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“You just have to let the soft animal of your body want what it wants.” - Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver
***********
It starts with an argument about an argument.
Well, actually it started yesterday, with a hard fought tennis match between two long-estranged friends, which did not end in the heartfelt reunion Patrick and Tashi had both expected. Or, possibly you could argue that it started with Patrick fucking Art’s wife in the back of his shitty van the night before, which would probably be fair. But then you could also say it started at Stanford, with two best friends, one girl, and very little self awareness. There are a lot of ways you could spin this whole thing, but none of them would quite arrive at the truth.
The truth of it is, it started almost 20 years ago, with a twelve year old red-headed boy walking into the dorm room of a slightly taller, dark-haired twelve year old boy. A boy who was already hanging upside down off the top bunk, wearing a shit-eating grin.
But this is now, and not then, and Art is standing in the doorway to Patrick’s cheap hotel room with a scowl, soaked to the bone on account of the way it’s pissing down rain outside. And because of course he is. How cliché.
He does not offer an explanation for why he’s here. Patrick doesn’t ask for one. (He already knows, not least because Tashi called an hour ago to warn him that she’d thrown Art out “until he can look his desire in the face like a grown man,” and that Patrick should be expecting him sometime tonight. He also just knows them, and he knew, when he went home alone after the match, that shit would probably hit the fan in the Donaldson household tonight.)
Art shoulders by Patrick without a word, dripping all over the grubby carpet.
“Yeah, come on in man, no worries!” Patrick says, a little less sarcastically than he means to. Get it together, Zweig.
Art doesn’t even take the bait; just stands in front of the bed, silently facing away from Patrick. Patrick closes the door, but otherwise doesn’t dare move. The ancient clock on the wall drums a steady tick, tick, tick. Art will talk when he’s ready, Patrick knows.
It takes a long time for Art to find the words. Patrick couldn’t say how long, really. He’s never been good at measuring time, but it feels like fucking forever. When he finally speaks, all he says is, “Fuck you, man.” He’s still facing the bed. The clock is still ticking.
Patrick has half a mind to fucking throw it.
“Yeah? Patrick says instead, “You want to?” because old habits die hard. And because he figures they might as well start at the truth, even if Art isn’t ready to hear it.
Art whirls on him then, incredulous, which is kind of funny. It’s cute when he pretends not to know Patrick like the back of his hand. He knew exactly what Patrick was going to say to that. Still, he performs his outrage like a pro. “Do I —“ he cuts himself off, “What the fuck, Patrick?”
“What?”
“You fucking know what, you piece of shit!”
“I wanna hear you say it,” Patrick says, because if Art wants to talk about this, he’s going to have to actually talk about it.
Art explodes. “You fucked my wife, you cocky fucking bastard!” His face is red, and a little droplet of spit flies from his mouth to land on the right corner of Patrick’s lip. Instinctively, Patrick’s tongue darts out to taste it. He doesn’t think Art even notices.
“I think you mean I fucked your wife again,” he says, because he’s always loved seeing Art riled up like this. It’s a rare sight, rarer still now that he’s been living under Tashi’s rule for the past ten years, but God, is it beautiful. The raw power of it. Art allowing himself to take up space; to feel. Patrick, ever the masochist, loves to see it, even when it’s directed at him. Maybe especially then.
Art marches over to him at that, just so he can get up in Patrick’s space, “WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?” he spits. His face is so close to Patrick’s right now, Patrick can smell the bubble mint gum he must have been chewing on the way over. He wonders if Art even realizes what he’s doing. Probably not.
Patrick scoffs. “What’s wrong with me, man? What’s wrong with you? At least I know what this argument is about. You have no fucking clue why you’re even angry. It’s embarrassing, dude.”
And just like that, Art looks like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. He takes a step back. “What?”
Patrick, never one to deny their natural push and pull, steps forward. “Actually, no,” he pokes an accusatory finger at Art’s chest, “You do know why you’re angry, you just don’t want to fucking admit it, and that’s even worse!”
Art has the audacity to look confused.
Patrick throws his arms up, “Exactly like that!” Eye roll. “That fucking face! Like you don’t know exactly what’s going on here! Like you haven’t known it for the past fifteen or whatever fucking years!” Patrick’s pushing further into Art’s space. For every step Art takes back, Patrick takes one forward, and isn’t that the metaphor of all time.
Art looks like a cornered animal. Good. A cornered animal is at its most dangerous, and that’s exactly the way Patrick wants him. Fighting.
What he gets instead, is Art’s face going perfectly blank. It looks strange against the rush of blood that still floods his cheeks. His tone is flat when he says, “What are you saying, Patrick.” It’s not a question.
Patrick answers anyway. “You fucking know what I’m saying, Art.”
The ensuing silence is punctuated by the faint sound of laughter from one of the adjacent rooms. Art doesn’t ask him to clarify.
They’re at a stalemate, Patrick realizes. He may have pushed a little too hard, too fast, and now Art’s all clammed up. If he had a fucking nickel for every time they landed here… but these stakes feel higher than they ever have. Fuck.
He pivots, both figuratively and literally. Patrick turns and takes a step toward his suitcase, clothes spilling out of it and strewn across the floor. He rummages for a second, and then turns back to a bewildered Art, holding a pile of clean clothes. Clean enough, anyway. He thrusts them into Art’s hands, and points to the bathroom behind him. “Go fucking shower,” he says, “you’re dripping all over my nice clean floors.”
They both look down at the stained, worn down carpet. When Art looks back up, there seem to be marginally fewer creases in his forehead. “Yeah,” he says, and then he disappears behind the door without another word.
Patrick tries not to think about his naked body, just a few feet from him. That when he comes back out, he’ll be wearing Patrick’s clothes.
He doesn’t think about it at all.
***
Art showers for a long time.
Patrick doesn’t really know what to do with himself while he waits. He kicked his messy clothes back into his suitcase, checked his phone (no messages), and leaned close to the shiny metal of his bedside lamp to make sure he didn’t have anything in his teeth. They were fine, but his distorted reflection was a little distressing when he thought about the way Art looked so put together, even soaking wet.
Art still hasn’t emerged from the bathroom after all his faffing, so Patrick resigns himself to smoking a cigarette by the window. He’s lucky the wind is blowing in the opposite direction, so most of the torrential downpour remains outside. He watches the smoke curl as it drifts away, sucked through the screen, and thinks back to the last time he and Art were in a shitty hotel room together. Years have past, and yet nothing’s fucking changed. Fuck, maybe it never will.
