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“You chose some shitty hotel in the middle of nowhere? You’re bad at picking vacation spots.”
Art’s voice caused Patrick to turn around and face the boy dead in the eyes. His voice was in an aggravatingly higher octave than normal, which subsequently went along well with his snarky remarks. His hand was on his shoulder, and his leg popped out to the side, pointing out to the door they had just walked into.
“Shut up, dumbass, it’s only for the weekend until we get to go back home. It won’t be that bad.”
Patrick sighed as he turned back to the receptionist's desk, where he’d been waiting for the appearance of someone so he could finally lay down and go to sleep. He rang the bell on the side twice, which thankfully brought out a woman about a foot higher than the desk opposing Patrick. She looked fatigued, which is fair enough, as it was about halfway to midnight.
“Hello, what can I help you with? The receptionist asked, putting her cup of coffee down to talk to Patrick.
“Hi, um, do you have any rooms available for the night?
It was painfully obvious the receptionist would do anything else but this now, but she seemingly carried her façade of a smile, even when both of them knew she was faking it.
“Okay, let me see. I’ll be right with you in just a second, okay?”
Patrick nodded in agreement, and the receptionist took off to the door behind the desk. When he walked over to where Art had previously stood, he wasn’t there. Instead, he was sitting on the chair right by the door they had entered through, looking closely into a magazine he had taken out from a pile of other tabloids and newspapers. When he looked back up at Patrick, he gave him a soft smile, causing Patrick to provide with a smirk.
“You're so sincere. How could I ever repay you?”” He asked, playfully teasing at Patrick. He stood up, only a few inches away from the other boy’s face. Their bodies were velcro being pulled back in and taken apart as Patrick slightly moved his balance from one foot onto the other, carrying a similar smile to the one Art carries.
“By shutting the fuck up, I think you’d do the world a favor.” He goaded back, idly staring as Art let out a small, airy laugh.
"Oh, please, ” he started, moving back and turning around dramatically, pulling up one hand, and placing the palm of his hand on his forehead. “You know you’d miss it.”
“You think so? Really?”, Patrick replied, advancing onto Art, who was staring down at the ground in a teasingly defeat.
He moved his head back up, showing that he’s still got a grin from ear to ear. He took three steps to Patrick, and now their heads were an inch apart from colliding.
“Oh,” he let out, whispering into Patrick’s left ear.
“I know so.”
Their playful demeanor was halted after the receptionist came back to her desk, now carrying a key in her hand. Both boys stopped their endless banter with one another and moved up to the desk side by side. She looked at both boys for an equal amount of time before her lips parted to talk.
“Good news, we do indeed have a room ready and available for you both.”
Patrick felt a sense of glee the moment those words left her mouth. He could finally take a break after all the long hours of sitting in a car. By that point, he couldn’t feel his ass anymore.
“Unfortunately,” She began, placing her glasses down and cupping her hands together. Both boys stared at each other in a heat wave of anxiety before looking back at both of them, still in the same position.
“The room only has one bed. There are no sofa couches or anywhere else to sleep. Just the one bed.”
A shriek of terror entered the room. Just when Patrick thought he finally had a moment to himself to feel free, it was shot down the moment he came to the thought of it.
Art carried a smile of disbelief, as if what the woman said was misinterpreted by his mind.
“No, it can’t be. we’re in the middle of nowhere, how the hell is every single room with two bedrooms unavailable?”
She seemingly had already had enough of their time with one another, and she seemed like she’d said the same things over and over again before.
“I’m sorry, but we just don't have those rooms available at this time. You could go to another motel, but the nearest one is an hour's drive. I apologize.
Art argued with the receptionist to see if it was possible at all to get some sort of comforter or mattress to be put in the room, but since it was so late into the night, there wasn’t time to do so.
Patrick longingly stared into Art and his profile, realizing he’d be spending the night with his best friend, or, for what he was better known for, his crush since he’d ever met him.
Even though when they met, they were just kids, he always felt different around Art. He liked how he never treated him differently from the others because he was a year younger than him, and now he’s come to realize that his feelings for Art were for more than friends.
The touch of a hand brought Patrick into consciousness. The hands were Art’s, who looked through the boy right in the eye, like a pair of trained daggers locked into their target.
“Hey, c’mon, let’s get to our room.”
In his hand, Patrick noticed, was the key from the receptionist lady, who was now sitting down on her desk again, paying no mind to either of the two of them.
He nodded in Art’s direction, grabbed their belongings, and headed to the stairs. After what seemed like a punishing flight of stairs, they found themselves on the third floor of the motel. The yellow lighting contrasted with the sad beige of the motel, seemingly highlighting a sickening sense of emptiness surrounding it.
“Sure looks appealing,” Patrick remarked, standing on the staircase as Art moved past him, then turning to give a glimpse of his stare. “It seems like this place is straight out of a nightmare.”
“Regardless,” he started, holding his glare on Art until turning his back around him. “Let’s just find our room. What room was it again?”
“Room 27E” Art darted back, giving into an unfulfilling silence as Patrick found a sign that showed what sides of the motel all the rooms were located in.
“This sign here says that 22E through 29E are in that corridor right over there on the right, I think.”
“Alright, lead the way, Patrick.”
After some time, both boys reached what seemed to be their room after a few minutes of searching. As they opened the door, much to their disdain, there was only one bed in the room. The walls were painted the same colors outside the hallway, but with added floral patterns. The bedsheets were plain white, and everything was organized well enough for a motel room.
