"It wasn’t that he was crushing on Pat Gill, not really. Brian was comfortable having a close friendship which involved physical affection, and even jokes regarding it. He was just...he smelled nice, even when he was sweaty. He had really nice and soft hair. The way he gripped his leg and lifted him so easily was nice. The way the crotch of his jeans felt against his—" After the Shadow of the Colossus Gill and Gilbert, Pat and Brian find themselves dealing with the fact that there are consequences to being in on-and-off intimate positions with your coworker for over an hour, and those consequences tend to manifest themselves quite noticeably in your pants.

Patrick figures it's a little late in his life for these kinds of realizations. Brian, though, has a way of making him want things he'd never thought possible.

Crafting the perfect Pokerap takes time, and a little help, and a little inspiration from an unlikely place.

Brian has a successful web series. And anxiety. And shingles. And postherpetic neuralgia. And crippling insecurity. And student loans. And an inferiority complex. And a crush on his co-worker. So yeah, he’s doing great, how are you?

Brian’s laughing as they drag each other up the stairs of Pat’s apartment, their hips bumping with every step. “Am I making you the worst neighbor in the world?” Brian whispers loudly, while Pat tries his best to get his key in the lock. Brian’s leaning against the wall, wiping at his eyes. “We can make it worse,” Pat says, and he can feel himself grinning. “We can make it so much worse.”

“First thing is simple, I’m going to feel your pulse points, see where’s going to be best for me to sink my teeth in.” Brian laughs a little. Pat thinks it would be villainous, if someone else said that. Or... the friendly vampire!au no one asked for.

“Nope,” he says, popping the p, and Pat knows what's coming and it's proof of his dumbass love for this boy that it's not a deal breaker, “you can just call me Brian. Put your hand in my hair though, Pat Gill, I like it when you think you're in control.”

This was not his bedroom; this was definitely not his apartment. It was a single room, with a small table across from the bed and a fireplace on the back wall. When he looked out the window, he could see evergreen trees and the chatty bird who wanted everyone to know what his plans for the day were. The walls and floor were plain wood, and a small painting of a tree hung on the wall. At the end of the bed—which was not Brian’s normal bed—Pat looked about two minutes away from an anxiety attack. Mentally, Brian gave Pat a pass for what he would usually consider an overreaction. “Are we,” Brian started, then tried again: “Is this—?” Pat nodded, holding out a small yellow pouch with a parsnip drawn on the front and an open letter addressed to Brian.

Your conversation with your mom is less informative than your conversation with your sister. You text: > Hey so are you kicking me out of the house for Thanksgiving or what She responds: > Dont put it like that > But yes > Hv fun w/the gberts! Followed by a series of emoji: a turkey, a pie, a kiss, and a firework.

Pat’s never really had anyone do this before– the gentle, almost rhythmic smoothing as Brian makes his way across one wing and then the other, seemingly in no rush to get to the main event, so to speak. He hasn’t touched Pat’s preen oil glands at all, but apparently Pat’s body has gotten the message that preening is happening now anyway. He can feel that the feathers closest to his back are slick with oil now, already noticeably heavier than usual. Brian seems to notice this as well, as he pauses mid-sentence to let out a soft “Hmm!” when his ministrations shift again towards the center of Pat’s back.