Stepping into Jim's personal space further, Pat feels his heart speed up, and he meets Jim's eyes again. Jim's pupils are wide, his eyes almost black, and Pat inhales sharply before giving in and pulling Jim to him. He nuzzles his cheek against Jim's before burying his face into the crook of his neck, arms wrapping around each other tightly.
He exhales shakily, fingers digging into Jim's body as he leans into him, and it feels so good when Jim reciprocates, holding Pat just as tightly. It's only been a few days apart, but as they embrace, Pat feels how much he's missed Jim start to hit home, the familiar scent of Jim's cologne hitting his nostrils.
"I'm sorry," Pat says voice muffled against Jim's skin.
Jim presses his lips to Pat's neck, leaving them there in a lingering kiss. He runs a hand up and down Pat's back, cupping the back of his head.
"I know," Jim says softly.
Pat leans back slightly, just enough to press his forehead against Jim's. They stand like that for just a moment, taking each other in before Pat inhales to say something, when Jim kisses him. Pat sighs against his lips and moves his hand to cup the side of Jim's face, thumb rubbing over the corner of his jaw, feeling the pleasant scratch of stubble.
"I've missed you," Jim murmurs.
"You too," Pat says quietly.
He kisses Jim's cheek, his chin, his nose, his forehead. He feels his heart slamming against his ribs, almost as if it's threatening to break out; he wonders if Jim can hear just how loud it is. Jim presses Pat gently against the kitchen island and kisses his neck, and Pat lets him, clutching Jim's shoulders for balance.
"The— the food…" Pat protests, as Jim's hands wander to his hips. His breath hitches when Jim pulls them against each other, one of his thighs slotting between Pat's.
"Food can wait," Jim mumbles, teeth nipping at Pat's earlobe.
Pat shakily exhales, eyes fluttering shut as he smiles. He doesn't bother resisting the way heat starts to run through his body, pooling in his abdomen. Jim laughs against his neck. "C'mon," he says. "Don't wanna do this in the bloody kitchen."
"And here I was thinking we wouldn't be here again till… Jesus, I don't know," Pat confesses, but he lets Jim lead him to his bedroom, which he had cleaned in a fit of anxiety earlier. Pat clings to Jim's hand, expecting to be pressed against the wall, but to his surprise, Jim pushes him onto the bed. He falls with a yelp and a creak of the bedsprings.
Pat looks up at Jim, eyes wide. Even more to his surprise, Jim kneels down, situating himself between Pat's knees as Pat feels his cock start to stir. Pat pushes himself up on his elbows, looks at Jim and waits for him to tell him what to do.
As he pulls one of Pat's legs into his lap, Jim smiles up at Pat softly and gently grasps Pat's ankle, slowly slides his sock off and tosses it aside, before doing the same with his other foot. Pat swallows and watches, rapt, as Jim reaches his hands up, unbuckles Pat's belt and undoes his trousers. He doesn't touch Pat's cock directly, even through his pants, but Pat feels himself quickly swelling just at the way the fabric brushes over him. He lifts his hips as Jim shimmies his jeans off, tossing them the way of his socks.
Heart racing, Pat wants to ask Jim what he has in mind, why he's the one on his knees right now, but he finds words hard to come by, especially when Jim leans forward and kisses his knee. Jim meets his gaze, and then, as he presses his lips to the bony joint of his knee, then up further to his thigh. His mustache tickles Pat's sensitive skin, and he lets out a chuckle that turns into more of a moan when Jim keeps kissing up his leg. Jim's hand rests on Pat's other thigh, not pushing or pressing him to the bed, but holding him in place nonetheless.
At this point, Pat's cock lays against his leg, thick and full, bulging against the fabric of his boxers. He lets out a shaky breath as Jim continues to kiss his leg, continuing to get tantalizingly close.
Realizing he's grasping handfuls of the bedspread, Pat lets go with one hand and reaches for Jim's hand on his leg, covering Jim's hand with his.
"I've got you," Jim murmurs, giving Pat a soft look as he looks up at him. He lets his mouth open wider and, without breaking eye contact, presses open-mouthed kisses to Pat's inner thigh, the warm wetness of his tongue making Pat shiver.
