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What happened in Atlanta.
Art stares at him, evenly, for a few pregnant moments after Patrick reveals his hand. It’s enough time for deja vu to wash over Patrick like a warm wave, although his cheek still rings from the slap.
Tashi’s Atlanta card—that’s what Patrick’s decided to call it, his Atlanta cards, and he’s got two in this deck—went about as well as he expected. Obscenities, threats of violence, acts of violence, and, finally, a crumpled piece of paper in a covert pocket. Patrick could’ve almost predicted it beat for beat.
Art, though. Art he’s less sure of.
Art’s sweating, but that’s almost certainly the sauna. He’s nearly motionless. He adjusts his seat on the wooden bench, and Patrick tries to read into the movement but fails. His gaze is as oppressive as the artificial heat. He could be speechless. Fifteen, love.
But, alas, his response: “What happened in Atlanta?”
Patrick stumbles, he’ll give Art that. It’s so full of ice that Patrick considers pulling back, allowing the threat to hang with no added specifics. Fifteen, all.
That being said, once it’s played, it’s played, and there’s no going back.
Patrick, not given much choice, smiles and leans back, allowing the towel to shift dangerously on his lap. “As if you’ve forgotten.”
“As if there’s anything to forget.”
“Interesting strategy. That gonna work with Tashi?”
“You think she’ll believe you? We have a fucking kid, Pat.”
“So?” He shrugs. “Dads need to get their dicks wet. And dads can be, like, really shitty. Case in point.”
“Pat,” Art says, testing.
Patrick widens his eyes, all innocent-like. He imagines this conversation as a tennis match, each line spoken another swing of the racket. “What, Art?”
“We have a fucking kid,” Art says, and there’s a different edge to it. Something closer to a beg. If Art keeps thinking about Lily, Patrick’s lost him. He’s got to steer them back.
“You really don’t remember? Wow, what a shame. Cause I do, Art. I remember.” He leans forward, resting an arm on his leg, knowing that a drifting eye could catch something between his legs. “It’s a courtesy of mine. I don’t forget when I’m someone’s first.”
Boom. Art smacks his hand on the wood of the bench. It echoes, loud, against the wood in the confined room. “Pat!”
Patrick does not startle. He smiles. Thirty, fifteen.
~
”Pat!
It echoes, loud, against the shitty tile floor of the hotel lobby. Louder than Art intended.
Patrick does not turn around. He walks faster. Nearly to the open elevator, actually, and Art didn’t want to make a scene, but he takes fights when he’s thrust into them.
“Pat, motherfucker, don’t fucking run from me.” He’s caught the attention of the man at the reception desk, but the guy barely looks up from his porn mag; Art senses this isn’t the kind of place where altercations such as this are uncommon.
Patrick doesn’t listen, and actually makes it into the elevator, so Art upgrades his threatening jog to an all-out run. He thunders past the receptionist and the passed-out dude in a lobby chair as Patrick, cornered and panicked, smacks a button before spamming door close. The antiquated technology of this seedy hotel is on Art’s side, however, and doors move in a rusty, slow crawl, giving Art plenty of time to barrel through and crash into the barely-braced man, pushing him up against the wall and quickly escalating it into a tussle.
“You—fucking—mother—fucker—” Art grunts, fully aware he’s not trained as a wrestler but attempting to get Patrick to the ground anyway. It’s a lot of hands pushing at each other’s faces, arms attempting to encircle necks and torsos, legs bracing for shoves and attempting trips, and nothing with any particular grace.
Patrick’s fighting back. Art knows somewhere in the back of his mind that they must look ridiculous, their spar equivalent to when two spindly, dexterous animals not gifted in strength—rabbits, perhaps—get into a fur-flying brawl. Regardless, Patrick’s winded as he gasps, “Art—what the fuck—are you fucking doing—”
“I saw you with her,” Art says, punctuating the sentence with a forceful shove, ending the proceedings as Patrick stumbles backward. “Tashi. In the hotel bar. I fucking saw you, man, don’t even fucking deny it.”
“What the fuck?” Patrick says, looking genuinely confused, stabling his footing against the elevator wall. “Wh—when? What are you accusing me of, man?”
“I don’t fucking know! You—you—” Art is breathing hard, running a hand through his hair. “Like, fucking, an hour ago. I saw you in the bar, and then I got distracted for a second, and when I looked back you were both gone. And I couldn’t reach Tashi fucking anywhere, so I made some calls to find out you were in this fucking city, and I get here, and you’re in the parking lot fucking waving someone off in a fucking taxi, man, and I fucking know it was her, don’t even deny it.”
“Wh—so, you, you see someone who looks like me at your hotel, so you stalk me like a loser, come here, and you see me waving someone off in a cab, and it’s enough excuse to jump me in a elevator?” He laughs, shakes his head. “Art, what the fuck?”
“I said don’t deny it—!”
“That was my coach, man. You idiot.” He leans against the elevator, which is still traveling upward, stop by stop. They’d bumped into all of the buttons during the tussle, and now it’s pausing on each floor before they get to Patrick’s. “I had him over for drinks. That’s fucking it. Be honest, did you even see anyone in the cab? You’re grasping at straws, bro.”
“You’re—” No, Art didn’t see who was in the cab, but that doesn’t stop him from pointing an accusatory finger. “You’re lying. Your coach—why would he—why wouldn’t he be staying in the same hotel as you?”
