Chapter Text
8:43 PM.
It was autumn of 2007. Patrick sat at the C Gate. His hoodie was up. His iPod was dead.
His coach had told him to take a few weeks off to loosen up, like rest could fix whatever had gotten into him. Whatever.
Patrick promptly booked a red-eye from Pennsylvania to California without saying a word to anybody. And Art wouldn’t be excited. He’d be surprised, then annoyed, then maybe say something about how Patrick always did this. But then he’d go quiet; his eyes would flick down like they always do, and that’s when Patrick would know that Art would end up in his arms, pretending he didn’t want Patrick to kiss him right there in front of everybody. It made him smile. He hoped Art never stopped doing that.
*******
6:32 AM.
His body felt heavy, his mind totally fogged up. He stumbled his way to the car rental counter, scribbled a signature for a plain silver sedan, and started driving south toward Stanford. Every time his eyes got too heavy, he rolled down the window. The cold air, while it didn’t wake him completely, served as a reminder that he was alive.
He didn’t remember the full drive.
7:38 AM.
He was standing in the lobby of Art’s dorm building. Students shimmered around him.
“Patrick?”
That voice snapped him back to life. Art was coming toward him fast, a racquet bag slung over one shoulder. Roommate Devin was right behind him. Just seeing Art’s concerned face hit Patrick like a shot of adrenaline.
“Baby,” he muttered, barely louder than a breath. He held his arms open. Art passed his racquet to Devin and stepped into the embrace. “Patrick, you—” he laughed himself short, already hugging him. Patrick sighed and buried his face in Art’s shoulder.
“Missed you too,” he said, squeezing tighter. He turned to Devin, who was looking around the lobby. “Taking care of Arthur, I take it?” he asked.
Devin nodded like it was a point of pride. “Getting him to bed on time, I promise,” he said. Patrick chuckled. It was good to know someone was keeping Art sharp.
“He gets a bit odd when he’s tired,” Art said to Devin. “I’ll take him upstairs so he can crash in my bed.”
Devin nodded. “I’ll be here. Just hurry. Can’t be late.”
*******
Art’s room looked exactly the same. It had only been a few weeks. Patrick had counted down the days and forgotten them altogether. Patrick started toward the bed, but Art caught his wrist and tugged him toward the bathroom.
“Strip and shower,” Art said, dropping to his knees to stash Patrick’s bag under the bed. “I’ll put some of your clothes out on the bed.”
He was already rummaging through drawers when Patrick turned toward the shower. The cold water pelted his skin like ant-bites. He dried off with a random towel, didn’t bother covering himself, and walked into the room.
Art was gone.
On the bed, folded with military precision, was a clean tee and a pair of shorts.
*******
The sun held itself high in the sky. No clouds could be seen. By all definitions, the day was picture-perfect. Patrick stood at the sidelines of the tennis court, watching Art rally. Art moved like a ballerina. Patrick couldn’t take his eyes off of him if he tried.
Every so often, Art would wander over to Patrick during water breaks to talk about something completely random. Patrick couldn’t piece together a lot of what was being said, because he only retained a few of the words. The warm weather was making Art sweat.
“Drink more water,” Patrick would say. Art would take a sip, laugh awkwardly, then start speaking again. One thing Patrick remembered vividly was Art’s wet dream. Nothing about the dream stuck out. The fact that Art wanted to share that with Patrick in the first place made Patrick terribly giddy.
9:15 AM.
Art always seemed deep in thought. Patrick interpreted these spells as disinterest, though deep down he knew that couldn’t be the case. Art obsessed over him. Patrick had proof.
Art doted over Patrick when he broke his arm. That was years ago. Patrick picks at the scar tissue and Art berates him for it, even to this day.
Patrick would test Art in secret. He would get closer, smell how Art’s skin smelled, see how red Art would flush. And whenever Art would hit him or smack him or push him, all of it felt invigorating. Fuck, even thinking about it made Patrick feel crazy. It all felt so raw and electric.
Art was his lightning in a bottle.
10:30 AM.
Art walked over at the turn of the half-hour, hat backwards and sweat dripping from his curls. Patrick forgot how to breathe. A towel hung loose around Art's neck. Patrick bit his lip.
Art caught the look and smirked. “Got anything planned for today, hotshot?”
Patrick shook his head. “I was hoping you did.”
Art glanced back at the court and shrugged. “I could give you another campus tour.”
“Nah, I’m gonna have to pass. There’s only so many things I can pretend to care about.”
“Thought so.” Art fell quiet. Patrick’s eyes drifted to the movement in his throat as he swallowed. He figured Art must’ve swallowed his pride, based on what came next. “I need to shower,” Art said, not quite looking at him. “You interested?”