"Jim," Pat sighs, reaches out and runs a shaky hand through Jim's hair, before he lets it move to cup the side of his face. His breath hitches sharply as Jim playfully nips at Pat's skin, smiling as he kisses the spot where his teeth just made their indent.
The room is quiet, save the sounds of Pat's breathing and soft moans, and Jim's mouth on Pat's skin. It feels both like some semblance of the normalcy they used to have, but simultaneously this is anything but normal — Jim's never been on his knees for Pat before; it feels both intimate and terrifyingly novel. Pat finds himself clutching Jim's hand harder as Jim moves his mouth to his other leg, sucking a bruise into the sensitive skin so close to his cock.
Pat bites his lip to stifle a moan, as he feels himself leaking against himself, precome soaking the fabric of his boxers.
"Jim," Pat repeats, slightly more urgently. He looks down as Jim sits back on his heels and by just one look, he can tell Jim seems to be just as hard in his own trousers.
"Yes?" Jim pulls one of Pat's legs back into his lap, wrapping a hand around his ankle and idly running his thumb along the sensitive skin of it.
Pat swallows, willing himself to speak slowly and steadily.
"Can I… kiss you?" He feels his cheeks flush, innocent as the request may be.
Jim's face softens, and he sits up on his knees, pulling Pat to sit up. Pat leans into Jim's movement and scoots forward on the bed, till his feet are balanced on the floor, bracketing Jim's thighs. He leans down and although the angle is awkward, Pat eagerly lets Jim pull him down for a soft kiss.
This time, it's Jim's turn to whine into Pat's mouth. It's such a small noise, but Pat hears it clear as day and it makes his chest clench. He reaches out and wraps an arm around Jim's shoulders, keeping him in place, holding him close. Pat parts his lips, opening his mouth when he feels Jim's tongue darting out to run along his bottom lip.
Jim runs his tongue alongside Pat's, his hands wandering over Pat's thighs, squeezing his hips. Clutching at Jim's broad shoulders, Pat can feel his body vibrating with excitement and arousal. He kisses Jim back slowly, forcing himself to take his time, though his cock throbs, hard to ignore. As Jim runs a hand up under Pat's shirt, a finger brushes over a nipple and Pat feels a jolt of heat through his body. He trails his mouth along Jim's face, kissing his jaw, his cheek, grounded by the way Jim's hands are at his chest, his stomach.
"Pat," Jim sighs.
"Come up here and fuck me," he says, before he can really think.
That gets another little noise out of Jim and his lips still against Pat's. Pat is about to pull back, when Jim's grip on the back of his neck tightens and Jim kisses him back, licking into his mouth.
"I've thought about it," Jim says.
Pat's cock twitches as Jim grabs him through his trousers.
Jim smiles against his lips, pulling back slightly but keeping a hand on Pat's shoulder. "Your arse in those jeans you like to wear to the club," he continues and moves his hand slowly to the side of Pat's neck, thumb brushing over his Adam's apple. Pat watches him, mouth falling open slightly; his own hands rest softly on Jim's forearm, the other at his shoulder. Pat swallows as Jim moves his hand up his face, cupping his cheek.
"I didn't think you wanted me to," Jim says, pressing his thumb softly past Pat's lips.
Pat's eyes flutter shut and his cock jumps at the memory of Jim doing this with those gloves on. Jim keeps a solid grip on Pat's jaw with the rest of his hand, keeping him from closing his lips around his finger and sucking, as Pat tries to instinctively do. The noise Pat lets out is involuntary and he resists the urge to reach down and touch himself, even as he feels his cock leak further, the wet patch on his boxers growing.
It's uncharacteristic that they haven't done that before, Pat knows. He's hardly picky about who he lets fuck him, but something about what he felt he was creating with Jim had started to seem precious. Part of him felt like consummating it would be too real, too official, much as he did want it. It's quite silly, he realizes now, and if he was a more eloquent man, Pat knows he'd be able to articulate this to Jim, but all he can do now is moan as he feels saliva drip out of his mouth, around Jim's callused thumb, down his chin.
"I wonder if you've thought about it too. Have you, love?" Jim asks, his smile audible, and he presses his thumb more insistently against Pat's soft tongue.
Pat tries to nod, opening his eyes to see Jim smiling up at him. His heart skips a beat and he clutches at Jim tighter. Jim takes his thumb out of Pat's mouth, placing his big hand on Pat's cheek and Pat nuzzles into his palm.
