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Being friends with Patrick is kind of like being friends with the sun. Or the hottest new chick in Hollywood. Or Jesus.
Art tried to explain it, once, to a girl who sidled up to him at a party when they were both unbelievably crossfaded and embarrassing and she'd already blown her chances with Patrick. 'It's like… he's so much ,' he said, waving his hand in a gesture that approximated an explosion. 'He's so sure of himself. And when he's nice to you nothing else matters. Like, no one else matters. You know?'
'Sounds a little gay, dude,' she told him, leaned in like she wanted to kiss him, and then gagged and threw up all over both their shoes.
So he's given up trying to explain, all too aware of how ridiculous it sounds. But he's like that, Patrick. Overwhelming. Somewhere between twelve and thirteen Art's awareness of him, of where is he is at all times, where his eyes are at all times, got turned up excruciatingly high by some god somewhere holding a dial, and that's just how it's been ever since.
Art, staring. Patrick, looking away. Except for the times Patrick's head whips around too quickly for Art to hide the fact he's been watching. Those are the times Patrick will look back at him, and he'll smile, and Art will feel the humiliation of it warming his cheeks and his neck and his dick.
But that's just what it's like to be friends with Patrick.
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Second best to Patrick, always, off and on the court. Art doesn't feel bitter about that. Quite likes it, actually, that there's always someone whose lead he can follow. Someone who's better who can teach him how to be better, too. I'll show you how to jerk off at twelve. Your backhand grip's all wrong, here, look at thirteen. You aren't wearing that shirt to the party, are you? at fourteen. God, you're lucky you have me here to help you, these are all awful, you'd look better in my blue one, here -
Besides, as he starts to learn when he's fifteen, there are ways to get Patrick to use his considerable natural advantages in Art's favour, to get the little things that he wants. It's a give-and-take process.
'I need to go work on my serve,' he tells Patrick. 'Come with me?'
'Why?' Patrick asks. He's lying on his bed, which is meant to be separated from Art's by two desks and a window. Patrick moved both beds onto the same side of the room three years ago and paid the cleaner not to rat him out. 'It's Saturday, jeez, relax a little. Your serve is fine anyway.'
'Sure. Until I'm under pressure.'
Patrick snorts like that's just a given, which Art guesses it is. He's throwing a tennis ball up into the air and catching it lazily, and the summer sun glints off his wrists. 'Well, that's a problem with your head. And I'm not moving.'
The unspoken assumption: so you're not moving either. Art climbs onto his own bed and then rolls onto Patrick's. Patrick makes a pleased sound and drops the tennis ball, wrapping his arm around Art's shoulder and pulling him in closer, almost a joke, almost hard enough to bruise.
They lie there for five minutes, ten, probably, Patrick's fingers moving from Art's shoulder to his neck to his hair. He moves his head onto Art's chest and his breathing evens out, like he's drifting off to sleep. It's at that moment, when Art deems that he's getting too comfortable, that Art rolls out from under him, knocking Patrick halfway off the bed.
'What the fuck?' says Patrick, as the small of his back thuds into the wooden bed frame. 'What the actual fuck, Art?', and he snatches the tennis ball off the duvet and lobs it at Art's head.
'I'm going to play tennis,' Art says, catching it. 'Come with me or don't.'
'You bastard,' Patrick complains, rubbing at the small of his back, the place where there's bare skin between his pants and his shirt.
Art hurls the ball back at him just as hard, and it bounces off Patrick's ear. 'What the fuck ,' says Patrick, again, his eyes catching fire, and then he's scrambling up off the floor, his eyes alight in a way that would almost be dangerous if it wasn't so funny. Art grabs both their rackets and dashes out of the dorm room.
'Art!' Patrick yells. 'Get the fuck back here, you -' and he chases him out of the dorms, out of the building, all the way down to the tennis courts, at which point there's nowhere else for Art to run and he lets Patrick jump on him in full view of three of the girls in their class, knocking him to the ground and pinning him onto the grass. Art, putting up a token fight for the sake of his dignity, aims to kick him in the dick but only catches his shins; Patrick hooks his thighs around his legs and grabs hold of his wrists.
