#author brutti ma buoni

Their flight is called, and it’s not reserved seating, and they kind of hover for a moment, but, honestly, why not sit together? It’s not a long flight. And it’s not like there’s any ‘getting weird’ here. At worst, someone recognises Patrick, but sharing seats on a delayed flight is no one’s idea of incriminating.

So, in total, by the time they get to arrivals at O'Hare, Patrick’s spent twenty hours in Jonny’s company, never more than one room away, and that only briefly. And-

He doesn’t want to lose him.

“Hey,” he says, urgently, as Jonny starts a hand movement that was probably going to be a vague wave of farewell. “Can I get your number?”

Jonny honest-to-God gapes at him. Then says, “Uh, I guess, but-”

“You free tomorrow night? I’ll get you a ticket,” says Patrick, scrambling for cover. Tickets. That’s normal. That’s not vulnerable. “Uh, what’s your last name?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, but holds out his cell, open at contacts, and waits anxiously till Jonny saves his number. With massive, incredible uncool, Patrick then calls it, and listens in relief to the ringtone in Jonny’s pocket. “Cool. Now you have my number too.”

Patrick, it turns out, is capable of going through early puberty awkwardness twice in one lifetime. So fuck that noise.

Jonny’s kind of laughing at him. He says, “It’s pronounced Taves,” which Patrick won’t understand till he actually reads the contact entry. And then he follows through on that goodbye wave. “Have a good day, Patrick.”

- Same Time, Same Place by brutti_ma_buoni