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It wasn’t the moment when they were actually kissing that had Art's stomach in knots. He had been lost in the heat of Tashi next to him, and the complex hurt and jealousy, yet undeniable attraction of watching her kiss Patrick, and all he knew was electricity as his head tilted, his world spun, and his mouth moved in sync with the person next to him. Tongues swirled, adrenaline spiked and buzzed, his nerves alight and his brain fuzzy. He felt drunk on more than just the cheap beer they had all been drinking, he was nearly giddy with the heady air perfumed by sweat, and he was flying, dancing, drowning in every sense being burned into his body by that person in front of him. He didn’t realize that Tashi had moved back. He didn’t realize he would open his eyes to Patrick.
They had been best friends ever since fate had assigned them to the same room at the first year of tennis boarding school, the school that, despite his begging to his grandma to pay for it, made him feel small and undeserving underneath a cold stone archway sidled by wrought iron fencing. He remembered trudging through crowded halls lined with tall raucous boys in blue blazers and backpacks slammed forcefully in lockers as he pulled a suitcase behind him, hugging his sports bag to his chest and ducking his mop of mousy hair. After some whispered inquiries, he had made his way to the dorms, and peering at the names scrawled on post it notes, found a door unceremoniously deemed the one of “Art Donaldson and Patrick Zweig” in a messy scrawl. Throughout their time at school they would often come to be known as such, since the first time that Art had walked through that door and saw Patrick lounging on his bed, lifting his head with his signature sultry smile. When the other boys would tease him for his height, or he would lose a match he should have won, or he got a bad grade on a test, or even if he just missed his grandma, Patrick was always there by his side, offering a helping hand or a scorning punch, whatever was needed. And yes, there had always been moments that gave them both pause, strange moments where they seemed to stumble into slightly different territory beyond their easy closeness, an intriguingly dangerous zone shrouded in mysticism. But they always found their way back to the playful, easy, ebb that their friendship had always carried. When they were together all could be right in the world.
But here they were, alone if not for Tashi, and all was decidedly not right. His lips were swollen from their kiss and his tongue felt numb, but that was not the only reason he couldn’t speak. They had put a few inches of hot air between them but Art could still feel Patrick’s warm breath landing on his lips, parted and panting, and their eyes, previously glazed over and cloudy, were locked in a stagnant stalemate. Art peered into those eyes, searching for a clue of how the other one felt, how he was supposed to feel, but they were inscrutable as always, alight, murky waters holding secrets Art would never know. The silence stretched, every blink, twitch, breath cautious and searching, blindly reaching into that darkness they had never dared explored and had never dipped more than a few toes into. But there they were, finding themselves thrown into the deep end. Tashi broke the spell and the silence when she suddenly leaned forward off her elbows and sat up, collecting her shoes and straightening out her clothes. Art was dazed and dizzy, but he followed Patrick, as always, and found himself chiming in, asking for her number. With a smile, she declared that the winner of their match the next day might get it. But as soon as she was gone, she was nearly forgotten, Art’s mind only on the boy beside him, his person, his other half, his best friend… who he had just made out with. Shit.
Patrick sighed and flopped his back on the bed, causing Art to turn to look at him.
“Fuck, Art, where’d you learn to kiss like that,” he breathily laughed, turning his head to lock eyes with Art once more, his voice carefully easy but his gaze betraying him. “I certainly haven’t seen many girls up here getting this kind of special treatment,” he joked as he ran a hand through his sweaty curls, half-matted to his forehead. Art’s cheeks burned, but with a scoff he turned slightly to punch Patrick in the leg even as he moved to roll away. His signature, cocky serve in action.
“Shut up, man, Tashi didn’t seem to mind it,” he countered, shifting uncomfortably in his perch on the edge of the bed, and desperately trying to keep his eyes on Patrick’s face as he lounged on the bed once more, arms behind his head, sweaty shirt unbuttoned, and an unmistakable shape in his tennis shorts.
“Whatever you say.” Patrick gently rolled his eyes, but let himself have a small private smile.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Art demanded, his casual demeanor beginning to crack. Weak pass back.