Art muttered out a small "home, sweet home.” before plopping down onto the bed itself. He put his arms open, his body in the same shape as a starfish, and sank into the mattress.
“Okay, so…” Patrick started, trying to figure out what else is left to be said. He wavered his eyes about the motel room, landing on Art, who was now lying on his backside, still in the same position as previously.
He gave up whatever he had in his mind and plopped down beside Art. They don’t exchange stares but gaze at the ceiling fan above them. It spun around without issue, though the slight jittering of the loose nailing was noticeable by its sound. Their mutual silence wasn’t painstaking, but rather amusing.
“It’s just like back then.” Art lamented, without any further explanation. Patrick finally looked over to the boy, who was still staring up at the ceiling, his mouth open. It wasn’t until Patrick let out a “Hm?” in confusion that he looked over at him, eyes glistening with small droplets of tears after letting his eyes be blasted by cold air.
“ Y’know, like when we both would push up our bed together to make it one, giant bed. You thought it was weird at first up until you got so used to it you’d only sleep like that if we had to share a room.”
“ Oh yeah, I do remember that,” Patrick boasted out of Art’s gentle prying of their shared memories. “Remember when they caught us in the middle of the night ‘cause we were trying to steal the pillows from everyone else's beds to make a pillow fort for us?”
“And when you cried in the counselor's office because you wanted to sneak off with me to the woods, but they found out about it because you said it out loud in front of other people.”
“Hey, we don’t have to talk about that. I was just a weird kid back then.”
“Like you aren’t one now, still.”
Both boys chuckled at their recollections of previous time together. Patrick hit Art on the rib jokingly, causing the boy to flinch in pain.
“I was being truthful!”
“Sometimes you don’t fucking have to.” Patrick teased.
After a while, the rumbling of Patrick’s stomach made Art turn his head back to the boy, who was seemingly disgruntled by the look on his face. “You hungry?”
Patrick sighed as he let his head fall back down on the mattress. “Yeah, kind of. I didn’t get any lunch or dinner today.”
The other boy got up from the bed, stretching out his shirt with his hands to place it back in its original position. “Let’s stop by the Waffle House then, I could go for a milkshake or something.”
“A milkshake at midnight? You’re fucking weird as hell, Art.” The boy watched as Art giggled at Patrick’s mild playfulness. “Alright, whatever you say, let’s just get there.”
The other boy agreed with a nod of his head. They placed their belongings in the corner of the room before going back to the stairs. They made their way through the staircase and left the front of the motel. The Wafflehouse was just outside the motel—about a two-minute walk—so both boys paced through the shallow night in the clothes they’d been wearing for over thirteen hours.
Inside, the diner was practically empty, with only one other person at the far back of the place, sipping on a strawberry milkshake and staring out the window next to him. They sat at a booth facing one another and waited until some helpless waitress could come about to get their orders.
“This feels romantic now, doesn’t it?” Patrick quipped to Art, who was staring down at the Wafflehouse menu, staring intensely at their Milkshake flavors.
“Consider this a first date, then.” The other boy answered, placing the menu back on the table and looking at Patrick with a dainty smile.
“It took you long enough for you to take me out to somewhere so fancy.”
Art leaned in closer to Patrick, grabbing the seams of his shirt as he quietly whispered into his ear, which startled the boy.
“You always take the first date to a shitty motel and then a shitty diner; that’s how most blossoming relationships come to be.”
Art finally let go of Patrick’s shirt, with him quietly fixing up where Art had put his grasp on the shirt. Once he had it back to how it was previously, a woman with long, curly, dark-brown hair idly stood in front of both boys, tapping on her pen with the notepad she was holding in her other hand.
“Hi, welcome to Wafflehouse. What may I get you?”
Patrick looked down at his menu, realizing he was still unsure of what he wanted to order, only then looking up to find Art’s gaze transfixed onto his. Their eyes fought for a while to see who’d go first, with Art seeming to be losing that battle as he sighed and raised his arms to the menu.
“ Oh, could I just get a vanilla milkshake, please?”
The woman nodded with the sound of a “mhm” hidden between her lips. As she finished writing down his order, Patrick was left to fend for himself when she looked over at him. He stared at the menu and went back to the woman continuously, only for his mind to blurt out the first thing he could think of.
“Could I also get a vanilla milkshake as well, please?”
The server again wrote it down on her notepad before taking back their menus. “I’ll be right out with those orders, thank you.”
As she walked away, Art looked over to Patrick, his face mixed with amusement and aghast.
“‘Could I get a vanilla milkshake’? You don’t even like vanilla; why the hell would you order that?”
The wave of embarrassment flooded over every aspect of Patrick. He placed his hands on his head, seemingly desperate to get rid of the everlasting rush of pure self-consciousness.
“Look, I didn’t know what the fuck I was supposed to say. Your order was the only thing that came to mind, so I just said it without thinking.”
After a wave of silence, Patrick finally allowed himself to let go of his head. He looked over to find Art, and by the moment their eyes interlocked, he busted out into laughter, barely containing himself with one hand holding onto his mouth as he tried desperately to stop laughing.
Patrick just let it all happen, and after a while, he also let out a few chuckles as he found Art’s uncontrollable laughter to be quite humorous.
“Jesus, man, that’s so funny,” Art assured himself, finally able to speak after his long pause of laughter.
“God, you’re shitty.”
“Whatever, it’s not like you have to drink it; just leave it there.”