"So much," Pat says. He glances down, seeing Jim hard in his slacks as he has Pat right in the palm of his hand.
"Ask me nicely, then," Jim says, devoid of any real edge, his lips still curled into a smile.
Pat reaches out and runs a bold hand through Jim's hair.
"Please fuck me, Jim," Pat says, feeling pleasantly under Jim's thumb as Jim stares up at him from his spot kneeling on his floor.
Jim's smile gets wider and Pat can't help but return it, feeling much like they're now repairing what he so selfishly broke. Hope blooms in his chest at the sight of Jim's eyes crinkling the way they do when he smiles so big.
"Well… since you've asked so nicely…" Jim stands, taking one of Pat's hands in his and bringing it to his mouth to kiss Pat's knuckles. Pat lets out a small noise, his heart squeezing at the way Jim's lips feel against his skin. It's so innocent, terribly romantic, and Pat finds himself feeling that scary overwhelming feeling of this being too real. He doesn't run from it this time though, no, instead he leans into it and reaches out to steady himself with hand on Jim's hip. His fingers toy at Jim's belt, inching towards the buckle as Jim meticulously kisses every knuckle on Pat's other hand. Pat closes his eyes, leaning forward to press his face into Jim's stomach, pressing a kiss there through his shirt. Jim's stomach is soft, and Pat lets out a quiet whine against him as he feels Jim's lips on the tender skin of his wrist.
"Jim," Pat says and tilts his head back to look up at Jim, chin against his torso.
Jim looks down at him and smiles, like Pat's something that has only ever brought him joy, like he's something precious, like he didn't break his heart less than a week ago.
"Yes?" Jim says playfully. He holds Pat's hand in his, idly running his thumb over Pat's palm before gently placing it over his heart. Pat can't help but smile at the fact that Jim's heart is racing as fast as his is; he wants this as much as Pat does.
"Can I…?" Pat tugs at Jim's belt with his other hand, hoping the gesture is enough to finish his question.
"Use your words," he pushes.
Pat swallows, feeling his cheeks warm with a tinge of brashness. He moves his hand from Jim's belt and places it over Jim's cock and squeezes lightly. "Can I suck your cock? Please?"
He adds the please because as much as he enjoys pushing back against Jim like this, Pat feels like they've already spent too much time with their clothes still on and he really wants to get going now. He grips Jim through his slacks rather pointedly, feeling his mouth water at the way Jim's cock jumps in his hand. Jim lets out a shaky breath, squeezing Pat's hand where it lingers over his heart.
And then, to Pat's surprise, he says, "Not tonight."
"What?" Pat says, lets go of Jim's cock and sits back. He furrows his brows, utterly confused, though not enough to make his own erection flag where he still tents his pants.
Jim laughs, a full, hearty sound that Pat can feel through his hand still on Jim's chest.
"I'd like to… do something different," he says. "If that's… if you'll have me."
Given how they got here, Pat thinks it's best not to admit that he would let Jim do nearly anything to him, however true that may be. He pauses, searches Jim's face for any clues as to what he has in mind, but finding none and nodding anyway.
"What can I— what do you want me to do?" Pat says.
"Take off your clothes. Turn over," Jim says. Pat's heart races and he hurriedly pulls off his shirt with shaky hands. Jim steps back and undresses; Pat ignores the slight disappointment at not getting to do that himself, but the thought vanishes at the sight of Jim completely naked, his cock thick between his legs. Pat lies back on the bed and looks at him for a long moment — all Jim's thick curves, the way his gold cross necklace shines against the dark hair decorating his chest — before turning over onto his stomach.
He hisses at the way his cock is trapped under him, leaking onto the bedsheets and his stomach, still untouched. Glancing over his shoulder, Pat sees Jim moving around his space, fishing around in his nightstand drawer for lube and condoms and Pat feels anticipation building hot in his gut.
At the feeling of the bed dipping — the springs squeaking — Pat faces forward again, opening his mouth to say something when Jim nudges his legs apart gently. Pat's words die on his tongue as he spreads his legs for Jim to come between them. He whimpers at the feeling of Jim's hands on his hips, bringing him up onto his knees. Pat balances on his elbows, letting his forehead rest on his hands, cheeks flushing at the knowledge that he's completely exposed to Jim.