He’s so lost in thought, Patrick doesn’t notice the shower turning off, doesn’t notice the bathroom door opening, doesn’t notice Art approaching. He jumps when the cigarette is plucked from his fingers so Art can take a drag. He wraps the delicate inner pink of his lips around the filter and inhales slowly, closing his eyes. He’s wearing Patrick’s shirt and boxers, and nothing else.
Patrick feels normal about that, thanks. “My pants not fancy enough for you?” he jokes, trying to regain the upper hand here.
Art scoffs, but it’s not mean. “Didn’t fit,” he says, and then adds, “Too big.” Patrick tries not to read into that as Art takes another long drag, and then hands the last of the dying cigarette back to Patrick.
Patrick takes one final pull, and then stubs the end out on the windowsill; place is a shithole anyway, no one’s gonna notice. With nothing left to distract him, he turns to Art, lifting an eyebrow and trying desperately to hide the nervous energy surging through every atom of his being. “So what’s the plan, Donaldson?” Your serve, he thinks.
Art runs a hand down his face and turns on his heel. For the second time tonight, he goes to stand in front of the bed, his back to Patrick. For the first time tonight, Patrick doesn’t know where he stands. The clock thrums its steady beat in the silence.
“I want to hear you say it,” Art says finally, without turning.
Patrick thinks his heart may have just fallen out his ass. What? he thinks. “What?” he says, out loud this time.
Art hesitates, and then turns back slowly, to face Patrick. “Before, when you said,“ he looks down at his hands, which are fiddling with the fraying edge of Patrick’s shirt, “um.” He doesn't say anything else then, but the blush creeping down his collarbone in the dim lamplight speaks volumes.
Patrick takes a tentative step forward. Art steps ever so slightly back.
Then, Art clenches his fists and looks back up at Patrick, slowly. “What were you trying to say, Pat?” He looks suddenly younger now, somehow. More like the floppy haired kid Patrick spent the better part of his formative years next to. He’s gorgeous.
Patrick takes another step forward, and this time, when Art steps back, his knees hit the edge of the bed. He sits. Patrick takes the opportunity for another step, and then another, and then he’s standing in Art’s space, towering over him. It takes everything in him not to reach out and cup Art’s face in his palm, the way he looks up at Patrick with his expression open, for once. Hopeful. He has to play this right.
“Why are you here, Art?”
Art hesitates, but only for a beat, “Tashi kicked me out.”
“Why?”
“She, uh,” Art breaks eye contact again, “she said I needed to ‘face my desire,’ or something.”
“And you came here.”
Once, when Patrick was fifteen, his mother forced him to go to therapy for a summer. Patrick fucking hated it, and he definitely bullshit his way through most of his sessions, but if there was one thing he retained, it was this: people don’t learn if you just tell them what they need to know. They have to figure it out for themselves.
“And I came here…” Art repeats, like he’s solving a puzzle. And then, shocking Patrick and possibly even himself, he adds, “To you.”
“Uh huh,” Patrick says, low and gravely. His fingers twitch at his sides. “So,” he repeats, “what’s the plan, Donaldson?”
Art doesn’t answer, doesn’t look up, but he reaches out tentatively with one hand and grabs lightly at the hem of Patrick’s godawful basketball shorts.
It’s permission enough.
Patrick grabs Art’s chin, a little rough with hours old, barely there stubble, and gently tilts his head up to force eye contact. Art’s fingers ghost the outer edge of Patrick’s thigh. He still doesn’t speak.
“Art.”
Art’s fingers wrap around his thigh in earnest now, and to his credit, he does look incredibly desperate as he stares up at Patrick. He says, “Please, Pat. I,” pause, “I don’t know what you want me to say. I don’t know how to do this.”
Patrick lets go of Art’s chin, uses that hand to card through Art’s shorn curls. He wishes he had more to grab onto, but Art leans into the touch nonetheless.
“Yes you do, Art, c’mon,” he says gently. And then, less gently, “You just gotta be honest with me. With yourself, man. You know what you want. I know what you want. Hell, Tashi knows what you want, and she probably knew it thirteen years before either of us morons fucking figured it out–” patently untrue in Patrick’s case, but whatever, “you just gotta say it.”
Art bites his lip so hard, Patrick thinks it might bleed. He tries not to think about licking the wound, tasting what it is that keeps Art alive. God, what the fuck is wrong with him?
And then Art says, “I want… this.”
And Patrick’s fucking knees nearly buckle. Yeah, it’s what he was angling for, but hearing Art admit it out loud is…
And then Art is reaching up to grab the collar of Patrick’s shirt, and pulling him down, down, until their faces are just a hair’s breadth apart.
And then Patrick’s kissing him, and Art’s kissing back. The angle is awkward and they’re too eager, and it’s fucking electric. Art tastes like cigarettes and mouthwash, and something undeniably Art, which is probably a gross combination, but Patrick is all but drunk with it.
The thing is, Patrick has thought about this for years. God knows he’s spent countless sleepless, horny nights, conjuring up the spit slick feel of Art’s lips against his own; the warmth, the taste, the frantic mess of it. He’s worn that memory down for so long, it’s gone smooth—he honestly can’t be sure which parts are real and which are imagined by now. But Jesus Fucking Christ, he might as well have thrown it all out the window for the way it pales in comparison to the real thing. He is finally fucking kissing Art Donaldson again, and he knows now, the way he knew back then, that he would do any number of fucked up things just for the chance to kiss him one more time.
He’s not sure he’ll be afforded that chance though, so he has to savour this.
Art moans then, just a little, and Patrick has the sudden realization that he’s been lost in thought for the past thirty seconds, or possibly three hours. He comes back to reality to Art scooting backward across the bed awkwardly, trying not to break their kiss.
It’s an invitation.
While Patrick hasn’t had much to write home about in the last decade, he knows he’s missed a lot of invitations to the big things in Art’s life since… Stanford. (That’s how he refers to it in his head. Just “Stanford.” It’s easier that way.) His grandmother’s funeral, his wedding, the birth of his first child. Patrick missed all of those things, but he doesn’t have to miss this one. He won’t miss this one. He lifts a knee and crawls onto the bed over Art.
They do break the kiss then, because it turns out, much to Patrick’s dismay, that they do need to breathe sometimes. He would be happy just to breathe in Art, Art, Art, for the rest of his life, but unfortunately his lungs have other ideas.
So here they both are, breathing ragged, lips swollen and faces flushed. To look at Art in this state, Patrick can see exactly what it was Tashi saw in them in that hotel room all those years ago. Art’s expression is a mix between surprise, and undeniable lust. His lids are droopy, but his eyes are alert, his chest heaving, his tongue darting out to lick his already wet lips, and Patrick feels this insatiable need to consume him, in every way possible.