They left it at that. Nothing more, nothing less. The seemingly endless wait for their vanilla milkshakes seemed endless, and there wasn’t anything in Patrick’s head to spark a conversation between the two of them.
Outside the window, most everything besides the Waffle House was pitch black. He spotted a homeless man on the side of the road holding onto a half-smoked cigarette between his index finger and his thumb. The light illuminating the man flickered sporadically, though the man seemed to be in some realm of his own where he couldn’t be bothered to care much about anything.
After looking long enough at the man outside, he placed his stare back onto Art, who’s been looking out back at the kitchen, waiting eagerly for his milkshake. His hand on his mouth and his elbow placed on the dining table, his focus solely on the surrounding tiled walls between them.
Patrick got a moment to stare at Art. His blonde streams of hair crescendoed into a much brighter color of yellow as the light between them touched his ends. There was something so different about Art that no other man or woman could ever even remotely share that could be up to par with Art. He always carried a genuine smile that Patrick could longingly stare at from miles away. He was so charming yet sweet, even to strangers. Patrick had grown up practically all his life on the outskirts of Art’s shadow, but he’d gladly take his hand if he were to ask.
He always goes back to the time when he and Art were in their days at the academy when they were playing spin the bottle with a few other kids from the academy. A few bickering mouths were going on about how they prayed they would be picked, but those words were voided out of Patrick’s head.
After the bottle spun, it was quiet; everyone’s eyes were stuck to the bottle, patiently awaiting who’d be the second person to be picked. After a few spins, the bottle spun slowly, which was the most painful part for Patrick as he watched the bottle point closer to where he was—right next to Art.
Soon enough, it stopped. It didn’t set in where the bottle was pointing until a few milliseconds later when the other kids surrounding them had audibly gasped and whispered to each other's ears. Patrick peered his eyes open to find that the bottle pointed directly at him.
His eyes widened; he had never felt this much fear up until that moment. Patrick moved his eyes onto Art, who carried a small smirk. The boy grabbed his hand expeditiously, startling Patrick. Art knew he was nervous, but he shushed him and moved his lips closer to that boy.
Seconds later, Patrick gained his first kiss. It was confusing for him. It was nice, not as sloppy as he had imagined his first kiss would be. On the other hand, though, he was kissing his best friend and all the while he was processing this, Art mushed his lips again at Patrick, this time a bit more intensely.
Their shared kiss lasted twelve seconds. Patrick remembered that, as he consistently counted in his head while their lips were together. After that, though, Art moved away from Patrick, carrying a sinister smile that was very tongue-in-cheek. Patrick could feel his cheeks blushing rampantly into dark shades of red, and that was the moment he finally realized his feelings for Art.
“Hello?”
Back in reality, he realized that Art had been calling his name for some time now.
“You okay? You were out of it for, like, a while.”
Embarrassed, Patrick moved aside the silverware as he noticed the same woman walking towards their table, holding two cream-white milkshakes in hand.
“Alright. Here are your two vanilla milkshakes. Enjoy.”
Both boys let out a small thank-you before returning to themselves. Patrick looked over to Art, who’d already gotten a hold of his milkshake, sipping on the straw like a kid who’s just been outside in the summer heat for hours. He eyed his milkshake and contemplated whether to try it or not.
He felt Art’s eyes look over to his side of the booth but couldn’t dare look back. He already knows that damn look he’s got. That witty, idle stare that makes his stomach turn for the best and worst. After the pressure between his thoughts and Art’s teaseful glare, he put the straw of the milkshake to his lips, slowly sucking on it as he looked back at Art.
The boy had the exact face Patrick imagined. He could just tell he was on the brink of some shitty joke. “Look at you, you’re digesting vanilla! You’ve finally matured into the man you were always born to be.”
“Har-har. Real funny, Dickwad.”
In truth, he still hated it. It took everything in him to properly swallow his sip of vanilla. He believed he’d rather drink something he hated than let Art continuously bring this up for the rest of their friendship.
After a few sips of pure sugar, Patrick had more than enough for the night. He looked over to Art, who’d been drinking through his glass himself. He noticed Patrick’s stare, diminishing the other boy's eyes and instructing them to dart down to the corner of the table.
“Done already?”
Patrick let his eyes wander back into the depths of Art’s. He sighed before letting himself speak further to lift his innermost anxiety. “I'm not all that hungry anymore.”
Art’s eyes glared right to the crease of Patrick’s eyes. He sleuthed out a fragile error between the lines that Patrick had once previously stated. Teasingly, he moved back into the leather fabric of the booth seat, further making himself comfortable with a sinful grin between his cheeks.
“I thought you said you were hungry earlier. Something about you having not eaten for some time, right?”
“Well, I mean, yeah, I was, but...”
Patrick could feel Art see right through him. A condescending expression on the boy’s face was more than enough to break Patrick out of his tyranny of lies.
“Okay, fine, yeah, I am. This fucking shake is ass. I don’t know how people can drink this.”
A bombardment of laughter created by Art haunted the empty Waffle House. At that moment, Patrick didn’t know whether to laugh or kick his leg underneath the table. In this seizing moment, Art let go of his faint giggles in quick succession after feeling the kick of Patrick’s feet hitting his.
"Oh, ‘c'mon, you don’t have to be pessimistic about everything; at least you’re with me.” Art expressed the later part of his words in playful meaning, yet something about it was still true for Patrick.
“Yeah-yeah, whatever. Finish your fucking drink.”