“You’re asking me, man,” Patrick says. The elevator dings open at yet another floor. “Embarrassing, honestly, but I think he’s staying at your hotel. The nice one. Not willing to slum it with me, I guess, but it’s not like I could stop him.”
“I—” Art doesn’t want to admit it yet, but, fuck. Could he really have been this stupid? Let his eyes trick him like that? He gives Patrick a good once-over, and he does look—fucked out, a bit, flushed in the face and sweaty, but he that could easily be from the fight moments earlier and not from sex with Tashi. Plus, Patrick doesn’t like to be alone the night before a match. It’s a trait he shares with Art. It makes sense he’d have his coach over, if there was no one else.
And it makes sense that Art would invent a reason to seek Patrick out if his wife was nowhere to be found. His brain, it could’ve invented this whole thing as an excuse to invade Patrick’s space rather than take his other option of falling asleep alone.
As if he knows what Art’s thinking, Patrick shakes his head. “She’s got into your head, man, huh?”
“…what?”
“She’s getting to you. You’re thinking she’s out fucking other guys because she’s been picking at your skills recently. I’d bet money on it.” Patrick steps closer as he talks, looking sympathetic, understanding. “That it?”
“I—I—fuck you.” The elevator dings and the door slides open.
Patrick laughs. They’re inches apart, though neither notice. Personal space isn’t something they ruminate about, even after all these months. “It’s okay, man.” He looks over Art’s shoulder. “My floor. You…you leaving?”
Art meets his eyes and is struck by their intensity.
“I still don’t know where Tashi is,” he says.
“Fair enough.” Patrick moves to shoulder past him. “Have a good night.”
“Wait.” Art gets a hand on Patrick’s shoulder, stopping him.
“Dude, it’s about to close.”
“I just—I don’t know where she is. She’s probably out having a drink somewhere, and I—” He sighs, leaning his head all the way back, his neck exposed to Patrick. Art doesn’t want to put words to it, but there’s a weakness, there, something in that movement that he knows will get Patrick onto his side. “I came all the way out here.”
“Yeah, to beat my ass.”
“Well, that’s—I mean, I was wrong, and now I’m here, so.” He shrugs, puts his head back, and—just like he knew would happen—Patrick’s stepped even closer, their faces inches apart. “Got any beer left?”
A beat, and then Patrick’s lips curl into a smile. Art could reach out and taste it. “Sure,” Patrick says. He bumps into him with his shoulder, playfully, as he walks by him into the hallway. Art follows.
Patrick was adamant that he and Tashi didn’t meet up, but Art can’t help but think that Patrick’s room looks…visited. The queen bed’s unmade, a set of sheets sitting in one corner and another set, clean, not yet properly put on the bed, sitting on top of the mattress. The door to the bathroom is open and the light is on, and most of the towels are dirty and piled under the sink. Art nearly jumps him again at the sight of the room, but there’s just enough details to keep him calm. One, the window is wide open, and two, there is, indeed, a case of beer—half drunk—in the minifridge. Most important, however, is the fact that Patrick let him come in here at all. If he really had sex with Tashi literally minutes ago in this room, there’s no way he’d let Art in. It’s too bold.
“Disaster zone in here, man,” he says.
Patrick shrugs, unaffected. “Room wasn’t too nice to begin with. Been staying here a few days, haven’t had time to clean or anything. I did get new sheets after my coach spilled a pilsner on them, though.”
So, that explains that. Art thumps onto the unmade bed, his feet on the ground but his back on the mattress, and sighs.
Patrick looks amused. “What is it now?”
“Just—fuckin’...tennis, I guess.”
Patrick bursts out laughing.
Art does too, because, fuck. Nothing else to do about it.
“Yeah, man, tennis,” Patrick says, his eyes still wrinkled in a smile. “Tell me about it. Actually, don’t. Chug this beer.” He tosses a can onto Art’s stomach, and Art oofs as it lands on his stomach, wrapping his hands around the can and sitting up.
“Don’t wanna. Hey, remember when we used to push our beds together when we’d go to tournaments?”
He’s not shocked to find Patrick standing in between legs, arms crossed and face bemused, when he looks up. One hand has an unopened beer can in it. “Thought you were here to drink.”
Art taps Patrick’s foot with his toe. “I shouldn’t drink.”
“You already drunk? That would explain—”
“No,” Art says, honestly, although he feels a bit drunk—but it’s more like a hangover, an anxiety hangover. “It’s—I haven’t eaten since, like, I don’t know when. Anxiety. From the match.” Unsaid is the anxiety curtesy of Tashi. “Beer wouldn’t agree with my stomach. I’ll—carbo load tomorrow, probably. Have a protein shake or something.”
“You better, man. Shit. That’s not good.” Patrick shuffles on his feet. “Want something to eat? We could—”
“No. No, it’s—thanks.”
“Then, what? You here to talk?”
“I’m not here to talk. We don’t talk.” Art has to crane his neck to look at Patrick. It’s been years since they’ve been this close, but it’s funny how quickly they fall into old patterns. Muscle memory. Shouldn’t they hate each other? “We haven’t talked in forever.”
“I know that,” Patrick says. “Yeah, I remember the bed thing, though. Cute of us.”
“Yeah, cute, or some co-dependent bullshit.”
“Ha. Tashi teach you that word?”
“No, I—” He kicks Patrick gently in the leg. “Okay, yeah.”