“Just that Tashi, and you for that matter, seemed more interested in us making out than anything with her.” He smirked, sitting up on his elbows, a fiery challenge in his eyes burning holes in Art’s own. “Don’t try to act like you didn’t enjoy it.”
Art desperately hoped that the humidity and sheer heat of their room was covering the flush beginning to creep up the pale skin on his neck and face. From the look on Patrick’s, however, it wasn’t. He felt outmatched.
“So what if I did?” Art arched an eyebrow, trying to maintain his composure.
“Did you?” Patrick taunted, unfazed and undeterred.
“Well, did you?” Art ungracefully shot back after a moment of deliberation. They both were painfully aware that it wasn’t the best comeback, but this was how Art won on the court; you deflect, you dance, until you figure out the opponent’s game, and you don’t let them figure out yours. But Art didn’t know what game he was playing, what game they were playing. This was beyond Tashi, this was beyond tennis, this was beyond anything they had ever faced before.
“As a matter of fact, I did,” Patrick replied, his damn smirk growing wider at the expression on Art’s face, a strange combination of flustered frustration and confused, reluctant, pride. Art swallowed painfully, trying to resist fidgeting his hands in his lap, and definitely trying to ignore his own half-tent asking to be attended to.
“Fuck off.”
“I’m serious.” Patrick’s eyes continued to bore into his, never abandoning their light nature but carrying shards of truth nonetheless.
“C’mon, you’re never serious,” Art scoffed once more, shaking his head with a smile before he met Patrick’s eyes again and faltered a bit. Those fucking eyes would be the end of him.
“When was the last time I lied to your face, Art Donaldson?” Art knew that even if he tried to think back, he wouldn’t find an answer. Even when joking, Patrick was fully, unabashedly himself, in all that he did; he would never hide, never lie, especially not to Art. Also, hearing his full name, spoken like a song or a prayer, nearly made his brain short-circuit as he sifted through endless memories, subtly charged with whatever was happening full force between them. His calm demeanor was becoming damn near impossible, as Patrick captured his attention once more, breaking him from his stupor.
“Now answer the question. Fair is fair.” Despite his position, lounging beneath Art’s gaze, he held all the power and he knew it. It made Art want to cry and laugh all at once.
“Well, maybe I did like it. Just a little,” Art conceded, cocking his head slightly, meeting the challenge with a slight smile.
“What’s it to you, asshole?” he continued, “Some kind of twisted ego boost? God knows you don’t need any more.” Point scored. Art felt a little more in his element, and he was buzzing with anticipation, waiting to see how Patrick would counter that back-hand. However, to his flustered surprise, Patrick threw back his head and started to laugh, until he abruptly sat up, shooting to the edge of the bed and meeting Art head on, his half-lidded eyes and careful grin inches from Art, who sucked in a breath through parted lips and whose eyes darted down to Patrick’s before going quickly back up to his eyes, smoldering with desire and the same burning challenge daring Art to face him, face himself, face the truth.
“Oh come on, Art,” he said in a low voice, nearly a whisper, “I think we both know how long you’ve been wanting my tongue down your throat,” he breathed, his eyes darting to Art’s chapped lips. All pretense of joking, of ease, was all but gone, and though his eyes spoke of daring they also spoke of rawness, of vulnerability. The tension hung in the air, the fan above them lazily moving hot air around the only sound, their held breaths and beating hearts palpable presences as all lay between them. With another dry swallow, Art steeled his resolve, his breath shaky but his countenance determined, and slowly tilted his head to the side, leaning forward, his eyelashes fluttering shut against his flushed cheeks. While they had been kissing only minutes before, this build-up felt so different; it was by choice and with conscious desire that Patrick slowly met him, gently and sweetly working against him, letting Art timidly thread a hand through his hair starting at the nape of his neck and reaching towards the crown. Patrick sighed into his mouth and brought his hands to Art’s shoulders, pulling him closer and deeper until what they shared grew more charged, more passionate. Art gripped Patrick’s curls in one hand, pulling him against him, and the other hand fisted in Patrick’s open shirt at his waist as Patrick’s hands came to rest on the small of his back and his neck. The stale air seemed refreshed anew with the musks of sweat and sex emanating from the two as they undulated and moved with each other, tongues swirling and sucking and mouths opening more and more, desperate to be closer than ever before, to become whole. Patrick gripped Art’s shoulders once more as he moved his mouth to the crook of Art’s neck and began to gently suckle at the skin there, punctuating each harsh nip or pull with soft kisses over the spot. Art let out a breathy sigh akin to the beginning of a moan, and looked up at the ceiling, disbelieving thoughts struggling to form around the sensations of the man before him, his best friend, in his arms, kissing his neck.