Good God, he needs to calm the fuck down or this is going to be over before it starts.
Patrick leans back on Art’s thighs just to put a bit of distance between them. “Fuck, man. Do you have any idea how hot you are?” he says.
“Uh.”
“I bet Tashi never tells you, does she?”
“Don’t talk ab–” Art starts, but cuts himself off. He looks away, “you don’t have to say shit like that, man, I’m already here.”
Patrick’s laugh clearly catches Art off guard, the way he looks back up at him with a furrow in his brow. “I know that, dumbass. I’m saying it because you've been driving me crazy since you were still forgetting socks to jack off into. Let me have this,” he reaches out and ruffles the still-damp curls on the top of Art’s head.
Art reaches up to smack his hand away, but he’s smiling despite himself. “Whatever, dude. I look like shit in your ugly ass shirt and boxers. You really gotta get some new clothes, man, what the fuck is this?” he gestures to the mostly peeled off logo of some gas station written across his chest.
Bingo. “Oh, yeah? Well, if the prince is too good for my clothes, why don’t I help you with that, huh?” Patrick smirks. He reaches out for the hem of Art’s–his– shirt, and when Art only sits up further to give him room, lifts it up and over his head. Their faces are close now, and Patrick takes the opportunity to kiss Art again, slower this time. Art makes a surprised little noise, but then settles into it, tangling the hand he isn’t using to prop himself up into Patrick’s dark curls. Fuck, he could get used to this.
He absolutely should not let himself get used to this.
Determined not to get lost in Art’s mouth again, Patrick moves his kisses to the corner of his lips, the stubble on his cheek, the sharp angle of his jawline. He nips at the boney edge, and Art holds his breath.
“Patrick.”
One of Patrick’s big hands is holding Art’s chin up to give himself room, while the other trails across the newly exposed skin, exploring, scratching, tweaking a nipple just to hear Art’s little gasps. He’s so responsive. He kisses his way down to Art’s pulse point, and sucks. He wants to leave a mark there for Tashi to see later. Ha, the mark will say, you may have him wrapped around your finger, but he wants me too. At least a little bit. At least for now.
“Patrick,” Art tries again. When he doesn’t stop his onslaught of kisses, the fingers still tangled in Patrick’s hair curl tighter, pulling him up and off of Art’s chest.
“What?” Patrick says, a little breathless.
“Your shirt’s pissing me off,” Art says seriously.
Patrick just stares at him. This fucking guy.
“Get rid of it,” Art adds when Patrick doesn’t move, and Patrick can’t miss the unmistakable twitch at the corner of his lips.
This fucking guy. “Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he says, pulling his own shirt over his head anyway. He really did not expect Art to be this on board already. Whatever else he was going to say next dies in his throat when the fabric clears his vision, and he can see Art again, beneath him, leaning up on his elbows and looking at Patrick like he wants to take a fucking bite. It’s been… a long time since anyone looked at him like anything but a smelly, washed up loser. Often a smelly, washed up loser they were still going to fuck for whatever reason, but. Shit. A shiver runs up Patrick’s spine.
“Shorts too,” Art says, raspier this time. He swallows, like he's just played a full set in the July sun with no water bottle.
“Yeah,” is all Patrick can manage as he steps backward off the bed and sheds his ugly as sin basketball shorts. He looks back to Art, who, despite his already heaving chest, raises an eyebrow like he’s still waiting for something. Patrick slowly, slowly, sheds his ratty red boxers as well.
Art lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for the past ten minutes. Possibly the past ten years, who knows.
“Like what you see, Donaldson?” Patrick says, because he’s Patrick, and because Art’s gaze trailing all over his body is making him feel a weird mix of both embarrassed and appreciated that he can only take for so long. He’s most of the way to hard by now, and while he knows he’s far from small, he’s not used to… well, most of the hookups he’s had of late have been much more eager to get on with it, less so to stop and stare.
It takes another few seconds for Art to come back online, his, “wouldn’t you like to know,” coming a beat too late, but still Patrick is laughing, leaning forward on one knee so he can brace his arms on either side of Art’s head. The threadbare comforter is scratchy against his knees, but the skin of Art’s throat is soft and milky white as he swallows, a little nervously.
He leans in close to whisper, “now your turn,” before leaning back again, and hooking a finger into the waist of Art’s boxers. “Only fair,” he adds.
Art nods, ever so slightly. His eyes are wide as he looks down to where Patrick’s fingers are dragging the fabric down over his leaking cock, the head springing free. Patrick wants so desperately to get his mouth on him in that instant, it takes everything in him to keep up the slow, teasing glide of the fabric down Art’s thighs. He loses patience about halfway down though, and rips the boxers over Art’s toned calves and onto the floor.
Now it’s Patrick’s turn to stare. “Fuck,” he says, reverent. He’s seen Art naked before, obviously. You don’t share a bedroom, a bathroom, a changeroom with someone for so many years and not see them naked at least a few times, but. This is fucking different. This is the love of his life, naked and hard and sweating and leaking, just for him. He’s got Art laying here, bare and vulnerable in front of him, and Patrick thinks he genuinely might go insane at the sight. His pale torso glows softly with the warmth of the shitty lamp on the bedside table. His long, lean legs splay wide, and Patrick runs a hand along the right one, because he’s allowed to, for now.
After all these years, he’s finally allowed to touch.
Art’s breath catches in his throat at the contact, and Patrick thinks insanely, that no one has ever loved anyone the way he loves Art right now. They couldn’t. His entire body burns with it so bad, he thinks he might explode. Or cry. He feels a flash of panic at that thought; he really, really doesn’t want to cry right now, actually. Not before he’s even touched Art properly. Tasted him, consumed him in the flames licking up the insides of his belly—
“Patrick.” Blessedly, Art breaks him out of his head with an aborted whimper. It almost sounds like he’s going for his usual chastising tone, but the note of it is far too high to pass for casual.
“Yeah, baby, I got you, relax,” Patrick says, because it sounds right. Because Art needs to hear it. In reality, he’s coming apart at the seams, but he holds it together, because he wants so fucking desperately to take care of Art, like he always has. Like he’s supposed to. He finally brings himself to kneel back on the bed between Art’s legs.
“Then do something man, come on.”
Patrick chuckles, because for all Art’s false bravado, he’s trembling under the palm Patrick still has resting on his inner thigh. “Tell me what you want.”
“You know what I want,” Art says, instead of an answer. He’s clammed up again, done that signature Art thing where he steps too far out of his comfort zone, and rushes to get back to someplace he can handle.
Unfortunately for him, that will just not do. Not now.
“I wanna hear you say it.”