Pat sighs as Jim runs his hands over his ass, rubbing and kneading him. He expects to feel the blunt press of Jim's fingers at him, but to Pat's surprise he had just half a moment to register the feeling of warm breath on his hole before it's unmistakably the press of Jim's tongue against his skin. Pat startles, trying to pull away, but Jim's hands on his hips are steadfast and hold him in place.
"Jim—" Pat gasps, squeezing his eyes shut.
Jim's runs his tongue around Pat's rim and it's soft and warm and something about the way Jim's mustache and stubble feel against his most sensitive skin has Pat's cock leaking onto the bed where it hangs heavily between his legs. Pat squeezes his hands into fists, grabbing handfuls of his bedspread as he involuntarily presses himself back against Jim's tongue.
Pat can feel Jim smiling against him and he whimpers at the way Jim presses the tip of his tongue against his rim. Jim's hands hold his cheeks apart, gently kneading the soft muscle and fat, holding Pat in place. Pat reaches between his legs with a shaky hand and takes hold of his cock with a groan, stroking himself slowly.
At the press of the tip of Jim's tongue inside him, pushing past the tight ring of muscle, Pat lets out a shuddering gasp, collapsing forward on the bed. He leans his cheek on the bed, whining again, as Jim licks inside him.
"Fuck," Pat gasps. "Jesus, Jim…"
Jim moans, pressing his face impossibly further against him and all Pat can do is grip the base of his cock as he feels heat building dangerously quickly. Rimming isn't something he's done many times, and the men he's done it with in the past have decidedly not been as skilled at this as Jim seems to be. In the back of his mind, Pat wonders how his wife could have divorced him if he's this good with his tongue, but with a smile he's sure Jim can't see Pat thanks her for leaving.
Pat lets go of his cock, shifting again to balance on his elbows. At this angle, he's able to push back against Jim, which gets another smile out of him. Jim thrusts his tongue in and out of Pat's hole, his hands kneading the globes of his ass a little more harshly and Pat has a passing thought that it must feel good if Jim were to spank him.
"Jim—" Pat says, sharply. His words turn to a gasp before they leave his tongue as Jim shifts and trails his tongue from Pat's hole to his perineum, letting saliva drip down to his balls. "If you keep this up, I'm going to come."
Though his eyes are closed, Pat can tell Jim is smiling as he runs his hands up and down his back, covering Pat's body with his own.
"I know," Jim says, far too amused.
"Fuck."
"Be patient," Jim says before pressing a kiss to Pat's lower back and sitting back on his haunches on the bed.
Pat cranes his neck to look over his shoulder, watching as Jim pours some lube onto his fingers. He slicks them up but doesn't wait to warm the liquid up before he's pressing a fingertip against Pat's already eager hole. Pat feels his heart hammer in his chest as he resists the urge to push back against Jim's finger and take him immediately; Jim's fingers are thick and warm and he enters Pat so, so, gently that it's almost too much.
Jim rests a hand on Pat's lower back as he presses his finger all the way inside. Pat makes a noise like a small animal; if this is just what a single finger inside him feels like, he isn't sure he'll last very long once Jim has his cock in him.
Slowly, Jim thrusts his finger in and out of Pat's hole, curling it as he goes. Pat pushes his hips back to meet Jim's rhythm, reaching under himself to grip his cock, stroking himself out of rhythm.
"More— please," Pat says, voice strained.
"We have all evening," Jim says. His hand on the small of Pat's back is grounding, and when it disappears, Pat lets out a small noise of confusion, only to feel a surge of relief when he feels Jim's hand wrap around his, stopping him from stroking himself.
Pat's eyes flutter shut as he sinks into the mattress further, something within him calming as he leans more into the control Jim holds. He whines when Jim gently takes hold of his wrist and moves his hand away from his cock, holding it behind his back. His grip on Pat's wrist is firm but not harsh, holding him steady rather than holding him in place.
Jim gently pushes another finger at Pat's entrance, slowly pushing inside. Pat gasps at the intrusion, forcing himself to relax. He pauses knuckle by knuckle, letting Pat's body adjust to the stretch. It hurts only for a moment, though Pat has always enjoyed the pain. He lets out another groan when he feels Jim start to thrust both fingers at a steady rhythm.