Patrick smirked. “I just showered. The water was fucking freezing.”
Art nodded like that made perfect sense. “Yeah… lots of morning shower people here. I shower after practice. And before bed.”
Patrick fought the urge to throw him in a headlock. When he lost that fight, he lunged at Art, wrapping him in a sloppy hug and catching the sharp scent of ozone and sun-warmed polyester. He dug his fingers into Art’s ribs to make him squirm, holding him tight whenever he tried to twist away.
“Cut it out!” Art yelped, swatting at him. Patrick only squeezed harder. Art broke free and started running. Patrick chased him without thinking. He caught Art by the collar, yanking him to a stop. A firefly in his iron clutch.
“Arthur, chill— you’re gonna rip your fucking shirt,” he huffed.
“And whose fault would that be?” Art shot back. “Let me go!”
“Stop running from me, baby, I just wanna talk,” Patrick teased. Art twisted hard, tugged his collar free, and shoved Patrick away. He jogged a few yards away. Patrick let him go, watching Art slow to a stop, turn around, and throw his arms up in a dramatic shrug. Patrick walked toward him. When they met face to face, Patrick leaned in until the tip of his nose brushed Art’s. Art didn’t move.
“You gonna kiss me?” Art asked, grinning wide. Patrick looked at his mouth. Before he could decide, Art stepped back.
“If you’re good today and stop tickling me, then maybe…”
He didn’t finish his sentence. He turned and started walking toward the dorm.
“I could do what?” Patrick asked, falling into step with Art. “I’ll be so good. I swear.”
Art gave him a sideways look.
Patrick leaned in close. “You’ll let me eat you out, right? Is this what this is about?” He’d hoped it would turn Art tomato-red.
All that happened was that Art’s cheeks went pink. He refused to back down. “Sure. But I doubt you’ll be good today,” he said.
Patrick stopped walking, a strangled sound escaping him. “Wait, actually?”
Art laughed. “Dunno. Will you be good?”
Patrick raked his hand through his hair. “You actually… cleaned up? For me?”
Art bumped his shoulder against Patrick’s. “Don’t make it weird. Sierra said it was polite.”
“Remind me to send Sierra flowers,” Patrick muttered. “Fuck, I’m gonna be so good today you won’t know what to do with me.”
*******
10:57 AM.
Patrick sat on the couch in the living room. Art was showering and refused all company. In the meantime, Patrick urgently needed a distraction. The coffee table was cluttered with mail, and a half-finished worksheet, and some…
His eyes landed on familiar scribbles. He picked it up for a closer look. The letters were blocky and a little child-like. He hadn’t seen Art’s handwriting in a long time. What he’d give for a handwritten love letter from Donaldson. He rubbed his middle finger over the rough paper, watching the letters smudge just a tad. He pressed his finger on the corner of the paper, leaving a blue fingerprint in its place. He set the paper down and leaned back on the couch, crossing one leg over the other. His erection was a nuisance, and squeezing it between his thighs was all he could do to pass the time.
Patrick wondered what Art did during his showers. He imagined that Art actually spent most of it cleaning and scrubbing. He hoped that his unexpected arrival had unnerved Art. Patrick groaned softly, head tipping back against the cushion. He was restless. As far as he knew, Art hadn’t been with a guy before. Patrick would be his first. His stomach twisted.
What if he hates it?
11:08 AM.
The door opened and Art stepped into the living room. Patrick noticed Art was wearing boxers instead of briefs. His happy trail was on full display. He leaned against the doorframe and looked at Patrick. “All clean,” he said.
Patrick stood and crossed the room. He pressed a hand to Art’s stomach and pinched. He took Art’s hand and led him into the bedroom, closing the door behind them. Patrick sat on the edge of the bed while Art stood in front of him. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of Art’s boxers.
“We doin’ this?” he asked, looking up. Art raised an eyebrow, a laugh suffocating in his throat. “Patrick, what? Isn’t this what you wanted?”
“What we wanted, yeah? Don’t you think it’s sexy that I asked beforehand?”
Art just rolled his eyes. Patrick pulled the boxers down slowly, his eyes locking on Art’s erection. He reached up, hand cupping Art’s balls as he spoke. The flesh was cold and damp.
“I’ve been thinking about you for weeks,” said Patrick. “I missed you, Donnie. So fucking bad.”
“You mean you missed having sex with me?”
“Yes. That’s a big part of it for sure.” He tugged some skin to make Art squirm. “I’m kidding… I’m kidding… I missed you, buddy.”
Art snorted. “Buddy. Haven’t heard that in a while.”