'Got you,' he says, and then leans in closer, the certainty in his eyes evaporating like he's realising that now he's got Art there's nothing left to do with him. His breaths come hot and fast against Art's neck.
'Get a room, idiots!' yells one of the girls, and Art pushes Patrick off him with relative ease, then reaches over and hands him his racket.
It's give-and-take. But he always gets what he wants out of Patrick, eventually.
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At sixteen, he starts to realise that Patrick watches him sometimes too.
In a locker room after a match that he's lost, a semi-final, which means Patrick will be facing off against someone else in the last round. His shoulder feels alarmingly stiff and he rolls it, hoping it's not a tear. His skin is soaked through with sweat and he strips off, heads for the showers. He's exhausted and more than a little despondent and he's already thinking about crawling into his bed, about sleeping, about getting out of dealing with an inevitably gloating champion Patrick.
When he emerges the guy he lost to is there, pulling on his shoes. Legs dusted with hair, brown curls, a long nose. He does, in fact, look a little like Patrick.
He looks up and sees Art standing there, towel draped from his hips. Art clears his throat. 'Good match.'
'Good match,' he says, surprisingly genuine, and reaches out to shake Art's hand. 'Donaldson, right?'
'Art.'
'Tom,' says the boy, and takes back his hand a little later than is socially acceptable. He goes back to tying his shoelace. His fingers are long like the rest of him. He's still looking up at Art. 'Your doubles partner. Zweig. He won the other semi, yeah?'
'Patrick, yeah,' says Art. 'He's - good.'
'Sure, yeah,' says Tom. 'Must suck for you.'
Art blinks at him. 'What?'
'That he's better than you,' Tom clarifies, standing up. 'He seems like an asshole.'
'Patrick's not an asshole,' says Art, and Tom snorts. He's standing close. Touching distance, if Art reached for his shoulders. He smells of shower gel and too much Lynx. And he's still looking right down into Art's eyes.
'Yeah, whatever, look. There's a rave tonight, you should come. Down in the abandoned shed behind the courts. Bring your Patrick if you want.'
'Bring your Patrick where?'
Art turns, and he's there, leaning against the locker room doorway. His tennis bag is slung over his shoulder, and the tone of his voice is calm, teasing, but his face is laughably sulky. He's never been good at that, at hiding a single thing he feels.
'A party,' says Art. He feels like he's been caught out at something but he's not sure what. Patrick's eyes travel over his wet hair, his chest, the towel around his waist, and, finally, Tom. He slides out of the doorway and comes up to them, slinging his arm around Art's shoulder.
'Yeah, I don't think we'll make it,' he says. 'Got the final tomorrow and all. Thanks anyway, though…'
'Tom,' Art supplies, and Patrick smiles with his teeth and repeats, 'Tom.'
'You don't have the final tomorrow,' Tom says to Art, and Art grits his teeth and says, 'Yeah, I noticed.'
'Okay,' says Tom. 'Whatever. Nice meeting you guys.'
He doesn't sound like he means it. He backs out the door and is gone. Art turns to Patrick, still leaning into his side, the wetness of Art's chest seeping into his shirt, and says, 'What the fuck was that?'
'I could ask you the same thing,' says Patrick. 'Cavorting with the enemy.'
'I'm pretty sure it's consorting .'
'Yeah, whatever,' says Patrick, scowling. 'He beat you. And I'm playing him tomorrow, you know that?'
'And what am I going to do?' Art demands. 'Drink his beer and give him tips on your tennis? How to return your fuckass serve?'