“You were a clingy sleeper. I’d wake up with you half on top of me. Big ol’ housecat.”
“Tashi says the same thing.” He looks down at their feet, quite close.
“Oh?” Patrick raises an eyebrow.
Shit. Art’s not gonna talk about him and Tashi, not now. Art’s gonna—he’s gonna change the subject. “I’m not here to talk.”
“What are you here to do, then?”
Art tries to think on it. His head is fuzzy. He’s fucking sober and his head is fuzzy. It’s Patrick, is what it is. He’s stealing his brainwaves. Being this close to him again, seeing him again, after being separate for so long. They used to sleep in the same room, he taught him how to jerk off, for goodness’ sake, and now—
Patrick says, “Could it have something to do with that?”
Art blinks, looking up at Patrick, not really understanding. Patrick’s looking down at him as though he’s a petulant creature of some sort, a stifled bemusement behind his lips.
“What?”
“That,” Patrick says, gesturing downwards, and fuck, holy shit, Art is—
“Holy shit, I’m—” Art cups himself with his hands. “Shit. Fuck. Shitfuck. I’m—sorry.”
Patrick laughs but doesn’t step back. “You’re hilarious, dude.”
“I’m—it’s—I’ve been on edge all night, man, I was, like, certain I saw you in the hotel lobby, and I was certain that was Tashi in the cab, and it’s—messing with my head, I—okay, this is making it sound like some cuck, it was probably more the—the elevator bullshit—”
Patrick waves him off. “It’s good, man, jeez. I’d be worried if you didn’t walk away with a stiffy after getting in a fight with me. Prime male specimen that I am.” He leans past him to put his beer on the nightstand. “I’d start recommending Viagra or some shit.”
“I—can’t believe this,” Art says, although this isn’t the first time he’s gotten a boner around Patrick. Honestly, it’s not the second or third or fourth or—well. It’s the first time it’s undeniably been caused by Patrick and his—general vibe, or whatever, and Art can’t think of a good enough excuse to explain it away. He stands up, which maybe wasn’t the move, because now him and Patrick are chest-to-chest and Patrick is showing no signs of letting him pass. “I should leave.”
Patrick smirks. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question, dumbass?” Art says, pinned between the bed and Patrick, Patrick’s smug face encompassing all of his vision.
“Is that why you’re here?” He looks down then up, quickly, like this is some joke.
“Is my hard-on why I’m here? No, it’s not why I’m here, it’s why I’m leaving. You calling me—” gay is the first word that comes to mind, but it honestly feels too real to say it out loud, so Art quickly corrects— “a slut?”
“Do you want me to?” Patrick says evenly.
“Fuck you, man,” Art says, but damn him, it comes out kind of weak. Patrick’s voice, it’s. Familiar.
“Some people like to be called sluts. I’m not judging.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“I’m not joking.” He calmly looks down, between Art’s legs. “And neither is he.”
“Don’t refer to my dick as ‘he.’”
“She, then.”
“Don’t refer to my dick at all,” Art says, sounding awfully offended for someone who’s leaning closer to the man in front of him, their mouths now inches apart. “I don’t do shit like that.”
“Have it your way,” Patrick says, “although, you’re kind of wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time I helped you out.”
“I know that, I’m not saying...I’m saying it’d be the first time you touched me like that,” Art says, and it comes out very soft, probing, and Art wants to smack himself in the head with a racket until he passes out. When did he turn this into a conversation to be had instead of a situation he should sprint away from?
Patrick notices the shift, the way that Art’s humoring him, the way that Art isn’t moving. “First time for everything,” he says.
“But, like. Not just a first time with. You. First time with, like any guy.” Art shuts his eyes. Fuck, is he doing this? “I haven’t—no guy’s touched me like that.”
“You’re kidding.”
He opens his eyes again, and Patrick’s still looking at him, smiling.
“No, I’m—why would I be kidding?”
“We went to a boarding school for tennis players, man, you’re saying you’ve never—” Patrick shakes his head. “Nevermind. Like I said. First time for everything. Not for me, though—not for this.”
“You’ve—you’re saying that you have—”
“Boarding school for tennis players,” Patrick reminds.
Art nods his head stupidly. “Right, right.”
“So, you know.” Patrick raises his hands, splaying his fingers. “You’re in good hands. If that’s what you want.”
“Right, so—right.” Art needs to stop saying “right.” He needs to leave this hotel room, now. It’d be so fucking—what’s that Alanis Morissette song?—ironic for him to come here with the sole purpose of smacking Patrick for sleeping with his wife and then sleep with Patrick.
But that’s not what Patrick’s offering, right? They’re not gonna sleep together. He’s just gonna help him out.
Art needs some help.
Tashi, he loves her, but she can get—when they’re deep into the season, she isn’t—attracted to him, he thinks, not like she is on the offseason. Something about his ability to be coached, how predictable he is, his—he can’t think about it right now, but something about him turns her off when tennis is in full swing. When he’s no longer her husband and is instead her student.
It’s been muffled solo sessions in the shower for a while now.
Meanwhile. Patrick.
Patrick’s got some nice hands. Art’s looking at them, now, and he knows his face is pretty brazen in its need. Calloused. Rough, like Art’s own, but attached to Patrick, which is. Appealing.
He knows Patrick. Pretty damn well.
It’s not like he hasn’t thought about it before.
“Just…hands,” Art says.
“If you say so,” Patrick says easily, “although I do my best work with my mouth.”