"Jim," Pat groans.
"I've got you," Jim says. He runs his thumb along the inside of Pat's wrist where he still grips him. "You should see yourself, love."
All Pat can do in return is whine, his eyes fluttering shut again. Jim stretches him out gently, patiently, practiced in a way that tells Pat that Jim has had to do this with previous partners. At the brief, feather-light brush of Jim's fingertips curling against his prostate, Pat whimpers, clenching around Jim's fingers.
"Sorry," Jim says, hurriedly.
"It's— ah — it's okay," Pat says. "But…" His voice falters.
"What is it?" Jim coaxes. He keeps his fingers at a steady rhythm, scissoring them apart, but more carefully avoiding Pat's prostate.
"Please," Pat says. "Please." Need is starting to build within him, growing too insistent to ignore.
"'Please', what?" Jim says. He slows his rhythm, and though Pat can't see him, he can tell Jim is probably smiling.
"Please fuck me," Pat says, through gritted teeth.
"Well, since you keep asking so nicely," Jim says, the smile in his voice all too apparent.
The words on Pat's tongue dissolve into another groan as Jim takes out his fingers slowly. He wriggles against Jim's grip on his wrist, not actually trying to break out. Jim rubs his hand up and down Pat's forearm, letting go as Pat feels him shift on the bed behind him. He lets out a shaky breath as he feels himself clenching around nothing, cock leaking in anticipation.
"Jim—"
"Turn over."
Jim takes the words right out of Pat's mouth, and Pat is flipping over onto his back before he even fully registers it. Pat scoots up the bed till his head is at one of the pillows and spreads his legs for Jim to climb between them. He feels his mouth water as he gets a proper look at him for the first time in what feels like forever; Jim's slouched over as he slides a condom on, knees against the back of Pat's thighs where they rest in his lap. Pat wonders if Jim would ever let him take a picture of him like this — looking so confident as he smiles up at him.
Pat strokes his cock a few slow times, keeping himself grounded as Jim manhandles him into position — pushing one of his thighs up and letting Pat wrap the other around his hips as he leans forward, lining the tip of his cock up with Pat's entrance. Letting go of himself, Pat grips onto Jim and kisses the side of his neck, licking up sweat gathering there with the flat of his tongue. He holds his breath as Jim presses inside him, biting his tongue at the way the head of Jim's cock stretches his hole. Pat knows what to expect — he's sucked Jim's cock before, he's jerked him off many times, hell, he's fantasized about this before — but facing the reality of this is almost overwhelming as Jim slowly pushes inside him until he bottoms out.
Pat clings to Jim's arms, his waist. Though he knows he's taken bigger cocks than Jim's, something about the way Jim is continuing to be tender with him — pausing with shaky arms to let Pat's body adjust, mouthing along his temple, his cheek — is making Pat feel this more than the other times. He lets out a whine and licks at Jim's neck again.
"Please, Jim."
Jim doesn't say anything, just kisses the corner of Pat's mouth once before pulling nearly all the way out and slamming back in. Pat yelps, his nails digging into Jim's sweat-slick skin.
The rhythm Jim sets quickly goes from slow and careful to steady and harsh. Pat squeezes his eyes shut, feeling something bubbling up in his chest behind his heart as Jim fucks into him. He lets out another moan as Jim kisses him again, their tongues sliding together messily. Pat shifts his other leg to lock his ankles at the small of Jim's back.
"Christ, Pat," Jim whines. "You feel so fucking good."
Pat opens his mouth to respond when the head of Jim's cock brushes against his prostate and he yelps, heat surging through him. Trapped between their stomachs, his cock twitches, continuing to leak. If Jim keeps fucking him like this, Pat knows it won't be long before he's coming, though it feels less embarrassing.
Jim fucks him harder, keeping balance with his forearm braced next to Pat's head. Jim cards through Pat's sweaty hair as he kisses the side of his neck and Pat gasps out another moan. Turning his head to the side, he pushes himself up to shove his face into Jim's armpit; Jim gasps as Pat laps up the sweat soaked into the hair there. Pat groans at the salty, acrid taste of Jim and he kisses and licks until above him Jim is whimpering and pushing his face away to kiss him again.