'It's just the principle of it,' Patrick insists, fingers digging into his shoulder. Art squirms out from underneath him and goes to find his shirt. He can feel Patrick's eyes on his back. It's a new feeling, Patrick watching him, him not watching Patrick. Isn't it? He's not sure he likes it, to have Patrick's attention so solely on him. Intensity of the sun. He's warm all over and he's glad Patrick can't see his face. Pulls his shirt over his head and slides his boxers on underneath his towel.
'Jesus,' says Patrick from right behind him, and slaps his ass. 'You don't have to be such a prude. Nothing I haven't seen before.'
'What is it with you today?' says Art, entirely done with him, turning around into his personal space. 'Asshole.'
Patrick's eyes go wide, the way they do whenever he goes too far and Art calls him directly on his bullshit, which is, admittedly, a rare thing. 'I guess I'm tense,' he says, eventually. Not an apology but the closest he ever gets to one. 'You know. The final.'
'Yeah, I know,' says Art, dragging his shoes on. 'I know you're going to win it. Asshole.'
Patrick's mouth breaks into a annoyingly bright smile. 'You think?'
'Yeah, and so do you,' says Art. 'So shut the fuck up.'
And he does.
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When Art is seventeen he's sitting on a bed in a hotel room, and his lips are swollen from kissing Patrick, and his cock aches from Patrick hitting it. Unfortunately the hit failed to kill his erection - the opposite, really - and so Art rolls over on the bed in a feeble attempt to hide it.
Patrick turns away from the door which the girl of both their dreams has just walked through, and looks at him, and smiles. It's not a nice smile, it's a smile that says, I know you're still hard and you're trying to hide it, and it doesn't help Art's situation at all.
'So what did you think?' says Patrick.
'Hottest woman I've ever seen,' says Art, truthfully. Patrick's smile falters.
'No, idiot, I mean what did you think ?'
'Oh,' says Art. He feels his own eyes going wide. And Patrick is just standing there unbothered in the middle of the room, and it's really hard to look at his face and not the very obvious, very large tent in his pants. 'About…'
'Having my tongue down your throat,' Patrick clarifies. 'I mean, it sounded like you liked it.'
'I don't know,' says Art, starting to panic. He doesn't know what answer Patrick wants from him, and all the answers he wants to give are evasive, but he can sense Patrick isn't going to let this go, is going to chase down whatever he wants to hear from Art like a hunting dog on the trail. 'I thought it was her at first.'
'You thought it was her,' Patrick repeats, and Art knows instantly that whatever the right thing to say was, that wasn't it. Patrick begins to stalk towards him, and Art wonders whether feigning falling asleep right at this second would be believable. Patrick reaches the bed, slides onto it, takes Art's chin in his hand, and smiles at him. 'You piece of shit liar.'
Art swallows, not without some effort, feeling the pressure of Patrick's hand against his throat. 'So what? You wanted me to know it was you?' he says, to put Patrick on the back foot.
'I know you knew it was me,' says Patrick, unperturbed.
'Okay, sure,' says Art, reevaluating his tactics. 'She thought it was hot, right?'
Patrick laughs and shakes his head, staring at him. 'Sit up,' he says, taking his hand off Art's chin, and, miserably, Art does. His shoulder brushes against Patrick's and it feels electric. It shouldn't. How many times has he sat next to Patrick as close as this? Closer? (How many times has he sat next to Patrick while his cock's been throbbing so badly it hurts?)
'You're still hard,' says Patrick. 'For me.'
'No,' says Art. Patrick's eyebrows twitch like he's about to burst out laughing. 'Well, yeah. Maybe.'
'Sounds like I should do something about that,' says Patrick.
And there it is, a crack in his armour. He's smiling still but he's not cocky. There's something else in his eyes: a question. And that's weird because Patrick doesn't do questions. He does answers and orders and exactly what he wants. Art blinks at him.
'I mean,' says Patrick, 'if you want.'
'I,' says Art, and his voice is hoarse. He clears his throat and says, 'Yeah, okay.'