“Is this real?” He let out breathily, almost unconsciously, his chest heaving and panting as he tried to make sense of the situation, asking himself, asking the universe, begging for it to not be a dream he might wake up from. Patrick slowly removed himself from Art’s neck, holding him a few inches away, letting Art gaze into those eyes he loved. They were a hurried mix of brown and gray on an artist's palette, an accidental masterpiece, swirls of color mixing with emotion and lust around blown-out pupils.
“Fuck, I hope so. You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting to do this,” he half-whispered, cracking a small grin before diving back towards Art to pepper kisses along his sharp jaw and the shell of his ear. All Art could do was go back to panting and whimpering softly as his hot skin was worshipped and teased, his dick fully hard in his pants at this point. At a brief break in the delicious onslaught, he saw the same could be said for Patrick.
“Seems like it.” Art grinned as Patrick pulled back to roll his eyes, mirth hiding right beneath the gesture. Taking his opportunity, Art moved forward to bring their faces together again, eager to feel Patrick upon his lips again, desperate to touch and caress him too, feeling their connection as a need rather than a want. What Patrick had said before had held some truth, he hadn’t been with many people ever before, a few girls that he liked here and there, but nothing that compared to this. He had even sometimes liked guys, though he had never dared profess this to himself or anyone else before. Those thoughts were buried deep, pretended away, like so much else in his life. They felt like another mark of not being “perfect”, of being wrong, of being a disappointment. His grandma had always told him that his parents had left because they just weren’t mature or ready enough to take care of him. But in his darkest hours he had always wondered if maybe he had been enough they would have stayed around. Still, there was no pretending with Patrick. Even if he tried, Patrick had always had a knack for seeing right through him, cutting to the source of his hurt with laughter and sincerity, soothing and sharpening in all the right ways until he was whole again. And Patrick knew he liked boys and girls, bisexual, he had called it, whispering softly one night to Art in a mid-winter darkness. He had been so sure, to be Patrick was to be sure, but yet for all his confidence in the word there was a distinct lack of it in the way he searched Art’s face as best he could by moonlight, waiting to read every blink and breath in his Patrick way. Now Art would be the one to do so.
He pulled back gently, lids slowly opening, but he didn’t miss the way Patrick chased his face for a second before he too came back to himself, their chests heaving and expressions dazed. Art chuckled quietly to himself at the surreality of it all before he used his hands to sit up a little taller on the bed, gathering his confidence.
“So. I think I might be that thing that you are. Bi,” He confessed, drawing out his words in a comic sheepishness and with a bashful smile as he met Patrick’s gaze once more. His breathy grin gave his face a glowing, glittering quality, before it softened and he brought his forehead to Art’s.
“Wow. You sure about that?” he chuckled, holding him close, “would have never guessed,” he quipped, elongating his words just as Art had done, but softly, sweetly, and with that he took Art’s hand and pressed a single chaste kiss to his lips, conveying reassurance and acceptance and so much more in so little an action.
“Well, maybe someone leaving the shower curtain open and never alerting the room when he changes helped me along.” Art deadpanned when they separated, a grin breaking through as he shook his head, cheeks flushing at the memories.
“Oh really,” Patrick smirked, taking his hand from Art’s fingers to his shoulder, the callus of his thumb brushing Art’s collarbone, causing a small intake of air.
