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“What about my grandmother?”
“Hope she has a fucking stroke,” Patrick quips, slapping Art right across his still-hard dick.
Art doubles over, collapsing back onto the bed with a groan. He shoves Patrick onto his side and flops onto his own, Patrick’s giggles doing nothing to assuage Art’s growing despair. He’s going to lose tomorrow and he knows it, which means Patrick will win, like always. Art will slip up, he’ll lose his cool, and Patrick will get the upper hand… and Tashi’s number.
Art slides backwards onto the floor.
“Hey.” Patrick grabs Art’s leg, tugging him back up. “Quit wallowing. It almost makes me feel bad for you.”
Art covers his face with his arms, his upper half still dangling over the edge of the bed. His voice is muffled. “You should feel bad for me.”
“Not a chance.” He can hear the smirk in Patrick’s voice. “Maybe I’ll let her fuck me with the racket I beat you with.”
Art snaps up, shoving Patrick back down and sending him into another fit of giggles. Patrick reaches up to push Art away, but Art catches his arm and doesn’t let go, moving quickly to pin him down against the bed.
Patrick grunts, trying and failing to get Art off of him. Art’s finally laughing too, but the irritation is still there, gnawing at his mind, not letting go. Tashi said he should beat Patrick. Did she really mean that? Did she want him to win? Is he about to disappoint her in front of a live audience?
“Get off me,” Patrick pants, struggling, but Art doesn’t acquiesce, just climbs over him, his blond curls dangling into Patrick’s eyes. Patrick’s shirt—well, Art’s shirt; Patrick had thrown it on when Tashi knocked on their hotel room door—has fallen open, fully exposing his chest.
“Let me win?” Art tries once again, sticking out his bottom lip. Patrick rolls his eyes.
“Just try for once, Art. Tashi said it herself. You can beat me, if you want.” Then he smirks again, his dimples wrinkling. “Just don’t, y’know, try too hard.”
At this, Art groans, slumping down on top of Patrick. Patrick chuckles, ruffling Art’s hair like an affectionate parent. Art swats his arm away, but now it’s Patrick who blocks the gesture, tugging Art’s head back up.
To Art’s surprise, the look in Patrick’s dark eyes isn’t teasing anymore. He’s just looking up at Art, his brows furrowed, his mouth half-open, like he’s not sure about something. Art opens his own mouth to say something, but his brain hasn’t caught up yet, so the two boys just look at each other for a moment.
Before either can say anything, Patrick closes the distance between them with a kiss. It’s soft and chaste, nothing like their inadvertent makeout session just a few minutes ago when Tashi had pulled away from them. Patrick’s mouth still tastes like hers, mixed with the residual flavor of beer and cigarettes. The kiss is over as soon as it’d started, Patrick’s head dropping back down, looking suddenly shy.
Art definitely can’t think of what to say now. He just stays there, his mouth still open, his eyes searching Patrick’s face for answers.
“Sorry,” Patrick mutters, looking away. “Don’t really know why I did that.”
Art dips his face back down for another kiss. This one lasts longer, Art’s hands cupping Patrick’s jaw, Patrick’s fingers tangling back into Art’s hair. Patrick holds Art on top of him just like he had on the court after their doubles win, their bodies fitting together with a distinctly different feel this time around. When they finally pull apart for air, Patrick nips lightly at Art’s bottom lip, making him laugh.
“Are you trying to distract me from the final?” asks Art.
Patrick grins. “I wouldn't dream of it.”
Art begins to push himself back up, shifting position above Patrick. As he does so, he sees Patrick raise an eyebrow. Art feels his face flush when he realizes he’s still semi-hard, and Patrick can definitely feel it.
Patrick’s arms still encircle Art’s body, preventing him from moving further. He cocks his head. “Am I turning you on, Art?”
“In your dreams,” he mutters, looking away to hide his embarrassment.
“More like your dreams,” Patrick teases, reaching down to grab Art’s dick through his boxers. The contact makes him shiver. Patrick doesn’t let go.
“What are you—” Art starts to say, but he cuts himself off with a gasp as Patrick moves his hand against Art’s crotch. The friction makes his dick swell further, and he buries his face into the crook of Patrick’s neck, feeling the vibration of Patrick’s laughter in his throat. Art’s face burns. “I don’t need you to teach me how to jerk off again,” he jokes, but the edge is gone from his voice, now replaced by an unexpected breathiness.