Art nodded back in agreement with Patrick; although he didn’t need to, he only did it to get on his nerves.
There was, yet again, another moment of peace between the two. It was a moment that could be everlasting but could not be reimagined. It was blissful unawareness for both boys, but something so flawed between one another felt could self-implode between them. The animosity of this wavering enticement was too much for Patrick, yet there was nothing he could do about his feelings.
After enough time had passed, the glass of milkshake on Art’s side of the booth was left empty, while Patrick’s was a quarter drunk. The atmosphere, once filled with soft laughter and tender glances, had grown tense. The silence between them was heavy, filled with unspoken words.
Art, for once letting himself be serious, set aside his empty glass, leaving more space between him and Patrick.
“You know, Patrick, are you sure that you’re alright? I get that you told me already that you’re fine, but—I don’t know—something’s just off-putting.”
Patrick looked up, a defensive look flashing across his face. ”I’m fine, Art. I’m not a little kid anymore; I don’t need to tell you if I’m okay or not.”
Art’s eyes narrowed, his irritation clear. “Oh, come on, Patrick. We’ve been friends for long enough; I can tell when something is wrong with you. Can I not be your friend anymore?.”
Patrick sighed, running a hand through his hair.
“That’s not fair, Art. I deserve to keep things to myself. Just because of our time or whatever-the-fuck-not doesn’t mean that we’ve got to tell every single detail about ourselves to each other.”
“Besides,” Patrick murmured, dropping his hand down on the table. “We haven’t talked much since you came back to Stanford.”
Art shifted position on his seat, leaning back against the booth in confusion. “What? What the hell do you mean by that, Patrick? ”
Patrick’s eyes softened briefly after hearing Art’s words, noticing how he seemed not to know what he was saying. “That’s not what this is about, Art. Like I said, I don’t need you on my dick.”
Art’s body tensed as he moved in closer to Patrick from the other side of the table. “I just want to feel like we can hold on to one another whenever we’re down. I miss when we’d tell each other everything, regardless of how stupid or fucked up it was.”
Patrick turned away from Art, facing out to the window, unable to look at Art in the eyes in the moment. “We’re not kids anymore. I don’t know why you’re still hung up on this shit.”
The tension slowly dissipated into silence. Their chatter quickly grew old, and soon enough, after a long while of silence, Art spoke up, though his voice was hitched and shaky.
“I’ll go, uh, pay for our drinks. I’ll meet you outside.”
Patrick nodded in agreement, watching as Art slid out of the booth and made his way to the counter. At his lonesome, he could still feel the undermining pressure of their conversation hanging onto him, dragging him down. Letting himself grab ahold of his emotions, he took a quick breath and walked outside, feeling as though the sudden wind blew his dark curls onto his face and eyes.
He stood by the sign, patiently waiting for Art to finish paying up. Soon enough, the sound of the door to the diner swinging was more than enough to let Patrick know that it was Art. Looking back at him, he could tell he, too, was affected by their previous talk.
In truth, Patrick had grown to bottle up whatever he felt. And everything he felt about ARt was too much for him. Seeing him work so hard and be a tactical tennis player without him being by his side like they once were was something he had never prepared himself to see. Watching as Art grew without the need for himself was something he wasn’t sure why he hated because he did enjoy the time to himself, and even though he still loved him as a friend and as someone he felt more intimately with, something about Art doing good on his own didn’t click.
The walk back to the hotel was mostly quiet, with the only noise being passing cars and their footsteps on the pavement. Glancing over to Art, Patrick noticed the way his shoulders were droopy and low, as well as how his eyes stuck to the floor for most of their walk back to the motel.
Without thinking, he reached out to Art, tapping on his wrist and taking his eyes away from the pavement to himself. He didn’t say anything, only giving away a small smile, which seemingly was enough to let Art smile himself. Neither of them was sure why they were smiling at one another, but it was clear enough that their argument was only in the heat of the moment.
The tension between them eased as they continued walking. The night was cool, and the gentle breeze slowly etched into Patrick’s skin, causing him to shiver slightly as the cold of the wind blew through his clothes and around his body.
Art noticed him next to him immediately, looking at Patrick worryingly. “Are you cold? You want my jacket?” He asked, holding onto Patrick’s index finger, feeling at the fingertips as the spur-in-the-moment cold washed over.
“I’m fine,” Patrick retorted, putting his hands in his pockets so as to avoid Art’s attention to them. “We’re almost to the motel; there’s not much of a point.”
"C'mon, let me do this for you just this once,” Art exclaimed, tugging on the seaming of Patrick’s shirt jokingly.
Patrick sighed and moved Art’s hand off his shirt, looking at him begrudgingly. Art seemed to already know what Patrick was going to say as he smirked at him and let out a little giggle.
“ Fine. As long as it gets you to shut up.”
Art grinned in eager delight, hastily removing his jacket and wrapping it around Patrick’s shoulders. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, the warmth Art’s jacket gave him was immediate; the gust of wind was barely noticeable; and his body was in the warm comfort of Art’s jacket.
“You see? It’s not all that bad. You should be grateful. I’m such a good friend.”
“Yeah, yeah. Keep on walking, asshole; we’re almost there.”
They walked for a few more minutes until they made it back into the motel. At this point, it was as if their argument from the previous was long gone, and their shit talk was reestablished as they entered their motel room.
In their room, it was evident that both of them were tired enough of what they’d gone through today.