Art squeaks, and Patrick grins, thinks, and adds, “Well, that, and my—”
“Don’t say dick.”
“—dick.”
“We’re not gonna fuck,” Art says. How has this gone from don’t touch me to pull me off but fucking’s too far?
“Woof. You’re acting like I offered,” Patrick says, patting Art on the chest like a spooked horse.
“Wait, you don’t wanna—?” Well, now Art’s affronted.
“Feels like kind of a lot,” Patrick says, and he’s still got that casual tone like they’re talking about potential breakfast spots. “For you. To go from never hooking up with a guy to getting fucked by one in the same night.”
“Who says you’d be fucking me?” Art says, and why is he doing it again, turning this into a conversation—
“I did.”
“Pat—”
“I do it both ways, though, so you don’t gotta bottom. Sorry for assuming.”
“I—” Art really needs to quit while he’s ahead. “This doesn’t even matter. We’re not gonna fuck.”
“I would take good care of you, though,” Patrick says, thoughtful, stepping close so that his groin is touching Art’s. No—so that his cock is touching Art’s, shit. Patrick’s hard now, too. Why is this hitting Art like a surprise? “If you decide that’s what you want. I’d make it real nice for you.”
“You…you—” Art stammers.
“Ball’s in your court, though,” Patrick says. “Handjob sounds good, and it sounds like that’s your game tonight.”
A handjob does sound good. Just…good.
Art says, “Nice, how?”
Patrick’s breath catches, and, after taking a moment to process, he lowers his eyelids. “Art, you fucking slut.”
“Patrick.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, dude, I shouldn’t have even offered to—yo, control yourself, man, you’re wet.”
Art looks down at himself. He’s pushed their erections against each other, clothes be damned, and he’s leaking onto his athletic shorts. He’s even holding onto Patrick’s hips like a lifeline and breathing like he’s in heat. “Oh,” Art says.
“Yeah, ‘oh.’ Jeez, dude.” Patrick laughs, puts his hands on Art’s cheeks. “Why don’t I kiss you, first, huh? Getting ahead of yourself.”
“That’s—” Okay. That’s good, that’s okay. “Okay.”
Patrick kisses him.
It’s the second time he’s kissed Patrick. It’s different, when it was always the intention. It’s nice. Patrick’s let some stubble grow in, and it’s a sensation Art’s never felt while kissing, but it’s somehow still familiar. Art is sighing into him and disobeying Patrick’s orders, keeping their cocks close and grinding them together. Dear God, he wants him.
“Easy,” Patrick says against his mouth. “Easy.”
Art slows, tells himself they have time. Pulls back, exposes his neck.
Patrick likes his neck. Mouths against it, and Art hums. Hums is being generous. Art whines, is more like it, and gets his arms around Patrick, yanking him closer. He wants Patrick to bite him.
Patrick doesn’t. He’s slow, damn him, licking and sucking with a practiced ease, his body still, an immovable boulder against Art’s near-constant gyrations.
“I want you to fuck me,” Art gasps.
Patrick full-stops. “Holy shit, Art.”
“Please, would you? Would you make it nice?”
“Art, I—” he says, laying a hand flat against Art’s stomach, like hitting a pause button. “Dude.”
Art’s breaths are gasping and desperate. Fuck, he’s turned on, more than he can ever remember being in his life. He’s seen Patrick’s cock before, Lord knows he’s stolen a glance, but he didn’t know how big it was, he couldn’t have known how nice it’d feel between his legs, and he wants it in him. Their shirts are rucked up, and both have managed to get their tips out, angry and red. Art runs a thumb over Patrick’s and doesn’t even freak out about how it’s the first time he’s touched another man’s cock. How has this gone from pull me off but fucking’s to far to if I don’t feel you inside me this instant I’ll die? “Sorry, but, like, fuck. Just asking.”
“Motherfucker,” Patrick groans, and Art know’s he’s got him. He knows he’s playing with something that’s been unsaid in their relationship for some time now. He knows how he must look right now in Patrick’s arms, all squirming and sweaty, so easy to tip back onto the bed if that’s what Patrick wants. Patrick will up-and-down deny it, but he loves when he’s needed. “Motherfucker. Art, do you know what you’re saying?”
“Do you think I’m stupid?”
“I think you’re horny.”
“Yeah, I am horny.” Art keens against him. This would be humiliating if Art hadn’t already decided to toss that emotion out the open window for the time being.
“Fuck, Art, you know I wanna…” Patrick trails off, and he’s looking down at Art’s body, now. Art pulls back to yank his shirt over his head—a quick movement, practiced—and then goes for Patrick’s, but Patrick grabs his wrists and stops him. “Art. I meant it, before. Wouldn’t this be kind of a lot? For you?”
Art sees genuine concern in his eyes, barely winning out over abject desire. “You said I could decide that’s what I want.”
“I—” Patrick nods, slowly, his eyes hungry. “I did say that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you did.”
Patrick bites his lip, thinks. “You’ll…tell me. If you wanna stop.”
“I’ll tell you.”
“You don’t have to like it,” Patrick says. “Some guys don’t. We can stop, whenever. In the middle, right now, I don’t care. Don’t, like, push through it for my sake.”
“Okay, okay,” Art says, touched by Patrick’s interest in making him comfortable but also pretty overwhelmed with the desire to be bent over and had. “Yes. I agree.”
“Okay,” Patrick says, and the room gets very still.