“Want me to stop?” Patrick asks. His voice sounds like he already knows the answer.
“…No,” Art admits.
Though he can’t see Patrick’s face, he can picture his satisfied expression. “That’s what I thought.”
Patrick’s free hand rests against Art’s back, holding him steady as Art’s hands grip the sheets. Art shudders. How is he already so close, just from a little kissing and groping? Maybe Tashi had gotten him more worked up than he thought. Thinking about Tashi makes the dread for Patrick’s inevitable win tomorrow return in full force, though he can’t focus on that much with Patrick’s hand still stroking his dick through his boxers. Art groans, and he can’t tell whether it’s from the annoyance or the arousal. Maybe it’s both.
Regardless, Patrick’s movement quickens, and Art finds himself unraveling, his body trembling on top of Patrick’s. Another breathy sound escapes his throat, and Patrick’s hand moves up to the nape of Art’s neck, tilting his head back up until their gazes meet. It’s just Patrick, and he’s beaming, but even still, Art squirms under such direct scrutiny. Another movement of Patrick’s hand against Art’s dick elicits the most embarrassing sound thus far, and Art squeezes his eyes shut even as Patrick catches his mouth in another kiss. He doesn’t stop kissing Art until he finishes, which doesn’t take much longer at all.
“Fuck,” whispers Art against Patrick’s lips.
Patrick finally removes his hand, wiping it off on the bedsheets. “Gross,” he teases. If Art wasn’t so spent he’d hit him. The absence of Patrick’s hand has made him aware of the stickiness in his boxer shorts, and he blushes furiously as he pushes himself off of the other boy’s body to go peel them off. Now that he’s up off the bed, half-naked in the more humiliating sense, he can see plain as day how hard Patrick’s dick is in his own boxer shorts.
“Gonna go jerk off in the bathroom?” asks Art, eyeing Patrick’s boner. “Or do you need me to do it for you?”
Patrick doesn’t respond right away, his eyes flicking over to his open suitcase. Art furrows his brow, his eyes searching the mess until he sees what Patrick must be looking at: a small bottle of lube, half-empty, sticking out from a spilled-over bag of toiletries. When he looks back at the bed, Patrick has a hopeful look on his face. Art pauses, a wave of disbelief hitting him. He almost can’t say it out loud.
“You want to fuck me, Patrick?”
Patrick nods, right away, no jokes, just looking right up at Art’s face. “Yeah, I do,” is all he says.
Art hadn’t noticed before how dilated his eyes were. Patrick really, actually, wants to fuck him, and it dawns on him right then that he wants it just as much. The two boys just look at each other, for a second, until Art speaks.
“Fine.”
Patrick’s on him instantly, pulling him back down to the bed, tugging his shirt off with his teeth, which is maybe the hottest thing someone’s ever done to him. He’s completely naked now, under Patrick, who’s still wearing his shirt like they’re fucking dating, or something. “Shit,” Patrick whispers, almost reverently, looking down on him. His eyes rake over Art’s body, like he’s drinking him in, suddenly hesitant to touch.
So Art does it for him, reaching out to tug down Patrick’s boxers. Patrick’s dick is big—Art feels a tightness in his stomach at the thought of that fitting inside him. Patrick’s already discarding his clothes onto the floor, squeezing out some of his lube into his hand. “Ready?” he asks, his lips curving into a smirk, and he doesn’t wait for Art to answer before slipping a finger inside.
The sound Art makes isn’t anything he’s heard come out of his own mouth before. Patrick starts laughing immediately, but not cruelly—it’s like he’s a little kid, like he’s delighted to be doing this. Art covers his face with a pillow, trying to muffle his desperate moans as Patrick’s hand moves inside him. If this is how he feels from just Patrick’s fingers… Art shudders at the thought of Patrick seeing him even more undone.
He tries to distract himself by talking: “Do you have a—fuck!---a… condom, or—oh my God…” Art pants, his voice hoarse. “Or something?”
“Yeah, I have condoms, Art.” Patrick tilts his head. “Did you think I was gonna go meet Tashi Duncan without bringing condoms?” He pauses. “Or, better question. If she picked you, were you just going to fuck her without one?”
