Work Text:
The faint hum of the run-down air conditioning system mixed with the radio music, a measly night filled the surroundings outside. The smell of burnt cigarettes and sweat lay throughout their hotel room, lying on Art and Patrick's bodies.
"She isn't coming, Patrick." Art blared, taking Patrick's attention away from his little game of throwing play cards into his trophy cup.
He scoffed, trying to maintain his composure and his altruistic optimism. "You don't know that, Art! Maybe she's just lost trying to look for our room—or she's doing photos or some stupid shit 'cause of her win."
"Believe what you will," Art remarked, gazing at the ceiling above him. "But she's not coming."
The heat in the room was immense, and they lay around the room in nothing but underwear, trying desperately to combat the heat in their hotel room.
In the heat of this, Patrick banged his hand on the air conditioning system with pure, brute force, his lips tightening their grip on the cigarette in his mouth. Regardless of his wrath on the conditioning system, it couldn't save it—their sweat kept their bodies still enclosed in the ever-consuming heat.
"I don't get why this stupid piece of shit won't work-"
The sudden knock on their door halted whatever would've come out of their mouths. For a brief moment, both boys stayed still—eyes darting back and forth to one another. The air between them was frozen in place—and the only sound hearable was the radio playing some intangible music.
For a moment, each second lasted a lifetime—with each stare Patrick and Art shared lasting longer than the previous. He could feel the quickened pulsing of his blood flowing through his arm as his breath hitched back into his mouth.
The abrupt sound of a second knock on the door slapped both boys back into reality—the knocking faster and harder.
Immediately, both Patrick and Art stumbled around their hotel room—searching for whatever clothes they could find to place on themselves, regardless of who owned what. Patrick grabbed the nearest shirt he could find—the one Art wore earlier in the day. Art hastily pulled one of his Standford tees over his head—the one lying just about hidden in the crevices underneath his side of the bed. Every movement was frantic and uncoordinated, both of them shifting between one another to make the room the least presentable.
"Art!" Patrick whelped out, head whipping back onto him. "The ash!"
"Found it!" Art exclaimed in a hushed whisper, his hands brushing on the carpeted floor as he brushed the residue underneath their pulled-together beds.
After a while, both boys managed to fix up most of their room with their little time. Their eyes interlocked onto one another for a moment—huffing out exasperated breaths after their endeavors of whatever way they could clean their room. Once they kept their composure and found their footings, their eyes daggered around between them and the door—causing them to rush over to their room door, their bodies aligned horizontally between the space they shared at the room entrance.
In shared, ragged breaths, Art reached for the doorknob first, following in return with a grin on his left cheek. Opening the door, for just a moment, Patrick could only let his mind wander over what could happen—feeling all over Tashi's sloppy kisses, feeling her body on top of his—his imagination ran wild at the infinite possibilities.
Once the door was fully open, Patrick's body longed to see Tashi close to him. He flicked his head between Art and the door while carrying a big smile on his face. However, once he could see what was standing on the other side of the door, his face shifted into a measly look of pure confusion.
The sound of a chipper young woman's voice introduces herself to the two of them. "Hello, this is room service."
Patrick's dream scenario crumbled down and dug into the carpeted floor—his eyes could only look down in sheer embarrassment as Art expressed their shared confusion.
"I'm sorry, you have the wrong room—we haven't ordered any room service."
The woman looked bewildered as she pulled out her notepad to check if the information given was accurate.
"Oh, I'm so sorry!" She yelped, her cheeks flushed in red. "I didn't properly check; please, don't mind me. Have a good rest of your night."
Patrick and Art unanimously expressed the same awkward expression as they wished the staff member a good night. As Art shut the door, Patrick couldn't look at his facial expression.
Art moved closer to his ear, with Patrick's periphery catching a devious grin etched into his lips. "Told you she wasn't going to come." He whispered.
"Whatever, asshole," Patrick murmured back, fixating his stare back at Art, eyes unknowingly tracing through his facial structure.
They walked over to the sides of their pushed-together beds, the space between them scarce as their bodies occupied most of the space between them.