Pat's cock throbs at the way Jim sucks on his tongue, tasting himself in Pat's mouth.
"Let me— fuck — let me ride you," Pat gasps, between kisses.
Jim's hips stutter before pausing entirely, his cock still buried deep inside Pat. Pat shifts, pulling back so he can look at Jim as properly as he can with their faces so close.
"Yeah, okay," Jim says, seeming surprised that Pat suggested it.
The shift in positions is quick but awkward and Pat finds himself giggling at the way Jim flops back on the bed, pulling Pat astride him. Pat braces himself with a hand on Jim's broad chest, reaching back to line up Jim's cock with his hole again. He sinks back on him with a shuddering breath. Pat sits up properly, hands on Jim's thick belly, and he knows that at this new angle it will be far easier for Jim's cock to hit his prostate.
Pat makes a show of it, at first.
He swivels his hips at a leisurely pace, smile spread wide. Jim runs his hands up Pat's chest, gently pinching his nipples with an amused smile.
"Harder," Pat says, speeding up his hips.
Jim raises his eyebrows before doing as Pat has asked. He pinches and twists his nipples and Pat feels heat run straight to his cock. His rhythm falters for a brief moment as he gasps. Jim lets out an amused laugh, letting go and running his hands down to grip Pat's hips. He meets his thrusts, matches his rhythm, and it doesn't take much effort for Pat to give him back the reins.
Pat leans forward, balancing his hands on the pillow beneath Jim's head as Jim holds his hips steady, fucking into him hard and fast. With every other thrust, Jim's cock is brushing against his prostate and all Pat can do is keep breathing as he feels his orgasm creeping up on him.
He wants to hold off, wants to make Jim come first, but Jim is wrapping an arm around his waist, pressing their sweat-slick bodies against each other and biting at his neck and Pat is crying out as he comes. He spills between them, cock pulsing as he rides out his orgasm. It's all too intense for a sharp moment — Jim's cock impossibly deep inside him, Jim's soft mouth along his neck and jaw and cheek, Jim's big arms holding him in place.
Pat breathes hard, whimpering as he comes back to himself. Jim's running his hands up and down his back, cutting through the fuzz in his brain, kissing his face. It's only when Jim's thumb brushes over his cheekbone that Pat realizes the moisture there isn't sweat; he's never cried during sex before.
"What the— fuck," he mumbles, trying to cover his face. Jim is still inside him, and until now Pat hadn't been sure it was possible to make things between them more humiliating after he ran away.
"Whoa, hey," Jim says. He turns them on their sides, his cock slipping out as he does so. Jim tucks Pat's face against his collarbone, holding him steady. Pat has never felt like this before, not just the intensity of his orgasm, but the way Jim is holding him; he bites his tongue as the urge to tell Jim to stop treating me like a woman bubble up in his throat.
"Sorry," he says instead.
"What for?" Jim says, lips in Pat's hair. He kisses the top of his head.
"For being… a wuss," Pat mumbles. He sniffles and wipes angrily at his eyes; the satisfaction of his orgasm has faded into annoyance and shame, his chest twisting into something cold and uncomfortable.
Pat feels Jim smile against him.
"You've got to cut that out."
"What?"
"Just… let yourself feel. We were having fun, weren't we?"
Pat nods.
"Couldn't hear you."
"Yes. We were having fun," Pat says, looking up at Jim.
"You know I've never fucked someone so well they cried," Jim says. "That's a first for me."
"I…" Pat swallows, smiling a little. His heart rate slows, anxiety fading away at how casual and gentle Jim still is with him. He hikes his knee up and, reaching between his legs, grasps Jim's cock and presses it against his hole. "Keep going."
Jim looks at him, surprised.
"Use me," Pat says, already rosy cheeks flushing a deeper red. "Please. C'mon, Jim. You know you want to."
Jim swallows and Pat smiles, more confident, sure of what he wants. He's considering it, then. There's a pause, the air between them growing still, before Jim is manhandling Pat once more. Pat ends up on his stomach, thighs spread as Jim kneels behind him, draping his body over Pat's as he slides his cock inside him.