'Okay,' says Patrick. There's a look in his eyes Art hasn't seen before, and he's seen all Patrick's looks, at girls he likes and coaches he hates and even things that makes him sad. A kind of hopefulness. He gestures at Art's shorts and says, 'Take those off, then,' and Art does. Patrick's fingers catch on the waistband of his pants. He pulls them an inch or two lower, and then snaps the elastic right back into Art's cock. Art hisses, and Patrick laughs, growing cockier again. 'Get those off, too,' he says, and Art obeys him as Patrick slides out of his own clothes.
Patrick slides his hand under Art's chin and says, 'Spit, babe.'
'Babe ?'
'What, you don't like that?' says Patrick, laughing at him. 'Baby, then, is that better?'
Art's cock, if possible, gets even harder, which is mortifying, so in order to distract Patrick he spits into his hand. Patrick grins at him and spits on top of it, and then grabs Art's waist with his free hand, sliding under his shirt, and holds their cocks together. He's wider than Art because of course he is, the shithead, but Art is longer. Art wishes this was information he didn't know already; it might make the whole situation slightly less agonising.
Patrick begins to get them both off with his hand, and the friction of it is good. Horrifically good. Art hears a whining sound and realises it's coming out of his own mouth, and immediately clamps his jaw shut. Patrick laughs at him, so close Art can feel it on his lips, and says, 'Be loud, I want to hear it.'
Art kisses him, then, because if he's honest about it he's been thinking about it ever since Tashi said, 'Okay,' and Patrick's mouth fell away from his, and he felt like he was losing something he hadn't even known he'd had. Patrick, delighted, kisses him back harder, fucks his tongue into his mouth and pulls at his lower lip with his teeth.
His hand is still jerking at Art's cock but they're grinding into each other more than anything, fast and messy, hips knocking together. 'You're so fucking good,' says Patrick, and then pulls his head away, leans his head back far enough that he can look into Art's eyes as he says, 'So good for me.'
Art whines, because there's really no adequate verbal response to that, and grabs Patrick's face so he can kiss him again. He feels the hand on his waist snaking lower, pressuring his thighs apart and grabbing at the globes of his ass.
'I think I'm close,' he gets out, and Patrick smiles against his mouth. Then his spit-slick hand is on Art's ass too, and he realises what Patrick is about to do a second before he does it; his finger slides between his cheeks into his hole, and Art gasps and chokes, vision whiting out for a moment as he comes all over Patrick's stomach. Patrick follows a second later like he's been barely containing it, the competitive bastard, and then slides his hands away and drops Art back onto the bed, panting.
Something lands on his stomach and he realises after a moment that Patrick has thrown a sock at him. 'Clean that up, baby,' says Patrick, not laughing anymore, and there's that strange lost look in his eyes again. Art has no energy to consider it so he picks up the sock and starts wiping the cum off his stomach and his softening cock, his cum, Patrick's cum, and Patrick watches him for one more second before he pulls open to the door and steps in the bathroom, closing the door. Art hears the shower turning on.
He has a match tomorrow, he remembers, a match to play against Patrick for that girl Tashi's number. Knows, logically, that he's going to lose. Wants to win more badly than he's ever wanted anything in his life.
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When Art is eighteen, he leaves Patrick.
If only because Patrick leaves him first. Leaves him for Tashi, her long black hair and long brown legs and long golden body. It's understandable, it really is. Art watches them together and tries to act like it doesn't kill him inside but he knows it's hopeless, knows they can both tell. They're both unerringly perceptive that way.
So Patrick got a girlfriend and now she's his priority. So what? It shouldn't feel like a betrayal.
Art isn't Patrick's jilted ex, he's his - friend from high school. And never quite good enough, never as good as him, certainly not good enough at tennis to go pro. Patrick still remembers to call him, occasionally, between tour matches and fucking Tashi. Asks him laughing little questions about how college tennis is going and Art says it's good, it's fine, even though what he wants to say is it's fucking great, actually. For the first time in his life, he's the best man there and getting better. (Not the best, of course. Not as good as Tashi.)
