There was no way he was going to say something. No way. He couldn't even imagine it. How absolutely ridiculous would he look trying to hit on someone who looked like that.
Never in his life had he seen someone with such striking features. Gorgeous upturned eyes. Thick dark eyebrows, high cheekbones, sharp jaw…and when he smiled, good God, the dimples framing his mouth….
It made Patrick angry.
The sharp piercing sensation that zings through his chest every time his eyes slide back in his direction. The way his stomach tightens like it was his first day of school. The irritating compulsion to twiddle his fingers nervously. It's all so...frustrating.
It's been barely a month since he upended his life, realizing in quick succession that he was unhappy, gay and more than a little bit scared of where to go from there. To be met in this next chapter of his life with an absolute adonis, when he feels like a skittish colt on unfamiliar legs, was just brutally unfair.
So he stays to the perimeter, talking to as many people as he can. As soon as one person walks away to speak with someone else, Patrick moves right on to the next, knowing if he stands there unoccupied he'll find him at the end of his eyeline and he will start to physically hurt. If his desperation for distraction makes him a little louder, a little quicker to guffaw, then so be it; he pays no attention to nearby partygoers shooting him looks.
Unfortunately, sticking to the perimeter means the object of his demise is constantly in his periphery, a black and white specter hovering at the edge of his attention. It also means he ends up circling him like an emaciated shark. A fact which he only notices when, in a moment of weakness, he looks towards the center of the room and his eyes snap immediately to his honey brown ones. Patrick's hands start to shake but he does manage to pick up on the confused, slightly alarmed, perhaps offended look he's being given.
He quickly turns away, finding his conversation companion has slipped away. Alright. He needs a refill anyway.
He makes his way to the bar (truly who has a full, restaurant-size bar in their home?) and waves down the bartender (let alone a bartender) and requests a whiskey on ice.
It's quieter at this end of the room, most of the party centered closer to the floor-to-ceiling windows at the other end, letting in the last dark orange rays of daylight. Patrick takes a second to notice the lights in the room have been steadily turning on as the sun sets, just barely, enough to see but keep it cozily dim. How neat.
"Why do I feel like I'm being avoided?"
Patrick turns slightly to his left and there on the sleek black stool next to him is David Rose.
It's a good thing Patrick's words pile up and die right in his throat at the even more entrancing sight of him up close, otherwise he's pretty sure he would've said something really, really stupid.
Okay. On second thought, maybe anything would be better than David looking at him expectantly, eyebrows raised with a more than slightly amused smirk on his face.
"David Rose," Patrick says finally, because apparently he's an exceptional conversationalist.
"Have we met?" David asks, eyes narrowing. Patrick is grateful he's sticking to the basics. He feels like he's drowning in honey, unable to break David's gaze.
"We have not." Patrick clears his throat. Focus.
"And so, how, exactly, did you end up in my house?" David's lips twitch slightly towards a smile.
"Ah, you can thank your sister for my--frankly enchanting--presence tonight." There. That was somewhat charming. Maybe.
David's eyebrows shoot up, and he finally let's a small smile out and Patrick's brain misfires. "Seems the guests would agree with that summation." Patrick takes a very slow, careful breath. "Which brings me back to why I personally am being denied your charms this evening?" David gives him a look, and god, it's like...a look, and Patrick's fingers clench on his rocks glass.
"You should take it as a compliment," he feels like he has to muscle the words out. He watches David's eyebrows draw together before it seems to click and he suddenly blushes, looking down slightly as a full smile blooms over his face and holy f--
"Wow, okay, yep, that's why right there," Patrick mumbles into his glass as he lifts it to his lips and throws back his entire drink. He hisses as it heats up his tongue, his throat, his belly. He hears a suppressed chuckle over the rushing in his ears that suggests David most likely heard him.
"Well, then," David says, looking like he's trying very hard not to grin but is failing miserably. "I should say thank you."
Patrick smiles, tipping his empty glass towards David in acknowledgement, cheeks burning red, before sliding it to the other side of the bar. When he turns back, David is facing him fully on his stool and Patrick moves to do the same.
"I should inform you though, I usually like to at least know a suitor's name before things get too interesting."
Patrick simply cannot resist, starting to feel the blur of the whiskey and the intoxication of want. "'Suitor'? Really? What year is it again?"
David narrows his eyes playfully. "What would you prefer?"
"I've always been partial to 'paramour' if we're getting traditional," Patrick taunts, bravely leaning closer, astounded when David reciprocates.
"Are we getting 'traditional'?" David murmurs, his voice low. Even that almost laughable come-on has Patrick's breath short. He's pretty sure David could say anything in that voice and Patrick would be riveted. "Nonetheless, if you intend to submit to court me," he teases around a smile, "I will need a name." He was correct. He could literally say anything.
”Patrick," he breathes.
"Patrick," David repeats. It slides, warm and liquid, down Patrick's spine.
Patrick watches David's gaze fall to the bartop, where Patrick's hand rests inches from his own. "Patrick," he says again, lifting his fingers, moving it closer until his middle finger grazes Patrick's knuckles. It steals his breath, the way that contact blazes straight through him to his core. David looks back up at him with a grin, tracing a path with his fingers towards Patrick's wrist, seemingly unaware of the absolute pandemonium he's leaving in his wake.
His eyes are glued to David's, which are darkening steadily but rapidly as they look at each other, hands burning where they meet.
When David's eyes flick down to Patrick's lips it's completely over. He surges forward, but meets David halfway, his other hand coming up to clutch the back of Patrick's head and their lips tumble into a kiss and Patrick simply cannot get enough.
It's several long, searching moments, Patrick's hand practically clawing at David's knee to lean closer and closer, until they break off, panting.
David's lips are a luscious dark pink, pulled into a wide grin. Patrick huffs almost angrily.
"Are you-?" David starts to question, confused at his reaction when Patrick cuts him off.
"You're so gorgeous," he growls. His eyes chart David's face as it morphs back into a smile and leans for another kiss, softer this time, closing his lips over David's carefully, wanting him to know just how much he wants to savor him.
He can feel David's chuckle against his lips, and pulls away, this time mirroring his grin.
A loud laugh breaks their bubble as they both turn to the noise, hands returning to themselves.
The last of the guests are stumbling their way out, leaving the two of them alone in the low light.
"I guess I should be heading up," David remarks quietly. Patrick startles, slightly, realizing he should probably be leaving.
"Right," he says, standing and dropping a tip for the vanished bartender onto the counter.
"I guess this is goodnight, then," he says, turning back to David, still seated, his long legs crossed elegantly, his elbow bent over the back of the chair. He's a sight to behold, with a little knowing smirk on his lips.
Patrick...does not want to go.
"I mean," David says, waving a hand nonchalantly, smirk growing into a full smile. "Unless you wanna come along?"