Settling into their respective sides of the bed, they lay between their shared silence—with whatever conversation they had were the gestured looks between Art and Patrick—mocking him for his senseless belief that Tashi would've come.
The dim lighting of the lamp brushed between their features, casting their shadows on the opposite side of the room. Patrick's proximity to Art was undeniably glamorous to him—with their shared warmth radiating through their skin.
Patrick leaned back against the headboard, allowing his legs to stretch fully—his gaze fixated on the ceiling fan above him. "She still could come at any moment," He uttered, turning his head to Art.
"I don't get why you're so desperate for her, Patrick; it's almost midnight; she didn't come then, she's not coming now." Art teased, nudging his arm into Patrick's back—only being given a groan in return.
Patrick shifted closer to Art—grabbing at the base of his neck, their faces just a few inches apart.
"I wanted to fuck her. You wanted to fuck her. I'm just trying to stay optimistic, dumbass."
After what Patrick said, neither boy moved away—instead choosing to stay right where they were, skin to skin. Between hushed breaths, Art's eyes shifted from Patrick's own to his lips—splitting his mouth into a tongue-tied grin, making Patrick do the same.
This lasted minutes—their bodies almost touching, their eyes never daring to look away, a moment of pure revelry.
"And how would that work, Patrick?" Art whispered back, moving a few inches closer to Patrick's face, his grin taking the limelight off his face—with Patrick staggering between his eyes and lips continuously. "Would've one of us had to wait in the bathroom and jerk off or some shit as the other got to fuck her? Don't think with your dick."
Patrick lunged onto Art, his body now on top of his, carrying a firm grasp on the other's wrists. They exchanged grunts and groans as Art tried to control the situation, leaving himself with a bigger smile. Patrick's body was now fully overtopped Art, resting on his hips; he let out an amusing chuckle under his breath.
"I don't see much of an issue if it came to that, really, and besides, you and I both know she wanted me."
Art giggled at Patrick's words, finding it difficult to maintain his composure after what he had said. He quickly pushed him off of his body and reversed their roles—Art's body now lying over Patrick's.
"Stop bullshitting yourself for once, Patrick."
Patrick shifted slightly, finding himself deep in his breaths interchanging with Art's. His breath warmed up the upper parts of his neck as he focused his glare continuously onto him. "Why?" He asked Art, holding up a grin similar to the other one. "You think she wanted to fuck you?"
"I-I'm not saying that," Art muttered, his cheeks rushing into a fair pink profusely as he imagined it. "But what makes you think she wanted to fuck you?"
"Did you see the way she looked at me? 'C'mon, I get that you're trying to defend yourself, but let's be serious here for a second."
"If she wanted to fuck you so bad," Art started, keeping a firm grasp on Patrick. "Then why didn't she show up?"
"She's probably off signing contracts with some clothing brand and making a fucking line of clothes since she's fucking real talented at tennis—something you'd never know." Patrick teased playfully, Art's eyes widening at his words
"You're hilarious, Patrick," Art whispered, suddenly tightening his grip on Patrick—his smile devilish with intent. "Your serve is bad enough as is, and you can't go through a game without getting a point violation for unsportsmanlike conduct. You lose yourself around the second round and fall apart almost immediately."
Patrick didn't cater a response; all he did was grin from ear to ear at the sound of Art's evident defense. It was humourous in his eyes, watching as Art belittled him into the fucking ground, all the while noticeably upset that Tashi didn't show up.
Art's nostrils flared up as he noticed Patrick's sly smile—only to fall back into the same smile he's got on.
"What's so funny?"
"You," said Patrick. Art gave out of his grasp on him, but instead, he hovered over him, leaving Patrick unable to move his upper torso. "You're trying desperately to place yourself on a higher pedestal when, in reality, you're exactly just like me, Art."
Art chuckled at what Patrick was saying, but his expression never changed–instead, opting to continue with his grin.
"And it's so good to see you so worked up over me, and I love seeing this side of you—trying so hard to be something that you aren't, holding yourself back from what you fucking want."