Art brings an arm up to hide his face in the crook of his elbow, and makes a noise of annoyance. He’s quiet for a long time.
“If you can’t say it, maybe we shouldn’t—“
“No! I—” Art’s arm flies from his face in time to grab Patrick’s wrist, stopping him before he’s able to move out from between Art’s legs. (Patrick silently thanks every God he doesn’t believe in, because he doesn’t know what he would have done if he’d have really had to give this up right now.) “I want…” Art trails off.
Patrick waits, but Art doesn’t continue; just chews on his lip, nervously.
Patrick, for once, decides to have mercy on Art. He suppresses the urge to tease further in favour of an earnestness he rarely lets anyone see. Not even Art. “Hey,” he grabs Art’s face gently between his palms, so he can look him directly in the eye. Art stares back, looking both scared and a little hopeful. Patrick knows the feeling. “It’s just me, man,” he says. “You can— fuck. You’re gonna make me say it,” he hangs his head for a second, before remembering he wants to see Art’s face for this part and forcing himself to make eye contact again, “I’ve wanted you since we were like twelve, Art, okay? This isn’t some bullshit to me, man. I’ve been thinking about this for almost two fucking decades. And I’m a pretty fucked up guy, so whatever you want, you’re not gonna find any judgement from me, I can promise you that.” Ugh. Too honest. Patrick feels a little sick.
Art, the bastard, could say any number of things here. His face is unreadable as Patrick scans desperately for any kind of reaction. When he does finally speak, what he chooses is this: “I always knew you were a fucking freak.” And then he grins.
And that’s it. It’s them again.
Patrick laughs, feeling such a rush of relief, he has no choice; he leans in to kiss Art so fast, their teeth clack together. He feels Art’s left hand dig wildly into the back of his head, burrowing in the curls there, while his right scrabbles for purchase on Patrick’s shoulder, his arm, his lower back. Patrick’s licking into his mouth like a man stranded in the desert who’s just found oasis. He can’t get enough, thinks he might drown if he’s not careful.
He doesn’t feel like being careful.
But then, as quickly as it began, Art pushes his face away, just slightly. Just enough for their lips to part. “You,” he says.
“What?”
“What I want,” Art says patiently, and waits for understanding to dawn on Patrick’s face.
Oh. Oh.
Patrick, ever the idiot, gets three words into “And how do you want me?” before Art cuts him off.
“I want you to fuck me, Patrick.” The lamp is too dim to really say, but Patrick imagines he can almost see steam rising off Art’s ears at the confession. Art holds his gaze steady nonetheless.
“Oh,” is the most clever thing Patrick can think to say on short notice, what with trying desperately not to come on the spot, and all. He opens his mouth to speak again, but opts for kissing Art senseless instead. Less chance for him to fuck this up that way, he thinks.
The kisses started out frenzied, like they were both trying to make up for all the years they could have been kissing, touching, loving each other in ways that weren’t carefully, painstakingly crafted so as not to betray reality, but now they’ve turned into something slow and languid, something honest. Patrick can feel a fire burning low in his belly, the flames stoked higher and higher with each slow drag of Art’s tongue against his. He’s losing track of time, here. Could probably stay like this forever, if not for the painful throb of his cock where it rubs against Art’s jutting hip bone.
Art, for what it’s worth, has his legs wrapped firmly around the backs of Patrick’s thighs, keeping him from going anywhere, (Ha! As if all the king’s horses and all the king’s men could tear him away from between Art Donaldson’s thighs,) and he’s panting and clawing at Patrick’s back with nails he keeps neatly trimmed, because of course he does. “Patrick,” he whines desperately, between one kiss and the next.
Without a second thought, Patrick’s hand slips down their bodies to finally, finally, cup Art’s aching cock. “Yeah, baby? What is it? This what you want?”
Art makes a sound not unlike a wounded animal. Patrick files that away for later.
“Yeah, come on,” he says, encouragingly. He lets his fingers draw gentle pathways up and down the length of him, not light enough to tickle, but not hard enough to be fully satisfying either. “Let me hear you, it’s okay.”
“Unh!” Art says, presumably in response.
Patrick chuckles, before leaning in to lick a stripe up Art’s neck, ghosting a bite over his bruised pulse point again before sitting back up. “You can do better than that,” he says, and tightens his grip around Art’s length without warning.
“Fffuck! Ah!” Art gasps. There we go.
“That’s better,” Patrick says, and then adds, “Good boy,” because he’s feeling a little fucking insane right now. He would worry that that was maybe a bit too much, but from the way Art’s eyes flutter closed, and his cock throbs in Patrick’s hand, he’s pretty sure he liked it.
He’ll be filing that away for later as well, thank you!
“Please, Pat, you gotta—“ Art almost looks like he wants to cry, his gaze switching between Patrick’s face and his hand, holding him firmly while his thumb draws maddening circles around Art’s tip.
“I gotta what, baby?” Patrick asks, and he knows he’s being a little mean, but that’s always been the way Art likes it.
It’s their push and pull; Art always goading Patrick into pushing him ever so slightly outside his comfort zone, bit by bit; it’s just always been easier for Art to take risks if he could blame any bad outcomes on Patrick’s influence. Patrick, for his part, is fine with it. Would have taken any amount of blame, if it kept Art coming back. He’s not sure if that makes him masochistic or just plain pathetic, but frankly, he doesn’t have it in him to give a flying fuck. Not when Art is squirming beneath him, looking more desperate than ever.
He takes mercy though, and doesn’t wait for Art to answer. The resounding sigh of relief that comes in response to Patrick spitting into his palm so he can grip Art properly is like music. He could listen to this all day, everyday. Forever.
Patrick loses himself in the rhythm of it, thoughts punctuated only by Art’s little “ah ah”s and “hnnn”s as he works him over.
He thinks idly, that if he were ever to understand religion, it would be now. He would gladly get on his knees and worship at the altar of Art’s pleasure as often as he was allowed. He would go to war for those little sounds, for the way Art is gripping his bicep like it’s the only thing holding him down to earth.
An indeterminate amount of time later, Art grabs Patrick’s wrist with his full, tennis-champion strength, holding his hand still.
Patrick almost whimpers.
“What?” he manages, “what’s wrong?”
Art is red faced and trembling. “No— nothing,” he says, “I just,” he’s out of breath, “If you keep going like that, I’m gonna—“ he looks pleadingly at Patrick, in lieu of finishing his sentence, and Patrick understands.
“Yeah,” he says, “yeah, okay.” He lets go of Art’s cock, and Art groans, manages to look both relieved and frustrated. Patrick’s pretty sure his own erection could cut diamonds right about now, but to even his own surprise, that need feels pretty background next to his need to make this good for Art. He can wait.