“Okay,” Art repeats, ready to get this moving.
“I’m gonna…okay,” Patrick says. “One step at a time.” He leans back in.
Thankfully, Patrick does move things along. Seconds into the makeout he’s pushing Art backwards. Art’s knees hit the edge of the mattress and then bend, and before Art can process it, Art is on his back, Patrick pinning him down. Patrick surrounds him, consumes him. He’s never been kissed like this, by someone with the strength to topple him over and turn him inside out. There’s something intoxicating about it. Something about letting go, not having to take charge, but handing the reins over. He does assert himself, briefly, to finish the job of pulling Patrick’s shirt off, but other than that, he allows himself to drown.
Patrick pulls up for air. His knees are on either side of Patrick’s, a position which has given him the ability to grind down into Art in an oh-so-lovely way. “Fuck,” Patrick says, and then, laughing a bit, “almost lost myself there.”
Art’s breathing hard. “How so?”
“Just—you’re a lot,” he says, and Art is somehow touched.
“I feel like I’m…not contributing.”
“This isn’t doubles, man, if you just wanna lie back and take it, you can. Is that what you—”
“Yes,” Art blurts.
Patrick laughs. “Well, alright.”
“Don’t wanna think,” Art says, and then gets his hand on the back of Patrick’s neck to pull him back in.
“Sorry—to—disappoint,” Patrick is saying between kisses, in a low, lovely, but somehow domineering voice, “but I’m gonna be making you think.”
“Don’t wanna.”
“You gotta,” Patrick says, kissing him on the forehead and then both eyelids. “Gotta be telling me how stuff feels.”
“Feels good.”
“Yeah, I know this feels good, but I mean stuff like—” Patrick thrusts his hand out and feels blindly at the nightstand, just barely missing his beer can to instead grab the half-used lube bottle that Art somehow didn’t notice until now. “Actually, gimme a sec, need to warm it up first.”
He sits up, straddling Art’s thighs, and pours a generous amount of the stuff onto his fingers. He starts rubbing the digits together before scooting off of Art. “Pants off,” he says, and Art obeys without hesitation. “Alright. I’m gonna—this feels fucking fast, man, you’re sure you don’t want me to suck you off?”
Art shakes his head vigorously.
“Shit, okay. Incoming,” he says, which might be the dumbest thing anyone’s ever said before they fingered someone. Except, Patrick doesn’t get that far—Art tenses, his body going stiff, blocking Patrick’s access. “Gotcha.”
Art’s eyes are shut. “What?”
“You’re clamping your legs, man. Getting shy on me.”
Art opens his eyes and frowns at him. Yes, he’s clamping his legs. He’s a bit nervous. But that shouldn’t matter. Patrick should just get Art in the position he wants him in.
That, apparently, isn’t the type of partner Patrick is. He sits there, fingers coated in lube, looking thoughtful.
Art groans. “Come on, Patrick, would you just—”
“You’re tense, man,” Patrick says, and he runs a hand along Art’s stomach, ignoring the fact that Art’s cock is curled against his happy trail. “You sure this is what you want?”
“How many times do I have to tell you?”
“Okay, okay,” Patrick says. “Why don’t I—okay. You could lie on your stomach?”
“I want to—uh, see you do it,” Art says, realizing as he says it that it’s true.
“You sap. Yeah, we can make that work, but…” Patrick rubs his neck, thinks. “I’m gonna, we’re gonna start with something else, okay?”
Art is frustrated, but nods.
“Okay. I’m just gonna start by touching you here,” Patrick says, and he envelops Art’s cock in his lubed-up hand.
Art nearly doubles over from the sudden sensation. His abs clench and he moans, curling upward, his hands fisting against the mattress.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Patrick says, and Art gains enough presence to realize that his legs have fallen open involuntarily, inviting and hot. Must’ve been Patrick’s intention, because instantly Patrick scoots in between them, his hand still giving him the most torturously gentle handjob of Art’s life. “That’s it, Art. Just open up for me.”
Art nods, then whines, then uses his legs to encircle Patrick, pulling him closer. Patrick leans in, over Art’s body, peppering his collarbone and neck with kisses and muffled praise.
“Fucking eager, you are,” Patrick says, breathy. “Want my fingers before I’ve even got you nice and loose. Feels good to have my hand on your cock, yeah?”
“Y—yeah.”
“Getting wet between the legs, Art? Picturing my cock in you?”
“Fuck, yeah.”
“There we go, that’s it,” he says, and Art’s so immersed in the handjob that he barely realizes when Patrick gets his other hand involved, first playing with his balls before shifting backwards, massaging against his perineum. “There you go.”
Fuck, it’s good. It might be too good. Art’s breathing slows as he becomes accustomed to the sensations, and by the time Patrick’s finger is gently circling his entrance, Art feels pliant and needy.
“Alright,” Patrick is saying. “Alright. That’s it. How’s that feel?”
“‘S good.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Gonna push in, alright? Gotta stretch you out for me.”
“Okay. Yeah.”
Patrick buries his face in Art’s shoulder and does so, just the pad of his finger, and Art wonders, briefly, how he’s possibly doing this without even looking. He’s clearly done this before.
Art, meanwhile, clearly hasn’t. The second he feels Patrick there, his breath catches in his throat. His legs instinctively clamp, although this only means trapping Patrick’s body between his thighs, and his ab muscles seize up a bit.