Art's smile quickly disappeared without a trace, with his lips now slightly curved down as his eyebrows flicked up in confusion. He didn't reply, leaving Patrick to continue speaking despite their tension.
"You wanted to fuck her, what's so hard about saying that?"
"Shut up," Art murmured, interrupting Patrick of whatever he had to say.
"What?" Patrick questioned, with Art's eyes fading away from Patrick's vision as he hung his head low. "Did I get it wrong? Did you wanna fuck me?"
At that moment, something Patrick ignited within him. His words echoed between them—Art's glare turned killer at his voice. Patrick's words were nothing more than a half-assed tease at Art, but something between them changed—something about their constant back and forths seemed more significant than they initially thought.
A bitter quiet lasted for what Patrick thought lasted for hours—their eyes wide open to one another, each long, waking breath disrupting the silence between them. It was as if neither of them knew what those words meant, but Patrick didn't think carefully enough to think of something else to say.
"What the hell's wrong with you, Patrick? Jesus." Art exclaimed, his voice far more stoic—an unsettling aspect of Art that Patrick hadn't often found himself facing.
"Hey, I didn't say anything; I'm just saying stuff. Besides, it's not like we didn't do anything when we were younger-"
"Don't bring up shit from years ago—there's reasons why we don't talk about them." Art interrupted, causing Patrick's long-time smile to dribble down to nothing.
"I mean, yeah; I don't know how often you tell people I taught you how to jerk off." Patrick chaffed, causing Patrick to embellish himself in deep maroon on his cheeks.
"Fuck off." Art expressed, his voice low, sending a shiver down Patrick's spine. Their usual shared teasing and playfulness were now a bitter warfare of continuous assaults on one another—a raw edge of their friendship he hadn't gotten the most comfortable with.
Patrick swallowed hard; the density of the tension surrounding them bludgeoned right to the core of himself. Even through Art's dismay at what he had to say, a senseless urge to bring up past moments clawed at the back of his mind.
"Do you ever think about when we were kids at the academy?"
Art didn't respond, leaving Patrick's voice to fill the surrounding air.
"Back on those few nights at the academy when we'd go on about our first kisses, and eventually, we opened the conversation about what it'd be like to kiss one another?"
Art's expression softened as Patrick backtracked through his memories, his eyes shifting back at him again.
"For that moment, we were alone together—without seeing other people. Then, when we kissed, we just continued repeatedly—we just said it was to get it over with, to be sure if we liked it or not since we were just kids,"
"Where are you going with this?" Art queried audibly, his face mixed in shades of frustration, a tone of pink roses.
"We never asked each other back then if we liked it."
An oppressive silence took hold, enveloping everything in its suffocating embrace. Nothing but the solemn, unwavering gazes seemed to haunt every corner of thought, relentlessly shadowing any attempt to escape the grip of the fading memory.
The air itself seemed thick with their unsaid answers. Neither one of them knew the other answer to the question, but at this moment, it was painfully clear that they had their answers. Even through all the years, they'd subconsciously carved a proper response to the sensation of one another's lips.
Patrick didn't correctly think over his words—his mind carelessly spewed out the things he'd thought of ever since the moment they shared their first kiss. Even through the span of their lasting bond, every bit of him had always wondered what Art would've said back all those years ago. "Did you like it back then?"
Art's face was pale—his eyes wavered between Patrick and the lining of his Stanford shirt consistently. Every waking moment of their shared quietude was as tortuous for Art as it was for Patrick.
The entire night had been eclipsed instantly as the sensation of Art's lips crashed right onto Patrick's. Time stood in place, and the world outside fell out of Patrick's sight—all he could see was Art. It was nothing like anyone else he'd ever kissed—everything felt personal; every grasp at one another's bodies to the sensation of Art's lips, nothing could ever replicate it. Years of pent-up questioning of his admiration of him, he intensified into the moment.
Patrick's hands instinctively found their way to Art's back, pulling him closer to his body, feeling every inch of him—every piece he'd always wanted to feel in an intimate setting. His mind went through the total blank; everything he could think of contained Art. All worry buried deep in him was long washed out by the sudden heat of their sloppy kissing.