Pat groans as Jim fills him up again at a new angle. Jim grips onto his hip for leverage as he fucks into him hard and fast and messy; Pat's face is pressed into the bedspread and he minutely arches his back. Jim covers Pat's back with his body and Pat knows if he hadn't just come less than ten minutes ago, he'd be achingly hard at the sensation of Jim's sweaty, fuzzy stomach pressed against the curve of his back like this. Instead, Pat feels his cock give a valiant twitch where it lays trapped soft between his abdomen and the quilt.
"Fuck—" Jim gasps. He kisses the base of Pat's spine. "I'm close—"
That's all the warning Pat gets before Jim cries out, lips at the nape of his neck. Pat pushes back against him as he comes, smiling at the way Jim lets go of his hip and winds his arm around Pat's chest between him and the mattress to keep them pressed close. He wishes Jim hadn't worn a condom, wanting to feel Jim mark him up deep inside.
"Pat, love," Jim mumbles. His hand rests at the center of Pat's chest, directly over his heart and Pat brings his hand to cover Jim's. Pat swallows, feeling the way Jim's breath comes heavily at the back of his neck.
"I've got you," Pat says.
Jim nuzzles his forehead against the back of Pat's head, pressing a lingering kiss to the base of his skull. A few quiet moments pass between them as Jim's breathing evens out, both of them coming back to themselves. Pat's breath hitches as Jim's cock softens, slipping out of him.
"I'm sorry," Pat says again, barely above a whisper.
They both know he isn't talking about shedding a few tears. Jim holds him tighter and lets out a shuddering breath.
"I know," he says.
Pat squeezes his eyes shut, once again feeling the sharp prick of tears at his sinuses. He sniffles and can't help the way a tear spills out as Jim kisses his shoulder and the side of his neck.
"I'm not going anywhere, Pat," Jim says. "And I don't think you are either."
Pat lets out a huff of laughter, hiccuping as he softly cries. "I'm not. Not again."
"I know."
After they clean up, Jim sets the table and Pat serves them up the supper he made. They eat at his little kitchen table and as he steals glances while he thinks Jim isn't looking, Pat wonders what cosmic forces aligned to bring Jim into his life. The chicken is definitely cold, which Pat isn't bothered by and clearly Jim doesn't seem to mind. Watching Jim like this — eating at the table in his underwear, hair messy and soft, not giving a damn that Pat's chicken is admittedly a little dry as well — fills Pat with hope. He can give them much more than a chance.
"You're staring at me again," Jim says, through a mouthful of roast vegetables.
"You're a looker," he replies. "Can't help myself."
Winking back at him, Jim's cheeks flush pink but he doesn't push back against Pat's compliment. He pours them both more of the wine he brought and they continue on in comfortable silence and the occasional bashful compliment. When they finish up, Pat forces Jim to sit out cleaning up the kitchen, insisting that Jim let him be a good host.
"Maybe I should put you to work at the bakery," Jim says. Glancing over his shoulder from where he stands at the tiny sink, Pat smiles at the sight of Jim watching him, leaning back in his chair.
"Jock might push back on you stealing me away," Pat jokes.
Jim laughs. "I'd like to see him try."
Jim stays over, and falls asleep curled up against Pat's chest. Pat hovers between consciousness and dreaming, gently lulled by Jim's breathing growing steady.
"Is your name really short for James?" Pat says quietly.
Jim laughs against his chest, clearly not yet fully asleep. Pat giggles quietly.
"You don't seem like a James," Pat says.
Still laughing, Jim rolls over slightly in Pat's small bed. In the darkness, only illuminated by the dim streetlights streaming through the blinds, Pat can only make out the vaguest of Jim's features, his mind filling in the rest of him. Jim leans his chin on Pat's shoulder, pulling him close with an arm over his hip.
"Short for John," Jim says sleepily.
"John," Pat whispers.
"John and Charles," Jim mumbles. "Don't we sound posh."
Pat laughs, letting his head fall back against his pillow. He leans over and gives Jim a kiss on the crown of his head, breathing him in. For what feels like the first time, Pat goes to sleep with a man in his bed and as Jim unconsciously places his palm over the center of Pat's chest — directly over his heart — he feels like he's right where he's supposed to be.
"I think Jim and Pat suit us much better," Pat says, relaxing into the solid warmth of Jim's body pressed into his.
-fin-