“What did it make you think about,” he whispered, trailing his hand down Art’s chest which had begun heaving slightly again, memorizing its contours with the tips of his fingers even through Art’s plain t-shirt.
“Tell me,” he whispered into Art’s ear as his hand moved over his stomach, tracing it with reverence. He looked to Art, who gave a clear, albeit quivering nod, before he retraced his steps under the shirt, relishing in the feeling of soft skin lightly dusted with fine hair covering defined muscles. Art, previously frozen, came to his senses out of the ecstasy of Patrick’s low voice and his deft fingers enough to fumble with the hem of his shirt and strip it off, allowing Patrick full access to the expanse of his pale skin. As he ran his hands over Art’s chest and shoulders with abandon, taking care to caress his nipples gently on each past, Art finally worked up enough coherence to blink his eyes open and speak.
“Well,” he said breathily, “I might be able to remember if I weren’t the only one shirtless,” he finished with the ghost of a smile as Patrick ceased his onslaught and sat back with an amused expression. He quirked an eyebrow and nodded, leading Art to push his shirt, already unbuttoned with the excuse of the heat, off his shoulders, slowly feeling the skin and muscles of his biceps and forearms as he went. Neither of them were bodybuilders by any standards, but as two 18 year old pre-professional tennis players, it’s safe to say they liked what they saw. As Art now ran his hands over Patrick’s torso, each motion and caress now began to take on a further sense of urgency as each of their dicks began to ache in their shorts.
“Art,” Patrick asked, panting, taking hold of his hands and gently stopping them in their explorations of his chest, “do you want to go further?” His eyes, now so dilated the pupils barely showed, shone clear with such caring as he looked deeply to Art, who nodded and whispered his affirmations into Patrick’s ear before meeting his lips with fire once more, leaning him back onto the bed as their bodies met each other fully with each movement. Art pushed himself off Patrick’s lips slowly before beginning to lay kisses on his neck and jaw, learning from Patrick to suck and bite gently before soothing kisses would follow. At each of these he earned a special hitch of breath or quiet gasp that caused him to smile against the other’s skin and continue on. His mouth trailed down to the collarbone before he swirled his tongue over each nipple, drawing a choked off noise from the man above him before he continued south once more, finally ending above the waistband of Patrick’s shorts. He looked up to once more confirm, and was met with a dazed yet firm nod from Patrick before he let his head drop back on the bed as Art pulled off his shorts and boxers, leaving his dick to spring free. Art settled himself in between Patrick’s legs and pressed a brief kiss to his inner thigh before he wrapped his lips over the head of Patrick’s member and began to move up and down as far as he could go, earning him a sharp intake followed by a shaky exhale from Patrick. He began a rhythm, hollowing his cheeks and occasionally swirling his tongue as he stroked what his mouth couldn’t reach with his hands. As he continued, beginning to gently fondle Patrick’s balls, Patrick breathing grew harder and he gripped the sheets beneath him in one hand while the other settled gently on Art’s head, softly running through his hair in non-verbal gratitude and affection. When Art had begun to tire and Patrick was nearing his finish, he gently tugged Art’s head off his dick and sat up shakily to wipe away the spit and precum gathered on Art’s lips with his thumb, breath ragged and vision hazy. He took his thumb into his mouth, mischievously swirling the fluids with his tongue while he offered Art the glint in his eye, removing it with a soft pop before gently turning Art over by the shoulders, laying him down and reversing their positions.
“Is it my turn now?” He asked with a devilish smirk as he peered down at Art, his arms on either side of his head. He quickly nodded up at him, expecting him to kiss down his chest and to his dick like he had done, but to his surprise Patrick got up and rummaged in his bedside drawer before returning with a bottle, a condom, and an excited glimmer in his eyes.
“May I?” He asked carefully, wordlessly indicating at the items below him and peering into Art’s eyes and his excited whisper of yes for any uncertainty. Finding none, his smirk grew once more, and after he pressed down to give Art another deep kiss, he removed his shorts and settled himself in between his spread legs.
