Carpe Diem

A/N: I'm sorry if the last bit feels a little rushed, but I really wanted to finish this chapter before my lab started. So here it is. Also, thank you very much for your review, Young Sage.

A Scene at the Apartment

“Please, make yourself at home,” Patrick said as he motioned towards the couch.

Jim took a seat. The room was really very nice, but a tad messy. But that was entirely forgivable considering how much larger it was than his own meager lodgings.

“Would you like something to drink?” Patrick asked of his guest. “I'll go put on some tea,” he answered himself before allowing Jim to properly respond.

During his host's absence, Jim took the opportunity to appreciate the room. The walls lined with bookshelves; the elegant flat-screen TV; the expensive-looking sound system. He turned his head to look out the window. The city sprawled out beneath him; he wasn't sure he had ever seen the cityscape from this vantage point before. He could just make out the few minuscule dots scurrying about their business on the streets below. His head snapped back when he heard footsteps approaching.

“The tea should be ready in just a few minutes.”

“Thank you for your hospitality.”

“It was the least I could do after you invited me to dinner.”

There was that blush again. Creeping slowly, almost imperceptibly. Staining his cheeks that light rosy color that made him look. . . just so. . . he wasn't quite sure how to describe it.

“Why don't you take a seat,” he said while patting the cushion right next to where he sat.

Patrick took his seat hesitantly, the blush still there. He sat stiffly, uncomfortably. Knees and elbows at right angles. Jim reached over, placed his arm around Patrick, pulled him into himself. Patrick's back pressed against Jim's front. Jim leaned in, his mouth juxtaposed with Patrick's ear so that Patrick could hear Jim's breathing. Jim let out a long, slow, sensual breath against the lobe, across the neck. Jim could practically hear Patrick's blush.

“Why so serious?” Jim said in a perfectly calm, level voice.

Patrick broke out into laughter; his body relaxed visibly. He allowed himself to relax into Jim's embrace.

“See? There's no need to be tense.”

There was a whistling coming from the kitchen.

“And that would be the tea,” Patrick said as he freed himself from Jim's hold and went to fix the tea. He returned a few moments later with a tray of tea.

They sipped their tea and talked about whatever struck their fancy. Of fluxions and fluents; of vectors and scalars; of themes and motifs. Of symphonies and operas; of impressionism and cubism; of bits and bytes.

“Would you like to listen to some music?” Patrick asked.

“You wouldn't happen to have any Chopin, would you?”

“I don't know. . . I might,” Patrick said as he rose to his music collection.

The speakers came to life with the magnificent chords of Chopin's Fantaisie-Impromptu. Patrick sat back down, now leaning against Jim as he had been earlier, before the tea. Jim wrapped his arms around Patrick and pulled him even closer. Leaned in close, mouth by ear. Again.

“You have impeccable taste in music,” he said.

“Thank you,” Patrick stammered in reply.

“Mmm,” Jim moaned as he breathed in Patrick's scent, “You smell nice.”

“Thank you.” The blush was returning in full force.

“I wonder,” Jim said, his voice almost a whisper, “how you taste.”

His mouth latched onto Patrick's ear. Jim delighted in the moans issuing forth from his prey, at how his body writhed against his, pressed against his own. Jim's arms tightened in their embrace, clasping—almost desperately—onto this body, this man. He removed his mouth from Patrick's ear and rearranged the other man so that they were facing each other.

“Might I ask for a kiss?” he teased.

“I don't know,” Patrick said, “If you have to ask. . .”

Jim went after the other's mouth, claiming it as his own. Their bodies pressed, writhed against each other. Patrick still on top, but Jim clearly taking the lead. Their hands wandered about their bodies. Touching, feeling, savoring. A crevice here, a muscle there. The music continued around them, the chords splashing about them, their senses awash in sensation, perception. Their mouths broke apart, for a moment, for a breath. Patrick took the opportunity to attack Jim's throat. Jim's hand found its way to Patrick's hair as he arched into the contact. His other found Patrick's pants. Fumbled, felt, massaged. There was a desperation, a longing to their contact. Jim found himself lost in the moment. Spontaneity abounded.

“Wait,” Jim said in a moment of lucidity.

“Hmm?” Patrick asked as he paused his ministrations.

“This. . .” Jim was panting, almost out of breath. “This isn't right.” He repositioned himself so that he was no longer trapped beneath the other man. “We should. . . wait. Not rush things.”

“Sure,” Patrick said, “If that's what you'd prefer.”

“I would.”

Patrick removed himself from his entanglement, placed himself of the other side of the couch. So as to reduce temptation. Awkwardness settled on the room, neither exactly sure what was proper in the given situation.

“I. . . I should go,” Jim managed to say at last.

“I guess,” Patrick said in reply. “Do you want me to walk you home?”

“I. . . don't think that would be a good idea.” He stood up, prepared to leave. “I'll call you tomorrow, or something. Okay?”

“I guess.”

Jim left the apartment, the building without another word. He rushed home in the darkness of the night. Thoughts of what he had done flooded his mind—How could he have lost control like that? Shame filled his heart as he entered his apartment and collapsed on the bed. A sigh escaped his lips. What had he gotten himself into?