“Okay, so I’m guessing we’re done for the night, right? You wanna shower first, Pat?”
Patrick didn’t care for whichever went first; he was just glad he was back in the motel room. “Oh, no, you go on ahead; I’ll go in later.”
Art nodded before grabbing one of the two towels that were laid on the bed. He walked over to the bathroom, moving around Patrick, who was laid out on the floor as if he had no comprehension of who or where he was.
The closing of the bathroom door was the last sight and sound of Art for Patrick. His loneliness was bothersome; it made him feel sporadic and unable to stay in place. With this feeling, he rushed over to his backpack, rummaging through every pouch in search of his cigarettes. After a thorough look, he found the pack and his lighter. He walked over to the front door and slowly opened it so that Art wouldn’t hear.
Outside, the dark of the night was at its worst, with the few working bulbs of the motel combating the distant void of night. He pulled out a cigarette and put it between his lips. The bitter taste of the damn thing was a cruel punishment in its sense, besides Patrick’s sense of shame for smoking, but it’s just been one hell of a night, a night that was hell worth a smoke break.
Patrick lit the cigarette after two clicks of the lighter, which lit up his skin a sunset orange for only a moment. He placed the lighter back into the pocket of Art’s college jacket and stared at the view of his surroundings.
Patrick leaned against the railing ahead of him. The intimacy with the quiet of the night was charming; it gave him a moment to think about all he'd done tonight. The night gave him an amplifying sense of isolation, similar to how he secluded himself from Art’s desperate attempts to crack out of his shell.
He took a drag, tasting the sweet, bitter taste it sent to his taste buds. His mind lay on his argument with Art and the tension that had been constructed between the two of them. Although it didn’t seem that much of an issue, he felt as though it was exhausting, the constant pushing and pulling between them, and along with not being on the same page, something was different about this argument.
They both still cared for one another, but often it felt as though they could never be on the same page. He took another drag at the cigarette; the grey smoke blew out of his lungs and escaped into the cold air surrounding Patrick.
He wondered if they could work—he and Art. As much as he tried to deny and ignore it, his feelings for Art were everpresent. Patrick knew he could spill out his innermost self to Art at any moment now; his feelings for him were more of a burden to himself than a standalone sensation of wanting Art. Throughout all his years of feeling a different interest in his friends besides being actual friends, it grew rampant most during this stage of his life. Seeing him was a guaranteed feeling of wanting to tell him every single thing he thought about him, but it was always just too much.
The cigarette was no longer what it once was; now only the bud resided in the burning ash. After one final exhale of the smoke, Patrick dropped the cigarette bud, then stomped it thin, leaving it on the rough surface of the floor beneath him. A sigh left his open mouth, leaving what was left of the bitter taste of the cigarette in the air by the railing.
Back inside the motel room, the sound of dribbling water splashing on the shower floor stopped, leaving the musty smell of the room at its lonesome. A few moments later, the sound of Art turning the knob off the bathroom door causes Patrick to turn his head over to the door.
Standing on the other side of the opened door was Art, with a towel wrapped around his waist and droplets of water glistening on his shoulders and chest. Startled by Patrick’s eyes, Art looked befuddled at the sight of his friend, seeming confused as to why he was just standing there.
“Oh, hey, Patrick.”
“Hey.”
A propriety-filled silence slowly reached a climax. Each of them rested their eyes on one another, unfulfilling for the part of Patrick that would rather speak with their lips.
Following their long stare-off, Art’s glare breaks into the pocket of his jacket that Patrick is wearing. “You smoke?”
Confused, Patrick looked down to his pocket, noticing the pack of cigarettes he had opened outside was still open and observable.
He hadn't told Art that he smoked, nor had he said anything about it to anyone he knew. He thought it wasn't all that important.
Patrick turned back to the sight of the dull cream-colored walls as if it could talk. It's suddenly so painful to admit he smoked, even when he couldn't care less for the harmful side effects that smoking has, but now, facing Art, it's embarrassing to admit what he is doing to himself.
“I mean, yeah, I do.”
Patrick turned back to Art, who relieved himself of the confusion of his facial expressions to assert a new, worrisome look on his face.
“Not, like, all that often, though.”
Art sighed, his tense frame loosening up at Patrick’s words. “Okay, anyways, you can take a shower if you want. I’m going to go get changed.”
Patrick nodded in agreement as the other boy went over to his suitcase to find something to wear for the night. Meanwhile, Patrick closed the bathroom door, the bright white glow enlightening his already fair skin as he removed his clothes before showering.
The water fell from his chest to his legs in river-like succession. It was a distant warmth, and the steam of the heat flourished in the mirror once Patrick had finished showering.
He wrapped a towel around his waist and opened the bathroom door. On the bed, Art had his eyes focused on the ceiling fan above him as it moved in circles endlessly without slowing. Patrick moved around to where his suitcase was, right beside Art’s. He grabbed a pair of shorts and underwear and quickly put them on. Once done, he lay beside Art, who hadn’t noticed the other boy till he passed his periphery.
“Well, this should be fun.” Art said, carrying a grin from ear to ear. Patrick chuckled in amusement, all the while deep in his heart he dreaded what was bound to be a peculiar night.
Art moved his blonde curls out of his eyes as he pushed his focus back onto Patrick. “I can just sleep on the floor or something. We don’t have to share the bed.”
Patrick sighed. He gently nudged his fist onto Art’s shoulder and withheld the other boy’s former grin from his face. “It’s for the weekend, Art. It’s not that bad.