Art blushes. “I don’t know! I didn’t even think she’d come up here! I wasn’t planning for—”
He cuts himself off once again with a sharp inhale when Patrick abruptly pulls his hand out. By the time Art’s raised himself up to get a better look, Patrick’s produced a condom from God-knows-where, and he’s about to put it on. He gives Art a look.
“Last chance to back out.”
Art doesn’t say anything. Patrick grins.
“Figured as much.”
Art readjusts himself on the bed, trying to mentally prepare himself for what’s about to happen, but he loses it when Patrick climbs up on top of him, his dark curls falling over his eyes. Patrick’s so pretty, he realizes. His face is covered in freckles, and his eyes are this shade of blue-green-gray that Art doesn’t think he could ever pinpoint even if he spent the rest of his life staring into them. And, fuck, does he want to right now.
“Ready?” Patrick asks, and Art nods right away.
Patrick grunts as he pushes inside him, and Art briefly loses all capacity for rational thought. He’s not even all the way in yet, he’s taking it slow (well, as slow as he can, Art realizes, because the one concept he can comprehend is the insane desire written all over Patrick’s beautiful fucking face), and Art feels like he’s ascended to some kind of higher plane. He tries to speak, but his neurons have somehow disconnected from whatever part of the brain produces English words. The only sound he can make is a high-pitched whine, and he doesn’t even have the capability to be embarrassed about it anymore.
“Holy shit, Art,” Patrick moans, easing out a little and back in a little, concentration wrinkling in the middle of his forehead. Art leans up and kisses said forehead, and Patrick exhales shakily, his rhythm becoming less concentrated. He dips his head to kiss the hollow of Art’s neck under his Adam’s apple, trailing kisses up his throat and chin and finally catching Art’s lips back in his. “Fuck,” he breathes, right into Art’s mouth. “Fuck, you’re so…”
His voice trails off as he finally pushes all the way in, making Art moan so loud Patrick has to slap a hand over his mouth. Patrick’s not even laughing, just wide-eyed and blissful, his hands moving from Art’s mouth to his hair to hold his face and just look at it, with an intensity Art doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. One of Patrick’s hands finally makes its way back to Art’s dick, which has been hard again for a while. Art bites his lip hard as Patrick’s strokes join his thrusts. He won’t be able to hold out for much longer, and from the look of it Patrick won’t either.
“Oh my God, Patrick,” Art’s babbling, still unable to control his words. “Oh my God. That’s… yeah, right there—right there! Don’t stop, don’t stop,” he finds himself repeating, and Patrick nips at his lip again, worrying it between his teeth, groaning loud and low.
Art’s arms encircle Patrick’s shoulders, unable to let him go, his nails digging into Patrick’s skin. Patrick’s breaths are coming faster now, and Art knows they’re both right on the edge. He tilts his head to kiss Patrick’s lips again, wrapping his legs around Patrick’s waist. Patrick’s ever-so-slightly taller than him, but their bodies fit so perfectly together, and for a moment Art feels like they’ll never separate again.
He finishes first, of course, going all but limp under Patrick, and Patrick keeps fucking him through it, taking all of Art’s noises right into his mouth. When he’s about to come he pulls out and spills it all over Art’s stomach, mixing with his own, the condom going somewhere on the floor. Patrick collapses onto the bed next to him.
When the room stops spinning, Patrick’s arm is around Art’s shoulders, and he’s pressing a kiss to his temple. Art lets out a deep breath, melting into Patrick’s touch.
“I can’t believe… you’re actually good at sex,” he finally manages to say, grinning up at Patrick.
Patrick bursts into laughter. “Fuck you, Art. Fucking pillow princess.”
Art, admittedly, can’t argue with this. He just giggles, leaning back into Patrick’s chest as the other boy kisses the top of his head. “We need a towel.”
“You need a shower.”
“True.”
Reluctantly, Art allows Patrick to disentangle their bodies and cross the room. He tosses Art a hand towel, and Art cleans himself up as Patrick tugs his boxers back on. When Art gets up to get new ones to sleep in, Patrick grabs him for one more quick kiss. He smiles into Art’s mouth. “I was totally thinking about Tashi during all that, by the way,” he says.
Art laughs. “Me too. Entire time.”
Patrick flops down onto the other bed, turning out his lamp. “Good luck tomorrow, champ. You’ll need it.”
Art groans. “Fuck me.”
Patrick grins. “Already done.”