“So two decades, huh?” Art says, when he’s had a moment to come back down from the edge. He keeps his expression unreadable for all of a respectable six seconds, before he cracks a sly grin. “That explains why you were always so eager for me to jerk off while you were in the room.”
Oh, it’s fucking on. “Hey fuck off, man,” Patrick grins, manhandling Art, trying to get a good grip on his wrists.
“Oh, Art,” Art drawls in a poor impression of a young teenage Patrick, “you don’t have to hide in the bathroom when you jerk off y’know; it’s comfier in bed, and I’m going to sleep anyway!” he grunts as he tries to fight Patrick off, “but you were never really asleep, were you?” he says through gritted teeth. He’s still smiling.
With a flourish, Patrick finally wraps his fingers around each of Art’s pale wrists, pinning them to the bed on either side of his head. He brings his face so close to Art’s, he can feel Art’s breath ghosting across his lips, “And you fucking did it every time, didn’t you?” Fifteen, all.
Art doesn’t reply, but he stops fighting as a shiver runs through him, and his mouth does a complicated little thing that tells Patrick that he’s trying very hard to suppress a grin.
“Yeah, can’t deny it, can you?” Patrick lets his gaze dart between Art’s eyes and his lips, “I swear to God, Donaldson. You used to put on a fucking show for me. Panting and moaning like I wasn’t laying two feet away from you, trying not to blow my fucking load at just the sound of you getting off.” He knows there’s a good chance he’ll regret being so candid later, but right now, the way Art is hanging on his every word, pupils blown wide and pink lips parted, he can’t help himself. “God, you drove me fucking insane, you know that?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. “Of course you know that, you little cocktease,” moves his lips to Art’s ear and whispers, “what I would have done to get my fucking mouth on you.”
The sound Art makes in response is all but punched out of him, but he recovers quickly. “Maybe you should have,” he says, and they both know it’s a lie. Art was so repressed back then, Patrick is pretty sure he would have burst into flames, or bats, or at the very least, never talked to Patrick again if he had tried anything in school. But this is now, and not then, and the idea has so much precome pooling at his tip, that Patrick decides not to correct him.
“Yeah?” he says instead, letting go of Art’s wrists, so he can slide himself lower down Art’s body, kissing him as he goes; his already abused neck, his collar bones, the dip between his pecs. He kisses each nipple, and then licks the left one lightly, flicking it with his tongue as he looks up at Art.
“Y-yeah,” Art looks like he might pass out.
“Mmm,” Patrick hums, kissing Art’s sternum, “yeah, maybe I should have rolled over, offered to help you out, if only just to get you to shut up,” he bites the skin next to Art’s belly button, lightly. “Would’ve been doing myself a favour, really,” he sucks a bruise into the crease of one exposed hipbone.
“Uh huh,” comes Art’s strained reply.
“What would you have sounded like then, huh? Already so loud before I’d even touched you. Bet the whole school would have known what we were up to.” Game, set, match.
Art has clearly given up on coherent response, and instead answers in a strangled moan.
Who knew his boy had a little exhibitionist streak? Patrick is definitely adding that to the mental file.
“Why,” Patrick punctuates his sentence with a soft kiss to the tip of Art’s cock, “don’t we find out?” And before Art can finish nodding frantically, Patrick is licking a broad stripe from root to tip, and then swallowing him down as far as he can go.
Art isn’t huge, by any means. He’s not small, either, but Patrick is definitely bigger. That doesn’t stop him from choking on it, though. Just a little bit. He feels Art hit the back of his throat, and for one maddening moment, he wonders if he could stay like this forever. Feeling so full of Art, Art, Art. His senses clouded by the scent of him, the taste, the warmth; the feel of Art’s pulse coursing through his cock and against the delicate skin on the inside of Patrick’s mouth. He’s never felt so close to him before. Is afraid he might never get to again.
Art, for his part, goes fully limp, and groans from somewhere deep within himself. “Oh fuck Patrick, fuh—I’m gonna come if you—“
Patrick pulls off with a pop, “don’t you fucking dare, Donaldson. I am not fucking done with you yet.”
“Patrick I can’t,” Art whines desperately.
“You can,” Patrick says, like it’s final, and goes back to licking and sucking along Art’s cock. It’s red and angry and Art is making noises that Patrick’s pretty sure would have gotten them both kicked right out of Mark Rebellato Tennis Academy, actually. They may just be the best fucking sounds he’s ever heard. He wants to do everything he possibly can to keep wringing sounds of pleasure out of Art, but then Art’s fingers tighten impossibly in the back of Patrick’s hair, and he’s being torn away from him in an instant.
This time Patrick really does whine.
“Sorry, I,” Art starts, but he has to pause to heave in a breath, “holy shit, that was fucking close. Patrick, come on.”
Patrick’s so fucking dick drunk, he doesn’t actually grasp what Art’s getting at, until Art says urgently, “I’m ready.”
It still takes a second for Patrick’s brain to come back online. He’s ready. “Are you sure?” he says, when he can finally think of words again.
“Yeah, Patrick, come on,” Art says breathlessly. “Are you chickening out now, or what?”
“No! No, but like. Man, have you, uh,” Patrick wants to fuck Art like he wants to keep breathing air, but the last thing he needs is to hurt him. Better to stick with second base than to scare Art off for good. Or is it third base? Patrick can never fucking remember that stupid fucking analogy, anyway. Whatever. “Have you ever done this before? Like, with a man, I mean.”
Art looks away, suddenly very interested in fiddling with a loose thread on the sheets, and says, “Uh, well… not with a man, no. But, Tashi…”
Oh my god, Patrick is going to die. He’s hit with the sudden image of Tashi, looming above Art, the silicone of her strap buried deep inside him as he whimpers and drools and begs her for more, deeper, harder. Of course she’s pegged him, what was he thinking? He should have known she would fucking love having that kind of power over Art. Who wouldn’t want to be inside that tight ass, drawing pleasure out of him that he didn’t even know he could experience—Fuck. Okay, Art’s looking at him again like he just said something. He needs to focus.
“Yeah, okay,” Patrick says, a little more affected than he meant to sound. Common theme tonight. He bends down and kisses Art’s lips quick, then his raised knee, before he leans back off the bed to fumble for the packet of lube he had in his shorts pocket. What? He likes to be prepared! At least, for certain things.
He can feel Art’s eyes following him the whole way.
Patrick comes back up a second later, lube in hand, heart in his throat, and asks Art how he wants it.
“Just… just like this,” Art says, and draws his knees up a little closer to his chest. He’s blushing furiously down almost to his nipples, but otherwise looks determined. He’s the most gorgeous thing Patrick has ever seen. He tries to commit this image to memory.