Art chuckled, rubbing his hand over his chest. “Okay then, suit yourself.”
Peering his eyes behind the boy, Patrick looked at the digital clock to find it was already halfway to four in the morning. Both boys made their way around the motel room and turned off every lamp and light, with only the translucent glow of the moon shining through the sheer curtains of the windows on the windowsills being the main light source. Underneath the bedsheets, the bed was big enough for both boys, but even then, the touch of their skin was bound to their deep unconscious state.
“This feels like the time you fell asleep on my bed at the academy,” Patrick told Art in a deep whisper, holding in his laughter.
“Fuck off, asshole. I was tired after practice; I thought I was on my bed.” Art teased, glaring at his double-colored irises at Patrick.
The buzzing of the air conditioner outgrew the silence between Art and Patrick. Their lover-like teasing was left in the air as they were whisked away to deep sleep states.
Turning to face the ceiling fan, Patrick’s eyes grew heavier after every blink. Every circle the fan went through was at a constant speed, yet it moved slower after every cycle until, after a while, it felt like it had stopped on its own.
Turning back to his side, the last image he saw was the sight of Art’s face hidden beneath the masking shadow. He couldn’t see his eyes, but something about looking at him made him chuckle.
Patrick’s eyes grew restless after his many attempts to fall asleep, but all proved failure was bound as much as he tried. He turned over to the digital clock to find it'd only been an hour since he fell asleep. He sighed, exhaling all the air in him and pushing his hand out as if to reach out for the ceiling fan.
He got himself out of bed as quietly as he could, so as not to wake up the boy next to him. The lightbulb buzzed as its pearlescent glow lit up the bathroom, and Patrick’s eyes took a few seconds to adjust to the sudden brightness.
He opened the water faucet, splashing his face in cold water, as to ascertain a hold of himself as his mind felt distant. He looked back at the mirror, finding it humorous how he looked. If Art saw him now, he’d be calling him a wet dog. He took an unused towel and dried off his face and hands, along with the sink surface.
Opening the door, Patrick winced at the sound of it creaking ever so slightly as he tried to avoid making as much noise as not to wake up Art. His steps were calculated and slow, putting as little pressure on the floorboards as possible so the sudden thumping of his feet wouldn’t make much noise. His only light was the moon, with its little light traveling through the room's curtains.
Luckily enough, Patrick managed through the motel room and made it to the bed, only to find a grin shining from the moonshine, causing Patrick to scoff out loud without paying any mind to his noise control.
“Can’t sleep either?” Art asked, patting down the side of where Patrick was sleeping.
Patrick exhaled before plopping himself down onto the mattress, which, in its own right, wasn’t the most comfortable either. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
“You’re good,” Art muttered before letting out a short yawn. “I couldn’t sleep either.”
Patrick laid down on the bed, keeping his eyes on the half-awake Art. “What’s keeping you up?”
“I don’t know. It’s just been rough. I mean, we don’t get the time to talk to each other anymore, and here we are, in some motel on the side of the fucking road, with this—I don’t even know, tension, or something.”
Art’s sudden gravel and disjointed slur of confession wasn’t unfamiliar to Patrick, as he’s known him for so long, but something about Art letting himself speak his mind without some shitty joke right after seriously concerned him. As he sighed, Art could see Patrick’s worry, moving his glare from Patrick and back to the ceiling fan.
“Look, what I’m trying to say is that I miss you. I don’t know what’s going on with you, but I want you to know that I’ll still be there for you. I miss being your teammate, is what I guess I’m trying to say.”
A beat.
Art turned away, facing the bathroom door rather than Patrick in his periphery.
“I miss you too, Art.”
“What?”
“I miss you as well, Art.”
Art rolled over to Patrick’s voice, then sat himself up on the bed. Patrick's words filled the air around them, engulfing what remaining peace they had. His words spewed out like projectile missiles without a target; only it seemed to be that he’d be hurting himself.
“I miss you more than you could think, Art, far fucking more.”
“Patrick, what-”
His words continued spilling, a cut nerve spreading blood around without a clear trajectory. That’s the best way to describe Patrick’s fleeting words.
“I miss having my best friend. You’re saying the same thing, but when did you last come to me without me having to call you? The only times you’d call me were for picking you up after you’ve had too many fucking drinks, so don’t say you miss me when you’d only call me for when you need something out of me.”
Patrick’s retaliation has done something far more than either of the two of them imagined. Their ill-fated peace in sleep was long gone; now, in their wake, they’ll remain restless.
Art scoffed, not like how he’d done previous times before now, more of a what the fuck does he know kind of way.
Art's scoff hung in the air, thick with disbelief at what Patrick had to say. He moved his body closer to Patrick, trying to reign in his emotions.
"That's not fucking fair at all, Patrick," Art finally said, his voice shaking. "You don't know what it's like to be in my shoes. I always have to maintain some stupid fucking image for everybody; I never get the chance to be myself. Do you think it's easy for me? To feel like I’ll never be out of your shadow? I could win a thousand games, but I will never get to be on the same level as you. I called you all those times before because I needed you. I’d trust you with a gun in your hand."
Patrick's eyes flashed with frustration. "And I was there for you every damn time. But what about me, Art? When was the last time you checked up on me, like any good person would? Or if I needed something?"
Art had a hold on his fists, unlike ever before. “I’m sorry you felt that way, but you’ve got to understand; I have to deal with my shit. I know I haven’t been the best since I’ve been back at Stanford, but you have to understand, Patrick. I can barely keep up with my work or my practice, so I’m sorry we haven’t been in touch much since I’ve been back.