Their kissing evolved more passionate, their rough lips intertwining. Art's hand lingers through Patrick's noir curls, softly stroking it in between their intimacy. Patrick can only respond through deep moans into Art's mouth, as his body is too entirely focused on what he is feeling.
Eventually, kissing wasn't enough for either of them. Patrick shimmied Art's button-up off of his shoulders, leaving him topless through the rushing heat. His hands moved in with purpose, gliding through Art's thighs and onto the seaming of his shirt, guiding him through putting it over his head and removing it. His breath quickened noticeably enough for Patrick to notice it, churning out a big smile.
Art's bare chest was dim-lit by the warm yellow lighting of their hotel room, causing Patrick to stare at his physique idly. He couldn't help it—his eyes skimmed through his body, taking in any detail he could find. Something about Art was so compelling in his eyes—seeing him when they were both at their most vulnerable, their most desire struck.
They lay there momentarily, eyes doing all the talking, bodies on top of one another. It was apparent then what was left for them in the dusk of the night. Their unspoken thoughts had finally been replaced with something tangible, something perfect.
By now, Patrick's dick was hard, the evidence of his deep enticement pressing against the fabric of his boxers. The sensation was overwhelming, with a mix of anticipation and desire for Art that was impossible to comprehend fully.
Art seemed to have noticed Patrick's arousal as his fingertips lingered down to the lining of Patrick's boxers, teasingly close but not enough for either of them. Patrick's breath hitched at the utter feeling of Art's fingers on his skin, his body tense for what was to come.
After the teasing, Art grabbed onto the lining of his underwear and glided them down to Patrick's legs, leaving him fully naked between the two of them. His dick pulsated at the sensation of the fabric, creating friction between it, causing Patrick to groan in pure erotica.
By now, Patrick's dick was hard, the evidence of his arousal pressing insistently against the fabric of his pants. The sensation was overwhelming, a mix of anticipation and desire that he could no longer ignore. Art seemed to sense it too, his own body responding in kind, their mutual need creating a charged atmosphere that was impossible to resist.
Art's hand moved with deliberate slowness, trailing down Patrick's chest, leaving a path of heat in its wake. His fingers hovered just above the waistband of Patrick's pants, teasingly close but not yet giving in to what they both wanted. Patrick's breath hitched, his body tense with expectation, every nerve ending alight with sensation.
Every soft caress of skin was an electrifying sensation Patrick could obsess over for years. Their lips didn't even touch now, kissing on different parts of each other's bodies. Every ounce of hesitation that bereaved within himself flushed down like the drips of sweat gliding down his skin.
Soon enough, Patrick's own hands adjusted onto the fabric of Art's underwear, gliding it down onto the ground, revealing Art's hard dick. They were at the pinnacle of their high, something, not a dop could ever give back—an immense sensation of wanderlust set between their two bodies as if neither of them had been nurtured before. Patrick had never seen something so gorgeous that was on par with Art, now—not even Tashi Duncan could compete with the emotional drive he's given to him.
Art's gaze was set right between Patrick's eyes, an unforgettable look neither of them knew carried their mutual understanding of one another. As he lay closer to him, Art gently crawled over to Patrick, eyes keen through every minor imbalance step.
"Fuck me," He whispered, an intolerant sensation that was practically an overburst of dopamine rushed out of Patrick's body.
In retaliation, Patrick huffed aloud as he inserted his cock inside of Art—intricately placing it properly and slowly adjusting into it, causing both boys to moan out at the feeling. Their bodies were now aligned; a sweet tenderness filled the air as their blushing cheeks coincided with one another desperate pleas for more, their groans growing louder.
Patrick began rocking his hips at a deliberate pace, with each thrust sending a chilling feeling through both Art and Patrick—as if they both had shared bodies and souls. Art's fingers dug into his skin, grasping at whatever his hands grabbed onto first. Their beds creaked at every movement between them, the sound of a croaking symphony to their ears.
Their room filled with their breaths; there was nothing more enthralling than hearing the sound of Art's moans through every hilt—Patrick's breaths grew frantic as he tried to steady himself.