But what he feels is undeniable jealousy. Bitter ugly jealousy on a scale he's never felt it before, and he's not even sure at who or what it's directed. Mostly he just feels sad, sad and untethered when he sees them together, long legs wrapped around each other, Tashi's delicate hands around Patrick's jaw, Patrick's lips pressing kisses into her long neck. It makes sense for two people like them to be together. That's something Art can't deny. Two suns spinning around each other. Beautiful. Unsustainable - maybe - he hopes.
Then Tashi breaks her knee and Patrick isn't there, and when he comes back, apologies tripping off his tongue, she screams at him. Out! Out! Get out!, and Art knows he has to choose.
And, well, only one of them left him first.
He chooses Tashi.
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Art is twenty-one years old and on top of the world.
'Your usual, Mr Donaldson,' says the bartender, good and discreet because Art is here often, when he's in the area, passing him his drink.
Art thanks him and reaches for it, just as a hand clamps down on his arm. Long fingers dusted with dark hair that he knows and doesn't know, recognises like his own but hasn't felt with all these calluses.
'Hi there, Mr Donaldson . Drinking all by yourself?'
Art picks up his drink with his other hand and takes a sip of it, perhaps more of a gulp, really, before he turns to face Patrick.
Patrick, who is an inch or so taller than he was last time they stood eye-to-eye. Stubble growing in around his neck that hasn't been shaped. He's wearing a shirt Art recognises, although it's straining around his arms more than it used to, and there's a hole worn through it just above his jeans button. His hand is still resting on Art's wrist, and Art recognises it as a power play, and, more than that, one he finds a little pathetic.
'Hi,' he says, neutrally.
Patrick blinks at him, like he'd expected something more than that. 'Guinness, on his tab,' he says to the bartender, then slides onto the seat next to Art. 'So you are on your own? Where's Tashi?'
'We aren't joined at the hip,' Art says mildly. Patrick rests his forearm on the bar so it's next to Art's, and Art wishes that Patrick wasn't still the sun and wishes it didn't still feel like Patrick is setting his skin on fire. 'She's visiting her cousin in Atlanta.'
'So you're still together,' says Patrick, downing half his beer in one go. 'That figures.'
'What figures?' Art demands.
Patrick shrugs, leaning closer into him so that their shoulders are pressed together, now, too, the whole length of their arms. His foot hooks around Art's bar stool. 'I gave you to her, didn't I?'
'No,' Art says slowly, almost stunned. He'd be stunned if it was anyone but Patrick talking. 'I took her from you. Remember?'
'Oh my god,' says Patrick, laughing under his breath. 'You know, I can't tell if you're deluding yourself or me.'
'Tell me, then,' Art demands. He knows now that he should've been more cautious. Thought he was older, thought Patrick Zweig couldn't get under his skin anymore. But he's rusty on reading him, after three years apart. 'How exactly did you give me to her?'
'You need someone,' says Patrick, like it's a simple thing. Not an insult but a fact. 'You've always needed someone to tell you what to do, what to wear, how to play tennis. That used to be me and then it was Tashi.'
Art stands up abruptly and grabs Patrick's arm. Patrick resists long enough to down the rest of his beer, and then he follows Art happily enough, through the bar and into the men's restroom. Art double checks no one else is in there before locking the door and rounding on him. 'You are such an asshole,' he hisses, backing Patrick up against the sinks. This doesn't help anything; Patrick looks more interested than angry as his back hits the ceramic. 'You think you can just show up after three years and say this - this shit to me?'
'I'm being honest,' says Patrick, eyes dancing delightedly over Art's face, his chest, all the way down to his cock. 'I thought you'd appreciate that.'
'I don't appreciate anything about you,' says Art, the effect of which is unfortunately undercut by him lunging at Patrick and biting down hard on his mouth. Patrick goes lax for a second, like Art's finally managed to do something tonight which surprises him, and then his hands are on Art's jaw, in his hair, sliding under his jeans and groping his ass.