“But that’s your issue, Art,” Patrick starts, gripping onto the bedsheets beside him. “You need me. You need me to help you practice or help you out on whatever work you have—that’s what we did before. We used to be a team, Art. A duo.”
“We were fucking Fire and Ice!” Patrick blurted, tears streaming down his cheeks.
Suddenly, a pair of wet lips crashed onto Patrick’s own.
It was unlike any lips he’d ever had the grace of kissing. Tongues twisted on one another, all the while the sweetness of Art’s solemn lips was far too good for Patrick’s own.
Each gasp of air lasted too long without their lips crashing into one another. Soon enough, Art’s hand wrapped around the other’s torso, holding tight as they pursued each other like two dogs. Patrick’s hands were in Art’s hair, grasping onto it within their intimacy. Art moaned slightly at the feeling of his hair being enwrapped around Patrick’s fingers, with his hands further squeezing deep into his torso, etching themselves into the skin.
“Fuck, Patrick, I miss you so much.”
They kicked off the bedsheets that were wrapped between them as they fell to the ground. Now, facing Art, Patrick wrapped his leg around him, their bodies mutually in contact. After some time of their tongues being tied, Art grabbed onto the end of his shirt, pulling it slowly up to his head, only leaving Patrick’s grasp for a moment to pull it over his head and take it off.
With the help of Art, Patrick carefully removed his shirt, feeling the heat of Art’s own body with his steady hands guiding him through the motion. Now, their chests carried no space between one another as they held onto each other's kiss, and begrudgingly, Patrick desired more.
Amid things, Patrick pulled his head out of Art’s enticing lips, looking at him in assurance.
“Art… Are you sure you want to do this?”
In response, he laid his head on the other boy’s neck, kissing at the base of it. “Of course I do; it’s all I want to do.”
Pulling back into another wet, sloppy kiss, Art and Patrick’s bodies share no distance, every part of their bodies rubbing onto one another. At this point, Patrick’s dick was noticeably hard, and even now, he winced at the feeling of it, the sense of Art seeing him fully for who he was.
only to then help the other boy by unbuttoning the pants, slowly pulling them down, and revealing his green-striped boxer briefs.
“Sit on the bed, Patrick.”
Listening to Art’s demands, he sat down on the bed, holding his breath, feeling an intense wave of desire and nervousness. Once he was seated, Art’s palm hovered over his dick, enticing it in any way possible. He then placed his hand on Patrick’s cock, slowly rubbing it around in a circular motion. His gasps and labored breaths proved more than enough how into it he was, with small moans and groans of pleasure sneaking out of his breath.
“You want this so bad, Patrick; I know you do.” Art fake-whispered, “You’re so pretty when you're like this.”
Patrick could only mumble with how stimulated he was, his back on the comfort of the mattress, and his eyes shifting from normalcy and the back of his head.
After a while, Art’s long fingers wrapped around the fabric of Patrick’s boxers that followed through his dick, slowly gesturing up and down, making Patrick tremble at the feeling. At first, he starts at a pace that’d make any person want to go faster, rubbing his thumb around the tip, feeling how wet it got from the pre-cum, only to then go down to the base of it, picking up his pace as he stroked it in fast succession.
Eyes closed, Patrick’s breath hitched at the feeling of Art going down on his dick, following up with groans in gratification. “Fuck, Art, you’re so good at this, shit.”
His pre-cum oozed out of the fabric of his boxer briefs, with Art chortling to himself. “You must really be enjoying this.”
“Fuck off, asshole,” Patrick croaked, his face red in embarrassment.
The sensation that Patrick feels is otherworldly, hands gripping onto the blanket still, he couldn’t shake up the reality of everything that’s happening; it was all just too good.
Art’s hand never lets go of his dick, twisting his hand around it, gliding through it easily without fault. Patrick feels extreme heat from the sensation of his longtime friend rubbing at his cock, his eyes looking at Art with both intense feelings of want and need.
He’s embarrassed to admit it, but there's more that he wants deep in his heart that involves Art.
“Art,” He begins, breath shaky and eyes on him, “can you-”
“Suck your dick?” He interrupted, pausing his actions to look at the fair-skinned Patrick, who had heavy eyes and a look of need.
Patrick gave a small smirk to Art, giving into his blazed eyes of desire, “Yes.”
With a nod in agreement, Art laid his fingers around the lining of Patrick’s underwear, his nails digging between his skin in eagerness. As he slowly slid the fabric down his legs, Patrick felt as though he was moments away from an impending explosion of anxiety and pleasure. He felt the most vulnerable he had ever been in his life. As he looked at Art, he met his twinkling glare, illuminated by the pale moonlight. In his fixated stare, Art assured him he was fine, and at that moment, he felt cherished.
Patrick’s cock sprung out of his boxer briefs, with it leaking out a stream of pre-cum. Art couldn’t contain his bolstering laughter, which caused Patrick to grow a few shades darker red.
“Shut up, dumbass! Do you want to do this or not?”
Wiping away the tears in his eyes from laughing, Art exhaled, still trying to maintain a serious face after seeing Patrick’s intense stare.
“No, no, I do; it’s just,” He bursts out laughing again, causing Patrick to groan in disbelief at his friend's unseriousness. “You do want me. I always had the feeling, but I was never sure about it. At least I know now that this won’t be some stupid one-off thing or something.”