All of what was happening was momentous—the fucking, the kissing, all of it. It was what Patrick wanted—what they wanted out of the night from Tashi, only to find themselves caught up in their personal affair.
Art's back arched as their intimacy continued, pressing himself deeper into Patrick's dick—reaching farther inside of himself than earlier. In faint mumbles, Patrick could hear his sights in pleasure through exasperated gasps of air, his hands clinging to his shoulders as if his life were at risk if he were to remove them.
Patrick's hands found Art's, their fingers mingling between themselves as he quickened the pace of every thrust. Art's insides were warm, contradicting their rugged, sweaty bodies with fastened heartbeats. They were lost in one another; mixed colors turned into a new one, solely focused on each other's need for feeling good.
The sensation of Art was fucking unbearable to Patrick. Every damn thrust pulled him tighter into a more profound desire of him—of Art. The sounds of him bouncing up and down on Patrick cleared the air alongside their moans, a cumbersome moment ridiculed by their sense of deprivation as they stared endlessly into their eyes.
Patrick could feel it—he was going to come soon. Every bit of the feeling was perfection, and Art's grasp on his body made him even more aroused at the touch of his skin. He went faster, pulling in & out of Art, their shared moans now in key with one another like a pair of choir boys.
Their moans grew louder and louder after every time Patrick fucked into Art; their lips clashed into each other momentarily—sweet cherry taste balancing between their shared kiss. An e enticing scent grew on them, one of sweat and cologne from earlier today—combining into some lustrous smell that paired so well with Art. Patrick was entirely stimulated as his balls clapped between Art's crevices; an orgasm inbound to implode at any moment was imminent, and they both could tell.
"Come in me, Patrick," Art shouted, his breath hitching in deep grunts as Patrick continued fucking him. "Keep going, please, you're doing so well."
Patrick rapidly increased his pace, now reaching an ultimatum. Every single bit of himself grew restless as his morals left—wanting to witness Art be filled in a near-paradise pleasure—a sweet moan as hard as he could right in his ear, the utter idea of it a fantasy in its own right.
His heart beat faster as he kept his momentum on Art, from their bickering to their bodies being in flawed grace as Art pumped in further. His body grew uncontrollable through the night—nearing a sense of pain mixed between arousing thoughts.
It was humoring seeing just where they were half an hour ago—arguing over some girl and who was going to fuck her to be now pleading for one another as if their bones were mere tortured souls that sufficed for the time being. Every second was ironic in a sense, how their bodies touched like two planes crashing into one big explosion that could be seen from the ground.
Patrick couldn't look away from Art, and his entire presence was so enamored that he questioned what they were doing and was even confined to the chains of reality. Even through the grimy, unappealing aspects of sex, Art turned into a dance form in his way; the rhythmic bouncing between Patrick's thighs could be some far-fetched sentiment in his eyes, something so appealing it feels fictional.
Patrick's pace was not much attenuated; even through an aching pain coursing through the lower half of his body, he felt an intense passion for what he felt and how Art felt. Without their constant back-and-forths, they were desperate for anything correlating with their one-track minds solely focused on themselves. They pined for one another in glances, similar to their match earlier in the day. The thwack of a racket rang in their ears constantly, even when neither of the two was playing tennis.
And at that moment, their most intimate and behind closed doors, the ringing gave out. Only moans and the slight noise of their bodies smacking between one another were loud enough for ears placed into the walls. It was just them, neither a ball nor a racket, just the use of their bodies that coalesced into the intricate ecstasy.
Patrick was going to come—Through the intense pleasure, the human body can only strive at it for an extended amount of time. He sharply inhaled a breath through gritted teeth as though his body could entirely be put at a pause in an instant. The hum of the run-down air conditioning unit and the sight of Art were all he could focus on as he reached a level of pure, untouched arousal.
"Art," Patrick muttered through the small gaps between his teeth; a sanctimonious bliss rushed through his head, the dopamine rush wavering through every aspect of himself. He couldn't finish his sentence for some time; the entire fabrication of their intercourse was an incomprehensible concept.