Patrick instantly retreats his finger and resumes the gentle massage. “Easy there.”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.”
“I want it, it’s just…new.”
“Understood.”
This conversation is had with their lips literally on top of one another, and Art almost chuckles when he realizes that distance isn’t even particularly closer than what is typical of them.
Patrick’s one finger turns into two, still just circling, gentle. Patrick, the idiot, decides this is a good time to talk.
“You ever finger yourself?”
Art squirms, adjusts, raises his legs a bit to better accommodate. “A few times, I guess.”
“Tashi ever—”
“Don’t talk about Tashi.”
“Sorry.”
“No, she hasn’t.”
Silence, then, “Did you like it? The times you did it.”
“I don’t think I…” Art’s relaxing, actually, he can feel himself coming down. Patrick might be good at this. “I couldn’t get the angle right. It felt different, and kind of good, but I could tell it would be better with. Uh.”
“A partner.”
“Yeah. That.”
“You’ve got one now. It okay?”
“It’s okay.”
“Feeling good?”
“Yeah. Mhm.”
“Fuck, good,” then, losing some composure, Patrick adds, “want my cock in you so bad.”
“Yeah?”
“Wanted it forever. Just know you’d be pretty on it.”
“F—fuck.”
“In those fuckin’ shorts, the, the purple ones—“
“I didn’t wear those today.”
“I know that, fuckface, but when you do, fuck. Just wanna bend you over. Wanna have you.” Patrick’s whispering, like he’s reverent.
Art is, too. “You look good in muscle tees.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Fuck. Shoulders, you’ve got good shoulders.”
This soft-spoken conversation—half embarrassing dirty talk, half confessional—is eventually no longer within Art’s ability to carry. Soon, the pressure from Patrick’s fingers grow more insistent and Art’s contributions become nothing more than fuck. Oh. Oh. Fuck, yes.
A few minutes of this pass before Patrick says, “gonna try to finger you again, yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“Here goes.”
Art’s knees are lifted up, a bit, and he almost instinctively presses his legs back onto the bed, but Patrick stops him with a hand.
“Easy, there. Keep your knees up here, it’s good. Just gonna. Just gonna press—“
His fingers slide in easy, and Art whimpers. That’s the angle. He communicates that sentiment by squeezing Patrick’s arms, hard enough to leave little half-moons in his skin.
“There he is. That’s it.”
If Art was more capable of critical thought at the moment, he’d recognize Patrick’s constant narration for what it is—coaching—and maybe get offended, but he’s not there yet. He’s just grateful for it. “That’s it?” Art says, panting.
“Mhm. You’re tight, but you’re relaxed.” He kisses the bow of Art’s lips. “Gonna go deeper, ‘kay? Gonna see if I can make it really good for you.”
“Yeah. ‘Kay.”
Patrick does so, pressing, petting, keeping the thrusts shallow before gradually deepening them. Art is helpless beneath him, his voice broken each time he re-affirms that he’s okay, that he wants another finger, another, his gasps breathy and reckless in their volume. Eventually, at a particular crook of Patrick’s fingers, he cries out, actually thrusting down on him of his own volition.
Patrick does a giddy half-laugh.
Art, his teeth bared, says, “What was that?”
“That’s a good sign, is what it is,” Patrick says, nosing up against him. His pupils are dark and wide. “I could get you off like this. You’d like it.”
“I—fuck, I—”
“Or, could fuck you. Either is fine. Wanna change courses?”
“Fuck, no. Don’t stop. I mean—stop, with the fingers, and get the condom in my wallet. I’m ready.” Art pushes Patrick off him, gently, and yanks Patrick’s shorts the rest of the way down his legs, less gently.
Patrick chuckles. “Got my own in the bathroom, thanks.” He stands up, naked and gorgeous like a sculpture.
“What, too good for my condoms, now?” Art props himself up on his elbows to survey the scene.
“Well, I gotta get towels, too,” Patrick says, walking off towards the bathroom. “Not sure how keen the hotel staff would be if I asked for a replacement mattress.”
Art looks down. So far, he’s made a mess of his own stomach with the precum that’s leaked there, and there’s some lube between his thighs that’s threatening to drip lower. “Oh, yeah. Right.”
“How you wanna do this?” Patrick calls from the bathroom. A drawer clangs as he rustles around in there.
Art is silent for a moment. How does he want to do this?
“You’re the expert,” Art calls back, feeling a bit stupid at his lack of creativity.
Patrick strides back in, a wrapped condom in between his teeth and a stack of clean towels in his hand. “Scoot,” he says, and Art complies while Patrick lays them out. Art rolls back into the center as Patrick plops down next to him, and they momentarily take a beat, heads against the headboard. He says, “I mean, I’m the expert on myself. Everyone’s different. Everyone likes different stuff.”
Art leans his head against Patrick. Patrick leans right back, and this, somehow, feels like the most intimate gesture of the night. “I know that, but—I don’t know, what was your first time like?”
Patrick’s face shifts into something akin to a grimace. “Not great.”
“Oh. I’m sorry.”
“You know, just. Rushed.” He shakes his head, dislodging the thought. “Learned a few important lessons about pace.”
“That sucks, man.” He grabs Patrick’s hand, runs a thumb over it.
“Makes me think, actually,” Patrick says, looking at their joined hands. “You might want to try riding me. To start.”
Art’s thumb freezes. “Hm.”