“Okay,” Patrick says, and he can’t keep himself from reaching out to touch Art’s cheek gently. Art grabs his wrist before he can let go, and pulls him down for a long, slow kiss. Oh, that’s right. He doesn’t have to stop himself. He can have this, at least for right now. He wants to cry again.
Instead, he nips at Art’s bottom lip, and pulls away. Art relinquishes his grip, and Patrick wastes no time opening the packet of lube, spreading it along his length. He hisses quietly at the cold, but rubs the rest between his fingers to warm it up before he looks at Art, “I’m gonna touch you now,” he says, like he’s asking for permission.
“Yeah,” Art says, a little too quickly, “okay.”
“Eager,” Patrick says, and reaches down to spread lube around Art’s hole before he can retort. It flutters beneath his gentle fingers, and Art’s mouth goes a little slack.
Patrick grabs his pillow then, with his clean hand, and shoves it under Art’s lower back unceremoniously, earning a little squeak from Art. “Gotta get you comfortable,” he says, and winks.
Art rolls his eyes, but he looks grateful nonetheless. He really is a sight laying there, ass propped up, knees spread wide, hole glistening in the dim lamplight. He’s waiting for Patrick to make the next move. Art would never admit it out loud, but he really does love letting Patrick take control. And why wouldn’t he? It’s what Patrick’s for.
“You ready, baby?” Patrick checks in, one last time, because he wants to be sure, and because he never gets tired of calling Art baby and having him respond.
“Yeah, Pat. Yes. Come on already,” Art replies. He’s trying not to sound nervous, but he’s white knuckling the sheets on either side of his hips.
Finally, finally, Patrick lines himself up. “Sheesh, okay!” he laughs, pushes forward, just a little. He can feel Art holding his breath, so he tears his gaze away from where they connect, to sooth his clean hand over Art’s chest, down his stomach, up and down his cock. “Relax, baby.” It’s a hilarious thing to say, because Patrick himself is losing his goddamn mind at the pressure of Art’s hole around him. Making room for Patrick inside him. He really needs to stop thinking or he’s gonna fuck this up.
“Fuck, I’m — ah! — trying, but it’s a little hard!” Art says between shallow breaths.
“Oh, I’m more than a little hard,” Patrick replies with a lopsided grin, because he really can’t help himself.
It’s the right thing to say though, because Art finally lets out the deep breath he was holding and starts to laugh, which dissolves into a moan when Patrick takes the opportunity to slide in just a little further. He shuts his eyes and grips Patrick’s knee with one sweaty hand, the other still tangled in the sheets by his side.
The inside of Art is fucking incredible. Indescribable. There isn’t even a word in the English language for the euphoria Patrick is feeling right now. He might have to try German just to get close. Art is tight, and velvety hot, and pulsing around him as he tries to bear down, and Patrick thinks he could die here, just like this, and he’d be the happiest man in the world. “God, Art, you feel so fucking good, man,” he’s barely moved, but he sounds a little out of breath already, just from the effort it’s taking him to hold back.
“Yeah. Yeah,” Art says, sounding equally affected. “More, c’mon,” and he uses one of his feet to try and draw Patrick in closer.
Patrick tuts. “Always were a greedy little thing, weren’t you?” he chides, but pushes forward nonetheless, until he’s fully seated inside his best friend. And fuck, what a thought that is, isn’t it? Patrick Zweig, finally fucking Art Donaldson. Their middle school bullies would have a field day with this one. He bets those assholes aren’t having sex half as satisfying as this though, and he hasn’t even moved yet.
As if on cue, Art tells Patrick impatiently, to move; reading his mind, as always. Patrick takes one more moment just to bask in the unbearable heat and pressure of Art, and then obliges. He starts with one little half thrust, and then when Art doesn’t react negatively, he pulls out almost as far as he can go, and thrusts back in slowly, methodically.
Art makes a noise like he’s just hit the serve of his life. Patrick is never going to be able to watch him in a tennis match ever again. Not in polite company, anyway.
“Yeah, baby? That feel good?”
Art just nods a little frantically, eyebrows scrunched up, mouth slightly agape. His hands are scrabbling for purchase along Patrick’s sweaty back, his ass, trying to get as close to him as he possibly can.
“C’mon,” Patrick says, with another long languid stroke into Art’s heat, “I wanna hear you say it,” he insists. That might be the theme of the night. If Patrick’s only gonna get one shot at this—and he very well might—he wants to hear it. Needs Art to tell him he’s done it right, just so he can replay it in his head over and over for the rest of forever. Because that has to be enough.
“Yeah!” Art gasps on another thrust, “feels so good, Pat. Really fucking good—ahnn!”
And Patrick knew praise was nice, but. Fuck if that doesn’t go straight to his dick. Jesus fucking Christ.
He keeps up this rhythm, slow and deep, changing his angle periodically to search for that spot inside Art that will make him see stars behind his eyelids.
Art is sweating and flushed, alternating between heavy breaths and long drawn out moans, grabbing for any part of Patrick he can reach. He already looks like he’s having a pretty good time, but then Patrick changes his angle ever so slightly, and Art’s eyes nearly roll into the back of his head. The noise he makes is loud, and barely human, and Patrick knows he’s found it.
“Right there—AAH!” Art says, before Patrick can ask him. “Oh my God, Patrick, fuck! Please!” he rasps, and Patrick thinks Art might cry, actually. There are tears welling in the corners of his eyes, and he looks absolutely desperate and out of it as he grips Patrick’s forearms for dear life. “Please don’t stop,” he begs.
“Yeah, baby, I got you,” Patrick says, speeding up his thrusts against that one perfect spot, “Gonna make you feel so fucking good. Wanna hear you.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Art pants, like a mantra. “Always knew you’d fuck me so good, Pat! Fuck!” He’s babbling in a way he rarely does sober, and Patrick tries not to swell up too much with pride at just how well he’s taking his boy apart right now, and — wait, what did he just say?
“Oh yeah?” Patrick pants, “Thought about this a lot, have you?” It’s hard to sound cocky when you’re sweaty and trembling in ecstasy, but Patrick makes a valiant effort.
Art’s so fucked out, he doesn’t even have the wherewithal to deny it, teasing or otherwise. “Uh huh,” he slurs instead, a tear finally escaping from his eye as Patrick nails his prostate again. “All the. Fucking. Time!” He’s punctuated by the rough thrusts of Patrick’s cock.
“Tell me about it,” Patrick doesn’t beg. He knows he’s playing a dangerous game here, so close to losing it already, he’s getting sloppy. But he can’t pass up the chance to tug on this thread while Art’s walls are down.