Patrick grabs him by the thighs, then, and lifts him, dropping him onto the space between two sinks. He pulls open his belt, the buckle of his pants, his zip, and gets his hand around Art's cock, massaging his balls until Art is fully hard in an embarrassingly short space of time. He grabs Patrick by the belt loops and drags him in closer, undoing his pants in turn, and Patrick's hand is still stroking his cock, and there's there's a spot of precum beginning to appear through his briefs.
Then Patrick pulls back, the bastard, and says, 'What would your girlfriend think about this?'
'Like you care,' says Art, even as a shock of guilt runs through him. Even though he doesn't think, really, that Tashi would mind. Or is he just trying to make himself feel better?
'I care, baby,' says Patrick. His fingers are still tight around Art's cock, just no longer moving. Art doesn't want to thrust his hips forwards into his hand. He doesn't. 'I don't want to take anything that belongs to her, you know? She likes all her nice things.'
Art considers him a moment, his smug smiling face; considers all his options, which include slapping him, kissing him, rutting against his hand, or shoving him onto the floor. In the end he chooses none of them. He knocks Patrick's hand away from him roughly, closes his jeans with some difficulty, and slides down off the sink, walking out through the door.
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Art is twenty-three years old and he's smoking.
It's not something he does anymore; not something he's done since high school, before he met Tashi, before he got serious about his game. Before he got serious, period. He had to walk a mile to even buy these cigarettes in the middle of the night, Patrick's old brand, the ones he used to share with him, and now he's out the back of an Atlanta hotel, sitting on a bench and smoking.
Tashi and Patrick. His fiancée and Patrick. There in the reception room and then gone, like smoke, like he could've imagined it.
He knows he didn't imagine it.
He wonders if this is the first time they've fucked since college, or just the first time he's noticed. He doesn't feel angry about it, he realises. Not in the way he thinks you're supposed to if your fiancée cheats on you with her college ex.
He does feel the same way he used to feel in college, though. Which is partly frustrated and, mostly, desperately sad.
He looks down at his phone and considers texting Tashi. Wonders if she's missing him yet, wondering why he doesn't come to bed. Wonders if she fucked Patrick in their bed. Wonders what that looked like and who was on top. He can't imagine Tashi letting anyone take control during sex, not even Patrick. Probably when they fuck it's always angry, he thinks. Feral and aggressive and competitive. He closes his eyes and can't get rid of the image of them together, long bodies, dark hair, firm muscles all tangled together. Has to admit it feels right. Has to admit it turns him on.
A door opens and shuts, and someone lopes out of the back of the hotel. It's 3am, nearly pitch black but Art barely needs eyes to know it's Patrick.
He sits still, but maybe it's something in the air that alerts Patrick: the smell of his cigarette, the tiny glint of the end of it. Maybe it's nothing at all. His head snaps around, and then Art is staring at him, and he's staring at Art, and Art is frozen, and Art is wondering whether Patrick's cock still tastes of Tashi.
Patrick slides onto the bench beside him.
'So,' says Art, dryly, 'how was it?'
'Um,' says Patrick, for once almost apologetic, like even he recognises he's violated all bounds of normal decency. Then he perks up. 'Yeah. Yeah, it was fucking great.'
He takes Art's cigarette out of his hand and pulls on it. Then he hands it back. Art supposes that's nice of him.
'You're engaged,' says Patrick. 'That's great, too.'
'Maybe not for long,' says Art, and presses his head into his hands.
He feels Patrick's arm settling around him, ridiculously, like he thinks that's going to be some kind of comfort. Even more depressing, it is kind of comforting, the warmth of him, the faint feel of his accelerated heartbeat. 'Don't be dumb,' says Patrick. 'You aren't going to leave her over this.'