Art can feel Patrick’s intense gaze on his face as he continues. “So you can control the pace. At least while you’re getting used to the feeling.”
“Hm,” Art says again, picturing it. His face flushes crimson red. “O—okay. Yeah. I’ll try it.”
Patrick grins. “Cowgirl it is.”
Art squeezes his eyes shut. “Fuck, don’t call it that.”
“That’s what it is.”
“I’m not a girl.”
“I know you’re not a girl. What’s wrong with being a girl?”
“Nothing, I’ve just—” he sighs. “It just will be a little out of my wheelhouse, okay?”
“This is all out of your wheelhouse, as I understand it.”
“Well, yeah, but, like, there are some positions that I’ve—nevermind.” He groans. “Suffice it to say that I’ve never found myself on this side of the cowgirl before.”
Patrick nods solemnly. “You’re usually the horse.”
While Art’s getting into position, he decides the cowgirl’s a pretty shit name for this position, anyway. What cowgirl rides a horse that’s staring straight into her eyes as she gets into position? The thought’s so ridiculous and unnerving that he stumbles a bit as he swings his leg over Patrick’s thighs and looks away with a grimace.
Patrick steadies him. “Alright, there?”
“Yeah, just—” Art stares down at their pelvises, aligned so that their cocks are next to each other. Patrick’s is noticeably bigger than his own. “Thinking about horses.”
Patrick laughs. “You’ve got to stop with the horse stuff, man.”
“You started it.”
Patrick chuckles as he rolls the condom on with a practiced ease, and when he finishes, he generously adds lube. His face is pinched in concentration, probably keeping himself from finishing too early. Finally, he places his palms on Art’s thighs.
“Ready for ya,” he says.
“Okay,” Art says, and he’s starting to understand this whole pacing thing, because Art is certainly not feeling ready himself. Not yet. He breathes, deep, and runs his hands on Patrick’s stomach, feeling out the territory. Patrick’s stomach flutters at the touch, but he says nothing.
Then, still in an exploring phase, Art wraps his hand around Patrick’s throbbing cock, feels a vein along its side. Patrick punches out a breath and clutches the meat of Art’s thighs.
“Mm,” Patrick hums. “I’m—not gonna last long, I think.”
Art can feel himself turning red from head to toe. “Yeah, you and me both.”
“Glad we understand each other.”
They chuckle, the energy in the room somehow both charged and soft.
“Okay,” Art says again, and he lifts himself up.
It’s a bit of a logistics thing, at first. Just, the whole act of aligning himself correctly while using one hand to maintain his balance. He’s only slightly embarrassed at his huffing and puffing, even though it reveals that he doesn’t spend enough time on squats as Tashi would like him to. Doesn’t matter; Patrick’s not paying attention to that.
No, Patrick’s rapt on something else. His pupils are blown and his mouth is open in a pant, his bottom lip looking fat and kissable. He’s on his elbows, watching, his muscles twitching from a barely contained desire to touch as Art begins to sink down.
Just the tip, at first. It goes in easy. Art’s mouth opens and releases a warm breath.
“Fuck, that’s hot,” Patrick says, his voice hoarse.
Art is silent. He sinks down two more inches. Less easy. A sharp breath out his nose, and Art pulls himself back off—and fuck, it felt good, the stretch of it, and the quick in-out.
“You’re tight,” Patrick says. “Fuck.”
Art tries again. Easier this time. He sinks further, checks in on himself, checks in with Patrick by making some particularly charged eye contact, and then—fuck—sinks down until he’s seated.
Their groans are harmonious. Art is shocked it went in so easy, in the end, and although Patrick is right—he’s definitely tight—there’s something fulfilling about it, something that feels right. He gets the sense that Patrick’s cock is nudged right up against that bundle of nerves Patrick had fingered before, and, to test his theory, he squirms his hips and—fuck.
Art makes maybe the most undignified noise of his life, something along the lines of hnnggg, but Patrick does him the curtesy of not commenting on it. Instead, he kneads circles into Art’s thighs and grabs one of Art’s hand to kiss it.
“Breathe,” he suggests, and Art huffs out, his cheeks fully red. He grinds down onto Patrick’s length, just once, and both groan.
“Fuck, alright, alright,” Art says, deciding something, lifting himself up, biting his lip, keeping the tip in, pausing, and sliding back down—
“That’s right, pretty boy,” Patrick groans behind gritted teeth as Art finishes the descent but then slowly rises back up. “That’s it. Set a pace.”
Art does. It’s slow and a bit clumsy, nothing like the practiced smoothness he’s seen in porn. No, it’s much more careful, betraying his inexperience. Regardless, Patrick’s responsive beneath him with praise and encouragement.
Fuck, it’s nice. Tiring, but nice. He starts out tipped forward, his hands on Patrick’s abs as he arches his back in search of the right position, but it’s a position he can’t keep up. Eventually, he tips back instead, bracing his hands against Patrick’s thighs and arching his stomach out. That’s more doable, that’s the good shit—he’s hitting his prostate on nearly every thrust, and he’s moaning with abandon, mostly stuff that sounds like fuck and yeah but occasionally stuff closer to Patrick.
He’s close. Patrick probably is, too, judging on his slack-jawed expression and worshipful eyes. Close, but not quite there—Art wants something, something a bit different—the position’s close to what he needs, he’s feeling good, he’s feeling in control, but he doesn’t need all of the control, not anymore. He needs Patrick’s mouth on his own, he needs someone else in charge, he needs—
“Can we flip?” he says in a throaty, fucked-out voice.