“Sorry. Babe,” Patrick corrected. “You’re not just a good fuck, babe. You have ideas and feelings, too. Like a real boy.” He twisted his hand around Art and pulled him until Art’s knees brushed the bed. His dick hovered dangerously close to Patrick’s face. Patrick leaned in and pressed a kiss to the tip. Art exhaled. Patrick took him halfway into his mouth, and Art’s hands clamped down on his shoulders, digging into sore muscle. He worked graciously, Art’s cock sliding against his tongue as he bobbed a little, then pulled back and licked the extra spit away.
“Do you jerk off when I’m not here?” Patrick asked.
“No. Devin and I have sex to pass the time.”
“Not funny,” Patrick said flatly. “I’m telling him you said that.”
“I thought it was funny. He will, too.” Art’s hand settled on Patrick’s chin and he tilted his face up. “He is really good in bed,” he said.
Patrick slapped Art’s boner. It smacked against his thigh. Art folded over with a groan. Art shoved Patrick back onto the bed, already grinning through the pain. “That fucking hurt, dickhead.”
Patrick leaned back on his elbows, watching as Art stripped off his shorts and boxers, leaving them in a heap on the floor. Art’s hands moved up his legs, from his calves to his thighs, then up to his stomach. He kissed Patrick’s erection once before taking it into his mouth. He got about halfway, then paused, and pushed a little deeper.
Patrick watched with intent. Art’s face flushed red as he pulled back, breath ragged. Saliva clung to his lips.
“Was it too much?” Patrick asked softly.
Art gave the length a slow lick. “No,” he said, still catching his breath. “But I’m still not used to… it.”
He tried again, taking more length with each pass. Patrick felt dizzy. Art nearly made it to the base before he gagged and pulled away, coughing softly. So much spit. Patrick reached down, fingers running through Art’s damp hair. “You’re a quick learner,” he said.
Art chuckled, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk. He climbed onto the narrow twin bed, his body pressing down on top of Patrick. Patrick shifted, flipping them so Art was on his back beneath him. He nipped at Art’s bottom lip before trailing his mouth down Art’s jaw and sucking a mark just below his collarbone.
The mattress dipped awkwardly. Patrick could feel Art’s excitement burning off of him. Patrick settled between Art’s legs, his own erection grinding against the rumpled sheets. Art propped himself up on his elbows, watching carefully. “You sure about this?” he asked.
Patrick pressed a kiss to the inside of Art’s warm skin. “Relax. I’ll be so good for you, remember?” He lifted one of Art’s legs by the ankle. The bed groaned again. Patrick’s hand meandered down towards the thigh, pushing the leg to hold Art apart. Then he leaned in, tongue flat and broad, and licked a stripe over the taint.
“Oh—fuck,” Art whispered, one hand fisting the sheets. The other reached down to thread through Patrick’s hair.
Patrick hummed in approval. He circled his tongue around the rim, teasing the tight muscle before pressing in. His own hips were grinding harder against the bed.
“Patrick… shit, that feels—” Art whined, his head falling back against the pillow.
“Good?” Patrick pulled back just enough to murmur, nipping at the curve of Art’s ass cheek. Patrick slipped a finger alongside his tongue, pressing gently until it breached and curled inside. Art’s leg was trembling over Patrick’s shoulders. The bed kept dipping, forcing Patrick to shift every few minutes to stay balanced. Patrick added a second finger, scissoring them open while alternating with bites to the soft flesh of Art’s thighs. He jerked Art off faster now, thumb swiping over the head, spreading slick.
“I like it,” Art panted, eyes squeezed shut, like the words were pulled out of him. “Fuck, I really like it—don’t stop.”
12:15 PM.
Shit, already?
Art had relaxed completely, his body pliant and hips rocking back to meet Patrick’s mouth and fingers. Patrick’s own cock throbbed against the bed. He was getting so close to the edge. He wanted this to be something Art would crave again and again.
Focus.
Art’s hand tightened in Patrick’s hair, pulling him up. “Close—too close,” he gasped. Patrick kissed his way back up, fingers still buried deep, curling one last time before withdrawing.
“You’re gonna kill me,” Patrick muttered, grinding against Art’s thigh. “Did I do good?” Patrick asked.
He knew the answer. He wouldn’t accept any other word than phenomenal.
Art chuckled, wiping his hair from his face. “So good,” he said. “So, so good.”
Patrick kissed Art’s chest then slid down further. He planted a kiss at the head of Art’s cock. “Very good boy,” Art murmured.
Patrick couldn't hold back his sound of astonishment. “Me? I’m a good boy?” he asked. Again, he knew the answer.
“Yeah,” Art sighed, resting his hands behind his head.
“Say it to me.”
“You have to earn it.”
Patrick spun his wrist and watched Art spill all over his stomach. Patrick propped himself up on his knees and, with just a few pumps, came all over Art’s chest.
“Good boy,” Art cooed.