Art kind of wishes, for the sake of his pride, that it was a question and not a statement. 'No.'
'And she's not going to leave you,' says Patrick. 'So. Engaged.'
'That bothers you?'
Patrick looks at him, their faces inches apart, and sighs. There's a deep scowl on his face. 'Well, yeah, of course it fucking bothers me.'
'Why?'
He laughs. It's not a nice sound. 'Well, let's think. I'm crashing out, my career's in the toilet, and you're going to win a slam this year. Don't look at me like that, you know you will. Everyone fucking knows it. And you and Tashi are engaged and you're going to have a lovely little life together, although the sex will definitely be terrible. And… that's about it.'
Art drops the butt of his cigarette and Patrick grinds it into the concrete. 'So you're jealous,' he says. 'I took your career and I took Tashi. Is that it?'
'I told you,' says Patrick, sulkily, 'I gave you to her.'
Art sighs and looks at him. 'Where are you staying?'
'There,' says Patrick, pointing. Art follows the line of his finger out into the parking lot.
'That's a car.'
'Yeah.'
'You're staying in your car?'
' Yes, ' Patrick says, impatient. 'You know, you used to be quicker than this.'
Art stands up, brushing the ash off his hands, and says, 'Come on, then.'
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Patrick's car is filthy. Art supposes that's appropriate.
Patrick tosses half a dozen offending objects into the front seat: beer cans, shopping bags, tennis balls. Then he pushes Art inside the back, hand between his shoulder blades, and climbs in on top of him, slamming the door. There's barely space inside here for the two of them to manoeuvre. They both strip perfunctorily, Patrick's elbows getting in Art's face, one of Art's shoes hitting Patrick's thigh as he tosses it into the stairwell.
'Turn over,' says Patrick, a direction that's really unnecessary because he uses his own hands to turn Art onto his front, onto all fours so he can't use his hands. Then he leans over him, sucking at his neck, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to break skin.
'Tashi's going to see those,' Art says, and Patrick laughs almost coldly and says, 'Don't worry, I left marks on her too.'
He slides down Art's back and grabs hold of his ass; Art arches his back and Patrick bites into him, hard, then does the same to the other cheek. Art whines. He gets the feeling it's going to be a pain to sit for weeks. 'You have the most perfect ass,' says Patrick, 'did I ever tell you that?'
'I don't think it ever came up,' says Art, and Patrick wraps his hands around his waist and flips him over, fishing an old towel out of the stairwell and sliding it under his hips.
His cock is alert and so red it looks almost painful. Art isn't much better off. Patrick fishes a bottle of lube out of the front seat and squirts it all over his hand. Art thinks this is going to be how it goes: rough, bitter, quick, and Patrick's finger is already circling his asshole when he looks down at Art, and suddenly his eyes soften.
There's that same disarming look on his face that Art remembers from all those years ago in their hotel room, the one he couldn't quite place. He thinks that he has a better idea what it is, now. The implications of it make his chest hurt. He feels a little sick.
'You're beautiful,' says Patrick, open and honest. 'I should have told you that years ago. Maybe things would have been - '
He tails off. It's so unlike him that Art feels almost alarmed. 'Different?'
'Better,' Patrick says, finally. 'They would've been better.'
He leans forwards and kisses him.
Art realises that they haven't kissed since they were seventeen. Even when they were seventeen, he's not sure that they kissed like this. It's almost chaste. Patrick presses his lips against him and then leans back, a question, and Art lifts his head up off the car seat, an invitation. Patrick kisses him again, and for several minutes that's all it is, the surface of their lips, exploring. Then Art licks into his mouth.
'I missed you,' he admits, and it's like something in his chest cracks open. 'I love Tashi but I missed you.'
Patrick's eyes open, and he looks at him. 'I love Tashi but I missed you too, baby.'
It's so ridiculous that Art laughs, hard enough that his chest shakes. Patrick sits back a little and kisses his forehead, his chin, his chest, a long line trailing all the way back down to his cock. His lips engulf the tip of it and Art's hips thrust forward, involuntary, and he warns him, 'I'm not going to last long if you do that.'