“You don’t know that,” Patrick noted, carrying his smile with a devious glare at Art. ‘Maybe this is just me getting something out of my system.”
Art moved Patrick’s legs apart, giving him more than enough space he needed. “Like hell, you would. You want me; you always have.”
Without hesitation, Art’s lips wrapped around the tip of Patrick’s dick, catching him by surprise. In airy moans and whispered sighs, Patrick felt ever more tantalized as Art enveloped his cock, sucking and slowly moving his head up and down in rhythm.
The sudden pleasure was immense. Patrick’s body spasmed at the feeling of Art licking and sucking, pressing deeper into the base of his cock.
“Shit, Art, you’re so fucking good; keep going, God.”
As instructed, Art followed through on Patrick’s words, flicking his tongue at the glans and slobbering down at the foundation of his dick.
Patrick’s mind is absent, the only thought in his head is just how good he feels. In coordinated motion, Art’s head swayed continuously down onto his dick, with his lips sucking on every aspect of Patrick’s dick. Every movement Art makes is a fragile knife slipping through Patrick’s skin, breath hitched as he tries to compose himself. All parts of what was happening were overwhelmingly good, it was fucking flawless. Art’s rhythm as he continued stroking and sucking Patrick’s cock seemed to be something he was good at.
After mainly etching his nails deep into the firm mattress, Patrick’s fingers rested on Art’s head, caressing the loose blonde curls and guiding him closer to his balls. Art gagged as his throat battled with Patrick’s dick for air. He eased into it, starting slow but letting his throat take in more of Patrick’s cock.
Art’s hands were busy as well, with one gripping onto Patrick’s thigh, hard enough to leave a bruise. The other teased his balls, further enveloping a deeper sensation of pure want that made Patrick moan in pure pleasure. He was losing himself in the moment, in the feel of Art’s mouth and hands, in the soft moans and gasps escaping his lips.
“Art…” he began, words spewed out with mixtures of nothingness from the pleasure. He could barely move his lips to form words, and his head disconnected from reality constantly as the overwhelming pleasure consumed him whole. “I-I think I’m...”
Art could only respond with a muffled hum, the vibration sending a jolt of ecstasy through Patrick’s epicenter.
He was moments away from coming, he could feel it. His body tensed up as Art’s mouth swallowed through all of Patrick’s dick. It seemed like he also could feel it, as his movements became calculated, all to please Patrick, he got faster.
Patrick couldn’t let go of Art’s hair; his entire body succumbed to him. His hips bucked and jolted as Art stroked him intensely, and his eyes trained on his dick. He took out Patrick’s dick out of his mouth, His hand’s grip on it tightened as he pumped faster.
It was imminent at any moment that Patrick would come, The room faded away from his head, and the only thing in his vision was just the two of them, eyes interlocked and lustrous. It was all truthfully a game of tennis in both of their minds, eyes wavered from different sections of themselves, bodies covered in the sweat, the heat of it all. It was all a game in their minds, and they were trying to get the points that mattered.
In the heat of the moment, eyes closed and joints twitching from the sensation, Patrick came. His body was shaking as every pulse of desire struck through every vein in his body. Art’s face and Patrick’s stomach were covered in his come, laid beautifully like the small freckles on Patrick’s face.
However, this didn’t stop Art, though, as he continued milking away at every piece of pleasure from Patrick up until it was painful to even stroke, with his head collapsing onto the bed as he moaned at the feeling.
Art eventually let go of Patrick, with a conniving smile well rested onto his cheeks as he looked at him amusingly. “Well, how was it?”
In deep pants and gasps of air, Patrick looked back to Art, also carrying a similar smile to the one that the other wore.
“Fucking hell, Art, I don’t even know what to say.”
Art didn’t say anything, still letting the smile on his face reign aslaylaid down on the bed beside Patrick. Art left with a small kiss for him before leaving for the bathroom in search of tissue paper to clean up.
Coming back from the bathroom with tissue paper at hand, Art gave a few pieces of tissue to Patrick before getting for for himself to wipe off the residue on his face. Patrick grinned, looking eagerly at the blonde boy as he wiped away what was left of Patrick.
“Jesus, I didn’t mean to do all…” He began, then illustrated what he was talking about by pointing to Art’s face, moving his finger in a circular motion.
“That.”
At that moment, it was their first laugh together after what had transpired, with Art wheezing and gripping the wall as he tried to find his footing after laughing.
“Fuck off! You were the one who made the mess!”
Patrick continued laughing, even as Art moved back beside him on the bed.
“Regardless, I’m just happy to have you back, Art.”
In response, Art grinned, inching closer to Patrick’s bare-naked body.
“Me too,” he whispered back.
Their lips moved into one another in a rhythmic motion, their tongues feeling every taste bud. It had only been a few minutes since what had happened, and Patrick could still taste something sweet in Art’s mouth.
“I love you, Art. I never meant to be a bitch or whatever to you. I was just angry; we didn’t talk all that much up until you called about the challenger.”
“I know, I’m sorry too. I love you.”
In whispered breaths, Patrick pulled Art in closer, their bodies intertwined between one another flawlessly. At the moment, the only presence in their room was the sound of their deep breaths between one another and the moonlight that shone at them.
The feeling of their skin on top of each other was perfect, and their silent contentment for one another would soon just be another memory they’d forever share, even in distant corners or with new lovers, they’d carry with what had happened in their motel room for as long as they could.