“Used to picture you—unh!—walking in on me, in the shower.”
“Yeah?”
“Turning me around and fucking me up against the wall, where anyone could—fuck!—see.”
Patrick manages to volley back, based solely on the power of all his years of fantasies of this very moment, “I knew you were a little fucking exhibitionist,” he says wildly, smirking, grabbing and tugging hard at Art’s hair, so he bares his throat. “Wanted everyone to see how bad you needed my cock, huh?”
“Nnnh!” Art says astutely.
Patrick leans down and grins into Art’s exposed neck. “Yeah, just like that, baby,” he purrs, dragging his teeth along the delicate skin, “You think they woulda stayed to watch?” He feels Art’s walls clench around him at the idea, so he pushes on, “I bet we could really have put on a good show for them, huh? Show them what a good boy you can be with my cock stuffed deep inside you, yeah?” He feels a whine reverberate through Art’s chest, “I’d have had you moaning and crying right there, in front of everyone.”
“Fuck! Pat, I—“ Art sounds urgent, but Patrick isn’t done quite yet. He grabs the base of Art’s cock suddenly to keep him from coming, and the sound that Art makes is desperate and primal. Tears are flowing freely now from the corners of his eyes, and his tongue is all but lolling out of his mouth.
Patrick slows his thrusts. He’s pretty sure he deserves an olympic gold medal for not blowing his fucking load about thirty times by now, but the need to thoroughly destroy Art is what’s miraculously keeping him going. He needs to take him apart so good, that when he puts him back together, there’s no room for that fucking repression and self-loathing that stole so many years from them. He knows it’s a long shot, but he’ll be damned if he doesn’t try.
He takes his hand off Art’s cock, and immediately has to slap Art’s own hand away as he tries instinctively to replace the warm grip. “Just a little longer, baby. You’re doing so good,” he says softly, “Can you hold on for me?”
It’s like flipping a switch. Art has always been so desperate to please, and unsurprisingly, that doesn’t change now. He bites his lip and nods ever so slightly. “Mhh,” he warbles, “can be good.”
“That’s it, that’s my good boy,” Patrick says, and Art’s eyelids droop as he heaves a sob. He really does wish he could draw this out for another hour or two, or ten. He wants to stay inside Art forever, if he’s honest. It just feels so fucking good, so correct to be balls deep inside him, as insane as that might sound. They fit together like puzzle pieces, like Patrick didn’t even realize how broken he’d felt until he felt whole, like this.
But he is, after all, only a man, and he can feel his orgasm creeping up on him with growing urgency. He redoubles his efforts to hit that spot inside Art that makes him scream, picking up the pace.
And oh, does Art scream. He’s sobbing openly now, as Patrick nails that spot over and over. It must be almost painful by now, the stimulation, but Art dutifully holds on while his poor, red cock leaks precome all over his hot belly. And then, just when it seems like he can’t take any more, he looks Patrick dead in the eyes, and croaks out a tearful, “please, Pat, come inside me,” and that’s all it takes.
One more erratic thrust, and Patrick feels his entire body tense up, and then go limp as stars burst in his vision, ecstasy of the highest order tingling through every nerve in his body while he empties himself into Art in hot bursts.
Once, when he was little, he went to Sunday school with one of his friends after a sleepover. Even at seven, he found the whole thing a bit ridiculous, what with all the talk of miracles and divine something-or-other. Now, at thirty-one, he thinks he might finally know what they were talking about. His whole body feels alight with a euphoria so powerful, so pure, he can barely see through the haze of it. All he can hear as it washes over him, is the buzzing in his ears, and the soft, angelic weeping of the man below him. It’s a religious experience.
The man below him. Art. His Art. Patrick struggles to bring himself back down to earth fast enough to pull Art over the edge. With shaking hand, he reaches down to pump Art’s cock, once, twice, and thankfully (his coordination right now is less than stellar), that’s all it takes. Art’s eyes roll back, and with a strangled sob, he’s coming all over himself and Patrick. He comes so hard, a little bit lands on Art’s own lip and cheek. His walls clench around Patrick almost painfully at this point, but Patrick can’t bring himself to pull out. Wants to feel every last second of Art’s pleasure, to live in this moment for the rest of his life. Commit it to memory, so he can replay it again and again and again. Nothing else will ever come close to the ecstasy of this, and he realizes belatedly that he wants to taste it, too.
He leans down and licks the spend off Art’s cheek, before capturing his wet mouth in a slow, tender kiss that goes on between laboured breaths until they’ve both recovered enough to see straight.
Patrick goes to pull out so he can roll off of Art, but too quickly, Art clamps his limbs around him, locking them both in place. “Can you just,” he looks away, “can you stay for a minute?” he says in a small voice.
“Course I can,” Patrick says without hesitation, and lowers himself back down so he can rest his head in the crook of Art’s shoulder. It’s not quite comfortable, with the overstimulation of still being buried inside, and the cooling come squelching uncomfortably between them, but as Art draws idle patterns along Patrick’s shoulders with the hot tip of his finger, Patrick thinks honestly, he wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
If he can only have this once, let it last as long as it possibly can.
***
They lay like this for so long that Patrick nearly falls asleep. The rise and fall of Art’s steady breath, the feel of his heartbeat against Patrick’s, who could blame him?
So it startles him a little when Art says, out of nowhere, “Did you really just happen to have lube in the pocket of your shorts?”
Patrick stifles a laugh, “Hey, you never know when you’re gonna need lube, Donaldson, I’m always telling you! It’s all about being prepared.”
“Uh huh,” Art says wryly. He goes back to drawing nonsense patterns along Patrick’s arm for a few beats, and Patrick thinks he’s dodged the bullet. Then the bullet comes right back around. “No, but like. Seriously, though. Were you expecting someone?”
Patrick groans. He’s torn between making something up and just admitting the truth. But he can’t think of anything for once, and honestly Art would probably see right through him anyway, so he goes for a sort of truth. “I mean, yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Art, the idiot that he sometimes is, misunderstands. “Oh. Should I clear out then, or like,” he says, glancing to the door. And if Patrick didn't know any better, he would say he sounded a little jealous. It’s kind of cute though, if a little (read: a lot) stupid.
“No, you moron. I was expecting you.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, oh. Y’know Donaldson, for such a smart guy, you really can be a moron.”
“Well how the hell should I know?” Art says, exasperated. His exaggerated shrug jostles Patrick’s face from its comfy position, which is just as well considering he then rubs his palm into Patrick’s upturned cheek, just to really make his point.