"I'm coming," He replied, his eyes shutting out his view of Art. He heard a faint chuckle over him; then, a pair of lips latched onto the side of his neck, sucking on it like some desperate, starving fawn.
It was dreary, feeling the bewildered anticipation turn into sudden surrealism as Patrick's body grew forthcoming to the spurt of his come. From Art's lips to his body, there was nothing he wasn't enjoying about him. In constant curiosity about his friendship with Art, there was an idea in his head—the concept of Art and himself, something more than they were then.
He wasn't even sure what they were now—even though he was deep inside Art, this could all very well be a figment of what they were like when they were kids in college once they were fully fledged adults with kids and wives. The typical life isn't Patrick's ideal way of living, and the idea that one day he and Art won't get to be kids again in their future was scarily turning to fruition.
Amid their fondling, Patrick let his mind race through the idea of who he was and, more importantly, who he wanted to be with— though Art perused his lips through his body, every bit of himself, both physically and mentally, felt as though they were going to explode due to something.
Soon enough, it was unbearable to deny that his body had reached his peak—he was coming. Art sensed this as well as he ushered himself out of Patrick's thighs and worked his hands by the base of Patrick's cock. He stroked it at a similar pace as he once was previously, Patrick's body wincing at the utter sensation of Art's fingers gliding through his dick, feeling the most whenever he'd rub at the tip.
Eventually, streams of white shot out of his urethra, Patrick's body entirely shaking through all this. He moaned out during the entire excursion, feeling as Art slowly loosened his grip on him after every few seconds. Looking over at Art, he found his abdomen covered in his come, only to then dart his eyes at the smiling Art.
"Shut up…" He blabbered out, dropping his head back on the bed, his entire body flustered in a coral-colored red. The room spun in his vision, and an utter heat grew at his back as his body recovered from the jitters.
Art gleefully chuckled, only to awfully try to avoid Patrick's eye contact. "Sorry, it's just—I find this so weird."
"What part? The fact we just had sex or that Tashi didn't come to visit us?" Patrick reeled back, his slight giggle unknowingly causing a domino chain of mutual laughing between him and Art.
"You're still on that?" Art questioned with a look on his face, a mixture of shock and humor.
Patrick and Art lay together on the bed—nothing to say whatsoever. They've tired themselves out with what they were doing.
Patrick's mind repeated his thoughts from earlier—the ones about the future, a future without certainty, or the certainty of Art.
It's all he's lived for; since they met, he's had a relationship with Art, unlike the usual kind. He could be far more intimate with him compared to anyone else at the academy, and it's not like he didn't do the same shit, either.
So now, their bodies so intimately bare and naked, just after so much passion that synergized between them, they lay there, so close, but something in the atmosphere pulled them apart in Patrick's eyes.
"Hey," he mustered out of himself, causing Art to look over at him, eyes wide and charmingly sweet. Patrick turned away to the ceiling after Art's slight hum of confusion through his lips, slowly losing himself to the radio that never ceased playing. "What does, like…"
Patrick found it challenging to phrase his words, and he couldn't stop stuttering through it all, like some kid having to speak in front of a whole assembly. His voice was a whisper in solitude as he tried to understand what he wanted to say, only breaking away to look back at Art for a moment.
"What does this mean to us now?"
"What?" Art asked, trying to understand what Patrick meant by saying that.
"We fucked, what does that mean?"
Art didn't speak up at first, leaving both of them wondering if they fully understood Patrick's words.
"It won't affect us if that's what you're worried about, Patrick."
"It might not now, but what would we think of it the same when we're older—when it's long gone, and when we'd have separate lives?"
The question lingered like poison in the water, and a crushing sense grew in Patrick's gut as his words further displayed his inner emotions.
"We'll figure it out then." Art replied, grabbing Patrick's hand and tying his own through his fingers. A solemn relief washed over Patrick at the sheer touch. "We're young and dumb, and all we know now is not all we'd know then."
"All I know now is I wanna stay here for a little longer." He added, causing Patrick to smile.
Summoning every last ounce of strength within himself, he leaned in and kissed Art once more, filling the air between them with the sound of shared laughter within their serene silence.