He ran his hands over them, massaging up his calves and thighs before taking out the bottle and applying some of the liquid to his finger. As one hand continued its previous ministrations, the other gently circled Art’s entrance and pushed a finger in, earning a gasp from Art. The feeling may have been unfamiliar, but it was not unenjoyed, and soon his breathing grew labored and his gasps pleasured as his insides were stretched by two fingers. When he thought he had become totally used to the feeling, the fingers reached a certain deep angle and happened upon a spot that sent an involuntary jolt throughout his body that made his lip quiver and his cock begin to leak. Patrick smiled at it, and continued to massage the spot every time he came across it, this time with three fingers, stretching and pushing until Art felt he was being impaled even as he writhed and whimpered under the sparks and embers of stimulation. When he removed his fingers, Art nearly whined at the sudden emptiness, before he saw Patrick begin to apply lube to his dick and once more ask for confirmation. When he received it, he placed Art’s legs on his shoulders, and as he began to push in the pair sighed in unison, hands squeezing sheets and legs as eyes fluttered open and closed. Their hair stuck to their foreheads in the putrid air, each deep gasp and moan giving them more of the intoxicating scents of each other. Patrick’s thrusts grew in intensity until Art was moaning on each pass, his body flushed and craving more even as he lingered on the edge of release. Patrick’s elbows moved to either side of his head and pushed his knees down towards his chest, the new angle granting such breadth of new sensation and proximity that Art let out a particularly loud moan, which Patrick swallowed as his lips met Art’s below him once more in a messy kiss. He chuckled as he rose panting and dazed, and took in the sight of the boy under him, blonde curls crushed into the bed and half-open eyes so dark he could barely see the blue around the edges. His mouth was parted and pink in a pant, and he just looked so utterly, perfectly, ruined, that Patrick couldn’t help but pause to kiss him gently and reverently, briefly pausing the rhythm. As Art blinked up at him in equal parts confusion, affection, and indignance, he smiled fully down at him with another breathy laugh before leaning back down.
“You look so cute when you’re desperate,” he breathed into his ear before pressing a kiss along his jaw and slamming his hips back into him, harder and faster than the previous rhythm. Art gasped out a moan in surprise, feeling the new pleasure rise as sparks went up his spine and Patrick licked and sucked at the other side of his neck. He blearily stared up at the ceiling through his lids, his chest heaving, before he felt himself approaching his climax.
“Patrick-” he breathed, the name a symphony resting on his tired lips, “I’m gonna come soon,” he warned, searching the face of the boy above him for an indication of how close he was. Patrick met his look with a shaky nod and a heavy swallow.
“Come for me, baby,” he gasped out, staring into Art’s fucked-out eyes, and with one final thrust they moaned in unison, spiraling up to their orgasms as one. As they came down from their high, with their tired muscles relaxing and their breathing growing relieved and relaxed, Patrick pulled gently out of Art and flopped down beside him on the queen bed. He rested for a few seconds, letting their breathing even and the heat to fade a bit, and then took Art into his arms, putting his arm around him and pulling him into his chest. They settled into the lumpy motel mattress and each other, Patrick brushing Art’s hair away from his forehead and kissing it before laying back on the mattress. After a few moments of silence, Art groaned.
“Fuck, do I have to come out to my grandma now?” He murmured, slapping a hand to his head and trailing it down his face as he felt Patrick laugh against him.
“I mean, she’ll be at the game tomorrow won’t she?” Patrick mused softly against his hair.
“Jesus, I forgot about the game,” he muttered, “you better not have fucked me so hard I can play” he said as he sat up enough to squint backwards accusingky at Patrick,
“Caught red-handed, that was my elaborate plan,” Patrick sighed dramatically. He put his arm out on the bed before pulling Art down onto him, settling himself around him before he found his hand and laced their fingers together, looking at him with that easy smile on his face.
“All according to plan,” he murmured. Art scoffed, almost begrudgingly nuzzling closer to Patrick.
“If you say so, asshole,” he smirked, closing his eyes with a smile of his own.