Patrick doesn’t even say anything; he just complies. He pulls out of Art and, in one fluid movement, gets an arm around his lower back and flips them over. Art hits the bed with a gasp and Patrick kisses him down into it, slow and dirty.
“Lift your legs, like before,” he says, and Art does. “Good. Okay.” Patrick fumbles a hand in between them, grabbing his cock and probing it at Art’s entrance. Art tries to kiss him but can’t, Patrick’s looking down, lining them up. He pets a soothing hand between Art’s trembling thighs. “It’s me,” Patrick says, “relax. It’s just me.” Art sighs, relaxes, and Patrick pushes back in.
The second he’s inside, Art grabs Patrick’s chin and crashes their mouths together. Ah, there it is. This is what he needs. He needs lips on his while he’s claimed, needs Patrick’s practiced thrusts knowing just how to angle it, just what speed to keep, to have Art pitifully whining into their kiss. He needs gentle reminders to keep his legs spread and up to better receive. He needs his own cock pressed between their two bodies, slick from sweat and lube, he needs the feeling of Patrick’s thrusts growing greedy and more sloppy as he chases his own pleasure.
“Close,” Patrick says into Art’s mouth, a question and a statement.
“Yeah.”
“Touch yourself.”
Art does. The hand that’s not roving along the skin of Patrick’s muscled back finds his own cock and Art begins to stroke, timing it with Patrick’s movements.
“Gonna—” Patrick says.
“Yeah, yeah,” Art says through gasps, feeling completely out of his mind.
“You first.”
Well, Art doesn’t need to be told twice. Patrick thrusts in deep, grinds against his prostate, and Art comes with a choked-off cry. Patrick is two steps behind—he thrusts a few more times then pulls out completely, hastily bending over to kiss him while yanking off the condom so that when he does come, the ribbons of his release paint Art’s stomach between them and contribute to the mess already there. He’s quiet while he does it, save for a few grunts, and Art—still coming down himself—grabs the back of his neck to whisper to him as he does it.
“Fuck, yeah, yeah, come on me,” he says, words he has absolutely never said before but that feel right in the moment. “Look at that, look at that.”
Chests moving, breaths slowing, and, after a few moments, stillness.
The second he blinks out of his stupor, Patrick is quick to get his weight off Art. With a wounded noise, he flops onto his side next to him, but he doesn’t waste time reconnecting their mouths.
Slower. Much slower, this time, when there’s not a release to chase. Just hands and spit and sweat. Art hooks a leg over Patrick’s, bringing their groins together, and they both hiss at the sensation. In ways that Art does not want to think about, he’s satisfied, satisfied in a way he cannot ever remember being before.
Eventually, Patrick pulls off from where he was placing lazy, wet kisses into Art’s neck to speak into his collarbone.
“Fuck,” he says, and laughs a bit. “Fuck. How…how are you? How was it?”
An absolutely ridiculous question, and they both know it. Art laughs into his hair.
“It was nice,” he says. There is no other word for it.
~
Patrick bats his eyelashes, smiles. “What?”
Art leaves the sauna in a huff, in the end, just like he left the hotel room that night so many years ago. After a few minutes of laying there in that shitty mattress, just when Patrick was letting his mind wander to ridiculous places like confessions and dates and threesomes, Art had pushed himself out of bed and dressed, quickly, his expression laden with guilt. Patrick had been lucky he’d let him kiss him goodbye.
Patrick also had been lucky that Tashi wasn’t interested in anything too personal earlier that evening. He’d only eaten her out—he wasn’t lying when he bragged of his oral skills—and she hadn’t helped him reach his own climax. Like Art, she had dressed in some haste and left when she’d realized what she had done. This, too, was actually the best possible outcome; Art appeared just as she was leaving, and Patrick couldn’t have come twice in such short secession. He got to save his orgasm for Art, which worked out. After all, Art, as far as he could tell, really liked being come on.
That thought isn’t even enough to bring a smile to his face now, though, as the door to the sauna swings shut in Art’s hasty retreat. He’s alone again.
Funny how that works, he thinks, leaning back and sniffing. He spent that night in Atlanta alone, too, despite having slept with two different people in the course of an hour. He’s beginning to accept he’s not worth staying for.
He’s seconds from heading out when the door bangs open again.
Patrick jumps. Art’s standing there, framed by the sunlight behind him, his face an inscrutable mixture of emotions.
“Hey,” he says, steadying himself in the doorframe, his brows furrowed, his muscles tensed.
Not knowing what else to do, Patrick says, “hi.”
“Tashi changed her number,” Art blurts. “She wants me to, too, but I haven’t yet.”
Patrick eyes widen in confusion and surprise. “Okay.”
“So, it’s the same. My number is.”
This is news to him. After one too many unanswered texts, he assumed Art had changed it years ago—or maybe he was just blocked? Patrick feels like he might be catching Art’s drift, but is afraid he’s wrong.
“Okay,” he repeats.
“Text it,” Art says, his face now clearly frustrated. At himself, at Patrick, who knows. He starts to leave again, the door swinging shut, but he stops it with about a foot of clearance. They make eye contact, brief and intense. “Could be nice.”
The door slams shut.
A moment to process, and then, despite everything, Patrick laughs. “You slut,” he says, out loud, to no one but himself. “You absolute slut.”
Point, game, set, match.