Patrick grabs Art’s wrist and holds it still. He steels himself for a moment, and then decides to risk linking their fingers together. Art rubs his thumb over Patrick’s ever so slightly. “You really ought to talk to your wife more,” Patrick says.
Art’s thumb stills. “To—what? What does Tashi have to do with this?”
“She called me after you left today.”
“She what.”
Patrick laughs, despite himself, and lifts his head to look at Art. “What did you think she meant when she told you to ‘face your desires like a man,’ dude?”
“I—” Art opens his mouth, and then closes it, his expression pinched.
Patrick lays his head back down on Art’s shoulder. “You really have to stop being surprised when your mastermind wife does her mastermind shit,” he says lightly. “I told you Tashi knows everything, man. I wasn’t kidding.”
Art is quiet for a long time. He continues drawing patterns on Patrick’s skin with his free hand, leaving a trail of goosebumps in his wake. “Yeah,” he says finally. “I guess she does.”
There’s a stretch of silence again, presumably as Art processes this information. Patrick lets him have it for once. Not least because Art’s fingers feel nice against his clammy skin.
“So, what?” Art says eventually, once again interrupting Patrick’s zen, or whatever.
“What,” Patrick sighs.
“Tashi called you and said what?”
“She called and said ‘Art’s coming over there and you gotta fuck him til he cries, or no dessert’,” Patrick says in his best Tashi impression. “And who am I to deny her?”
He rolls to dodge Art’s incoming elbow. They both wince when it forces Patrick to pull out.
“I’m—!” Art starts.
“A mess,” Partrick finishes for him, before Art can get whatever insult he was going to throw out of his mouth. He gestures to the come leaking out of Art’s hole, and doesn’t even bother to mention the rest of it drying on both their torsos as well. If he was ten years younger, he could probably get hard again at just the sight of his come spilling out of Art, but as it is, he’s just feeling a bit crusty. Reluctantly, he sits up and throws his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Right…” Art says, watching Patrick warily.
“Stay there,” Patrick says, and makes his way to the bathroom to get a damp towel.
In the privacy of the yellow-tinged bathroom, Patrick lets himself have a minute. He grabs the nearest hand towel and runs it under the tap. He leans a hand on the edge of the basin, and takes in his own reflection. He’s sweaty and dirty, his hair is ruffled every which way, and despite having the best sex of his life, he looks like he’s gonna cry. God, he’s fucking pathetic.
He shuts the faucet off, and watches as it slowly drip, drip, drips into the orange rust stains circling the drain. Fucking shithole hotel, he thinks. The best he can do on his bullshit tennis money. Probably about as good as he deserves, anyway.
See, the thing of it is this: this is, very probably, it. As in, as soon as Patrick brings him this towel to clean himself up with, Art will leave this hotel room and go back to his fancy little life with Tashi. Patrick probably won’t fucking see either of them again until their next TV interview, thousands of miles and a television screen between them, while Patrick sits alone at the bar and orders another beer with the last of his winnings and tries not to look at their little pixelated faces on the screen. And that should be fine. Really, it should be. Patrick has spent the past ten years without them, anyway. Sure, there was Atlanta, but that was… well, that was so long ago. Just a blip really, in the vast, ever-expanding emptiness that looms over Patrick Zweig’s emotional horizon. What’s a little The Rest Of His Life on top of that?
Except that was before he knew what it was to really have Art Donaldson. Something in Patrick’s chest clenches painfully. He chuckles to himself, but there’s no humour in it.
“What’s funny?” Art’s voice says from behind him.
Fuck. “Jesus Donaldson, anyone ever tell you you move like a cat?” he says, without turning. His gaze is fixed on the drain like it challenged him to a staring contest. Fuck.
Art doesn’t say anything, but Patrick hears footsteps padding closer. For a moment, they stand in silence, so close that Patrick can feel the heat of Art’s naked body radiating along his back. Then, gently, Art presses a cheek to one of Patrick’s shoulder blades.
It’s the gentle touch that does it.
“Fuck,” Patrick says thickly. He chuckles again, but it’s a desperate thing as he wills the tears back into his eyes. He hasn’t cried in front of another person since his favourite uncle died when he was 14. Art held him then, until he fell into a fitful, dreamless sleep. It’s almost alarming the way Art’s presence seems to crack him open, exposing parts of himself that he usually keeps carefully hidden, so that even he never has to look at them. It’s exhausting. He loves him for it.
Art waits, just like that, for Patrick to take several deep, calming breaths. His fingers brush the hair on Patrick’s thigh, making him shiver.
When Patrick’s breath evens out, Art finally speaks. “You better not swear in front of Lily, or Tashi’s gonna kill you.”
Patrick’s head snaps up, trying to catch Art’s eye in the mirror. “What?” he asks, eyes narrowed. He can’t keep the note of suspicion out of his voice.
Art stands up straight so he can make eye contact. “Lily’s our daughter, dipshit,” he says, but he’s smiling like he’s got a secret.
Patrick feels a jolt of hope lick up his chest and dutifully tries to beat it back. He turns. “I know that, idiot. But you… what do you, uh,” he rubs the back of his head awkwardly. Now, without the mirror between them, he can’t bring himself to make eye contact. “What do you mean by that,” he says to Art’s nose. He can’t bear to make it a legitimate question, so he doesn’t. It comes out small and flat.
Art grabs the wet towel Patrick forgot he was holding and absently starts to clean himself off as he speaks, “Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, with an air of pretense. He’s swiping come out of his belly button like it’s the most casual thing in the world.
Patrick tries to do some mental math to figure out how the fuck he ever found himself in this situation.
“Did you really think Tashi was going to let me back into our suite,” Art continues, “if I showed back up without you?” He tosses the now-used towel up toward Patrick’s face, and Patrick just barely manages to catch it before it hits him square in his open mouth. “I thought I was supposed to be the idiot here,” Art says, and he’s smiling. Bastard.
Patrick doesn’t know whether to tackle Art, or kiss him, or pinch himself until he wakes up. There are a lot of emotions going on inside him right now, and he has the wherewithal to deal with precisely none of them at this very moment. He laughs. A sharp, short thing that bursts out of him without permission, startling them both.
And then Art’s laughing too, as Patrick wraps his arm around Art’s neck playfully. “Oh, I’m gonna have her swearing like a sailor in no time, don’t you worry!” he says, in a voice that sounds a little too much like relief. “Tashi’s gonna love it!”
“Fuck you!” Art replies good naturedly, pushing at whatever part of Patrick he can get his hands on.
“Listen to that potty mouth!” Patrick teases, jerking his head to pull Art’s hooked finger away from his bottom lip, “She gets it from her dad!”
Art’s resounding laugh rings in Patrick’s ears like an echo.