Patrick pulls off him and lubes up his hand again. He slides his thick finger into Art's hole, finally, and hooks it as he drags it out, taking his time before adding another. Art whimpers, hoping Patrick's shitty car has decent soundproofing, and then Patrick slams both of his fingers back inside, up to the knuckle, and Art forgets to worry about that at all.
Patrick gets up to three fingers before he pulls out and pushes them all into Art's mouth. Art swirls his tongue around them, letting Patrick push down on his tongue lightly, until he gags. He slips his hand out of Art's mouth and Art says, 'Strawberry lube? What are we, fifteen?'
'It was on sale,' says Patrick petulantly.
Art laughs, a sound which abruptly turns into a moan as Patrick finally rolls on a condom and pushes his cock inside him. He fucks him slowly, too slow, cock dragging on his rim, at which point Art hooks his legs around his back to draw him deeper and says, in a voice which comes out higher pitched than he intended, 'Can you stop trying to be romantic and just fuck me already?'
Patrick laughs and slams back into him balls-deep without warning. Art yelps, and Patrick sets a much faster pace, bracing his arms either side of Art's face, teeth dragging at his ears, his lips, his nipples. Art's hands fist in his hair.
'I fucked Tashi like this,' Patrick says, almost conversationally. 'You should try it sometime. Might actually get her to cum that way.'
'Fuck you.'
Patrick laughs. 'Fuck, yeah. Maybe next time.'
Next time. Probably, by next time, Art will be married. He's tactful enough not to point that out, though. He turns his head sideways and buries his teeth in the skin of his own arm.
He's painfully hard, and still untouched. He reaches for his own cock and Patrick bats his fingers away, then grabs it with his own hand, squeezing around the base. 'Isn't this Tashi's cock now?' he asks. 'I don't think you should decide when it gets to come.'
'What the fuck, Patrick?'
'Maybe you shouldn't come at all,' says Patrick. 'Seeing as she isn't here.'
What Art wants to say is I will burn down your car, but he can't seem to get the words out. They dissolve instead into a pitiful whine. Patrick sighs, like he's doing him a massive favour, and stops strangling his cock. 'Or maybe I was wrong before,' he says. 'I still own you, don't I, baby? Both of us do.'
'Yes,' Art hisses, helpless with the truth of it, his cheeks on fire, his whole body on fire, and Patrick finally takes pity on him, jerking him off with two efficient strokes. Art comes, head slamming into the car door, and when he comes back to his senses he realises that Patrick has come as well, deep inside him. He peels the condom off and tosses it into a plastic bag in the front seat.
'That's so fucking gross,' says Art, exhausted, and Patrick smirks at him and pulls him into his chest, settling against the car door.
'Are you going to tell her?' he asks, idly.
'Probably not,' says Art. The beat of Patrick's heart thrums against his head, deescalating. 'I mean. She won't tell me about you.'
Patrick's silent for a long second. 'So I'm both of your dirty secret.'
'It's not like that,' says Art, automatically, then stops. He supposes it is like that. He supposes it's also Patrick's own fault that it's like that. Or is it Art's? Didn't he start this whole mess, when he chose Tashi over Patrick? Or did Tashi start it, when she crashed into their lives, chose Patrick and then Art and pulled them apart? That's not fair on her, he knows it's not. But it's her perfume he can still smell on Patrick's skin. A closed circuit. Give a little and take a lot, all three of them.
Patrick says, 'Can you just stay here with me for a while?'
And Patrick never asks questions and Patrick certainly never begs for anything, so Art decides charitably to pretend that's not what he's doing now. He says, 'Yeah, I can do that,' and Patrick's calf hooks over his ankle, and Art closes his eyes and pretends with him, for ten minutes or twenty or thirty, that they're in a place where they can sleep.